Seven Troop

by Andy McNab

  Snapper wasn't having any of it, and gave a perfect demonstration of why he'd earned his name. An argument kicked off in less than a second.

  I unloaded my weapons and Hillbilly did the same. He pushed my arm to hustle me out, and went into Snapper mode. 'Let's leave him to iiiit.'

  My hair and the back of my neck were wet with sweat. Cold air attacked it as we left the CQB house and wandered towards the 'Norwegians'. Huge Thermos flasks the size of wheelie-bins, they were picked up each morning from the cookhouse, along with the team's packed lunches. The meal never varied: a couple of beef rolls, a packet of crisps, a Yorkie bar and a battered apple. Everyone honked about them, but ate them within a couple of hours. Both of us got a paper cup of sweaty old brew.

  A Worcester to Hereford train rumbled past about thirty metres away. Commuters must have had a great view every morning. The old camp was situated right next to the track and on the edge of town.

  I still didn't know Hillbilly that well but at least he was making an effort with the new boy. 'When are you going on the freefall course?'

  'About two weeks, then straight over the water with the troop. Were you and Nish the same battalion?'

  'Nah, I met him on Selection.'

  Hillbilly was from Portsmouth. He didn't have the accent, but he'd mentioned the place a couple of times. His ex-wife and daughter still lived there.

  He was fanatical about fitness – but it had nothing to do with keeping on top of the job. 'Training, plus lots of, equals women pulled,' was his motto. Hillbilly lived life at maximum revs. Saturday night was new-shirt night. The local clothes stores made a fortune out of him. It was as if he'd taken on sole responsibility for keeping the women of Hereford happy. He was no Robert Redford with his punched-in face, but he had charm, lots of it, and few could resist. As he always said, once he was dressed up in a new shirt with neatly groomed hair, 'They stop, they stare, they care.'

  21

  I still didn't understand about Snapper. Was he part of the team, or CRW, or what?

  'CRW.' Hillbilly unwrapped the cling-film from the last of his beef rolls. 'But he still turns up with the troop in the morning. We have to fuck him off.' He chuckled. 'Fucker's mad as a box of snakes.'

  Snapper's latest derailment had come when he'd started a fight at Boss L's wedding reception. He ended up cutting down the hanging baskets with a ceremonial sword.

  'What's all this stuff about him having a certificate to prove he's sane?'

  'Just before Malaysia he got sent to Woolwich – Ward Eleven.'

  All soldiers knew what that was: the psychiatric wing of the military hospital.

  'They put him through the tests and he came up clean. He must have worked them out before they worked him out—'

  The rest of his sentence was drowned out as Snapper appeared and grabbed a paper cup. He was in a good mood. 'They were wroooong. They admit it. Snapper knows beeeest.'

  He stirred enough sugar into the brew to make the spoon stand up on its own.

  Hillbilly almost choked on the last of his roll. 'Snapper, tell Andy about you going to see your gun – you know, the Mirbat gun.'

  'They couldn't hold Snapperrrr! Slipped away to the artillery museum cos I fancied seeing it. Then when I got back there was pandemoniummmm.' Snapper loved his stories. 'They said, "Where you been?" I said, "To see the twenty-five-pounder. I was one of the Mirbat survivors." '

  He waited to make sure I knew what he was on about. Of course I did: it was embedded in regimental history. A picture of one of the casualties, Labalaba, hung in the cookhouse. We saw it almost every day.

  In many ways, Oman was the Regiment's spiritual home, the place where battles like Mirbat had happened and Snapper had gone loopy. Operation Storm had been a covert war, fought to stem the flood of Communism after the falls of Aden and Vietnam. The campaign was strategically vital. The West had been terrified of Soviet expansionism ever since Stalin had taken over the whole of Eastern Europe as far as Berlin. Now the Red threat was gathering momentum in Arabia, and the People's Front for the Liberation of the Occupied Arabian Gulf – or, as the Regiment guys knew them, the Adoo – were gaining ground in Yemen and moving into the rest of the peninsula. A line had had to be drawn in the sand.

  The site chosen was Dhofar, a province in the south of Oman, immediately next to the border to Aden. The operation would be tough. The place was remote, which was an advantage because it was a covert war, but at the same time little was known about it. Dhofar was isolated from the north by a 400-mile-wide desert, which rose up at its southern tip into a huge plateau, the Jebel Massif, a natural fortress 3,000 feet high, nine miles wide and stretching 150 miles from the east down to and across the border with Aden, renamed by the new management as the People's Republic of Southern Yemen.

  Since early 1970, small SAS groups supported by firqats – bands of local tribesmen loyal to the Sultan of Muscat and Oman – and Baluch Askars, tough little mountain guys from Baluchistan, had established toeholds on the coastal plain immediately facing the Jebel. The war had to be fought quietly or it would affect the price of oil as producers and consumers worldwide got jittery. Operation Storm was a classic guerrilla war that was kept covert, contained and controlled so the region didn't become unstable – and it was won.

  At 6 a.m. on 19 July 1972, the Adoo were still fighting hard and sent 250 well-armed men against the isolated British Army Training Team (BATT) house near the coastal resort of Mirbat. Snapper was manning the .50 calibre Browning machine-gun on the roof.

  Against overwhelming odds, he and the eight other SAS soldiers stationed there resisted fiercely, holding the Adoo back for several hours until reinforcements could arrive.

  The twenty-five-pounder, now known as the 'Mirbat gun', which was used by Sergeant Talaiasi Labalaba (a Fijian SAS soldier) during the siege was now housed in the Firepower Museum at the old Royal Artillery garrison in Woolwich. 'Laba' Labalaba was killed in action, continuing to fire the twenty-five-pounder although he was seriously wounded. Snapper had been alongside him, in one of the most famous ever small-unit actions by the SAS, and one of the Regiment's proudest moments.

  Snapper chuckled. 'They gave me a brew and tucked me into bed saying, "There, there, of course you were. Now have a nice rest and everything will be all right . . ."

  'Fookin' not a clue! They must have thought I was mad, but they still gave me a piece of paper showing everyone I'm nooot!'

  The grin dropped. Snapper seemed to have got bored. 'We're going to bin it. We've had enough for now. See you later.'

  He wasn't talking social. We were going down to the training area for yet more freefall abseiling, but at night. With luck I'd get to see the troop, because that was where they were doing all their training.

  22

  Des Doom and Schwepsy came over with their brews and cornered Hillbilly. They both had the line around their faces from their respirator seals, and Schwepsy's dirty-blond hair was damp with sweat and sticking up as if he'd had an electric shock.

  Schwepsy always strode rather than walked, like an RSM on the look-out for recruits to bounce around and shout at. His back was straight as a ramrod and his shoulders were so square they looked like the hanger was still in his jacket. With his Aryan hair combed back, he came straight off a recruitment poster for the Panzer Korps.

  He peeled off his pilot's gloves and I noticed, yet again, that he didn't wear a watch. Even without one, he still checked his wrist every few seconds to make sure he was five minutes early for any parade – or anything, really. If he'd been a car, he would have been a solid, reliable, value-for-money Volvo. Only this Volvo would deliver a barrack-square bollocking if your hair was too long or your beret wasn't straight, you 'orrible little man.

  Des Doom got his face into Hillbilly's like he was about to conduct an interrogation. Des only had two speeds, aggressive and more aggressive. Life, to him, was one long bayonet charge. He was the only guy I knew who could make asking a server in McDonald's for ketchup sound l
ike a demand to step outside. If the poor guy didn't hand it over quickly enough he wasn't an idiot, he just suffered from NBPE (not being punched enough). For all that, somebody loved Des Doom. He'd been married to Mrs Doom for a long time, and they had kids. In the field, nothing ever fazed Des; no matter the task, he just got on with it – aggressively, of course. If Des had been a car – well, he wouldn't. He'd have been one of Schwepsy's panzers.

  'You're coming with us for a brew.'

  Hillbilly was hesitant. 'Too much to do at home. Gotta sort some kit out.'

  Lads streamed out of the Killing House now it had been binned for the day.

  Harry was heading our way. He was in Mountain Troop, and just as Nish was a champion freefaller, Harry had become a big-time mountaineer. He was always running round Norway in his weeks off, climbing, skiing, langlaufing, all the snow business. He wasn't married, but lived with a woman down town; unlike his best mate, Des, he was very quiet and stable, a guy who just got on with the job and wished his fine blond hair wasn't thinning so quickly. Des and Schwepsy decided that because I was in Seven Troop it was OK to take the piss out of Harry because he was a marine. Harry always had other ideas. 'Try it . . .'

  Harry would have been an E-Type Jag: understated but with plenty under the balding bonnet. Hillbilly? They hadn't yet built a car with him in mind.

  Des turned the lasers on me. 'What you doing now?'

  'Nothing. Just killing time until later.'

  'Fall in.'

  We got the black gear off and back into the ready bags as Hillbilly slunk away.

  Des checked his watch and glanced at Schwepsy. 'Give him a head start. It kicks off at four, right? We'll make the last fifteen minutes.'

  We dumped the bags in the hangar and the four of us piled into my minging white Renault 5. I'd lost the ignition key long ago, so started the thing with the wires that hung under the steering column. The right-hand wing was held on by two bungees. But the wheels went round.

  We weren't going for a brew, it turned out, but to catch Hillbilly at an aerobics class in a local gym. We were like a bunch of school kids, excited at the chance of embarrassing a mate.

  The aerobics class was one of Hillbilly's many and varied plans to get laid. He thought if he joined the class he'd get to talk to young fit females, and then to ask them out for a drink. What he hadn't planned on was that some of the women would be going out with or married to Regiment guys. The secret got back via Mrs Doom.

  The gym was in two parts: the weights in one warehouse and, across the courtyard, the aerobics studio.

  The music pounded out as we crawled under the windows.

  Hillbilly was in the thick of it: the only male in a class of thirty, all dancing away as the instructor kept up the pace.

  'One, two, three, four – yeah! That's good, keep going! Feel the pump!'

  Hillbilly was even wearing the right gear, though his vest was too tight and his Spandex shorts were a couple of sizes too small – perhaps not entirely unintentionally.

  Schwepsy savoured every moment. 'Feel the pump? He's there to feel their arses.'

  Hillbilly knew all the moves. He smiled at the class as they bounced around the floor in a sea of leg-warmers and, in his case, blue socks to match his vest and wristbands.

  Des wasn't pleased. 'He's going at this half-cock.' He rested his tattooed forearms on the window-sill. 'Where's his headband?'

  Harry swayed to the beat. 'Fuck it, we'll say he wore it anyway. Lovely little mover, isn't he?'

  We ducked back from the window as the class ended. Thirty women and Hillbilly gave themselves a clap before streaming out and crossing the courtyard to the changing rooms.

  Hillbilly was in big chat-up mode; he still hadn't clocked us. 'Yeah, I really feel I've had a work-out. She plays such good music, doesn't—' At that moment he spotted the four mug grins hanging on his every word. 'Shit . . . Lads, let me explain . . .'

  One of the women he'd been targeting called out, 'Can you make Gingerbread this weekend?'

  'Er, don't know. But I'll try.'

  Des got his face into Hillbilly's. 'Feel the pump, eh?'

  Hillbilly was red as a beetroot, and it wasn't from the workout. 'I'm bang to rights, aren't I?'

  Harry wasn't letting him off that lightly. 'Gingerbread? What's that? You're not going to give us an even worse name than you already have . . .'

  Hillbilly almost collapsed in embarrassment. Gingerbread was a single-parent group that came together to talk about emotional issues and give each other practical help and arrange day trips, that sort of thing. His plan was to become their only single father when he had his daughter with him for the weekend. 'You know, give the girls a shoulder to cry on.' He beamed. 'Let them see my vulnerable, caring side. It's worked a treat so far.'

  23

  A couple of hours before last light we heaved our ready bags into the team's Transit vans and Range Rovers. It had been raining, turning the day damp and miserable.

  There were four of us per Range Rover. The wagons were fully laden and heavy. Mine rolled left to right as the driver practised his fast-driving drills. He looked at his watch and grinned. 'Ten minutes, doing well.' There was always a race to get to the training area in a quarter of an hour.

  The lead vehicle came on the net as it rounded a corner. 'Road clear.'

  The carload of civilians we overtook going into the blind bend stared at us as if we were madmen. And so we were, I supposed, apart from Snapper – he had that bit of paper to show he wasn't.

  Snapper wasn't with us. He'd finally realized he was meant to be on the other side of the fence, and had gone ahead to plan the abseiling party.

  I'd got to know the training area pretty well during Selection. We were heading for the drive-in range, an open square of earthworks about fifteen metres high, like a three-sided berm. Targets could be engaged left, right and forward.

  Three or four wagons were parked off to one side. Those range cars were used for live contact drills and they took a severe beating. Bodies milled around them. It just had to be Seven Troop.

  There were a lot more bodies around the vehicles than there had been in the jungle. It wasn't just Seven Troop going over the water. Lads from other troops were going as well to make up the numbers. At least twelve guys were needed on the ground.

  Everyone was in jeans and jackets. Their hair was even longer than it had been in Malaysia, and a couple even had beards. Most drank brew from white paper cups while making ready MP5s and reloading magazines.

  They turned to see who was coming. As we got nearer I picked out Frank, Nish and Al near a green Astra.

  The Range Rovers stopped and we clambered out. There were general slaggings and honks, then smiles when we produced the packed lunches we'd collected from the cookhouse. One of the wagons dragged out a Norwegian and a stack of paper cups.

  As I walked over to Frank, I could see that the Vauxhall's windscreen was held in place by bungees. There was a neat stack of brand new windscreens on the grass, next to a pyramid of shot-up ones.

  Frank was in a good mood. Al gave something approaching a smile as he shoved a Browning into the pancake holster behind his right hip. I smiled back, but mostly because of his pullover. It was one of those multicoloured Scandinavian fishermen's things that Abba might have worn when they were doing a winter video.

  An arse was sticking out of the driver's door. Al grabbed its belt and pulled. 'Ken – this is Andy.'

  Mr Grumpy said, 'Ken, he thinks you're a crap hat.'

  The giant stood up and turned. I immediately saw why no one took the piss out of Ken. With his wavy brown hair and a few days' stubble on top of a slightly acne-scarred face, he looked more like a lifer than a soldier. The top set of falsies he was readjusting didn't soften the effect. The originals could have been punched out in a prison riot. There wasn't a hint of a smile as he looked down at me. His mouth opened, but only so he could insert a cigarette before he lit up. 'Listen in, I might be crap-hat green slime, but
I'm the boss, geddit?'