No Fear: The True Story of My Deadly Life After the SAS

by Devereux, Steve

  However, all of us had learnt from our past military careers about the need to adopt a hearts and minds programme, especially in this type of war environment. It was essential never to forget that there were fundamental differences between us and the local people. Although they, and the local troops, knew we were here to help them in their plight against the Renamo attacks, we were still foreign. We looked and dressed differently, we ate differently, and we were well provided for. All our extras, luxuries in a way, which the majority of the people would probably never experience, could lead to dissent, jealousy on their part and possibly the death of any of us. Life in this part of the world is very cheap — an old cliché, but that was, and is the truth. People in desperate times with desperate needs could do anything, even kill to get what they want, and in most cases all they ever wanted was a fat belly full of decent scoff. That was worth killing for.

  So we implemented a hearts and minds programme with the powers that be. Firstly, we invited the officers over to our beer shack every other night, just for one or two, and then, once every two weeks, the provincial commander and his civilian equivalent. Sometimes they would come over unannounced with half a dozen of their hangers-on and clean us out of beer, but in the long term, if we kept these people happy, then we kept our freedom and respect.

  This may seem a simplistic view of the situation if you've never experienced being in a wartorn country and seen just exactly how desperate it can make people, but a few beers with the right people can make your job a hell of a lot easier. Especially if you're in a country where all the tribal chiefs, and the militia, rule their people with a ruthlessness that went out in the Middle Ages back in the UK.

  Protocol and our ability to understand 'the Mozambique Way' made up another very important area we had to work on and adhere to during the first couple of weeks. We had to familiarise ourselves with, and get along with, the key players in the Frelimo command structure. Being a major did not necessarily give an officer a higher status within the camp if one of the subordinate officers was from a well-connected and/or respected family. We had to learn to juggle with each of the people who were introduced to us at any one given time. All these key players had something to contribute to our operation, which in turn could only make our lives more bearable as regards getting things done.

  All in all, we were sure we made a good job of hosting these important people, from the main man who distributed the petrol, through to the Mr Fix It guy who eventually became Kenny's sidekick. He was able to get, basically, anything that was available 'in country', from spare parts for our vehicles through to local intelligence information from passing tribesmen.

  As far as the big chief himself was concerned, we had him in our pocket the day Brad gave him one of the Land Rovers. This secured the rest of the vehicles' safety, a wise move. It gave the chief the equivalent rank of Lord Mayor and High Executioner, and a lot of street cred with his people. It also kept him off our backs, and if we had not given him one Land Rover then he might well have taken all of them. He had power, the power that came out of the end of an AK47, and we weren't about to argue with that .

  Surprisingly, by the end of my second week, we had a full complement of soldiers to start the course. They were in a makeshift camp just across from the compound — not so far away that you had to drive there, but far enough so they wouldn't be bothering us every two minutes. We had just over 100 in all, but it was recognised that we might end up losing about 20 per cent due to injury or lack of interest. The 'Company' was to be made up of two 30-man platoons with two 'Specialists' in charge of each, plus an HQ element under their own command consisting of medics, admin and signallers (radio operators). Because of the lack of suitable terrain on which to carry out training, ranges work and (especially) patrolling, it was very rare that both platoons were ever out at the same time. To some extent this helped with admin problems, which occurred every day.

  Because the soldiers came from all over the place, and were in effect volunteers, we did not know what level of soldiering skills they might have. All we knew was that they had about two years service behind them. But what did that consist of? We had to find out.

  Unfortunately their past history had not been properly documented by their previous units and certainly we had no files on any of them. So our priority was to interview them, ascertain who was skilled in what, then try to put the obvious pegs in suitable holes. There was only one common denominator between the lot of them, and that was they had not been paid for nearly a year. This could pose severe discipline problems. Would they do what we told them? Would we have any soldiers left after the first night? Would these so-called bloodthirsty warriors stage a coup or string us all up and run off with our stores and supplies? For all we knew, any or all of these things could happen. Because of all this, the first day of introductions was of vital importance not only for the soldiers themselves but also for us and our well being.

  To alleviate any anxieties the soldiers, or indeed, we ourselves, had, Brad decided to brief them all up at once, in their camp. His style wasn't particularly dictatorial, and he spoke to them through our two civilian interpreters (who had been given the 'field rank' of Captain for the duration) about our intentions for the next three to six months. He spoke very generally about the training programme and about the operational task they were to perform once their training stage was over. He also touched on the fact that we were here as friends of Mozambique and that once they had all passed the training, then they would be without doubt the best-trained Company in the Mozambique Armed Forces. This last part was not a line of bullshit out of the British Army 'book of man management'. It was going to be fact . All of us wanted it, and I was sure we'd achieve it.

  Another point about the troops' well being was that they would always be fed as well as the situation would allow, with fresh rations, meat, and so on. They had only ever been fed on meleme, or maize, for their entire army career, and this was obviously not good enough for the training we had in mind. A comprehensive signal was sent back to the capital Maputo, which both sorted out a special ration allowance for the troops, and addressed the issue of payment for them, including back pay.

  By identifying the need for the right 'sweeteners' — that is food, back pay, and additional pay if and when they passed the course, and being awarded the coveted 'Red Beret' to wear (a symbol recognised all around the world as a Special Forces) — we believed we had started off on the right foot with the troops. Certainly they all cheered after Brad's speech. But I did wonder how long their enthusiasm would last!

  For the first week all we did was run a basic fitness selection programme. This was our first problem, because although the soldiers were keen to play, most of them were very undernourished. Their long-term diet of a plate of maize for breakfast and a plate of maize and a piece of bread for dinner was just not enough. There was hardly sufficient calorific intake in their daily scoff to keep a child going, let alone a soldier. So until we got them the food which we had promised, we had to adjust the physical training to what they could realistically do: basically, a three-mile run in the morning and that was that. With one-on-one introductions with the team during the rest of the day, that was all we could do for the time being.

  It was to be two weeks before the rations arrived. They were flown in by air, and we met the aircraft and unloaded it under a heavy armed guard. This was absolutely necessary. At the time, it must have seemed to the locals that we were the bad guys. Here we were, guarding the unloading of a hell of a lot of food, right in front of all these hundreds of undernourished onlookers, who could only stop and stare at the heaps of rice, flour, tea, coffee, meat and fresh veg. If we gave a sack of rice to one then we would have had to give it to the rest, and there were far too many of them to do that. So, to prevent unrest, we had to put a hard front on during the unloading. Keeping an armed guard on the food stocks was going to be the officers' problem. We did not want the strife of internal politics that would more than likely come
about through any unfair food distribution.

  Even though the men were not used to running, two or three had impressed me with their athleticism. I reckoned that if these men were put on a proper diet and training programme, they might even be Olympic material. There was one lad in particular who was just 18. He came from the highlands region (we called him 'the Mountain Man') and was so fit that he kept up with us all the time. When I was struggling he would be chatting away, not even out of breath. One day Jimmy, a sub two-hour 30 minute marathon man himself, decided to see just what Mountain Man was all about. He took him out for a ten-miler up and down the airstrip. Mountain Man didn't falter once, keeping up with Jimmy all the way. Mountain Man was later given the responsibility of carrying the support machine gun plus 400 rounds on future tabs. This slowed him down considerably.

  One of our aims during this first training course was to identify potential officers and soldiers who could form the training staff, the DS (Directing Staff), for the second three-month course. It was hoped that this one would run back-to-back with the first, keeping some continuity going. This would also allow two convoys to go on the ground at the same time and, in theory, double the units' capacity to shift tea.

  Weapons training, tactics (mainly Convoy and Anti-Ambush Drills) and live firing were the core of our training programme. Although the soldiers were dead keen to learn, they were far from competent to go out on operations, even given their two years' previous experience.

  The training was based around the basic British Army tactics and use of the SA80 rifles. These were first-generation and weren't up to much, so I felt sorry for the soldiers who had to use them. We had nothing but trouble with this batch: stoppages, magazines falling off, rifles breaking for no apparent reason. The whole SA80 saga was a complete nightmare. None of the team carried them — we all used the AKM, a tried and tested, no-nonsense combat weapon.

  In the hands of a trained British soldier the SA80 is a pretty neat and very accurate rifle, and on the streets of NI or on the ranges at Bisley, 'It'll do very nicely, thank you'. But in the hands of eager but uneducated, poorly equipped and undernourished soldiers, it was totally the wrong rifle. For these soldiers, to strip clean such a fiddly weapon, in 'the field', with the minimum of cleaning kit, was a serious headache. Pieces would get lost or, because the working parts of the rifle are for design reasons much trickier to reassemble than the AK47, it would take them too long to complete, especially in an operational environment, where a soldier has to strip, clean and put back together his weapon in minutes. If I'd had my way, I would have reissued them their old AK47s, but there was a political and a commercial reason why we were not allowed to. One which was never explained to us, but I had my theories. I reckoned the government wanted to dump this batch of first-generation rifles in a war zone, just to prove the capability of the weapon in the field. But they didn't have to stitch up a Third World country to do that — any soldier could have told those in charge that the SA80, at that time, was not up to much. It was a liability and it was untested in a war zone. Also, the 'company' that employed us probably wanted to make a quick buck on the equipment side of the contract.

  Much of the day's training was to be spent on the ranges, live firing. One problem, though — there was no range. So a week was spent clearing a stretch of land four miles north of camp. It was pretty hard to locate at first because outlying makeshift villages had already occupied much of the level ground. However, once sited we set about clearing the ground and building an eight-foot wall of earth at one end to act as a bullet stopper: the butts. All in all, the range turned out to be more than adequate. The only thing was, every time we used it, we had to physically 'area clear' the range of kids who would come and play in and around the area, looking for spent cases and any other useful pieces of kit which might have dropped off the soldiers' webbing. These kids — mainly lads, no more than ten years old — never got the hint, even when a couple of them were caught and severely punished for 'trespassing'. I guess they were just too stupid. Occasionally we had to stop firing because an old man would stray on to the range as we were firing. When dogs ran across, it was almost impossible to stop the soldiers from shooting at these moving targets. The usual British Army procedure of flying a red flag when the range was in use was considered and implemented early on, but no one took any notice of it. So we binned the idea.

  Most evenings I'd spend about 40 minutes working out with Jimmy and Brad in a make-shift gym we had put together. The weights and bars were made out of lumps of old metal liberated from the railway yard. Anything small but heavy was used as free weights. Most of the lumps of iron were not exactly balanced or symmetrical, but it just about passed muster. After that, a quick shower, then 'prayers'.

  Sometimes we would have a Chinese Parliament, normally instigated by Brad on how to run the following day's training. This may seem slightly unprofessional but most of what we needed for this — the vehicles and, more importantly, the men — was not really under our control. What we could plan was how the day should be run, and when the morning came, if we were devoid of, say, two vehicles when we planned for four, or missing ten of the soldiers because they had been tasked elsewhere by their officer to collect firewood or do some small favour for a local chief, then we would remain totally flexible. If it all went to rat shit early in the morning — which it quite frequently did — we would arrange for those soldiers we had to board any vehicles available, and take them off down the range. We worked on the principle that we had tons of ammunition and explosives to get rid of, and if we could teach these guys just one thing which would benefit them, and us, it was the art of shooting straight.

  After 'prayers' we would sit down to a communal scoff. A TV and video machine had been flown in, but Mozambique TV stations were not broadcasting — their transmitters kept getting blown up. Other times we would go down town Cuamba to drink warm beer and socialise with the locals. Considering what these people were going through, they were always cheery and well pleased to see us, probably because we were some of the few people with hard currency to spend. However, I like to think they were genuinely pleased to see us. After all, we were there to help them — at least indirectly.

  The town did not show too many battle scars, but was filling up daily with refugees from the surrounding area, so its original population of a few thousand had grown dramatically. What it lacked were the materials to rebuild itself after 20 years of neglect. At one time it had been a beautiful colonial-style Portuguese town full of villas with faded pastel walls and overgrown vines running up their sides. The wooden and concrete buildings, one- and two-storey, still standing were inhabited by the lucky few. Roads, once tree-lined avenues, were now just dirt tracks, the tarmac having long since disappeared. I could see that if the rainy season ever returned, the roads would turn into quagmires, like something out of the Wild West.

  There were no civilian vehicles, only military ones, and even they were scarce. In fact, all were under the control of the unit we were training. So the only interruption we would get whilst sitting out on the veranda of one of the town's three bars would be kids who came to see us out of curiosity. Perhaps if they stretched their hands out, they might just get a reward for chancing their luck.

  Every one of our British Army ration packs contained a tube of boiled sweets, so when we went into town, we armed ourselves with handfuls to give away. Once these kids had had their ration they would be shooed away by the local proprietor, who would then concentrate on trying to sell us more of his lovely warm beer.

  I enjoyed those nights out, even though it was pretty basic stuff: drinking under candle light in the warm heat of the evening, listening to the music (a cross between Latin and African, with heavy sexual undertones) and trying to dance with the local girls. All played on a music system which any one of us would have binned years ago. Still, it helped take away some of the feeling that a civil war was raging all around us. The only giveaway was on the road back to the compound — about
half a dozen burnt-out Russian tanks and military vehicles, destroyed some time in the not-so-distant past.

  It was about halfway through training that I was woken quite sharply by Kenny. 'Hey Steve! Get up. Get up.' His voice had an edge to it, which was unusual. Kenny was a laid-back guy. But this morning he was definitely worried.

  'What the fuck's going on?' I was still groggy as I struggled to get out of my mozzy net.

  'Take a look outside. You won't believe it! Masses of people heading our way.' He started to run off.

  Automatically I got into my kit, threw my webbing over my shoulder and grabbed my weapon. All of us carried our weapons everywhere .

  'Shit, Kenny! Calm down, will you?' I followed in hot pursuit. Outside the compound I could see what he was excited about.

  'Jesus,' I said to no one in particular, though I was now standing with a group of our soldiers who had been on guard that night.

  'All these people are coming from up north, they have walked about 30 miles during the night. Renamo put in a big attack, killed a lot of them, so they ran away,' one of our interpreters was saying.

  'There must be hundreds of 'em. Where are they going? They can't come here. There isn't enough room for them,' I retorted.

  As soon as that was out, I knew that it was the wrong thing to say. Not because of what the interpreter might have thought — he didn't care what happened to them. He was a pretty laid-back guy; after all in a few weeks he would be back with his family in Maputo. But I felt it was callous of me, a knee-jerk remark for which I was sorry as soon as I said it.

  Not a sound came from the fleeing villagers — men, women and children — as they passed us. It was eerie. All they were carrying were any items to hand when the attack took place: water jugs, large bundles of rags containing some personal possessions. Some had nothing at all. Every one of them was absolutely silent, heads bowed low, deep in thought, following one after another. Even the children were quiet.