by Geoff Wolak
‘Who the fuck is firing?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘No, but it would be nice to be fucking told these things! I’m only the guy in charge.’
‘What’s happening elsewhere?’ Swifty asked.
‘Gurkhas, Engineers and Dragoons are a few miles in from the bridge crossing, holding that area. Gurkhas hit a rebel base this morning, killed most of them, rest ran off. The only other known groups are heading for you.’
‘Might think they can fly out. They’ll be disappointed. What about the road north?’
‘Blocked by the French.’
‘So they’ll be stuck then. Hang on ... column of men coming in, just about see them, southwest road again, past the tents.’
‘Ask the invisible mortar team to target them,’ I quipped.
‘It’s a long line of men, backpacks, RPGs.’
‘See the man in charge of them?’
‘Yeah..?’
‘Try and hit him.’
Swifty took aim, an 800yard shot in limited light, and fired, giving the man a scrape. The man knelt, a hand to his arm. Swifty fired again, hitting the man in the toe. He called me back. ‘I got him. Kind of.’
‘What’d you mean, kind of?’
‘I winged him, then hit him in the foot.’
‘You’re pants then.’
‘You come sit up a tree all night and try and shoot someone 800yards off!’
I heard another blast. ‘What was that?’
‘Their mortar crew are pissed off, half an idea where we are. That was inside a hundred yards.’
Another blast.
‘They’re getting closer,’ Swifty noted.
‘Reposition for a while if you have to.’
‘Hang on ... yes!’
‘What?’
‘Our mystery mortar crew just hit their mortar crew. Hang on ... Tomo just fired ... it’s going ... still going ... ha!’
‘What did he hit?’
‘Outer sandbag wall. Still, gave them a headache. Wait ... patrol moving in. No ... not a patrol, civvies with heavy bags sneaking through the bush.’
‘Let them go, warn the others.’
‘Can’t blame them, hard to get any sleep in this place. Shit...’
I heard the explosion down the phone. ‘What was that blast?’
‘Behind me, down the road east, big blast.’
‘Radio around, see what’s going on, eh.’
I was handed a fresh tea and updated those still awake, Captain Hamble jealous at not being out there tonight.
Swifty called me back half an hour later. ‘It was that knobber Robby and his team. They found a truck, killed the men with it, and pinched away the mortars. Set fire to the truck. They had six mortars, all used up now.’
‘And the mortar pit was hit?’
‘Three times. Tomo is now playing Russian roulette with them.’
‘What’d you mean?’
‘He fires up at an angle, and when the rocket runs out the head comes down, but they can’t see or hear it till it smacks them in the head.’
‘Are they trying to sleep?’
‘Yep, many sleeping on the floor. Those that just walked in looked dog tired.’
‘Weather OK?’
‘Not raining, no wind. Hang on ... a helicopter approaching.’
‘Try and shoot it down.’
Off the phone, I glanced at Hamble. ‘Helo coming in, so ... where did it come from, and who’s paying the bills?’
‘Not the man that was killed earlier.’
‘No...’ I rubbed my face, thinking of power barons in far off places, and why they were still active.
Leggit called it to report the helicopter circling.
Swifty then called me back five minutes later. ‘That could have gone better.’
‘What happened?’
‘The helo didn’t want to land, just circled, and Tomo missed, but someone using a box-fed hit it, and it crashed – in the village. Killed a dozen civvies at least, their wooden houses on fire.’
‘No one needs to know it was us, warn everyone.’
‘Will do.’
Off the phone, I glanced at Hamble. ‘Helicopter crashed ... onto civvy houses.’
‘Not something the press need to know about.’
‘Those civvies are packing up and leaving though.’
With his last RPG, Tomo fired at a stack of wooden crates, no idea what was in them. What was inside were small one-litre gas bottles that fitted to gas cookers. As Swifty observed, wide-eyed, dozens of gas bottles flew out like rockets in all directions, rocket assisted as the escaping gas burnt. None exploded on landing, but all ‘popped’ as the final gas inside burst the damaged bottles, made from thin aluminium.
Tomo got on the radio and claimed the credit for having made the most noise and the biggest mess. The French got onto the phone to me, then the Wolves, all reporting this odd spectacle, and asking if fireworks had been stored at the base.
I shook my head. ‘You try hard to fight a proper war, and your men make a mockery out of it,’ I said, Captain Hamble and a few others laughing. At least there was no one getting a good night’s sleep at that base.
At 4am I got a call from the airport, Paras lined up, chutes on, Hercules testing engines, video cameras rolling nearby, BBC film crews on HMS Cardiff ready. My Navy FAC was now awake, a coffee being nursed.
I was notified later that the Paras had boarded, so I called the Pathfinders, and they reported it all quiet on the ground. Fingers were crossed, men seen pacing up and down, looks exchanged.
‘Hercules are taking off,’ came the call.
The Navy FAC was busy, contact with the two Lynx, nods my way when I looked at him.
Little more than ten minutes later we could all hear the distinctive drone of the Hercules, and we stepped out and peered up into a dark blue sky. Six Hercules came across us low level, two abreast, their con trails distinct, an amazing sight.
Back inside, I could hear the radio chat with the Lynx. I called Swifty.
‘Yeah?’
‘You were sleeping?’
‘I nodded off a bit. What’s up?’
‘What’s up? The Paras will drop in five minutes, Lynx will hit the mortar position, so open your damn eyes.’
‘Hang on. OK, I’m facing the camp, all quiet, no fucker moving. Hang on ... I can hear a helicopter, long way off. Can’t see it.’
‘Look south down the centre line.’
‘South down the ... oh, hang on, I see it, coming in fast, low level ... missiles fired! Fuck!’
I could hear the blast my end. ‘Report the hit.’
‘Mortar position is covered in smoke, can’t see fuck all.’
‘Did they hit inside, or the wall?’
‘Inside, the wall is visible. Hang on ... they’re coming back around ... firing guns now ... mortar position hit. No fucker could survive that. Wait ... another chopper ... coming in fast ... just hit the mortar pit again. They got to be out of action.’
‘What’s the Lynx doing?’
‘Flew off ... uh ... west, yeah west.’
‘Job done then, mortars out of action. Any movement?’
‘Yeah, every fucker is awake and looking at the smoke. I can hear heavy choppers now. They Chinook?’
‘No, the Chinook are at least ten minutes back. Check the north and east.’
‘Hang on ... it’s another Mi8 coming in.’
‘From what direction?’ I shouted.
‘Northeast I reckon.’
‘Hold on.’ I lowered the phone in a hurry and pointed at the Navy FAC. ‘Mi8 coming in from the north east. Intercept it! Quickly!’ I lifted the phone. ‘Swifty?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Does it have missile pods?’
‘Hang on ... yeah it does.’
‘How’d they know about the para drop!’ I hung up, and focused on the FAC.
The man reported, ‘Lynx moving east to intercept. One Lynx on station near the LZ, Pa
ras have begun dropping.’
‘Fuck...’ I called Swifty, all eyes on me, officers exchanging worried looks.
‘Hello?’ Swifty asked.
‘You see that Mi8?’
‘Yeah. It had a nose around the base and is moving ... west, yes west ... wait ... Lynx coming in ... Jesus ... going to ram it by the look of it ... shit ... Lynx fired something, lot of smoke, fucking Mi8 dropped like a stone ... it’s down in the trees beyond the wire ... smoke rising ... Lynx circling at high speed. And every fucker is awake and following the action. Wait ... second Mi8 coming in.’
‘Does it have missile pods?’
‘Uh .... no.’
‘Hold on.’ Phone lowered, I pointed at the FAC. ‘Second Mi8 coming in, intercept it!’ As I lifted the phone the FAC got an urgent message out. ‘You there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s it doing?’
‘Ignoring the base, flying west towards where the other one is burning, hang on ... Lynx is back ... fucking thing must be doing a hundred miles an hour ... it’s firing ... fuck me. Scratch another Mi8, it burst into flames and dropped like a stone, just on the perimeter.’
‘Have all of Echo watch the skies, call me if you spot a helicopter that ain’t ours.’ I lowered the phone. ‘Lynx got both Mi8’s.’ My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Swan. You heard about the Mi8’s?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Got a wounded man, fucking burning helicopter landed near him.’
‘How bad?’
‘Not serious.’
‘Patch him up, ask him to stay on station and fight if he can.’
‘Will do.’
Phone off, I waited, expecting a call. Five minutes later, I was told by the Navy FAC that all Paras were down. Smiles were exchanged, the relief palpable.
The FAC reported one Lynx with a fault, and low fuel, and it was leaving. I nodded at him.
My phone trilled. ‘Captain Vilco,’ came a French accent.
‘Yes.’
‘Captain Marcel here, 1st Battalion. We are north. There is small aircraft flying to this place where is Major Liban.’
My face dropped. ‘What type of aircraft?
‘Like Spitfire, rockets on wings.’
I lowered the phone, and shouted at the FAC. ‘Fix wing attack aircraft approaching from the north!’
‘Last Lynx is low on fuel and ammo -’
‘It stays on station!’ I roared at him. ‘Have it climb and get ready to intercept an aircraft from the north, or I’ll shoot you and those fucking pilots!’
Colonel Clifford stepped around me. ‘As the ranking officer, I order that Lynx to stay where it is. It can land on the grass.’
The unhappy FAC sent the message, which had to be clarified by those unhappy pilots.
West of the rebel camp, east of the LZ, a BBC cameraman had gotten more than he had bargained for – and he was not a keen flyer to start with. Still, he had been assured of a smooth ride, the validity of that claim now in doubt, vomit down his front. His Lynx had been the one to shoot down both Mi8s, the man sat terrified in the back.
He was now thrown around as the Lynx climbed in a circle, suddenly to find his stomach in his mouth as the Lynx dived down from two thousand feet whilst banking right over, almost upside down, speeding down towards a low-wing monoplane with rockets, the aircraft in camouflage colours, twin seat.
The Lynx got position above and behind, the g-force high, the cameraman still filming – whilst screaming like a girl, and closing at speed the Lynx fired what it had left at just a hundred yards out, narrowly missing a collision with the attack aircraft as that aircraft started to smoke, a Chinook banking away and screaming over the radio, those in the back of the Chinook thrown around.
The monoplane banked hard over to the north but could not control itself, and it hit a tree. Smoke was seen to rise.
I pointed at the FAC. ‘Have that Lynx land here if necessary, we’ll get av gas sent out.’ Blowing out, I faced Colonel Clifford.
‘A close call,’ he noted, worried.
I sighed, and nodded. ‘We could have lost a Chinook.’ I faced Max. ‘Max, put a story on Reuters.’ He got ready his pad and pen. ‘During the largest parachute drop the British Army has conducted since 1944, two Royal Navy Lynx helicopters hit a rebel base, the mortar pit in that base, then remained close to the RAF Hercules as those aircraft dropped men of 2 Para.
‘Two Mi8 attack helicopters appeared, both shot down by the Lynx pilots. A light aircraft then appeared, fitted with rockets, and moved in to attack RAF Chinook helicopters as they offloaded men and supplies. The Lynx had climbed, and swooped down to intercept the attacking aircraft despite being very low on fuel.
‘The pilot remained on station despite being low on fuel and shot down three attacking aircraft, a remarkable feat. Never before has a British helicopter shot down a fixed wing aircraft.
‘Add a quote from me: never before has a helicopter shot down two other helicopters and a fixed wing aircraft in combat. This was remarkable flying, and the pilots saved the lives of British enlisted men on the ground, and saved RAF helicopters from attack at a key moment – Captain Wilco, SAS.’ I nodded at Max.
Everyone had been listening.
Colonel Clifford faced the FAC. ‘I recall you advising the Lynx that was low on fuel to leave, but that they volunteered to stay on.’
‘I heard that also,’ Major Taggard told the FAC.
‘Right, sir,’ the FAC told Colonel Clifford, being glared at.
My phone went. ‘Wilco here.’
‘It’s Lt Col Marsh. We’re down safe, but it’s like the Battle of Britain around here. Lynx just shot down a little plane.’
‘Yes, we know.’
‘Chinook pilot was not happy, they nearly collided.’
‘That Lynx shot down two helicopters as well.’
‘Bloody hell. Well we’re all in the trees now, so air attack is less of a problem, men moving forwards.’
‘Let us know when you see the fence, sir.’
‘Will do.’
I faced Max as he handled his machine. ‘Max, you can release to Reuters the story of the Para drop now.’
The drone of a helicopter signalled our Lynx arriving. The rotors wound down, and two very sweaty pilots walked in followed by a cameraman as white as a sheet of paper, vomit down his front. They were escorted by Haines, the senior pilot grey haired and a little overweight.
I had placed down my rifle and now started clapping, the other officers joining in, two bewildered sweaty pilots staring back as they were patted on the back and congratulated, Max taking pictures.
Colonel Clifford shook their hands. ‘Well done, fantastic show, and never done before we think.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Trying not to laugh at the cameraman, I called Captain Harris and requested av gas at the FOB, and updated him on what had happened.
‘Fucking hell...’ he let out.
‘Let everyone there know.’ Off the phone, I focused on the FAC. ‘Kindly request the second Lynx back on station when refuelled and ... fault free.’
He got out his sat phone as the cameraman showed people the tape, the pilots handed a fresh brew.
My phone trilled, the Prime Minister. ‘We’ve been following the action, but update me please.’
‘The Paras are all down and safe, moving off, but a Lynx pilot just made the history books. He shot down two attack helicopters and a fixed wing attack aircraft, never seen before.’
‘Never been seen before?’
‘No, sir; one for the TV news. I’ll hand you over to them, they’re right here.’ I held up my phone. ‘Prime Minister.’
The noise levelled dropped sharply, a stunned pilot taking the call. ‘Sir? Yes ... two Mi8 helicopters ... then a fixed-wing aircraft, sir ... no, I’ve not heard of it being done before ... Commander Christophers, sir, and Sub-Commander Davis, HMS Cardiff ... yes, sir ... thank you, sir.’
Phone
back to my ear, I said, ‘My men kept the rebels awake all night, and groups started to fight each other. I’m hoping for a quick end and low casualties on our side.’
‘And the Lynx knocked out something...’
‘They knocked out the mortar tubes, otherwise they could have done some damage. And the French are now in place in the northeast, ready to attack when we do.’
‘I’ve met with their officials, and we’re all back to being good friends, a joint effort when the fighting stops. What’s the next step?’
‘About two hours from now the Paras will attack, the French waiting for them.’
‘All carefully stage managed.’
‘Definitely. Makes for a better war movie, sir.’
‘Chat later.’
Half an hour later a Sea King landed with a portable fuel dispenser and a pump, plus four Navy technicians. They gave the Lynx enough fuel, and it followed the Sea King off, the cameraman sticking with his Lynx.
David Finch called in, having seen the stories on Reuters. He was having the experts check to see if a helicopter had ever shot down a fixed wing aircraft before. Certainly, no British helicopter had ever shot down another helicopter.
The Paras had found a winding track, and had followed it, not meeting anyone coming the other way, and had made good time to the fence, a call made. Only a few units had made the fence, others bogged down, literally.
The Sea Kings took off from Fearless, Echo and the Wolves advised, and twenty minutes later the helicopters moved in a line to the north of the camp, firing down as sleepy rebels started to get breakfast on.
But only fifty Paras were in place. Still, they had six GPMGs, and so opened fire, a great deal of fire brought to bear on the wooden huts, those huts closest to the west perimeter fence.
The wood was thin, rebels killed inside or as they fled, a few firing back. The Wolves figured they should open up, and did so, sniping at anyone they could hit, but in the centre of the camp, a few mortar tubes still upright, their operators hit.
The French had cut the wire, and in some places thrown ropes and pulled over the fence, no mines set off. They brought to bear more than ten GPMGs, plus a dozen men with RPGs taken off the column that had been ambushed, more men again with box-fed taken off that column.
