by Geoff Wolak
We got a meal courtesy of the Navy, then all bedded down to a quiet background hum of the engines. At 4pm I was awake and I washed as the lads stirred, an ensign coming down to inform me that there had been a call on my sat phone – the phone left on the bridge under a piece of paper labelled as SAS. He led me up and I saluted the captain when I glimpsed him.
Pressing #21, followed by the green button, I got through to the Major as I stood being observed. ‘It’s Wilco, sir, you called?’
‘Yes, and Bob spoke to the MOD, but was blocked at the political level, they don’t want to risk and expensive plane if it goes down – usual bollocks.’
‘OK, sir, we’ll make do, off after sunset. Any change, sir, any intel?’
‘No a sausage.’
‘OK, sir, Wilco out.’
I turned and faced expectant senior officers. ‘The Cabinet Office ... does not want to risk an expensive plane going down, so no diversion that way, sir.’
‘A decision ... based on bean-counter logic, not based on people’s lives,’ the ship’s Captain sullenly noted.
I nodded. ‘We do what we can, sir, with what we have. In Somalia ... our dinghy capsized and we nearly lost our kit. That didn’t make it to the papers, sir, our pride intact.’
They smiled as I headed off.
Below decks, I checked my kit, replaced my water with clean ship’s water, and bought a few chocolate bars from the ship’s well-stocked NAAFI. Checking, I found that some of the lads did not have rags, so I asked for and got some brown sacking, cut up and issued.
Taking out my ration packs, I discarded what I did not want and packed the rest. Sat with the gang, we faced each other, calling out kit ideas. My first aid kit had been spread around, antiseptic cream was available, tourniquets placed in jacket pockets with an inch showing, field dressings taped onto webbing. We were set, each man with around twelve full magazines and weighed down in the bandoliers.
Moving to the hangar deck, we soon realised that with these particular chutes we’d have a hell of a job getting them over our webbing, so the webbing had to come off. Chutes on, we rolled up the webbing and tired it off with thin rope, rope used to attached the bundle to our groin areas, the only place to have it hang. Rifles were clipped in place well enough, silencers and telescopic sights stuffed inside jackets, and quite uncomfortable. It would have to do.
Chute release was the dated method of right hand over to left hip, grab the D-ring handle and yank over to the right. If that failed, we had a few seconds to pull the standard reserve – and pray. I hand them all close their eyes and simulate it with a count.
‘Jump, pull ... two thousand, three thousand, four thousand – no tug and knees in and head back - pull the reserve. And when you approach the door, right hand on the D-handle in case you spin, try and go down like a free fall – face down left hand out, yeah?’
Rocko and Moran were in agreement, and they checked us over at length before we waddled into the cargo lift with the Marines captain, up to the deck whilst fitting our helmets, soon offered a dark blue sky for tonight’s action, our ride waiting, it engines gaining power, its rotors gaining speed.
‘Good luck!’ the Marines captain offered as we waddled over to the Sea King, steps laid on for us, being sat where told to in the dark interior – but sat mostly side on, rifles in the way.
We lifted off with the door open, the crewman peering down, the door shut as we headed east, expectant looks exchanged through the dark as the vibrations came up through our feet, the chutes very damned uncomfortable.
I had picked the drop zone, a valley some ten miles from the target area and barren, a soft sandy centre to welcome us – I hoped. It had a distinct rock formation that looked like a face, and the helicopter pilots had taken a good look at the map. At night, over the desert, such features were easy to see – they pointed out.
Fifteen minutes later we crossed the coast, just south of the Western Sahara border, and we peered down, features below quite distinct.
Thirty minutes in and the lights flashed, so I stood, Rocko following me up, the door opened with a blast of av-gas scented air. As arranged, the pilot had flown at over a hundred knots, but slowed to just forty for the drop zone, his altitude to be 800ft above the desert, not above sea level, since our drop zone was a thousand feet above sea level anyhow.
I was waved forwards, a lump in my throat, worries about the parachute failing, but also worries about the lads, further worries about screwing this up. My right hand on the D-ring, I was manoeuvred into place by the crewman, the rest stood right behind for a tight grouping, and I was taken unawares as I was shoved out.
I opened my legs and put my left hand out in front of my head as I faced the desert floor, then yanked with all my might. ‘Two thousand ... three -’ I was yanked upright, a silent prayer given, although I was sure that God would not appreciate some of the wording I used.
Grabbing the guides above my head, I looked up to see chutes silhouetted against the blue night’s sky, then peered down for features, seeing the face. With that face as a reference, I tried to judge the wind direction, soon figuring I needed to turn left, the lads – in sequence – simply told to the follow the guy below. Wherever we ended up – right place or wrong place, we’d end up there together.
Seeing a large expanse of brown nothingness, no black rocks or features, I aimed for it, and all too quickly it came up, my knees bent, final adjustment to get into the wind and to slow down.
The ground came up and hit me by surprise, the wind knocked out of me, but I had landed on sand. My chute fluttered, so I released it as someone landed close by with a curse, and I was soon scrambling to get my reserve off, then the damn harness, helmet thrown down, my weapon unclipped, magazine in, cocked, and I was ready, scanning the area as my chute drifted a short way away. I touched the ground and found my bundle, untied it and got my webbing on, radio in place, soft brown cap on head.
Running, I found a rock and jumped up onto it, soon seeing seven dark figures. ‘One me!’ I called, and if someone was close enough to hear that we were in trouble. They ran over, a good sign, chutes left. I performed a quick head count. ‘Any injuries?’
‘My hip’s a bit bruised,’ came Smurf’s voice.
‘Smacked my fucking nose a bit,’ Rocko said.
‘Any broken legs or ankles?’ There was no response. ‘Thank fuck for that. OK, Rizzo and Rocko, up here, eyes on, rest of you ... grab the chutes, tie them up, and use one chute as a big bag to hold them all, collect the reserves and helmets, because a helo can come fetch them later.’
I sat on the rock and took out my sat phone, which had survived intact, my face soon bathed in soft green light.
‘Ark Royal,’ came a refined voice.
‘This is Wilco, safe landing, no injuries, second helo is not needed. Copy that?’
‘Down safe, second helo not needed. Roger that.’
‘Wilco out.’ I knocked it off and put it away, sniffing the cool breeze and scanning the black hills to the west. They gave me my reference point, but the Orion constellation helped confirm directions on this clear night.
I tested Rocko and Rizzo’s radios, Smurf cutting in and saying that his was OK, followed by Moran and Slider. Stretch could not get his to work yet, Swifty having some problems with his.
With the chutes all collected, reserves and helmets counted, we marched in file to the east, aiming to find a pass in the foothills that lay between us and the target, the bundle of chutes being carried between Rocko and Slider, who complained at length.
Ten minutes later, and our feet registered soft drifting sand, a suitable outcrop of rocks nearby.
‘There,’ I called. ‘That depression. Chutes in it, cover them with sand.’
Rocko and Slider were glad to be rid of their heavy load, and many boots assisted with kicking sand over the bundle, many minutes taken up making sure that the bundle was covered.
‘What about tracks?’ Swifty asked.
‘That bre
eze is moving sand, so they’ll be gone in a day or two, and in a day or two we should be gone. Besides, any attempt to cover our tracks would be seen by a local expert either way.’
After sipping water we set off in good visibility, two groups, Rizzo bringing up the rear with Smurf, Stretch and Slider twenty yards back, just in case of mines.
The terrain was easy to follow, and we climbed up and over the gentle hills at a steady pace, two hours used to reach the crest and peer down, our target village seen from its distant lights.
‘That it?’ Captain Moran asked.
‘If we dropped in the right spot, then that’s it, due east.’ I took out my sat phone and hit #1 as the lads all got a look at our objective in a cool breeze.
‘Duty officer?’
‘It’s Wilco, sitrep: west of target, target in sight, no injuries, all good. Advancing on village. Copy that?
‘Copy that.’
‘Wilco out.’ I made sure that the phone was off, to save the battery. ‘Gather round,’ I called, and they closed in and knelt. ‘That’s the village, due east two miles just about. Before dawn we want to be in the hills beyond it, plenty of time. We’ll go around to the south, but that’s mostly open country. North has some farms, so people and dogs. We’ll use ditches to move to avoid tracks, a road to cross. Single file, five paces between you, ears open. When I pick up the pace, you do as well. Any questions?’
‘Contact procedure?’ Captain Moran asked.
‘We coordinate with the radios. If everything goes to shit, this is the meeting point, so memorise the rock formations, but I doubt they’d want a scrap at night, and we have the advantage at night.’
I pointed. ‘Down there you can see a road, black against the desert. The elbow bend is a meeting point if we get separated, there’s a ditch near it. OK, single file.’
We dropped down the gentle slope scuffing up dust and sand, and I was careful to follow the sandy paths and to avoid sharp rocks, and an hour later we found a dried riverbed that was going the right way, achieving a good pace. Hitting the elbow bend in the road, I joined the tarmac road and looked both ways, and started jogging, the lads copying, and soon working up a sweat.
When I picked up the pace they did as well, and we made good time with this gamble, relying on the fact that we’d see vehicle headlights a long way off, and that we’d leave no tracks. Reaching a bend in the road, distant village lights in view, I turned off and waited, counting them in. Ten yards on and I adopted a ditch, the lads resting and panting.
‘We’re safe enough now,’ I said. ‘Hills near us, crags, we just go up and around, find a good op, then report what we see. Simple.’
After a ten minute rest, chocolate bars nibbled at, water down, we set off again, but had gone little more than two hundred yards when I stopped. ‘Smell that?’
‘Bodies,’ Swifty noted.
I followed the smell, finding a deep gully with a track near it. And in the gully were four bodies loosely covered over. Torches out, mouths in elbows, we examined the bodies, figuring they had been dead a few weeks. I got an ID card, in French, before we withdrew to a safe distance.
‘French workers,’ I said after Moran had read the French writing for me. I knocked on the sat phone.
‘Duty officer.’
‘It’s Wilco. Sitrep: we’re close to village, have found a mass grave, four French nationals. Note this name.’ And I gave the name. ‘Copy that?’
He read the detail back to me.
‘Wilco out.’
‘Rest of the hostages could be dead already,’ Rizzo’s dark outline grumbled.
‘The recent ones ... no,’ I said. ‘They’ll at least try to get ransom, a few weeks at least.’
‘Those poor bastards had their throats slit,’ Captain’s Moran dark outline noted. ‘Not a nice way to go.’
‘Being shot in the stomach is worse, trust me,’ I quipped.
Climbing higher, the going got tougher and slower as we edged around the back of the hills, finding a goat trail and following it. Reaching a peak, we could see down onto the village below, maybe 1,000yards, but I kept going, wanting sight of the road that I knew could bring in men behind us.
Another hour of hard slog up and down, and I could see both the road and a vast expanse to the east, so I turned left and found a suitable OP, a series of crags to hide in.
‘Captain Moran, on the ridge please, hidden, one hour, start memorising that village layout to draw a map. Officers need to draw accurate maps.’ Off he went. ‘Swifty, one hour stag right here, rest of you down into those crags, brew on, then get some sleep.’
After a pee, some water drunk, I clambered up to Moran and lay down beside him in a stiff cool breeze, peering down at the village. ‘All quiet, sir?’
‘Just one vehicle. But there is a big compound with a courtyard down there, so ... maybe that’s it. How many hostages are there?’
‘In this country, now, sixty plus. Here ... fuck knows, but this group are supposed to have grabbed the Brits, so fifteen or so.’
‘That was classic SAS work,’ he noted. ‘Parachute drop in, sneaking around, now an op.’
‘Yep, text book.’
I peered through my telescopic sights at the compound at the centre of the village. In front of it was a road going left to right, the road we had crossed. That road forked on the right of the village, one branch heading east and around the back of us. In front of the village I could see a patchwork of square fields, something growing, and below me I could see many houses dotted up the hillside, the closest about 500yards down the hill.
But there was no chance of someone walking up here, because directly below me were jagged cliffs around a hundred feet high. Easing onto my back, I sat up and switched on the sat phone.
‘Duty officer.’
‘It’s Wilco, we’re above the village, eyes on, will observe all day tomorrow. Wilco out.’
Getting a brew on, I settled down on a sandy bottom next to Smurf, chatting away, and not worried about being spotted in these crags – or heard. I was not tired, and so welcomed in the dawn in the op, getting a full appreciation of the stark wilderness we were in, the jagged rocks, the distant hills, the flat desert floor.
With the sun fully up, Moran next to me and both of us wearing soft brown caps, we peered through our telescopic sights at the main compound.
‘Hostages!’ I whispered, but need not have been so quiet. ‘There, westerner in a white shirt walking right to left, to ... a toilet I reckon.’
Over the next thirty minutes we counted twenty hostages, three of them women. I called it in.
‘Duty officer?’
‘It’s Wilco. Sitrep: we’ve located the hostages, twenty plus, main compound at centre of village. Copy that?’
‘Copy that.’
Ten minutes later, and my phone went, surprising me because I figured I had switched it off. ‘Wilco?’
‘It’s Major Bradley, what have you got?’
‘We’re above the village, sir, large central compound, twenty plus western hostages.’
‘Good result. But ... things have happened since your sitrep came in, French not happy about something, so a hint that they will move on that village. You are hereby ordered to observe only, and to withdraw if the French go in. I’ve been ordered to give this number to the French commander, so expect a call. Oh, he speaks English.’
‘Sir, why are you not planning a raid, those hostages down there are mostly Brits?’
‘It’s believed that they’re mostly French, according to Intel.’
‘There are three women, sir, and that matches the three British women grabbed.’
‘Perhaps, but we have orders, so do you. Just ... observe, and cooperate with the French, that comes from the Cabinet Office.’
‘Sir, if the French go in and take casualties, and the hostages are killed ... then the French ... will get the blame.’
‘You’re not stupid, but let’s not start second guessing the politicians. Bradl
ey out.’
I put the phone down and exchanged a look with Moran. ‘French will raid that village, we’re eyes on only. Our PM does not want the risk of casualties.’
Moran shook his head. ‘Politics, just like Northern Ireland.’
I scrambled down the rock and informed the lads.
‘Fucking bollocks is what it is,’ Rizzo spat out. ‘We got the OP, we could go get those hostages.’
‘We have orders,’ I said with a sigh, and I left the lads to debate the matter, and to bitch and moan as I studied that road going east from a vantage point.
My phone trilling startled me. ‘Wilco here.’
‘Major Ducat, French Foreign Legion, we met in Somalia.’
‘Hello again, sir. Are you the decision maker here?’
‘I am. What is the situation on the ground?’
‘Twenty plus hostages, westerners, three are women. Plus we found a mass grave south of the village, a French national identified.’
‘We got his name. That man was kidnapped three months ago.’
‘He’s been dead two weeks, sir.’
‘And the village?’
‘A large central compound, maybe ten armed men seen.’
‘Only ten armed men?’
‘That we can see, sir, we have only had eyes on for an hour, since dawn. We will observe all day for a better picture.’
‘How did you get there?’
‘Parachute, sir.’
‘Parachute? A great risk.’
‘Yes, sir, but very quiet.’
‘It is essential that we get hourly reports from you.’
‘I will keep this phone on, sir, call anytime you like.’
‘Thank you.’ And he hung up.
Back at the OP, Rizzo had joined Moran, Moran making a sketch in detail.
‘Jeep full of fighters just arrived,’ Rizzo informed me. ‘Six of them.’
‘If there are twenty hostages, I’d say at least fifty gunmen. And, boys and girls, I reckon the French will raid at dawn tomorrow.’
Moran looked up. ‘We offer supporting fire?’
‘No orders to that effect,’ I said. ‘We’re OP only, then out.’
‘First thing those fighters will do,’ Moran began, ‘will be to shoot the hostages at the first sign of trouble.’
