Immediate Action

by Andy McNab

  It took me a little while to find out that this meant money, and that what they were moaning about was squadron funds.

  The SSM was awarding VCs (voluntary contributions.e fines) all over the place to boost the fund. There was a. fridge full of soft drinks running on a generator; every time you took one you signed your NAAFI number and got a bill at the end of the week. We found the SSM had loaded the prices by 200 percent.

  The four MFCs came down with us in the wagons and set themselves up with Martini parasols, iceboxes, and masses of food among the mortars and the piles of ammunition. We learned how to cover a whole area with pinpoint accuracy, coordinating illuminating mortars with high explosive so that at night the MFC could see what was going on.

  It took a lot of coordination; the fuses had to be set so that as one was going out the other was blowing up. By the end of two weeks we were the Eric Bristows of the mortar world.

  John announced a five-day squadron exercise with the 110s and mortars to practice live firing "advance to contact." Mobility Troop drove forward with their 110s and motorbikes, moving tactically across the ground.

  The procedure was basically the same as rifle company firing and maneuvering, but without the firing. A couple of vehicles moved up into the high ground and got into a position from where they could use their guns to cover the next lot moving on the low ground. Everything was coordinated by the squadron commander.

  We came into an area where we couldn't be seen and there was lots of dead ground. The squadron waited and sent out a couple of motorbikes on recces. They moved around trying to find routes, trying to find possible attack points-and the enemy. Vehicles stopped and sent foot patrols into the high ground. it was all about dominating the ground.

  Behind the squadron commander were the mortar crews; while all this activity was going on, we were just sitting in the back of the wagon drinking tea and in Nosh's case picking his nose. The mortar fire controllers were up front with the lead elements of the squadron; as soon as any attack came, they could start calling down the mortar fire and we would swing into action. As they moved forward, they were doing their own tactical appreciation and giving prominent areas identification marks.

  The forward elements were bang onto the enemy. I heard firing, then on the net came "Contact, contact.

  Wait out."

  As soon as we heard it, we jumped out of our vehicles and started getting the mortars rigged up. We knew the direction of advance; we knew where the troops were.

  We pointed the mortars in that general direction, waiting for precise coordinates.

  Our job was to get the maximum amount of fire down on the enemy, to suppress their fire, make sure they didn't go anywhere, and kill as many as possible. Then, when the rest fought through the position, there'd be hardly anybody left to resist.

  The vehicles were maneuvering, trying to get their heavy machine guns to bear on the enemy position. Not everybody was engaged in the firefight; some were held back in reserve in case we started losing people at the front. The squadron commander was giving orders on the net, telling different troops what he wanted them to do. The principles hadn't changed since the Charge of the Light Brigade.

  While the firefight was going on, people were maneuvering, under cover from our fire and the physical terrain, into positions close to the enemy. Some movement was on foot; some was a combination of foot and vehicle. It all depended on the terrain. Whatever, we had to get that fire down.

  Mortars work by the angle of the barrel and the amount of energy supplied by the explosive charge on the mortar round. There are seven bands of propellant.

  If the mortar fire controller says, "Charge Three," that means there's three bags of propellant, which, with the angle of the barrel, provides its range. What it does at the other end depends on what fuse is 'Set: airburst, delayed, instantaneous, or it might be smoke.

  The MFC reported that the enemy were troops in buildings; that meant I had to put a delay fuse on the rounds. They would go into the building, then explode; the earth would be churned up and their defenses would collapse, we hoped, taking them out in the process.

  As I looked up to the high ground, I could see the squadron commander getting people into position, but it was no good their attacking until the firefight had been won and all enemy fire was suppressed, as we were about to do.

  The troops who were going to attack got into the F.A.P (final assault position). The suppressing fire would be "switched," which meant that it still went down but was moved along, so that as our blokes were advancing toward the target, we weren't firing on them.

  All this had to be coordinated by the squadron commander, who could either see things visually for himself or was getting the information on the radio. We couldn't see jack shit; we would just fire on command.

  Nosh and Steve were getting the mortar sorted out and waiting for direction and elevation. The MFC, working on a small hand-held computer, shouted: "Immediate action! Direction one-six-four!"

  Nosh shouted: "Direction one-six-four!"

  From the number two came the confirmation: "Direction one-six-four!"

  The MFC called: "Elevation one-two-two-eight," Nosh: "ElevAtion one-two-two-eight!"

  Next mortar: "Elevation one-two-two-eight!"

  As soon as all the bearings were done on the sight, Nosh shouted,

  "Number one ready!"

  Then we heard "Number two ready!"

  They were set commands and standard actions, though slightly different from the rest of the army's. I was listening for a command about charges.

  "Two rounds, charge three! Stand by!"

  I shouted, "Two rounds, charge three!"

  I prepared the ammunition, and Steve took it and waited for the command to throw it down the tube.

  Everything was going incredibly smoothly on our tube. We had the elevation and the bearing; we had the lot. We were all ready.

  "Number one, fire!"

  We threw two rounds each down the tube to "bed in" the weapon.

  When a mortar goes off, it starts burying itself in the ground.

  We all stand on the plate at this stage to help it bed in. If the baseplate isn't correctly set, the mortar bounces around and the ammunition goes off target. The next rounds, once the baseplate was buried into the ground, would be on target.

  We got another fire order and complied.

  Then we saw the mortar fire controller running and shouting out.

  I said, "What the fuck's the matter with him?"

  Nosh said, "Who gives a fuck-let's just go with him."

  I didn't have a clue,what was happening, but if he was running, I was running. Then I realized: He must be running away from the line of the mortar. I looked up and saw the mortar round, going straight up in the air and then disappearing from view, so chances were it was going to come straight down.

  Everybody's feet sprouted wings. I could see the squadron head shed on the high ground. They, too, started to leg it. The motorbikes roared away. None of them knew what was happening, but they all knew there was a problem. When there are problems with live ammunition, you get out of the way.

  We were still running when the mortars landed about a hundred meters behind us. They exploded, but nobody was hurt.

  The mortar fire controller had a severe voluntary contribution-which the SSM loved because it boosted up the cabbage-and an even more severe hard time from us for the rest of the trip.

  We did some more jumping. By now I was really getting into the swing of the ice-cream troop business, ripping off my jumpsuit as soon as I landed, putting on shorts and walking around eating crisps, waiting for the next jump.

  Then we had to start the serious stuff. We were sitting on the desert airstrip one morning, waiting for the C130 to fly up from Muscat.

  The terrain was totally different from the original camp, gentle, undulating dunes that were nice and fluffy to land on. Little forts and watchtowers sat on the hilltops; villages looked like something out of the Crusades. Hi
story was all around ite. I thought, This is the life; this is what I've been after all these years.

  John said: "We're going to get a bundle ready. What we want to do tonight is a full troop night jump from twenty-five grand."

  We were sitting around the tailgate; it was six o'clock, and the sun was setting.

  "On the bundle I want Steve, Andy, and Mat."

  This was good. It was the first time that I'd ever jumped with a bundle; I'd followed them before, but I'd never jumped with one.

  There were three of us on the bundle, which was on a trolley. As soon as the green light showed, everybody would pile out on top of each other, really close. The container would go just slightly before the team.

  We sat facing the oxygen consoles, in full kit, bergens between our legs, ready to attach behind our arse when we jumped. The aircraft took off and circled the DZ, gaining height.

  I checked the altimeter on my arm. Twenty thousand feet. We got the command to rig our kit up. I pushed the bergen behind me and attached it by hooks to my harness. Now we were waiting for the command to go up toward the tailgate. When it was time to jump, we took the oxygen off the main console and put it onto our own bottle.

  All the commands were on flash cards; nobody could speak because we were on oxygen. I watched the ramp start to come down.

  On the command we moved to the rear like a line of ducks, shuffling from foot to foot, weighed down by the parachute, oxygen kit and bergen-well in excess of 150 pounds. The GPMG I was carrying added another 24 pounds. I was on the left-hand side of the bundle. Steve was on the other side, and Mat was at the back. We pushed it on its trolley toward the tailgate; about six inches from the edge of the tailgate there were chocks that stopped it from falling over the edge. We stood there holding it in position. The rest of the troop moved right up onto the tailgate itself. The front people had their toes on the edge; everybody was bunched up, really close to one another, because we all had to get out at the same time. With us were three blokes from A Squadron who'd finished a team job in the Middle East, heard we were getting in some free fall, and gave up their free time to come and join in.

  Steve was bent over, ready to push out the container.

  We were waiting for the two-minute warning, which would signal that we were on the run-in.

  All of a sudden the loadmaster held up two fingers, and everybody was banging the next man and showing two fingers. I tapped Steve, and he nodded his head. The loadie was holding the paracord that was retaining the two chocks, ready to pull when it was time for the bundle to go.

  Everybody was tensed up on the tailgate, looking at the red lights either side. As soon as they went green, everybody would shout, "Ready, set, go!" It had to be as loud as you could yell to get above the noise of the aircraft, wind, and the oxygen mask.

  The aircraft started doing corrections, jacking us around. We had to hold on to keep standing. The loadie gave the cutthroat sign and did a circle in the air, which meant he'd got the wrong track, so we were going to go around and try again.

  I tapped Steve again and gave him the cutthroat sign; he nodded.

  Then he put his head back down, and I put my head back down. We were bracing ourselves; we knew the aircraft would have to do some quite steep turns.

  The wind was rushing in, and it was cold. I saw lights now and again from distant towns.

  Steve was resting his helmet on the bundle; everybody was tired because we had all our kit on and it was a pain in the arse, holding on to each other for balance as the aircraft moved position. Then the two-minute warning came again, and everybody sorted himself out, getting ready to go.

  I tapped Steve but got no reaction. I gave him a shake and nothing happened. I couldn't figure it out. Then I thought: Shit! I lunged across the bundle, grabbed hold of his oxygen bottle, and checked the reservoir gauge. It was showing red.

  I grabbed hold of the loadie, shook him, and started pointing at the reservoir. gauge on my bottle and pointing at Steve. He got on the net, and straightaway the aircraft went into a steep nosedive.

  The tailgate was coming up. The troop was looking around, and within seconds everybody realized what was going on. The oxygen NCO came screaming up, dragging Steve back to the main console. Steve was lying on the floor, on just about his last breath. The NCO pulled the tube from Steve's reservoir and put it into the main console. He was flapping good style, his eyes like goldfish bowls; the oxygen bottles were his responsibility.

  The aircraft came down below twelve thousand feet, and we were out of the danger zone. The jump was aborted, but the aircraft couldn't land in the dark at the airstrip we should have been dropping onto, so we had to go and stay in a smart hotel in Muscat, which w'as a blow.

  The hotel had a wonderful restaurant with indoor palm trees, a pianist tinkling away in the corner and nice crisp tablecloths. All the diners were dressed up in suits and ties and long evening dresses.

  Enter Air Troop in their flying suits, hair sweaty and sticking up after being under a helmet all night.

  We ate in somber mood, until Mat said, "Don't worry, it won't have affected Steve. He was brain-damaged anyway."

  It turned out Steve had been issued with a defective bottle. He obviously got a slagging the next day and was branded a big-time wanker for it ' jump. Tying to get out of the I was fascinated by the local customs and wondered if what I thought I was seeing was necessarily what was happening. They might be drinking Coca-Cola, chewing Wrigley's gum, and driving air-conditioned Land Cruisers, but their whole way of thinking was very different.

  We sat down and drank tea with these people. The Regiment was the least racist group of people in the British Army I had ever met, no doubt because they came from so many different backgrounds, religions, classes , and nationalities. Nobody was ever derogatory about indigenous populations. How could we be running around with local guerrillas, for example, if we were thinking, What a bunch of dickhead hillbillies? Nine times out of ten, their cultures are much more established than ours, and they're more true to their origins.

  We're just slags compared with a lot of the people that Westerners considered backward, Third World, and dirty. We're putting our Pepsi and Levi's culture in comparison with theirs, which might be older and wiser. At least when it comes to holding beliefs, they're not like us, as flexible as Access cards.

  The Omanis had feasts called haflas where they'd bring a goat in and cook it in the fire. It was always a fantastic gathering. They'd turn up in their Land Cruisers in the middle of nowhere, put the carpets out, and start a fire up. Sometimes they'd tow in a small water bowser as well. There was a huge amount of ritual involved; the animal was treated with immense respect before it was killed, in accordance with Islam.

  I really used to enjoy sitting there and pigging out.

  Western protocol didn't exist; everybody sat down, ate, then just stood up and walked away. Once you were finished, you were finished.

  We had a whip-round one day to buy some meat.

  Everybody chipped in three rials, and off the boys went to market.

  We were sitting on the carpets in the late afternoon, building up the fire, when we heard a family lar chug and a Toyota pickup appeared in a cloud of dust. Roped down in the back was our meal for the night, a young and very pissed-off-looking camel.

  The rituals were observed, and the meat was chopped up. Some was hung up to dry in the sun to make camel jerky, and the rest was soon in the pot. Within an hour, out came the camel and rice. There were a hundred of us, sitting under the stars on ten carpets joined together; each of us had a huge plateful and just sat around and spun the shit for the rest of the night.

  The Omanis, like all locals everywhere, wanted to show us their culture; they wanted ius to see that there was a bit of finesse about what they were doing. It might have looked basic, but it wasn't.

  There was an art in how to squeeze the rice, and how to choose the best bits of meat. In some of the old villages down in the south they had their own cu
linary delight, sausages made in goat's gut. The meat was prepared in a very interesting way. Basically the old girls took mouthfuls of goat meat and chewed it until it was soft and gooey, then spit it into the sausage skins. They twisted them into sections just like British bangers and then cooked them. When I was offered one, I wished I hadn't seen the old girls in action. But I had to take it; there was no way I could turn it down.

  By the end of the trip the SSM had made a fortune out of everybody, and now it was time to spend it. "We'll have a big barbecue down at the beach club in Muscat," he announced.

  The local expats' rugby team was invited to have a game with us, and we all moved down to Muscat for the last few days. We won the match, and as it came to last light, we hit the beach club. There were fridges full of beer and five or six big barbecues burning away.

  Everybody was determined to'spend all the cabbage that had been extorted from us.

  We heard a few local stories. Down at Seeb there was a -military base, with an old Arab storeman who'd lost an eye and a leg. He was retired from the army but ran the blanket stores to keep his interest in life.

  The camp was full of young recruits, and what they tended to do at weekends was roll up their mattresses and hitch a lift back up into the hills where they'd come from, near Niswa.

  One day the storeman offered a young lad a lift. The recruit staggered back to the camp a few hours later and alleged that the old boy had raped him.

  A British company commander was taking orders that day. He called the lad in and listened to his story, then got the old storeman in for his version of events. Then he called both of them back in and passed sentence.

  The storeman was sent to.military prison for a long term.

  Then the officer turned to the young lad and said, "Look at the state of the man who attacked you: He's old, he's knackered, he's got one eye and one leg, and you're a young, strong man. Basically you didn't put up enough of a struggle." And he sentenced him to six weeks in jail as well.

  Toward the end of the night the SM was running around again.