by Andy McNab
As soon as it was last light, we put up our hammocks and ponchos.
There was no need to talk; everybody knew what to do, taking it in turns. While two of us got ourselves organized, the other three looked and listened.
I put my dry kit on and got into my hammock and fell asleep listening to the hums and rustles and the rain that came about midnight.
About an hour before first light we packed our equipment up.
Again, there was no reason to talk; we just did everything slowly and carefully to avoid making a noise.
We left as soon as it was light enough to move.
We patrolled for about two hours, then stopped to make our sitrep to the F.O.B, giving our location, any enemy location or activity that we'd seen, and our own activity and future intentions, which in this case was "carry on patrolling." Back at the HQ the blokes would then plot us on the map; if the shit hit the fan later in the day, at least they'd know where we'd been at 0800.
The boys sat there eating sugar and corned beef.
For the next few days that was the routine: moving off, changing over scouts, changing over check pacers.
Once or twice we got lost. We stopped, moved off track, sat in all-round defense, and got the map out.
"Where were we last time we definitely knew where we were?" I said to Gonz.
We methodically worked it out from there; it was no good running around like lunatics, chasing shadows. I sent two boys out on a short recce to confirm that the next feature was five hundred meters further along. I hoped they'd come back and report, "Yes, there is a river, and it flows from left to right."
On the third occasion I sent out Gonz and One-of three-Joses on a recce patrol. "Go down there no more than four hundred meters. As you start moving down towards the low ground, we should be on the highest point.
Look around and there should be no higher ground around you.
If not, we have una problems. And there should be a river about three hundred meters further down, running left to right."
Off they went, Gonz with a big black toothy smile on his face.
They came back much sooner than I had expected, and Gonz's smile had vanished.
Putting his mouth to my ear, Gonz said, "We got down there. We were on the highest ground, but there's movement ahead. We heard a sound of metal and some shouting."
I got everybody together and said, "There's something down there.
We don't know what it is. What we're going to do is move forward as best we can. Gonz is going to take us down there to the area where he heard it, and we'll stop and take it from there. Is everybody ready?
Just take your time; there's no need to flap."
Everybody started to switch on. We moved down the hill very, very slowly. Gonz was ahead of me, the others behind. I couldn't hear anything.
Gonz stopped and pointed forward.
I motioned for him to come with me, and the other three to stay with the bergens. "If there's any problems, you're soon going to hear.
If we're not back by last light, wait until midday tomorrow and then skirt around the noise, hit the river, and turn right until you hit the road.
We'll sort ourselves out. Leave our bergens where they are."
We crept forward through the vegetation, with nothing but rifles and belt kit. We were going to go just far enough to confirm; it would be no good jumping up and down thinking that we'd found it, after only a cursory look.
I inched through the jungle, following Gonzalo. My eyes were darting around all over the place. He was looking ahead, concentrating on trying to remember where he had heard the noise. Every now and again he looked back for a bit of reassurance, and there was no smile.
At a point about two hundred meters from where we'd left the bergens, he stopped and held up his hand. I stopped. As a technical adviser I should now have been helping him to go and do the CTR, but I had to make sure the job was done and we all got out safely. Motioning for him to stay where he was and give me cover, I signaled that I was going to go and have a look.
I got down onto my belly and crawled forward very slowly. I took three or four little crawls, stopped, us- I tened, looked around, and crawled again. After about twenty minutes I couldn't believe what I saw.
I was looking through about two meters of brush, and then the area opened up into almost a small industrial complex. I saw three or four buildings. One was a long, low one, which I knew was the trademark of a
DMP.
Inside, the coca paste would be laid out on long tables.
Two other single-story buildings were higher. They had corrugated iron roofs, with attempts to camouflage them with leaves and branches.
I heard a South American voice shout a question. The answer, in Spanish, was slightly drowned by the sound of a generator, but it had a strong, almost Afrikaans twang to it.
I saw an old boy walking between two of the buildings. He wasn't armed.
I stayed there for about half an hour, watching and listening for more activity, not believing our good luck.
It was the first manufacturing plant I had seen in operation; I didn't want to fuck up. I couldn't see much from my perspective but heard another couple of people and the occasional banging of a door.
The mosquitoes loved what was happening. They could land on my face, and it would take me long, slow seconds to bring my hand up to wipe them away. I didn't want to move to another position or kneel up to get a better view. I didn't need to do that at this stage; all I needed to do was make myself happy that it was indeed a DMP.
I crawled my way back to Gonz. I put my mouth to his ear and gave him a thumbs-up. "Bingo!"
He gave, me a flash of blackened tombstones, but I knew he was thinking, Oh, fuck, we've found one
We moved back to the rest of the patrol. I got everybody around and said, "We've found it. It's down there."
I told them exactly what I'd seen and heard. There was an air of disbelief, together with a mixture of happiness and apprehension. Now something had to be done about it.
We moved right out of the area to avoid any chance of a compromise. I told them, "i'm going to go in tomorrow at first light with One-of-three-Joses. The other three are going to guard the equipment at the final RP, which is where we stopped with the bergens earlier on.
This might take a couple of days. You're to stay there for two days if we don't come back. On the morning of the third day, if we're not there, you're to head down to the river, turn right, and hit the road.
If you hear any firing, you're to come down and help us. Got that?"
The fourth member of the patrol, nicknamed El Nino, was about nineteen.
He was about five feet seven inches and had a skinny, bony body. He found it very difficult to look at anyone when he talked, looking above or to the side of the other person's face; maybe he was selfconscious of the jungle of zits that covered his own. He didn't have a clue what was going on. He was always left to do as little as possible. He was all right, just inexperienced and worried. He would rather be at home with his mum than doing this shit. However, he always tried to act the macho bit in front of the others, who took the piss out of him nonstop. He was looking severely worried but happy that he was in the final RP group.
"Don't put your ponchos up in the final RP," I said.
"All I want you to do is stay with those bergens. It's going to be a long day-might be two day. Make sure you look after the kit, and you'll be looking after us."
I got the radio out and sent a sitrep back to the troop HQ. It was in a rush because I wanted to bang it out before last light. I told them what we'd found, what I'd seen. "Unless I'm told otherwise," I said,
"we will CTR it tomorrow."
I knew that back at the squadron HQ they would be making the decision as to whether to tell the other patrols on their next sitrep or wait until it was confirmed that it was the target. If they told the other patrols to stop and wait out, they'd be losing time. Not our problem; we started planning and preparing
for the CTR.
I'd go in myself with One-of-three-Joses; the other three would guard the equipment at the final RP. A set of orders would have to be produced, covering all eventualities: how we were going to get there; what we were going to do when we got there; what we were going to do if the enemy opened up on us. What would we do if the final RP group had a contact? How long would the RP be open for before we changed to another RP? What would we do if there was a contact and somebody got caught?
We would plan and prepare in the area where we were now and then move forward to the final RP, which would be the jumping-off point of the two-man CTR team. The CTR might take one or two days, depending on what we could see and where. We'd just have to make sure that if we were out during daylight hours, we came back an hour before last light; then we could move off and L.U.P somewhere else. The ponchos wouldn't be put up at the final RP; the boys would just place out a couple of claymores, sit with their backs to the bergens, their belt kits on, and then between themselves alternately stag it and get their heads down, which wouldn't be good news.
The teaching went to bollocks now. In theory it should have been the patrol doing the CTR and conducting any attack, but we'd get only one chance, and it had to be done properly.
We were about five hundred meters from the DMP and were going to stay there for the night. We got our ponchos and hammocks out and settled down. One-of three-Joses wasn't getting his head down, that was for sure. He was tossing and turning all night, obviously flapping about what was going to happen the next day.
The others were apprehensive; they looked almost lost and lonely, as if they wanted everybody else there as reinforcements.
I was apprehensive myself. I didn't know what to expect; all I knew was that if they got hold of us, we'd be in the shit. I lay there covered in cam cream and mozzie rep and thought about Kate. I tried to work out the time difference and wondered what she would be doing. I worked it out that she'd probably just finished her breakfast and was getting ready for play school. I just wanted to get this over and done with as quickly as possible, so we could get back downtown and have a good time on the beach with the ex-G Squadron boys. I knew it wouldn't be long until I was back in the jungle again.
"We'll take the minimum amount of equipment with us," I said to One-of-three-Joses at first light. "BasicAlly just belt kit, plus the cameras, and a pistol and rifle each."
We had already spent lots.of time making sure that our equipment didn't shine, by blackening it with spray paint.
Now we cammed ourselves up, too. Skin is a reflective surface, no matter if you're black, Asian, or white.
When the sun shines, your skin shines' At he beizinnine of a jungle patrol, cam cream was difficult to keep on because of the sweat.
After a few days, however, when the face started to get a bit of growth, the stuff congealed into the beard and got engrained in the creases in the forehead.
It wasn't a matter of just a few dabs on the face like Indian war paint.
We daubed it on all over the face, the ears, behind the ears, all around the neck and the back of the neck, below the " neck of the collar, down the V of our chests, on our hands and up our wrists. I had my shirtsleeves down to protect me from all the jungly nasties as I was crawling about, but I still took it up past the wrists because my hands would be moving and therefore the material would be moving.
The way the cam cream goes on is always a sign of a good professional soldier. There was no need for all the magic colors-dark green, brown, and light green-all in weird and wonderful patterns and shapes.
It wasn't there as camouflage; it was there to mask the shine and break up the lines of our face.
We now checked one another's cam cream in the buddy-buddy system.
I checked One-of-three-Joses, and he did me.
"Everything okay?" I asked him.
"Is okay." He smiled nervously.
We all moved down toward the final RP at about 0700. Rodriguez was the scout, and this time he was really taking his time. He was stopping every five minutes, looking and listening. In my mind I was thinking about many things: about the CTR; about One-of-three-Joses-I knew he was going to hold back and I'd have to do everything-and about what would happen if he or I got caught. I decided that I would not get caught and that was that.
A very cautious two hours later we reached the final RP, took our bergens off, sat down on them, and waited five minutes for everybody to settle down and stop panting. I took the camera equipment out of my bergen, already stowed in a little day sack. I checked all our equipment again to make sure that everything was tied down and secure, that we didn't have any rattles. I also made sure One-of-three-Joses knew where all my first-aid kit was. I ran a discreet eye over his uniform and kit to make sure all his buttons were done up, and that he wasn't taking anything with him that was unnecessary.
"We are at the final RP," I said. I confirmed our patrol and emergency RVs and all our directions-the direction we were going out on, the direction we'd be coming in from-and the time we'd got to be in by.
Then it was time to go.
I looked at One-of-three-Joses. I knew that if I was captured, they'd take their frustrations out on me; there was a good chance of being held hostage for a ransom.
But for him the downside was much nastier, and he was sweating buckets.
The police were getting knocked out left, right, and center; even before they finished training, many tens of them had been assassinated. The cartels spared no effort or expense when it came to reprisals. If a member of the police was caught, he knew he was guaranteed a slow and painful death. Many of them had been found dead at the roadside, having had not a good day out on the receiving end of a chain saw and hammer.
Rodiguez insisted on going through all the details again. "We're there for two days? On the third day we go to the river? Is that right?
Sorry for asking."
I had built up the task at the original briefing to make them feel that they were special. I went over to One-of three-Joses and said into his ear, "You are number one, the best." I hoped that would stop him from hyperventilating- He tried to grin, but it came out looking more like a grimace.
We moved very slowly; there was no rush. it was hot and damp; mozzie rep was running into my eyes. My feet and boots were soaking wet.
CTRs in the jungle are very scary things. We would be getting right on to the target; if we couldn't see what we needed to see from the perimeter, we'd have to go forward and then even more forward until we did. It would be no good getting just half of the information; that i could mean having to go back in.
When I thought of CTRS, I always imagined one of those toys that motor forward on little electric wheels until they hit something They turn around, come back, and then they bounce off into it again. The two of us would be going in, coming out, going back in at a different angle, bouncing off, going around. We'd go around the entire camp initially, looking for routes in and out and any signs of security. If we saw people on guard, we'd note what weapons they were carrying and what they were dressed like. Did they look switched on, or were they casual and nonchalant? Were they young, were they old?
Were the tracks in and out well worn? Were there fresh marks on them?
Could we tell by the sign how many people had been going through?
What sorts of noises can we hear as welre going around?
Whereabouts can we infiltrate into the camp?
Has it got barbed wire up, or rattan, or is there nothing?
Is it in a small valley and camouflaged? How many people are in the camp? Are there any communications?
Are there any antennas? Are there any vehicles, are there any aircraft?
What vantage points are there? Are there places where we could locate fire support groups? Are there places where we could put an OP in; the decision might be not to attack it now, but just to OP it and watch it for weeks. Where would be a good start line for an attack?
Where could we bring people
in? What are the main processing areas?
Where is the living accommodation?
All these questions would have to be answered from where I was lying on my belly and looking up, from maybe a dozen or so meters away.
We got to about fifteen meters from the edge of the camp and stopped.
Very slowly I got down and took my belt kit off. I handed it and my rifle to One-of-Three-Joses, then pointed to him and pointed to the ground, motionin for him, to stay put. I did a little walking sign with my fingers to show him that I was going to go forward and have a look. I pushed the camera around to rest on my back, got onto my stomach, and started edging myself 'forward.
Somewhere a generator was chugging. There were snatches of conversation and the sound of a radio, playing panpipe music. As doors were opened and closed, the music got louder, then died a little.
My breath came in pants; the crawling was hard work. All I had to protect myself with was my pistol as I kitten-crawled toward the perimeter. I put my hands out, Put pressure on my elbows, and pushed myself forward with the tips of my toes. Six inches at a time, I moved through the undergrowth. I stopped, lifted my head from the dirt of the jungle floor, looked and listened. I heard my own breath, and it sounded a hundred times louder than anything around me. The leaves crackled more than they normally would; everything was magnified ten times in my mind. I inched forward again. It took nearly an hour to cover the distance. I was right on top of the DMP now, and movement was the thing that was going to give me away. If one of the guards saw movement even just on the periphery of his vision, he would be instantly drawn toward it. I stopped, looked, moved forward, constantly looking for alarm trips-whether they were wires, pressure pads, infrared beams, or maybe even a more sophisticated method based on empty tin cans. I was right up on top of it now. If there was an opportunity, this was the time to start taking pictures of any personalities in the camspecially Europeans or gringos. If it all went to ratshit, at least we'd have some sort of evidence of foreign involvement that the police could use.
