Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  I faced the RSM. ‘We should get the targets, but ... the MOD will take charge and allow other units to use it, or else!’

  ‘Fair enough, we’d only use it a few weeks a year. So, what’s the plan?’

  I gave him some of the detail.

  He nodded. ‘When not shooting - they run or walk, and get chased by dogs, the aim being to install panic and urgency when they need to relax and snipe at targets difficult to see.’

  ‘And we’d have mock artillery. Who’s good with explosives?’

  ‘Stretch is the best, so go see him.’

  I nodded. ‘Points system will be hard, so I think that the only way is to put some of the lads through it, work out a score, and then say that is the average – and judge the rest on comparison rather than by the targets they knock down.’

  ‘Set the standard first, yes.’

  ‘If we say that Rizzo does it in a certain time and score, then that’s ... what 80% score. If someone is below him in targets and timing then they get a certain percentage knocked off. But the main aim is for the person being tested to focus on killing the targets when cold, wet, tired and shell-shocked. The targets would be green, hard to see, and some would be half height.’

  We spent half an hour on aspects to the scenario, some detail refined, and he would work on a points system as well me, and we would compare notes later.

  I went and found Stretch. ‘Got a minute?’

  ‘Sure, what you after?’

  I led him to a room and knocked the kettle on. ‘You’re good with explosives, so I’m led to believe.’

  ‘Best in here,’ he firmly stated with a smile.

  ‘So ... for a new training scenario, what I need is to simulate artillery.’

  ‘Simulate ... artillery?’ he puzzled.

  ‘How about ... five holes in the ground, four feet deep, explosives in the hole, covered over, wire coming out. We make a sound like a whistle, then you flick switches one at a time.’

  ‘Yeah, that could work. Would look just like falling artillery,’ he agreed.

  ‘What I need ... is a loud bang, smoke, dirt flying into the air and falling, but no shrapnel to hurt anyone. And ... if they’re lying down twenty feet away, ears ringing but not hurt. You’d need the exact amount of explosives.’

  ‘I know how much to use, done it on a few exercises here,’ he insisted as I handed him a tea.

  ‘And how about using the same holes over and over?’ I asked.

  He made a face. ‘Dig out the hole, concrete funnel at the base, plastic casing for the explosives, cover over with dirt and sand, some cement powder for effect, fixed wire position. After each salvo you dig out the shit, place new charges and cover it over. Simple.’

  ‘OK, good, but don’t discuss it too much with the lads or they’ll know what to expect when they try it themselves.’

  ‘When do you need it?’

  ‘I need a test mock-up as soon as you’re ready, just so that we can ... test it; I want a realistic artillery salvo. I want the loudest bang, close to a person at twenty feet, but no risk of injury – save falling dirt and dead worms. Can you time the bangs in sequence?’

  ‘Simple; board with flick switches. Can be slow or fast.’

  ‘How long can the explosives lay there without being affected by the cold and wet?’

  ‘In a plastic housing? A year, no sweat.’

  ‘That long?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Won’t need them in place that long, maybe a week at tops. So as soon as you have a demo set-up let us know, and we’ll try it – but make sure that no eardrums get popped. Be hell to pay. What about smoke?’

  ‘Granules near the explosive, or cement powder in bags.’

  ‘And sparks?’

  ‘Phosphorus granules with the explosives, but they don’t always burn, just get thrown out. The MOD has old explosives that they don’t need, we use them for training. They make sparks and have more smoke.’

  ‘Get some, in fact several tonnes. We’d need fifty bangs a day for three days, once a week ongoing.’

  ‘Fuck...’

  I went and found Sgt Crab and pretended that I wanted his input, just to keep him sweet, and I could see that he appreciated being involved. After that, I repeated the same thing with the SSM, making him feel all wanted and needed, as well as getting him on my side should I need it.

  I finally went to see Capt. Tosh. ‘Sir, I’ve been tasked by the major to plan a training scenario based on Bosnia.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard.’

  ‘Well, when it’s ready - and not just raw ideas, I’d like to go through it with you; no point in presenting half an idea, long way to go yet.’

  He nodded. ‘When you’ve got the detail straight I’ll see if I can find some holes, offer some input.’

  ‘Appreciate it, sir. Be nice to think that my time in Bosnia might do some good.’

  He eased back. ‘Do you ... get flashbacks?’ he delicately enquired.

  I made a face. ‘No nightmares yet, no fears or hang-ups really, sir, just ... a sadness at the loss of the guys, and often a sadness at the men I shot - young enlisted men sent towards me in neat columns, no idea what was about to hit them.’

  He nodded. ‘Their officers fucked it up big time, but at least they got the shit for it – we know that from the signals. To send that many men in, and with little coordination! Being alone, all you had to do was shoot at anything moving, men or dogs.’

  I nodded. ‘Smell was bad, sir, dead bodies after three days, and body parts everywhere, dead dogs. That freaks you out. And ... and when you see someone with their guts hanging out, you stop and figure that’s what’s waiting for you, and that makes it more scary. Many people say they don’t fear death, but put them in a coffin with a stiff for a few hours and they damn well will fear it.’

  He again nodded, making a face. ‘As a trooper I caught the end of the troubles in Oman, and had a mate blown to pieces a few feet from me. I found his cock resting on my backpack, and that freaked me out for days. I took to holding my cock at night – in case I lose it.’

  I smiled widely, shaking my head. ‘I’m going to work hard at forgetting what you just said, and that image, sir.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve ... had an invite for you to address the Marines Sniper School instructors...’

  I waited.

  ‘Not all in favour of it, but ... if it helps them modify their training schedules with some real-life input then ... then that can’t be a bad thing.’

  ‘What are you not telling me, sir?’

  He eased back, fiddling with a pen. ‘Some here don’t give a shit about outsiders, and some here wish our skills to be best of course, so why help outsiders.’

  ‘Because we are all on the same side...?’ I teased.

  ‘Exactly, so ... the Major said the final call is yours.’

  ‘Final call is his, then yours, then the SSM, then Sgt Crab, then mine. Sir. So just tell me if you want me to do it.’

  ‘Well in that case, I agree it, on the understanding that you have no objections.’

  ‘I agree it ... on the understanding that if you ordered me to do it I would.’

  ‘You’ll eventually get used to the way things work around here, and reputation counts as much as rank sometimes,’ Capt Tosh delicately explained.

  ‘It shouldn’t, sir,’ I firmly pointed out.

  Sniper School

  It had been a long four hour drive from Hereford down to Sussex, but at noon we drove into the Marines part-time sniper training area, myself and Taffy Senior. I had worn my sniper trousers and jacket, not least because it was damned cold today, the rest of my kit in a bag in the back of the Range Rover, my new AKM in the boot with its cover and rain cover.

  From the part-time guard house we were directed to where the part-time instructors were waiting, all warm inside a lecture room. Faces peered out from a window as we pulled up, and I jumped down. A captain appeared, so I stopped and saluted.

  ‘Wilco,
SAS, as requested, sir.’

  ‘Didn’t think your lot saluted.’

  ‘They don’t, I do, sir.’

  The SSM approached and also saluted, the salutes returned, and we were led inside, about twenty senior NCOs waiting.

  The captain said, ‘We have this room to use, good enough?’ he asked me as the NCOs stared at me, our reception a little frosty.

  ‘No, sir. Got some trees and bushes, a view point, patch of mud and some grass?’

  He took a moment. ‘Up the hill. Hang on whilst we get some transport organised. Need a brew?’

  ‘Never say no, sir.’

  He stepped out.

  ‘Saw you boxing,’ a tall Staff Sergeant said as he closed in. ‘And saw you shot in the London Marathon.’

  ‘I still haven’t learn to zig-zag, still getting shot,’ I told the collective faces.

  ‘How many times you been shot?’ a man asked.

  ‘Dunno, is simple answer. Lost count.’

  ‘When you lose count of how many times you’ve been shot, you need a fucking desk job!’ someone commented.

  ‘So ... that brew?’ I nudged, and they got the kettle on, questions about boxing and running more than sniping, the mood lifting minute by minute.

  Transport arrived, and we followed in the Range Rover for ten minutes, soon to a wood and a clearing overlooking a valley. I fetched out my kit from the car and dumped it in the clearing.

  ‘Please, form a circle if you would, gentlemen,’ I loudly called, and they did. ‘What I’m wearing is not standard clothing, it’s my specially modified sniper outfit. Leather knee pads, leather arse pads, shoulder pads, crotch, elbows, left forearm. It makes life easier in cold wet places like Northern Ireland ... and Bosnia.’

  I took out the spare set I had brought, handing it to the captain. ‘Have a look, sir, you can have those. If you want some made up, Madge in Bessbrook does a roaring trade in them.’

  ‘I’d heard about the new kit,’ he mentioned, testing the jacket before passing it on.

  ‘This,’ I called, ‘is my basic sleeve for an AK47, custom made, snug fit. What I also carry is a wet weather sleeve.’ I fetched out my boot covers and placed them on, my face mask and then my gloves. ‘The face mask is nice and warm, has a leather top, and it saves on pissing about with cam cream. It also stops things from crawling up your nose when you sleep. Dressed up like this I don’t worry too much about being seen in a dark wood, and I never use local foliage.’

  ‘No?’ they queried, since they all did.

  I took the face mask off, and took a breath, taking in their faces, and I wondered how they would have done in Bosnia. ‘Gentlemen, you teach soldiers to sneak up on the bad guys, shoot some officer, and then ... and then your training fucks up.’

  They did not look happy. At all.

  I added, ‘Take a look across the valley.’ They collectively turned. ‘Imagine a four star general sat in a jeep over there. Your guy sneaks up to here, and then shots him dead. Excellent. But if they’re anything other than a rabble they’ll have heavy machineguns, mortars ... and artillery. And they will have half an idea as to where your guy is.

  ‘When I first joined the SAS, this guy -’ I pointed at the SSM. ‘- warned me about trees.’

  ‘Trees?’

  ‘Trees are the enemy,’ I firmly stated. ‘If your well-trained sniper does his job, and shoots the general, then his people will be mad as hell, and will use all they have – like mortars. And they don’t need to be accurate.

  ‘In Bosnia they used heavy machineguns, but I was well hidden. Problem was those fucking trees. The rounds hit the trees, spun off and hit me in the arse or the back of the head. Not only that, the trees splintered, and I got a hundred pieces in the arse.

  ‘It took two full surgical teams 36hrs to get them all out.’ I let them think about it. ‘They then used artillery and mortars, and that artillery killed the rest of my patrol. After that, it kept coming.

  ‘Now, imagine falling off a ten foot wall and landing on your back, followed by falling off a ten foot wall and landing face down. That’s what it feels like when an artillery shell lands within 100yards. If the shell lands closer, you’re concussed or knocked out. After one shell landing it took me a long ten minutes to remember my own name, fifteen minutes before I knew where I was and how to use a rifle.

  ‘On top of that, the artillery sliced through the trees and I got even more splinters in my arse. Your training, gentlemen, ends when your guy shoots the general, but that’s just the start. What comes next is Survive, Escape and Evade ... and how to remember your own name after a concussion, or multiple concussions.

  ‘After much practice of these things, I can offer you the following advice. Shoot the general, but then get up and run like fuck, at least a mile, and then don’t stop. They’ll have dogs, lots of men, artillery, the works. When I sniped at various distant targets, I knew that the artillery would follow – and I ran two hundred yards and got down before it landed.

  ‘Gentlemen, if you’re fighting a war against a modern mechanised army they will drop artillery on where they think you may be, and they don’t need to be accurate, because any shell within 100yards stops you dead. You vomit, you pee your trousers, you shit your pants and lie of the floor looking up at the sky trying to remember where you are – no matter how tough you think you are.

  ‘Your job ... is to train young soldiers to get position, and shoot. That, gentlemen, is just the start of the process, and the new training scenario I’m creating will help with other aspects of sniping.’

  ‘What training scenario?’ the captain asked.

  ‘General Dennet is heading it up. It’s a three day exercise, simulated artillery, being chased by dogs, not much sleep, yet the soldier being tested is expected to snipe accurately every hour, when cold wet and muddy, teeth marks in his arse. It will be ready in a month or so, you can all attempt it.’

  ‘Attempt it?’ one asked, seeming a bit put out.

  ‘If you’re not at our standard of fitness and determination you’ll regret volunteering for it,’ I warned him.

  ‘It’ll compete with our courses?’ the captain unhappily asked.

  ‘No, sir, it was designed for my lot, but the MOD wants it made available to others. It’s voluntary.’

  ‘But difficult...’ he nudged.

  ‘Three days, cold and wet, not much sleep, a few parts where if you trip the dogs will bite you. If you sprint, you’ll be fine. But after three days you’ll be tired.’

  ‘When can we get the details?’ someone asked.

  ‘Soon, keep asking us about it. Not sure who will operate it for you guys, but we will train people to run it.’

  ‘Then we should put people through it, then they train,’ the captain suggested.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I could do it, even if I crap out,’ he added. ‘I could still teach afterwards.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I nodded. ‘That is the whole point. Since I came across a similar scenario, the MOD figured others may do so as well. But you will have to use AK47s; part of the scenario is to take ammo off plastic dummies. And, at the end of it, you’ll know the AK better than your own cocks.

  ‘You also need to consider pistol work, and how to move around a deep dark forest that’s pitch black in the daytime. Long rifles ... don’t do well. I hid in a deep dark forest ... one where Hans and Gretel got lost, no trail of breadcrumbs for me. So they sent in dozens of Alsatians, and they bit me to fuck. I shot a few, stabbed them, and punched them.

  ‘My last 9mm round went down the throat of a dog as he bit the barrel. All snipers, in my opinion, need a pistol, and need to practice moving through deep dark forests. Pistol work in my scenario is essential, and we’ll even have a few stray dogs that people can either shoot ... or get bitten by.

  I took in their faces. ‘Gentlemen, when I first got to Hereford I knew what I wanted training in, and the SSM here helped with that. What I wanted ... was a scenario where dozens of enemy
soldiers were coming at me. An automatic weapon is essential for that, as well as an ability to shoot rapidly at moving targets without spraying it around. So we practised till I was good at it, then we practised some more.

  ‘Gentlemen, when things go wrong you end up by yourself, alone, cold and wet, wounded, thirty men coming at you. I killed those thirty men because I had practised just that. What I did ... any of you could do, I’m not superman. But you need to alter your thinking a little.

  ‘First, consider picking up an AK47 from a dead enemy soldier, pinching his ammo. And learn to fire rapidly yet accurately. Or those thirty men will get you, and slice you up, your rotting corpse left in the woods.’

  I let them think about it.

  ‘We’ve heard rumours about how many men you shot in Bosnia,’ a man said. ‘You allowed to tell?’

  ‘Allowed ... not really, but the gossip machine is working overtime. Men I shot ... over three hundred. Killed ... don’t know. Some people in Intel circles have the Serbs down at losing three hundred dead.’

  They exchanged looks.

  ‘You shot three hundred men?’

  ‘Over four days. But many were nicely bunched up, some having a roll-call from their officer when I happened across them, some having a spot of lunch. And one time ... I stumbled towards the edge of a small cliff, and down below was an enemy camp, all getting ready to set-off after me. I had two dozen grenades, and I’m not a selfish individual. They all got a bit of hot metal.

  ‘But much of what you may hear is nonsense. What I did ... was to get between two patrols, open fire on both, then crawl away, the two patrols firing at each other in the dark till they figured out the screw-up. I had them firing at each other a few times. And the idiot in charge sent in hundreds of men to a small dark wood.’

  ‘Damned fool tactics,’ the captain spat out.

  ‘Yes, sir. Their fuck up, my lucky break.’

  ‘And in Northern Ireland you patrol Armagh alone?’ a man asked.

  ‘Best way, because anyone other than me holding a gun is fair game.’

  The SSM began, ‘He sleeps better in an OP than in a bed. And once he creates a hide ... no fucker can find him. Our best lads could never find him – and a company of Paras couldn’t either.’ And he recanted the incident with the Paras jumping up and down in the mud looking for an OP that was not there, the group in hysterics.