by Geoff Wolak
‘A good example of why we shoot these idiots, to stop them doing stuff like that.’
‘Is you yer, sir, for some special operation?’ the man risked.
‘Yes, rebels are forming up over the border, hundreds of them, and they’re only ten miles or so from here. If they want a scrap, you two will be our front line, so stay sharp.’
‘You brought a lot of men, sir.’
‘My team, and French special forces.’
‘Them French, they any good, sir?’
‘They’re solid, good boys, but not as good as my team obviously,’ I quipped.
‘And what we read in the papers, sir, about them shooting up civvies.’
‘A bad episode, many senior figures forced to resign. Hopefully the idiots in Paris won’t do that again, but if bombs went off around Cardiff you’d want to have at the bad boys.’
Back inside, I sat with the team in dull yellow bulb light from the corridor, and through the door I could see Rocko’s team sat cooking.
‘The plan been modified?’ Moran casually asked, one side of his face illuminated.
‘The plan ... was games and tests and patrols for the French, but that old base in Liberia has got some bad boys in, so we’ll go have a look, and have at them. Then, maybe, some map reading tests for the French this week and next week.
‘But what I wanted to do ... was to find some isolated old mine with some buildings, and have the French plan a rescue, live firing. Day one they get eyes on, 24hr OPs, then make sketches, then we fix targets, and they practise raiding it, maybe a few times, maybe three different teams.’
Mahoney said, ‘It all comes down to the men at that base.’
I nodded. ‘I’ll have the French plan the attack and lead it, have them sneak up for eyes on, good practise. No hurry on attacking it.’
‘They getting it together?’ Swifty asked.
‘They’re thinking differently,’ I said. ‘And that’s what was needed, not just to do what Paris tells them to do. Their heads are now full of scenarios, other than the obvious one of just driving up and attacking. And some of these boys, they were there – in Mauritania - for the fuck up.’
‘That seems like a lifetime ago,’ Moran noted. ‘My first real hostage rescue. And you got me wounded.’ He touched his side.
‘Your fault for volunteering,’ Swifty told him. ‘Wanted to be a hero for the ladies.’
‘What ladies are these?’ Mahoney quipped. ‘The good captain here is married to the job.’
After eating I wandered next door. ‘Staff Sergeant, two man stag in the tree line north, just in case. I’ll have the French post two men as well, south.’
Next door I sat with Sasha and his team for ten minutes, the lads keen for some action.
Downstairs, I found Major Liban in the former canteen that was now again a canteen, wood blocking the holes in the wall, the FOB’s guardians sat around at this odd hour; the captain, a burly sergeant and two keen young enlisted men. ‘Major Liban, post two men on stag, please, south in the tree line, say two hours each, armed and ready.’
He nodded.
I faced the captain and sat, rifle in hand. ‘Let your men know that we’ll have two men in the tree line north, two south, rotations every two hours, so don’t go shooting at shadows.’
‘I’ll brief them, yes, but it is just us lot and two on the roof.’
‘What regiment are you?’ I idly enquired as the French officers ate at a table.
‘I’m from the RCT, the NCO and lads are Welsh Guards.’
He was from Transport, so not much use in a deadly firefight.
I took in the repaired wall. ‘Last time I was here, this wall was blown in, a rocket from a small plane.’ The French regarded the wooden patch-up job. ‘A Liberian lady and her kids were killed.’
‘I read about some of it, heard a few stories,’ the captain put in. ‘Did you really attack five hundred men with thirty?’
‘The answer is ... not all at once,’ I told him. ‘We set decoys, we split them up, we tricked them and wore them down, and we left few alive. They were set to come over here and take power.’
‘Captain Crazy Fuck, the men say,’ Liban told our hosts. ‘Always against the odds.’
‘Just lucky,’ I told our hosts. ‘You need to be lucky.’
‘Are we expecting things to hot-up around here, sir?’ the Welsh Guards sergeant asked.
‘Hopefully not, but I was just telling your lads on the roof that there’s a group of about a hundred rebels at the old base we hit, inside Liberia, so we’ll go have a look – and see what’s on their minds.
‘Oh, team of Russians upstairs, they work with me. Don’t ask them questions and don’t report their presence here – or I’ll shoot you in the foot before you start your prison term.’
They exchanged worried looks.
I remained awake, and at 5am I was duly tasked with a stag rotation with Henri. In the half-light we sat on a log discussing training tactics as the dark night surrendered to a grey dawn. As we sat there, I heard movement and got ready, soon seeing Whisky come in carrying a forest deer.
‘That for lunch?’ I asked him.
‘I’m going to teach the Welsh lads to prepare it.’ He pulled level with me.
‘The regular SAS here last week...’ I nudged.
He made a face, shouldering his heavy load. ‘Trigger happy kids, the usual, wanting some excitement.’
‘Were they in the right when they shot up the gunmen?’
‘Hard to say. Jeep full of armed men, so they weren’t farmers. You going to send the French out on the same patrol routes?’
‘Not yet, change of plan, hundred bad boys forming up over the border. If that turns out to be a damp squid we’ll have you training them, and my lads.’
He plodded on with his heavy load. I wasn’t sure how he caught it, he wasn’t carrying a rifle.
At 1pm, and after I had snatched two hours sleep, I gathered the teams and had them form up outside in the sticky heat. Sasha and his team would be along with me for the trip into Liberia, just in case we needed the firepower. Our Anglo-French would be split into two groups of roughly the same size, five French mixed in with my lads and led by Moran, Henri and Jacque in with their countrymen.
Sasha was added to my team, to buddy Mahoney, Sasha’s four men together, Major Liban to lead his men, and we were almost ready. Sat phones were checked, we each called each other and Captain Harris and his small team at the airport, the French support team also being housed at the airport.
Ammo boxes had been opened, magazines filled, bandoliers filled, the French copying my lads and using the bandoliers like body armour, two magazines high on the chest, two high on the back, two low on the back, each man with six spare magazines. Rocko carried eight, as did a few of my lads.
The French had been issued with green cloth and had camouflaged their rifles, green paint applied to the slide and to magazines. Plastic plant leaves handed out, we threaded each other’s webbing so that we each had some front and back camouflage.
I formed my patrol as Whisky dried out an animal skin, Rocko and Slider behind my team with Tomo and Smitty. Behind them came Slade and Gonzo with Nicholson and Lassey, Dicky and the Salties, Moran and his five at the rear – a radio check carried out. We totalled twenty-one men, the French group twenty, more than enough firepower to deal with a problem.
A wave at Major Liban, and we set off being keenly observed by the Welsh Guards, my team heading north east and towards the trail previously used, Liban heading north to the druggy camp, to then move northeast whilst staying on this side of the river till the second bridge. I was heading for the first bridge, the main road bridge across around the border here.
I smiled as I approached the lush green tree line, glad to be back here, always at home in the jungle. Inside the tree line I stopped, knelt and placed on my gloves and facemask, the rest copying in turn down the line.
An hour along the trail I broke right and to the ri
ver, giving the teams time for a small rest as I peered across the sluggish reed-strewn river, no one seen.
Reversing course back to the track, I led them north again, a slow amble with eyes everywhere, ears keenly listening, because I was in no hurry today. Reaching the high ground above the bridge, the former SAS OP, we spread out in teams and hid, flysheets up and ponchos down.
I had found two fallen logs that offered a natural mini-fortress, and so with a flysheet above us two teams settled in, eyes on the road and the bridge, a stag rotation set-up, six eyes on the road at all times as the rest were allowed to cook food.
Studying the road whilst leant against a log, I smelt something odd. Turning, Sasha offered me his cup. Sipping it, I found Colombian coffee, that brand which we had drunk in Panama. It made me smile.
‘Smells good,’ Mahoney noted. ‘Us Americans have a nose for coffee.’
I handed him the cup and he sipped.
‘Yep, Colombian, the good stuff, not the store-bought stuff.’
Sasha handed him a packet. ‘Just one, because you are deadly Yank enemy of Russian People’s Army.’
Quiet laughter filled the flysheet.
‘Thanks. Comrade.’
‘You are not welcome,’ Sasha responded, making me smile.
I called Major Liban on the sat phone.
‘Oui?’
‘How’s it going?’
‘We had a look at this village of the dead from above, some people living there, and moved on, now above the river bridge, many people using it, some gunmen. We get across late tonight.’
‘Us too, this bridge sees traffic. See you at the RV. Wilco out.’
Phone away, Swifty asked, ‘All quiet out there?’
‘So far,’ I told him.
I had the teams sleep in rotation in the heat of the late afternoon, and we all ate without cooking after dark, flysheets taken down, ponchos rolled up as the tree frogs serenaded us.
Moving off, I performed a radio head-count, and I reminded them to keep fingers off triggers, damp bushes penetrated as we eased down the slope and to fields of long grass that looked to have been used for a crop at some point.
Moving east as we had done before, we stuck close to the tree line as we progressed, kneeling a few times as cars came past, but the traffic was both civilian – and infrequent.
Reaching the river, about a hundred yards south of the bridge, we got to cover in teams and sat quietly, eyes on the bridge and the river for an hour. What was obvious to us all was the two men stood smoking across the bridge.
But it was just two, and feeling it start to rain I saw an opportunity. I lead forwards my team, the rest to provide covering fire in necessary from this side. Up on the bridge we moved slowly bent-double as the heavens opened and the rain came down in sheets. The guards across the bridge would not have seen a marching brass band in this weather, so I ran.
Reaching the end of the bridge and ducking into trees, we could not see them, but could hear them jabbering away, and now smell weed. I eased through the trees, Swifty at my shoulder, till I could see the end of a cigarette, the two men under a poncho and sheltering from the rain.
I took aim, Swifty took aim, and I put four rounds into the men, Swifty doing likewise, and in this rain we could hardly hear ourselves firing. Moving forwards, I used a torch to check the bodies, pinching away a modern sat phone.
I clicked on the radio. ‘Use the rain to come across the bridge, fast as you can, guards are dead.’ To Swifty I said, ‘Dump the bodies in the river.’ I switched on the sat phone and dialled a number.
‘Duty officer.’
‘It’s Wilco in Liberia. Trace this number, recent use, get back to me please.’
‘Will do.’
‘Wilco out.’
Phone away, we waited for the sodden teams, and as their dark outlines gathered around it stopped raining.
‘Same teams, same sequence,’ I transmitted. ‘On me.’
I led my damp team across the road and north along a familiar riverside track, sloshing through deep puddles. But the good thing about the weather was that it would keep the gunmen indoors tonight.
Sloshing on slowly, we looked and listened, the river gurgling over rocks to the left of us, the odd loud splash heard.
Swifty said through the dark, ‘I really don’t want to know what’s making those splashes.’
Mahoney put in, ‘Ain’t mermaids, buddy.’
‘Crocodiles?’ Sasha asked.
‘Maybe,’ I said through the dark. ‘Or big fish. No swimming tonight.’
At a slow pace we used up two hours to get to the smaller bridge, stopping to look and listen for ten minutes before breaking right. Crossing a quiet road, eyes everywhere, we started up a slope, progress made difficult by the mud. At the top I used my torch to flash a signal, a signal coming back from my ten o’clock position.
Moving that way slowly, I made radio contact with Henri, soon passing the French position and onwards, a slow and slippery hour used up before I called a fifteen minute halt, allowing the French to smoke – and they all smoked. After all, if someone in here was close enough to see the orange glow or smell the smoke we were in trouble anyhow.
Moving on, a damp hour brought us to the high ground that had been hit with mortars, and ten minutes later we could see lights below.
I clicked on the radio. ‘Rocko, your team, twenty yards to the right, Salties beyond them, Captain Moran - my four o’clock position, aiming south. Henri, have the French come up to me, then move left and spread out, eyes on the camp below.’
Teams moved past me as I claimed the same trees we had used previously, the flysheet tied up, ponchos down, and any further rain would not be an issue. We even had a nice cool breeze.
The French moved left, Liban’s command post just ten yards left of me. Finding a familiar log, I sat and peered through my sights at the camp below. It was now just past midnight, but the lights were on, making me wonder where the electricity came from, and figuring on the town.
The old HQ building was in use, as well as the buildings next to it, those we had failed to destroy, and I estimated sixty men moving around below, a dozen trucks seen, many jeeps, no APCs evident. It was as described by the regular SAS.
I moved back to the flysheet. ‘Sixty men down there, trucks, jeeps, no APCs.’
‘That what you expected?’ Mahoney’s dark outline asked.
‘Less. We’ll get eyes on tomorrow, see what we do.’ I took out my sat phone, my face soon bathed in its green light.
‘Captain Harris.’
‘It’s Wilco, we’re in position above the camp in Liberia, numbers are about as expected, no APCs, no problems so far. We’ll stay here, eyes on tomorrow and report back.’
‘OK, got that. Goodnight.’
I left my phone on, the volume turned down, and it trilled half an hour later. Dark outlines turned towards me. ‘Wilco.’
‘Duty Officer. That phone has been in use to another in the target camp in Liberia.’
‘So let Bob know that the man in charge of this camp had men watching the traffic at the border, but that there were no guards at a footbridge a few miles away. Wilco out.’ Phone away, I said, ‘The men at the bridge were linked to the camp below, as expected.’
‘No change of plans then,’ Swifty noted as we sat in the dark under the flysheet, the jungle alive with competing species, all anonymously serenading each other.
I ducked out and moved over to Liban, whispering about our plans here for five minutes. Back on my own poncho, I settled back against a tree and got some rest, Sasha on first stag, our damp muddy legs touching.
I yawned inside my facemask as the grey light penetrated under the flysheet, the loud but small creatures of the night off to hide from hungry predatory birds. Easing out slowly, Swifty and Sasha asleep, Mahoney on stag and turning his head, I stepped a few paces and took a pee whilst studying the light mist hanging around the tree tops.
Moving left, I lifted my rif
le and peered down, not seeing any movement amongst the grey hues of the camp below, and ten minutes hard study displayed only two bored guards on a rooftop. It definitely seemed like dawn was the time to hit them.
Men around me started to stir, woken by the natural light, and I got the water boiling. By time I was ready Swifty was awake and quietly complaining, a brew thrust into his hand to shut him up.
He managed to get a plastic leaf dipping into in his tea, something else to complain about. We sat on the edge of the poncho, dried biscuits crunched, tins of meat opened, quiet words exchanged as the day brightened.
With the cooking kit away I stretched my legs and chatted to Liban, his men tasked with studying the camp below and making sketches and plans – this time for real, and I asked him to send small patrols down the slope to get a closer look.
At noon the day grew hot, most of us sheltering under our ponchos or flysheets with facemasks off as the French refined sketches and plans.
‘What’s that?’ Swifty said.
‘What’s what?’ I asked.
He pointed. ‘That a plane?’
I eased out and stood. ‘Yeah, but ... it looks like a 737.’ I peered through my sights.
‘Airfields near here?’ Mahoney asked.
‘Only that dirt strip,’ I told him, everyone now standing, Major Liban closing in.
‘Would they land that on the dirt strip?’ Sasha asked.
‘Not unless they have ... good insurance, crazy pilots and sturdy undercarriage,’ I told him.
‘It’s circling,’ Mahoney noted. ‘So maybe it has a fault and is kinda desperate.’
‘From altitude, it could have glided to Monrovia from here,’ I scoffed. ‘It’s like fifty miles.’
‘It’s lining up on that dirt strip,’ Swifty noted.
‘If it’s landing,’ I began, ‘then its drugs or guns, or both, not some fault, but it’s a risk, a 737 on that strip.’
‘Maybe they fixed that strip,’ Mahoney suggested.
‘We dropped mortars all over it,’ Swifty countered with. ‘It’s a dirt strip.’
‘And it rained last night, so a mud strip,’ I pointed out.
