by Geoff Wolak
After landing the warm air hit us, a shock after the cabin’s cool air conditioned environment – and it was night time as well. We were soon sweating as we loaded crates onto French trucks under tall yellow airfield lights, Henri and Jacque translating for us.
With everyone loaded, and all our kit, we drove the short distance around to the far side of the airfield, where we found the French camp, a few brick buildings and several rows of green tents, many jeeps parked up, three Puma on the tarmac.
Jumping down, Henri saluted and then greeted a colonel, who then shook my hand. But this colonel was to do with logistics, he was not an infantry man, Henri explained as we lugged kit into a brick building and stacked it up.
‘We have tents for you for tonight,’ the colonel explained in broken English. ‘Tomorrow you wish to go inland, yes.’
I took out my map and showed him the place, so he called in a pilot, the man recognising me. I got a hug and kisses, quite embarrassed.
The pilot looked at the map. ‘Ah, oui. I know this place, because small runway, mud, not concrete. Here, factory, closed many years.’
‘Is there a fence?’
‘Yes, in places.’
‘People living in it?’
‘Maybe some displaced peoples, but I saw none last time.’
‘How close to the nearest village?’
‘Maybe ... three miles.’
I faced the colonel. ‘Rebels in this area?’
He tapped the map. ‘Here, three miles north. And here, five miles north is a UN peacekeepers camp, a large camp. We carry supplies for them.’
‘Can we land before sun up?’I asked.
The colonel faced the pilot, who checked his watch. ‘We can go now maybe.’
‘Take my men now, bring the medics tomorrow, say ten men for each helicopter.’
The pilot nodded and stepped out. I turned. ‘Crates open, kit on! Sergeant Crab, guard the ladies for us.’ The men laughed as Crab muttered a few curses. ‘Join us tomorrow.’
With my kit grabbed, bandolier on, webbing on, first aid kit hooked on, I grabbed my pistol and checked it, my rifle, and stepped out, finding the medics and 2 Squadron lads stood waiting, Haines with them. I shook his hand and greeted him.
Facing the group, I began, ‘Listen up. We’re going to the FOB now to secure it, you come in the morning when we say it’s safe; they have tents for you here apparently. Bring our spare kit up with you - still in the metal crates.’
Back inside, I checked that we had at least two stretchers, and that we had the fly sheets and netting.
Turning to the colonel, I said, ‘Fresh water, sir?’
He led us next door, and to an upturned Gerry can. All bottles were filled, puri-tablets dropped in, drinks taken and bottles topped up again as Puma engines started, soon a heavy drone shaking the buildings.
I led the men outside. ‘Rocko, Rizzo, your teams, Nicholson, Lassey, first chopper. Salties, 2 Squadron, Henri, Jacque, second chopper, rest on me.’
Boarded, we sat waiting, the first Puma pulling up and away, soon the second as I sat waiting, and we finally lifted up, the lads looking worried; not about the job at hand, but about French Pumas. I reassured Smitty with a nod. We flew at around two hundred feet, over an estuary to start, and for just fifteen minutes, and the brightly lit town had given way to dark areas below, a few street lamps, then nothing but blackness beneath us.
Descending, I loaded my rifle, the lads copying, but we did not cock weapons. A bump, and the door was flung open and we hit the hard mud of the make-do runway, and if there had been a company of rebels here we’d be dead very quickly.
Running forwards, I cocked my rifle and knelt twenty yards from the helos. They powered up and climbed away, and it grew quiet as our eyes adjusted to the dark.
I clicked on the radio, seeing the dark outline of the disused factory. ‘All walk towards the tall building, dead slow, eyes everywhere.’
At the building I called a halt. ‘Kneel, let your eyes adjust, use your ears.’
We were being serenaded by crickets, shrieking bats, what sounded like monkeys far off, and tree frogs, quite a racket.
‘That sound go on all night?’ Smitty asked.
‘Yes, but human bodies are used to it, from our ancestors. People sleep well with that sound in their ears.’ I clicked on the radio, my night vision quite good now. ‘Rocko, your team, go left and around, check your fire. Rizzo, around to the right, and back.’
They eased up and moved off slowly, just dark outlines, back ten minutes later.
‘Nobody home,’ Rocko said as we stood.
‘Rocko, Rizzo, torches on, search every room, check the angles, cover each other.’
The rest of us waited, our ears getting used to the background roar, and I scanned the airfield, a cool breeze blowing. We could all see the torch flashes, and those flashes climbed to the second floor.
‘Wilco, it’s Rocko. These second floor rooms ain’t too bad, first floor has broken shite everywhere, glass, up here it’s not too bad. And there’s a big flat roof.’
‘We’re coming in, stay there.’ Off the radio, I said, ‘On me,’ and led the lads forwards, inside and up the stairs, my torch on. I checked those rooms Rocko liked, and put the Salties and Externals in them. ‘Don’t cook, bed down, stay quiet, weapons to hand.’
I stepped out onto the flat roof and peered around, finding Rocko and Rizzo. ‘Rocko, two men down there, that track, two hour stag. Rizzo, get two men on the roof above us, two hour stag. Rest find rooms and rest.’
They dispatched men as I stood in the cool gentle breeze.
‘We’re a bit exposed if they surround this building,’ Rocko cautioned when he returned.
‘First, we’re in Sierra Leone, no fighters here worth a damn, and second - across the border most of the fighters are moving towards Monrovia and away from here. Up the road three miles is a large group, all drugged up and drunk every night. If they made an effort to attack us I’d be impressed. Bed down here on the roof, we’ll hear any trouble, any trucks approaching. If it rains ... get inside.’
I stirred before dawn, the light waking me, and had slept – like most – face down cradling my rifle, with facemask and gloves on, no insect bites to worry about. Easing up, I stretched, and I peed off the roof in the grey half-light, a mist hanging over the trees. Lifting my rifle, I stepped past sleeping men and walked quietly down, finding Swifty and Mahoney on stag on the track, my facemask off.
‘All quiet?’ I asked.
‘I’m sure there’re monkeys in those trees,’ Swifty said. ‘And we saw some big looking thing like a cow wandering past.’
‘That could be lunch for a few hungry men,’ I noted. ‘And traffic nearby?’
‘Haven’t heard anything.’
‘One me, weapons ready.’ And I led them down the track, broken bushes either side. Finding a damp patch, I knelt and studied the ground, even using my torch.
Standing, I said, ‘No human prints.’ I led them on, and we found a concrete stretch of track, and after a hundred yards we hit a road of badly potholed tarmac. I knelt in the centre. ‘Grass growing, so this doesn’t get much use.’
With the light improving we walked back, and out onto the runway, peering down its length both ways, just hard brown mud, the far side bracketed by lush green trees and tall bushes.
I walked onto the runway and slowly scanned it, kneeling in places. Facing Swifty, I said, ‘Again, no recent use. But something used it after the last rainy season, there are tyre tracks, narrow and deep, could be a plane a few months back.’
‘Smugglers?’ Mahoney asked.
‘They smuggle rough diamonds, known as Blood Diamonds. UN has banned their sale.’
Ambling back, I took in our new home. A single storey block of grey concrete stretched the full length of the building left to right, perhaps ten rooms, and someone had hit it with RPGs and small arms.
The mid section offered two storeys, were the lads were, and abov
e that was a flat roof, on the left a tall square the size of a room with a faded logo, but did not look like a chimney, and I puzzled its use. It was almost shaped like a lift housing.
Off to the left were large sheds with most of their panels missing, just the frames, and a lonely digger going orange with rust, no wheels, tall green bushes between the sheds and the main buildings.
Climbing the stairs, I clambered up onto the roof and saw a ladder on the side of the tower. Yanking at it suggested that it was firm, so I slung my rifle and climbed up, soon offered a commanding view. The sun was rising in the east, at the end of the runway.
North of me lay an undulating carpet of lush green hills shrouding in mist, and northwest I could make out a red-mud road cutting through a hill. West of us, about a mile away, lay a cultivated area, and I thought I could see a shack or two.
South west I could see a stretch of the road, and south of us sat a swamp in the distance next to a glistening river, a canoe on it, locals seen fishing. It appeared tranquil and serene, not the dangerous hell hole it really was. Seeing green parrots with long tails flying past in formation, I started back down.
Slider was on stag on the flat roof with Napoleon. ‘Up the ladder, great view, watch those two roads.’
After cooking breakfast I sent out roving patrols, just a few hundred yards and back, and called Captain Harris. ‘It’s Wilco, you all awake over there?’
‘Yeah, and getting some good grub off the French.’
‘Send the helos whenever you’re ready, it’s quiet here. I’d say send 2 Squadron first, then the rest. ’
‘I’ll sort that after my very tasty breakfast.’
Smiling, I knocked off the phone, and I set the lads to cleaning out rooms, dried branches used as brushes, glass moved out, snakes killed, a rotting sheep carcass lifted and removed.
By time the Pumas loudly announced their arrival we had a clean abode to offer, but no glass in the windows, no running water. I put Haines and his men in the lower level rooms, three rooms occupied. Kit down, I told him to climb to the top of the ladder with his second in command and have a look around, then to disperse his men. And to put his GPMGs up on the flat roof.
An hour later we welcomed the medics and Sergeant Crab, finding them rooms. Ponchos were used to block windows, rocks holding them down, camp beds set up. The final flight of Pumas brought just kit, and many hands offloaded it. With the kit inside, we were set, if not over-stocked.
I made a call. ‘Bob, we’re down and set-up at the FOB, all the warm bodies and the kit, enough men to start a war – or end an insurrection.’
‘We think there are hostages with the group north of you to start with, but they’re a large group on paper. We had a chat to an ex-member of that gang, and they occupy a large area, but they all sleep in soft beds at night, no guards, have wives and kids with them, and pass their time drugged to the hilt mostly, some time digging up diamonds and selling them.’
‘Three miles, so I’ll take a look tomorrow.’ Hearing my name called, I said, ‘Got to go.’ Stepping out, I found Travis holding a crying baby.
‘It was in the bushes back there. But it’s a white person’s baby.’
‘No, dope, it’s an albino. Black women dump them, they’re seen as bad luck. Give it to the medics to look after.’
Travis walked inside, a few lads following.
‘They dump the fucking babies?’ Rocko asked.
‘If they’re white they do,’ I told him. ‘Common in Africa.’
‘Fucking savages,’ he cursed as he walked off shaking his head.
I checked in on the baby later, a lady nurse cradling it. ‘How’s the nipper?’
The nurse smiled up at me. ‘She’s doing fine, seems to be in good health. We made up a formula and fed her.’
Morten asked, concern on his face, ‘What will we do with her?’
‘Back to the authorities, an orphanage.’
‘They don’t adopt albino babies,’ he pointed out, reporter Max listening in.
‘Max, you have a human interest story, but don’t release it just yet. Send the copy and pictures ready. And ... should the baby be accidentally smuggled back to the UK ... the UK authorities would have no choice but to look after it.’
‘Accidentally smuggled, eh?’ Morten repeated. ‘Be hell to pay.’
‘Not if a newspaper runs the story there won’t,’ I told him. ‘Be hell to pay if the kid is not looked after.’
‘And how many more are there like her around here?’ Morten pressed.
‘The others ... I can’t do anything about. That one we tripped across, and gave first aid to, so that one is our responsibility, like coming across a car crash in the UK. We do what we can with what we have.’
At dawn the next morning we were ready, teams made up, kit checked and re-checked. One final task. I walked across the mud airfield with an old paint tin, and placed it down. Back at the lads, silencers fitted, they zeroed weapons, pistols fired at a closer can.
We were ready, water bottles topped up from Gerry cans, and I led them to the tree line. Halting, rifle slung, I placed on my new lightweight facemask and gloves, and I took out my rubber leaves, each man helping the next man to place them. Boot covers were already fitted, up to the knees, and soon we all looked like walking bushes.
Twenty yards in, and I looked back, hard to see where they were. My team consisted of Swifty, Moran and Mahoney, and they stuck close, Swifty being my shadow, Moran and Mahoney close to each other as planned, a gap and then Rocko’s team.
Sergeant Crab and his mates would wait behind, and give lessons to the 2 Squadron lads and the medics, the plan being that they would also lecture us on jungle survival, when we had a minute that was. Right now, all I had to worry about was three miles of jungle and a few streams, and a camp with five hundred rebels in.
The jungle here was not too thick, the ground level enough, and it was easy enough to avoid the thick bush. Progressing slowly, we did not sweat too much, and we found many gurgling streams flowing right to left, towards the river I had seen.
Halting, I pointed at the high canopy, men peering up at monkeys peering down at us, our primate cousins whooping – and seemingly damned annoyed about our presence here this morning.
After a mile we found an opening, and a group of burnt out huts.
‘Pssst,’ came from Swifty, and he pointed off to the left. Numerous human skulls were half buried, teeth visible, the previous occupiers of these huts. They had met with an unpleasant end.
I nodded within my facemask, and moved on.
Warm now, we had used up an hour, and soon crested a rise. Looking down the other side we could see a lazy meandering river in the distance, perhaps a mile away off to the right and bracketed by tall reed beds, men in canoes throwing nets, a few huts, some white stone houses about five hundred yards away amongst lush green bushes.
Slowly moving left, I had in mind where the bad boy’s camp was, and this was probably the southern end of it as it stretched back up the valley.
Following the ridge to the west three hundred yards, I could see more huts in the distance, all hidden under tall trees. Kneeling, I peered through my telescopic sight, seeing men with guns carried or slung, a jeep or two. This was it, and they were awake, at least some of them.
I clicked on the radio. ‘Listen up, enemy stronghold due north four hundred yards, this is bandit country, stay alert. Move quiet, stay hidden.’
I stopped to admire a tree shaped like an Apollo rocket about to take off, its base twenty feet wide, a look exchanged with Swifty.
Pressing on a slow hundred yards, weaving around difficult tree stumps as wide as I was tall, we heard voices, and I could smell smoke. Around the next tree the ground sloped down twenty yards to a track, three jeeps parked up, twelve men jabbering away, all armed. Small items were being examined, money being counted out.
‘Close up, contact front. Last men, watch out rear. Rizzo, fire positions to the east, watch for company.
Rocko, up on my left, very quiet. Rest hold your relative positions, no room up here for you all.’
Moran eased onto my right with Mahoney, Swifty on my left. Looking left, I could see men-bushes moving, four men in position, weapons aimed down.
‘On my mark, when I fire you fire. Rocko’s team, hit the six men on the left. Mahoney and Moran, four men on the right. Standby my first shot.’
I took careful aim, and at this range I could choose which ear to shoot off. I squeezed the trigger and took the back of a man’s head off, cracks sounding out as I hit my second man. It was all over, and it fell quiet.
‘Rocko, we’ll cover you, get down there and try and set fire to those jeeps. Go!’
Four blurred green images raced down the slope, fuel caps soon yanked off. I could see a man - who I figured was Rocko - under a jeep, no doubt a fuel line cut. A whoosh, and someone had found a petrol can and set it alight in a jeep. Fire burst from under the front jeep, a minute later the second as we peered down, black smoke rising but captured by the trees, and the four men rushed back up.
‘Ease back, get good fire positions, get comfy. OK, Salties, aim to the east, 2 Squadron lads, move into the bush on your left twenty yards, stay together, watch the west. Nicholson, Lassey, watch our rear, the way we came.’
Shouts. Cries. Men came running.
‘Let them get close ... wait for it ... Swifty, Moran only, fire.’
Cracks sounded out, four men down, the jeeps now well alight, one roaring, a bright flame climbing high, the smoke probably visible for miles.
‘Movement,’ came Moran’s voice. ‘One o’clock, two hundred yards out. Looks like eight of them. More behind them.’
‘Let them get close.’
I waited, and the gunmen ran towards the smoke, not aware that anyone had been shot, but as they moved around a bend in the track they could see bodies and slowed down, weapons checked.
‘Rizzo’s team, standby to fire. Steady ... fire!’
The cracks sounded out, the rebels spun and knocked back, all down. The gunmen further back halted. ‘Rizzo, try and hit those men at three hundred yards.’
