Wilco- Lone Wolf 21

by Geoff Wolak

  Stickler was immediately worried. ‘Yeah, I want to stay here. Sir.’

  I stepped back and waited.

  Colonel Bennet sighed. ‘I'm your biological father, the one who organised your language lessons when you were a kid. I've been in touch with your mother since you were born.’

  ‘Oh.’ Stickler glanced at me. ‘Well … er … Major Wilco says you're a good man, and that's enough for me. I'm not all soppy about it, learned to live on my own. Surprised my mum never said anything, normally can't shut her up.’

  Bennet smiled. ‘She does like a good chat in the phone. She called when you got into trouble.’

  ‘Stickler,’ I called. ‘You could be on a job next month, and dead soon after. So keep this in perspective, and realise that you may not have much time. Get your old man a drink.’

  ‘Scotch,’ Bennet said, Stickler fetching a Scotch and handing it over.

  I told Stickler, ‘Unfortunately for you, you have to be nice to the colonel or I'll kick the crap out of you and send you right back to the Glass House. You don't get to decide how you treat him, not here on my base.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  I left them to it, hoping it would go well.

  Rocko asked, ‘Who's that guy, I've seen him before?’

  ‘Colonel Bennet, retired, my old legal counsel.’

  ‘Stickler in trouble?’

  ‘Depends on how the conversation goes.’

  ‘He's doing well,’ Stretch told me. ‘Fit as fuck and a good shot. Don't send him back to prison.’

  ‘I don't intend to. And you, arsehole, you stop upsetting the MPs!'

  ‘Who me?’ he said as they laughed.

  ‘Yeah, you. We need those MPs, and you need your teeth to chew.’

  ‘What about the Paras next week?’

  ‘Sure, lay some mines.’

  ‘Got two dogs,’ Rocko told me. ‘Total psychos, and we're not feeding them much, plus four giant rats we caught.’

  ‘We await some young Para trying to shoot a rat in motion.’

  The evening went off without shots fired, bombs going off, or men punching each other. I was relieved when I lay down, a bit drunk. But I could hear giggling, and sighed loudly.

  On Monday morning Forester turned up, and he was a Lt. Colonel and not a full colonel. He was average height, but he had that public school officer look about him, black hair and sharp features, intense eyes.

  I met him outside the hangar, no headgear on, but Rocko saluted. ‘Sergeant Major, this is Mister Forester, who will become the new colonel of the regular SAS, and a visitor to us here for two years. Find him a room, ideally a house in the village, and then you can organise some training for him before he ships out with me for Liberia and picks up some wounds.’

  ‘Some wounds, Major?’

  ‘It's all a risk, sir, especially living on this base.’

  ‘You don't wear headgear, Major...’

  ‘You best take the broom handle out your arse now, sir, and get used to it, because up in Credenhill they won't bother to salute or even call you sir.’

  ‘So I understand, yes, a strange old tradition, and not one I approve of.’

  ‘Not one I approve of either, and they are better these days. American special forces salute, so too … does every unit in every country apart from ours. So feel free to give them some shit.

  ‘When you're settled in we have some training for you, a steep learning curve before Liberia, your eye-opener to the world of special forces, and we'll brief you on everything you need to know about the Regiment before you take over. A head start.’

  Rocko led him off. When they returned I had Billy give our guest a long talk on the history of the Regiment and its traditions, and they were still at it as they had a meal at 5pm in the Officers Mess, and a drink afterwards.

  When I bumped into Stickler I asked him about Colonel Bennet.

  ‘Feels odd, sir, doesn't feel like a father should, but we get on OK, and he told me lots of funny stories about your early days. We'll stay in touch, and he offered me some money to help out, and he explained about his wife and everything.’

  ‘At least you have him, and you're talking. Some don't even have that.’

  In the morning I led Forester into the Intel Room and introduced him to everyone, but he had met Sanderson, and he knew the Brigadier obviously. I scheduled a briefing from the Brigadier for 2pm, and led him to the new range as the Paras got ready for their live-firing exercise.

  I noticed the new green shed and a covered area with tables, beyond it the start of the earth mound walls, the green fencing hung up above our make believe village of grey concrete and black rubber walls – and it reminded me of a zoo aviary.

  The captain in charge of the Paras saluted Forester, along with the platoon sergeant, and I called them all together, Crab and Duffy helping to run things.

  ‘Listen up! I'm Major Wilco, that handsome chap off the TV in the green Spiderman mask. You lot are here to practise some live firing, so there's a good chance of putting a round through your foot, or through your mate's foot, so be careful.

  ‘Around you and above you is green fencing, and it may not look bullet proof but it was designed to slow down a bullet and spin it off rather than allow it through. Still, we don't want to test the fencing too often. A mile behind you is a village and a road, and a round discharged by accident can still kill someone over there.

  ‘East is two miles of farmland, a quiet road, then miles more farmland all around. So if you're going to screw it up, discharge a round east, the way you're facing, don't turn around with a loaded weapon.

  ‘You're here this week ... to get used to moving and shooting, so that when the time comes and you go off to some place like Liberia you can move and shoot and not shoot your mate in the back. My men do not walk around with their fingers on the trigger, so neither should you. You put your finger on the trigger when you're in action, and about to shoot, or you think that someone is sneaking up on you.

  ‘If you are knelt there, tense, finger on the trigger, and a grenade goes off near you, you jump, you fire, your best mate gets a round through his ankle and utters a few rude words. We're not saying that you keep your finger off the trigger when in contact, but you have to exercise some caution – and use your brains.

  ‘If you are in contact with the enemy, and you need to move position, you take your finger off the trigger and run. If you leave your finger on the trigger and run, and trip, you put a round into you best mate's leg again. When moving position, take that finger off the trigger, and if possible – muzzle aimed up.

  ‘Now, let's talk about getting shot and wounded. My men have seen a great deal of action, and they all have the scars to prove it, but few have been actually been shot. The enemy soldiers you come up against are generally crap, not part of an organised army, and they all spray it around. So if you get shot it's bad luck, not good aim on their part. Now, how far is the gate house from here?’

  ‘A mile, sir,’ a corporal suggested.

  ‘Just about a mile, yes. If there was a dickhead African soldier over there firing this way, you'd still be killed. Not good aim, just bad luck. So you always assume that some fucker is shooting your way and you move cover to cover and stay down. You see a group of enemy soldiers a mile away, they can still kill you.

  ‘Now, let's talk about ricochet. I have scars, my men have scars, all from ricochet. For every man shot, I have twenty with ricochet injuries. Rounds come in, hit the dirt, a stone flies up and hits you in the head at a thousand miles an hour.

  ‘Rounds come in, hit the trees, and the trees splinter, and you get a splinter in the head, back of the neck, in the arse. One of the Wolves got a four inch long splinter up his rectum, hours of surgery. Yes, painful, and he's still a pain in the arse.’

  They laughed.

  ‘Trees are an issue, because rounds spin off. You'll hear a “whizz” sound, then something whacks you on the knee, back of the neck, on the knuckles, and you're bleedi
ng. If you're going to pick up an injury in combat, it will be a ricochet.

  ‘Here, we have cement, wood and rubber, and most rounds will be absorbed, but not all, and there are some bare concrete walls. If you put a round into the wall, anyone in front of you will get a piece in the arse, and surgery to remove it. If there are men in front of you ... finger off the trigger.

  ‘Never try to fire past someone or over someone, but in combat you might shout “down” then fire. If you're at the rear it's your job to protect the rear, not join the men firing forwards. If you don't have a clean shot, finger off the trigger and wait.

  ‘Here, if you run in a group, weapons cocked and safety off, fingers on triggers, then there's an excellent chance of killing the guy in front of you. So you have to plan it, the senior man has to plan it, shout it out, don't bunch up, coordinate it all.

  ‘First run through, and we have blank rounds for you, so if you're going to shoot your mate - do it with blanks first. When the time comes for real ammo, brains switched on; if you fire at a cement wall, a bit of stone - or copper from the bullet - will bounce back and take an eye out or kill you. Don't shoot at concrete walls, not here and not in combat.

  ‘But let's take a moment to consider that combat. In Africa, you might be under mortar fire or artillery fire, and trees are an issue. You want to be in a trench, not hidden in the trees. When an artillery shell lands, large lumps of metal fly out at high speed, and they hit the trees, and the trees explode into a million wooden splinters that dig into the back of your neck and your arse.

  ‘Always go for a hole in the ground over a position in the trees, because those trees splinter and spit at you. You won't be killed, but try and imagine doing the job with twenty large splinters in you.

  ‘Let's think about artillery. If a 150mm shell lands a hundred yards away, it's like dropping off a ten foot wall onto your back. You're stunned, and you won't be firing back at the enemy for thirty seconds. You won't be doing much of anything.

  ‘If you're in a trench and that shell lands inside fifty yards, it's like falling off a twenty foot wall and landing on your back, and you'll take two minutes to remember your own name and where you are. You certainly won't be firing back at the enemy. You may be sick, dizzy, and in no way able to run in a straight line.

  ‘Senior men, you need to realise that after artillery landing, your men are totally useless for two minutes. No good shouting at them to move position, because they can't hear you nor speak English for a while.

  ‘Now, when in Africa you have trees to hide behind – and I've already told you what happens to trees. You may also have a brick building or concrete building to hide in.’

  I waved them forwards and pointed at a house. ‘Imagine you're inside there, aiming out, all snug and secure. If that's a brick house, then any round hitting the wall will be stopped, but not the pressure wave. The pressure wave travels through, breaks off bits of brick, and they hit you in the balls at a thousand miles an hour. Never trust a brick building!

  ‘Now, if that building is concrete then you're safe, no penetration, but a round that misses you hits the wall behind you, and then bits of concrete hit you in the arse and the back of the neck at high speed. Always look over your shoulder and think about the ricochet. As the Army has always maintained, best position is a trench, dirt around you, some sandbags to hand.

  ‘So, clearing a village. I've cleared many villages, but as a rule we avoid towns and villages as being a bad bet. People can hide, they can lob grenades, set traps, there's ricochet, and there's a good chance of hitting civilians by mistake.

  ‘But if you have no choice, then you have to go into narrow streets and houses, search for the bad boys and shoot them, not shooing the women and kids. In here you will find dummies looking like women and kids, and if you shoot them you get a tonne of shit and a few laps around the airfield. Shoot them in real life and you could go to prison.

  ‘Now, when moving through a village you have a difficult choice to make; scare the locals, or smile nicely and walk upright. There may be terrorists, or not. If you go in heavy-handed and the villagers complain, you get a tonne of shit for doing so.

  ‘So, it's down to intel, and a good nose for trouble. You start off moving slowly, smiling nicely, weapons down but ready. If shots are fired at you, the civilians will scatter and then you have a shooting war – and you stop smiling nicely. Trick is to observe the village first by sneaking up on it, then moving in.

  ‘If you get into position before dawn, and observe for 24hrs, you'll see the bad boys and where they are, and can go snatch them. Simply walking through a village is a bad bet, you will lose men killed and wounded in close-up fighting. My men always avoid villages, and for good reason.

  ‘So, make ready, check you have blanks only, form up. Sergeant, you brief and lead, and I'll be behind you. And never forget, pointing a loaded weapon a civvy gets you into trouble!'

  They formed up, and the sergeant informed them of their orders, to search the village for armed men and to RV back here, and that this was the point for wounded.

  Ready, they moved off, a corporal at the head, upright and with weapons down but ready, covering each other.

  Past the first house, a man mentioned women and kids, but moved on.

  ‘Freeze!' I shouted. I pointed at the man. ‘Women and kids, in a house, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And what's to stop them shooting you in the back, eh? In West Africa, on a hostage job, one of my men was approached by a ten year old boy and shot five times. The parents brain-wash the kids, and the women carry guns. Don't turn your back on them, point them out, next man is cautious. Back to the start.’

  They formed up again, and this time they were wary of the dummies, signals to the man behind where the dummies were.

  ‘Contact left!' Two blank rounds blasted out, men kneeling. ‘Armed man left, one man, he's down!'

  ‘Cover each other! Stay sharp!' The sergeant ordered. ‘Advance!'

  They advanced, but now cover to cover. A door kicked open, and a dog went for a Para, and with Crab and Duffy I laughed as the Para tried to fight off the manic dog.

  ‘Withdraw!' I shouted, the dog in hot pursuit and getting kicked and shouted at. I rushed forwards, grabbed it by the neck and dragged it yelping back to the room, closing the door.

  Back with the team, I shouted, ‘Listen up, your morons! Villages have dogs, all villages have dogs, nasty dogs, so you learnt your lesson. If this was for real, just shoot the fucking thing. If you walk through a village in Africa you can be 100% certain that a dog will not only want to hump your leg, but bite you, and they all have rabies. Ignore that door, start again.’

  They moved off again, their captain offering helpful advice, and further in they disturbed the manic chicken that was soon intent on pecking at a Para as he knelt. The Para eventually twisted it's neck and left it behind as we laughed.

  Several pairs of shots were fired, shouts issued, and the team moved back to us, backwards, covering positions.

  ‘OK, villages always have chickens, and they will annoy you. Just kick them or break their necks, yes. OK, make ready with live ammo.’

  Yellow blank firing attachments off, magazines swapped, and they made ready in the same team.

  ‘Sergeant, split your men, left and right, don't go around in a circle, don't aim this way. At the end, walk backwards.’

  I turned to see the two medics, a nod given, Forester glancing at them. I had my plastic bottle of ketchup ready as well.

  When ready, the platoon advanced but casually, the civilians noted, and when the first two live rounds were fired they knelt in cover and shouted instructions, moving cautiously as I followed them.

  Second target seen, two rounds fired, and they advanced past it, a round accidentally discharged past the ear of a man, some loud words exchanged.

  ‘Continue!' I shouted.

  Further in, and they fired at two targets, a door nudged open, a second dog out and
barking, shot dead by the sergeant a moment later.

  A puff and a small bang, and a round was accidentally discharged into the dirt, inches from the corporal, who was not a happy bunny.

  I shouted, ‘You just stood on a mine, your leg is missing. Safety on, lay down.’ He lay down as I sprayed ketchup, ‘Scream. Wounded man!'

  Names were called as the make-do wounded man screamed, soon two men dragging him back to covering aim, all the way back, dressings on.

  ‘OK, stand up,’ I finally called. ‘Make safe! Not as easy as it looks, eh. Sergeant, have your men practise moving with blanks in, safety off, up and down and over obstacles, till they move without accidental discharge. And the two men that fired by accident, give them some laps later, a lot of laps.

  ‘All of you, this is a learning exercise, to make you think about what's needed, what to practise, and to know what to do before you end up in a village in Africa. Expect dogs, chickens, don't aim at civvies but never turn your back on them, expect a mine or a booby-trap, watch were you walk.

  ‘And don't worry, we all have to start somewhere, so practise, get it right, and switch your brains on. Captain, get the next group in, and you – Captain – teach them what I just told you.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  I smiled as the sergeant led a young man off by the neck, some harsh language used.

  Forester noted, ‘Some aspects to learn and think about yes, and I can see why you avoid villages, lot that can go wrong.’

  I faced the medics. ‘They came within inches of shooting each other, so stay sharp. Sergeant Crab, have them all practise with blanks first, let's not get criticised here for dead soldiers.’

  I led Forester off, and to the pistol range, half an hour of drills and practise for him till he was starting to get it right. When Tomo turned up with two Wolves I left Forester with them, questions being asked of Tomos' shoot-out in Bosnia.

  An hour later, and I sat Forester down with the trick map reading scenarios. After a cup of tea, he presented his route.

  ‘That route will get your men killed. SAS soldiers learn to say no to orders, and for good reason; you just sent them all to their deaths. Why should they have any respect for you?’