by Geoff Wolak
Swapped over, the next eight went through the same routine, and they kept going. Weapons stripped and cleaned, they went through it again and again, hundreds of rounds used up. And between each salvo the spare lads would run forwards and put the metal plates back up – one hand cut.
I handed over to Sasha as he came out to us, the lads puzzling his accent as he had them kneel, twist and fire, run and fire, spin around and fire.
‘How are you finding it?’ I asked one of the lads.
‘Never done so much, sir. After basic training it gets a bit quiet, a bit repetitive.’
‘What unit you from?’
‘Light Infantry, sir.’
‘A good runner?’
‘Marathons, sir, not a bad time. Still remember you on the TV, getting shot.’
‘That seems life a long time ago,’ I said, reflecting. ‘So what do you want out of this at the end?’
‘Well, some action, sir. I’ve been in four years, done fuck all. Was thinking of the SAS a year or two down the road.’
I nodded. ‘It is what you make it, so long as you don’t just sit down the pub like most servicemen.’
At 5pm a Land Rover pulled up, crates of rabbits unloaded. I called in the lads. ‘Take one each, cook it and eat it, that’s your evening meal. If the rabbit runs off – you go hungry.’
‘Can I have two, sir?’ a lad called, making us smile.
Sasha dispensed useful advice on how to make tasty rabbit stew using rations, and the lads used the leeward side of the firing position to get cookers going, giblets left everywhere.
I fetched a plastic bag from the Land Rover, a lad tasked with collecting up the entrails.
There were not enough rabbits, two escaping, so Tomo and Smitty gave up theirs as Nicholson grabbed ammo. Two cracks sounding out, heads turning, and we now had enough rabbits, the escaped prisoners blown to bits and retrieved from down the range.
At 8pm the lads were all in the briefing room, advanced map reading the topic as Batman gave examples and tests. One of the tests was to remember what the range looked like, the area beyond it – to draw a picture. Some of the lads had trees where there were no trees, others had a distant lake – which was actually a field of shiny flowers.
They were all required to draw the base as a map and to add distances, many a building put in the wrong place, some distances way out.
Thursday morning was blowy, threatening to rain as I led them around the track, now just two pairs of trainers worn, and after a proper breakfast I led them to the range with Sasha, Batman and Swifty, the topic today being sniping – the wind head on.
Eight men at a time lay down, AKMs with telescopic sights, and they would aim at the targets displayed by Crab and Duffy, a few of my lads helping out in the butts and marking. At this end, myself and Sasha dispensed expert advice to those that needed it.
Ten rounds per man, then a swap, the scores recorded, and we kept going till all men had fired fifty rounds, aim improving for some. Leggit and Swan displayed an almost 100% score, one of the civvys the same, others struggling a little.
The worst of this lot could kill a man on the third attempt, and might scare him on the first attempt.
Rabbits were driven out to us for lunch, and each lad grabbed one and killed it, Tomo electing to blast his to death at close range. Other lads copied his technique. Rabbit stew was on the menu. Again.
Tomo and my lads produced salt dispensers, making me laugh. They looked like the ones used in the pub.
After lunch, sticky fingers licked clean or washed in the canal – the canal now full of water and threatening to overflow, we claimed the 100yard point as metal plates were put up by those manning the butts.
Each of eight lads would spin and fire, forward roll and fire - a few rounds put in the dirt, some coming back our way, heads ducked – voices raised.
Between each set the lads would run forwards and put back the downed metal plates, and run back, and we got through sixty rounds per man before it threatened to piss down on us.
Back at the briefing room I found the old timers having first aid lessons, a refresher, one of Morten’s RAF doctors giving the trauma lecture, a dummy on a table, tubes everywhere.
I returned at 9pm, thanked the doctor, and took the old timers for a run, some whinging evident now.
The next morning seemed overcast, but after the run it cleared right up and became warm, the Skyvan sent for. With ten Wolves - those with the least experience, destined for some static line action, the rest returned to the range with myself, Sasha and Batman.
But as we got there I could see a large flock of seagulls stood around between the 200yard and 300yard firing points, and they had by-passed our gate security. With eight lads down and ready, weapons loaded, I gave the signal and they opened fire, the seagulls not reacting that much as their comrades were blown to bits, feathers flying. A second salvo, and half were dead, the rest flying off.
‘Make safe. Go fetch them,’ I ordered. ‘They’re on the menu!’
A few birds had to be finished off, the rest laid out.
‘They’re big birds,’ Tomo noted. ‘Got some meat on them.’
At three hundred yards, groups of eight Wolves knelt and fired, stripped and assembled, then fired again as the directing staff stood behind, sixty rounds for each man before they swapped, weapons cleaned first, the farmer driving past on his tractor.
At 1pm rabbits were driven out to us, the seagulls to be added to the feast, white feathers everywhere.
Birds and rabbits were cooked and ate, and everyone preferred the rabbit to seagull - a dark meat and not that much like chicken. But I made sure they all ate some seagull.
‘Lot of rabbit we’re eating, sir,’ a lad noted as they cleaned-up.
‘What’d you think you’ll eat when behind enemy lines, McDonalds maybe?’
‘I see, sir, yes.’
‘Ten days worth of rations and water weighs as much as you do.’
After sticky fingers were cleaned up, giblets picked up, we reclaimed the range at the 100yard firing point, metal plates set upright, each man required to hit ten plates with ten rounds whilst standing, scores kept.
I stood behind those with the lowest scores, stance adjusted, useful advice dispensed, and I got the scores up.
Bob appeared, his visit un-announced yet somehow very expected. ‘How they doing?’ he asked after getting out of his posh ride, his driver also exiting the vehicle, as if a bodyguard.
‘Too soon, but no idiots yet, no drop-outs, no one kicked out. Need three weeks or more. Oh, one “E” Squadron failed to turn up.’
He nodded as he took in the lads. ‘Wrapped his car around a tree. I just spoke to the rest. So what are these lads doing this week?’
‘This week is basic training, the specialist stuff comes later, I don’t want to spend money on someone who’ll fail.’
He nodded. ‘Got all the odd kit?’
‘Think so, won’t use for a few weeks.’
Before he left he grabbed several men in turn, mostly the civvys, a quiet chat out of earshot.
At 5pm, at the hangar, I checked my clipboard. ‘OK, these four stay behind this weekend, rest have till Sunday at 8pm – if you want to go. You can stay here, use the facilities – don’t get into any trouble.’ I read off the names, taking them to one side, the rest dismissed.
‘OK, you four at the bottom four, but my policy is not to bin anyone if I can. So, tomorrow we’ll get more pistol work and range work in – assuming that you want to. If you don’t want to, then you either miraculously improve next week or get kicked out.’
They exchanged looks, no one wanting to quit.
‘OK, 10am tomorrow, here in front of the hangar, in uniform. Dismissed.’
The old timers jogged up in kind-of a uniform squad. They halted in front of me.
I took in their faces. ‘OK, you lot have done your week ... and I haven’t punched anyone.’
‘Sound disappointed,’ Mally noted.
‘Surprised ... more than disappointed.’
‘That mean we get a good report?’ one asked.
‘That means, you ... don’t get a bad report. Overall I’m happy enough that you got a refresher in, got some fitness training in, worked together and did not start fighting. I was interested in attitude, and you’ve done OK – up to now. You’re all welcome back here to train further, regular refreshers.’
One raised a hand. ‘I spoke to O’Leary, who said to ask you, but ... my wife kicked me out, just a suitcase and my car, so ... can I have a room temporarily?’
I offered him a disappointed sigh. ‘Yes, for now. Stay where you are or grab a room in the cabins.’ I raised a finger. ‘First wrong word, first punch-up down the pub, any negative comments to the young lads – and you’re gone, after a boxing lesson from me.’
‘I’m no trouble, Boss.’
Mally raised a hand. ‘I did eight weeks in the Congo. You need any ... support staff?’
‘Might do, yes. Mention it to O’Leary and Bob. But are you keen to bleed out in some shit jungle hell hole?’
He made a face. ‘It’s all a risk.’
‘OK, thank you, gentlemen, see you around soon. Dismissed.’
I called Bob. ‘Home already?’
‘In a hotel, files on the table.’
‘Listen, “E” Squadron went OK, but these guys have fuck all to do as a day job, so how about a Portakabin here for them, and they drift in whenever they like, use the ranges.’
‘If you’re happy that they’ll not clash with your lads, then yes.’
‘Make it a club more than a day job, they come when they want.’
‘Yes, good idea.’
In the pub that night I found eight of the Wolves in civvies stood drinking and chatting, Tomo, Smitty and Nicholson with them. I was hoping the Wolves would get drunk and reveal the inner personality; good man, or next year’s psycho killer.
I sat with Swifty and Moran, Sasha off to London to chat to Intel, Mahoney off to London to chat to some Deltas who were visiting.
Swifty pointed at the Wolves. ‘How they doing?’
‘Too soon to tell, but standards vary greatly. Some real excellent lads, some struggling a bit. Four stay behind, and I’ll work them hard tomorrow. Not sure why Bob has some of these along, I need to check their files; they may be fit ... but poor shots.’
‘I got some time on the Skyvan,’ Moran put in, Crab and Duffy turning up with the guy getting divorced. ‘Not quite what I imagined when I applied to the SAS, but all good fun.’
‘You’d rather be like Hamble?’ I teased.
‘Hell no, he flies a desk.’
Swifty smiled. ‘He probably flies that desk better than we fly that Mi8,’ he said, all of us laughing
‘When we off to the Congo?’ Moran asked.
‘Up to Bob, who cares more about the Lone Wolves,’ I responded, Sandra turning up with Henri again, and sitting with Rocko and Rizzo again.
‘How’s she coming along?’ Swifty asked.
‘Better day by day, keen with it. Lady in a man’s world, but she seems to be adjusting well, and her rifle work is good by all accounts.’
An hour later I sat with Sandra and Henri and asked about progress, Sandra showing me her rough hands, a small cut on her face.
After that, and before I left, I stood with Nicholson, who seemed sober. ‘Any idiots in the group?’ I delicately enquired.
‘One or two are keen to get some action, but so was I. Some keep themselves to themselves and hardly say a word.’
‘Well it is “Lone” Wolf and not “Party” Wolf,’ I pointed out.
‘Need a hand in the morning, Boss?’
‘10am, if you’re awake.’
‘I don’t drink much.’
‘How are your two corporals doing?’
‘They’re both shit hot, easy for them so far.’
‘They seem good, almost 100% on the range.’
‘Rabbit for lunch tomorrow?’ he teased.
‘None left, need to get some more,’ I said with a smile.
A disturbance down the bar, and heads turned. Someone was hassling Smitty, but I didn’t recognised the man. Faces turned to me, but I simply observed, so the others did not move. When the guy poked Smitty in the chest, Smitty broke the guy’s wrist, the man ending up on the floor.
I slowly closed in, the landlord coming around. I simply stood waiting.
Smitty glanced at me. ‘Not my fault, Boss, he don’t like soldiers.’
The landlord told the man to leave, and ushered him out - arm held, then returned to us. ‘Seamus, a bit of a troublemaker, but he came off worse.’
‘Seamus, eh?’ I repeated as I left. I took out my phone and dialled SIS.
‘Duty officer.’
‘This is Wilco, SAS. There was a man in my base local pub, name of Seamus, don’t like soldiers, got his wrist sprained by one of mine. Must live local, he’s known to the landlord, check him out as fast as you can.’
‘I’ll pass on the detail now.’
I got a call back half an hour later, at 10.30pm.
‘We checked out the man, easy to do since he made a complaint that ten soldiers attacked him. But there’s a camera that caught it all, so we’re talking to the police. This man Seamus was born in London to Irish parents, likes to think he’s IRA, but just full of shit, no links, many petty crimes, and the local police know him as a bullshitter.’
‘OK, if you’re happy, I’m happy. Goodnight.’
In the morning I went for a run early, no one about, but after two laps I found all four of those Wolves held back this weekend to be out running, a good attitude; they could have been in bed, all warm and cosy.
At 10am we met outside the hangar, Nicholson with us, Henri set to assist, and with Bongo up and nursing a coffee we signed out rifles and ammo, lots of ammo, bandoliers filled.
On the range, ponchos down at the 100yard point, the four Wolves stripped and re-assembled the rifles a dozen times, then cleaned the weapons and made the checks I told them to make – parts worn or cracked.
Weapons down, they ran to the side of the butts and grabbed heavy metal plates, one each, and placed them down, working up a sweat. But I had also brought tennis balls and golf balls.
They made ready their weapons, knelt and aimed, positions adjusted by myself, Henri and Nicholson, and they hit the metal plates in quick succession, and they seemed to have improved a little overnight.
Weapons down, they ran down the range and righted those metal plates that needed righting, and back. Weapons up, safety off, they fired again, and we kept at that for an hour.
I then had a lad walk forwards a few steps, fresh magazine in, ready-stance taken, tennis ball thrown in from Henri, shots taken. Although the ball was probably nervous by now it was not full of holes, another thrown, and it was hit after a few bounces.
The next man faired a little better, or maybe a lucky hit, and once they had all tried it I lobbed the golf ball. When it settled they each tried to hit it, the dirt around it thrown up. The last man blew it to pieces.
With Nicholson placing playing cards against a wooden trim on the butts, the lads stripped and assembled over and over, cleaned parts again, finally ready, kneeling position taken, cards aimed at – and many hit.
Metal plates back up, we jogged to the 500yard mark, telescopic sights issued and clipped on slides, and tested. In the lying position - that chosen position adjusted by the instructors, they took their time, worked on their breathing, and plugged away at the metal plates.
With scores around the seventy percent mark I was not unhappy, they would not be kicked out yet, and we all walked back to the armoury chatting, but found Bongo in the canteen as expected, keys handed over to open up the armoury.
On Sunday evening I welcomed back all of the Wolves, Crab ticking names on his sheet, and I met them at 6am in the morning, the ground very wet after a very wet night, but at least it had stopped raining. None were i
n trainers as we set off, an hour’s steady run, a walk for fifteen minutes, then another hour’s steady run before breakfast, some leg lunges and sideways running.
Whilst they were on the long range Bob called, intel on the Congo hostages, the timing right, we could depart next weekend. No sooner had I put my phone away did another Portakabin turn up, desk and chairs. It would be the “E” Squadron Portakabin, so I placed it beyond the metal sheds – close to the north field, some isolation for them.
O’Leary called Mally, who called a few others, who went shopping, and they drove in to claim their new meeting place, mugs placed down, kettle, tea bags and sugar. The homeless divorced guy joined them. They drove off, to return with a van, some second hand comfy chairs to unload, a microwave, some maps and posters put on walls.
I popped in with the Major and found them sat around a coffee table in comfy chairs.
‘Right, Boss,’ Mally offered without getting up as I took in the place. ‘What are the rules here?’
I began, ‘You come and go as you please, but the MPs will be pissy about late nights, or drunks. You plan a meeting, and then you ask O’Leary to check who’s about, ranges free, etc. You can sign out weapons and ammo, but you sign them back in before 5pm - or we send the MPs after you.
‘I don’t want weapons and ammo lying around here, or there’ll be trouble. Check with us about the Skyvan, you can jump with us or in a group by yourselves. Idea is that you keep fit and train here when not usefully engaged elsewhere.’
I pointed at our divorcee. ‘You’re living here, so you keep keys and maintain this place.’
‘No problem,’ he keenly offered.
The Major said, ‘Each Thursday morning, 10am, meet me here with the others. Spread the word.’
They nodded. They had been meeting in Hereford.
I sent messages to the troops about the Congo job, and the Major organised Intel to start lectures, a few films to watch, Sandra now nervous about parachuting in.
That evening, as the Wolves sat a lecture on which animals in which countries were edible, which plants, I was sat with Moran, Sasha and Swifty in my kitchen, maps being pored over. Intel had hostages a hundred miles from the Ugandan border, and the Ugandans would cooperate since they believed we would hit a certain rebel group that had caused them problems.
