by Geoff Wolak
Lifting off at midnight, we all got some sleep, and this would be our first trip without Rocko; he would be making sure the regulars did not break anything - and he’d be shouting at them. Since he carried a pistol around the base he would not be getting any shit.
A bump, and I opened my eyes, dull amber light penetrating the windows, a familiar desert scrub seen beyond the wire as I yawned and rubbed my face. Door open, and we were welcomed by a warm amber light and warm air, the familiar scent of the desert. I smiled widely, loving it here.
Captain Harris and his team would be based here at the airport, our contact for casevac, as well as for organising a few tricks for the Wolves.
Coaches mounted, kit shoved into the luggage hold, we followed our heavily-armed escorts out the gate, a short trip to the range, and we claimed huts for the crates as British MPs patrolled around. Fully kitted out, tents now being erected by Crab and Duffy, I led the men up to the range, a familiar fence line adopted, the Wolves told to make a happy home in pairs, ponchos rigged up, backpacks dropped.
Half an hour later, after a brew, I stood atop the rear firing point as the Wolves stood looking just like my lads – only younger and fresher in the face. ‘Listen up. This area is now safe, at least safer than it was during the insurrection, but there’s still a chance of a mortar or rocket landing, maybe some old mines lying around, so be careful.
‘And if you see a local man approaching be very wary, same for local police – we had men shot by local police. Try to always move around in pairs, and if you go for a shit in the sand have your buddy cover you. Upwind would be best.
‘What we’ll do today is the same standard shooting contest as back at base, and you’ll do that over and over, but in between there will be stages – as there was back at base. Those stages will get longer and more complex as the days go on.
‘You’ll sleep in the sand, cook in the sand, shit in the sand, and hopefully you’ll get used to it and like it, if not you can quit and go home. There’ll be American Wolves here soon, and you’re required to get along with them – whilst beating them at each contest. Lose to the Americans and I’ll peg you out in the fucking desert.’
Crab and Duffy walked up with files in hand, radios threaded.
‘OK, Sergeant Crab, Slider, get the butts working, swap after lunch, careful on the marking of targets – I want them dead accurate.’
Slider led off Crab, Duffy and eight of the lads, kicking up sand as they progressed.
At 11am the growl of trucks preceded a line of vehicles, escorts front and back, and they found a space to park as the escorts turned around. Tailgates down, orders shouted, and familiar faces jumped down, bags handed down.
Captain Yoblonksi walked up to me as the American recruits got webbing on, rifles from crates. He put a hand over his eyes and took in the range. ‘Ain’t no different to Nevada,’ he complained.
‘In Nevada they don’t fire mortars and rockets at you, and there are no old mines lying around.’
He looked worried. ‘There a chance of that here?’
‘There sure is,’ I said in an American accent as rounds cracked out from the range.
‘Where we bunking?’
‘Where you’re stood.’
He looked around him. ‘What?’
‘In the sand, so get used to it. Have the candidates pair up, ponchos rigged up against the fence. They sit and eat in the dirt, shit in the dirt, and hopefully some will find it arduous – and quit. You can grab a hut if you like.’
‘And you?’
‘I sleep in the sand real well.’
He blew out, waving the recruits up to us, the NCOs from Nevada greeted as the recruits paired up and were told to rig ponchos along the north side fence, although calling it a fence was being generous, it was three old strands of wire.
I had Rizzo go get water bottles and issue them to the pairs, but the recruits did have their US rations. Once they had settled I shouted at them to form up, rifle and webbing. I asked for four NCOs that were keen and fit, and I pointed towards the hill. ‘Brisk march around the hill, don’t go up it, and back here. But do you have live ammo?’
‘Not yet,’ was the answer.
‘First mistake. Get loaded up, right now!’
Crates opened, ammo handed out, magazines were loaded in a hurry back down near the trucks.
When the group was back, now “locked and loaded”, I began, ‘Listen up. There’s a chance here of a mortar or rocket attack. If so, hit the deck and stay down, give first aid if a man is wounded. If you see a local man ... don’t let him approach you, fire at his feet. Local police cannot be trusted, keep a gun on them at all times.’
Worried faces stared back at me.
‘If you’re outside the base and you see suspicious movement, get down and get ready. If you see a local farmer and he has a rifle, leave him alone but watch him like a hawk. See a jeep full of armed men in civvy clothes, get down and get ready. If they shoot at you, you shoot at them – and I expect you to kill them all stone dead.
‘If that makes any of you nervous, you can quit now and fuck off back to the States. You’re either fighting men, or cowards, so make a choice quickly. NCOs, off you go.’
Two NCOs took point, the column kicking up dust as they progressed, glances at my Wolves on the range as they progressed.
I walked down to the huts and found the support team and NCOs making a happy home in one of those huts. I stepped out of the bright sunlight and into the dark interior. ‘Gentlemen, these huts will be one hundred degrees during the day, cold at night. Avoid them midday, wrap up warm at night, and check for snakes and scorpions.’
‘Pleasant spot,’ an NCO noted.
‘Should have been here during the insurrection, we had rockets and mortars coming in, men on the wire firing at us. It was not a pleasant spot, and local police shot two of my men - who died later from their wounds.’
‘Local police?’
‘They sympathised with the Algerians, a few locals do, so stay sharp.’
‘And the local police who escorted us here?’ a man pressed.
I made a face. ‘Roll of the dice if they can all be trusted.’
‘Welcome to the Nam,’ a man joked. ‘Bird is the word.’
‘Funny you should mention Vietnam,’ I said with a sinister smile, a few surprises lined up for these boys.
With the dusty American recruits back, all soaked in sweat, my lot now walking around the hill, the recruits hit the range in groups of eight, scores tallied, but then they were allowed to sit and cook, and to get some shut-eye in the midday heat.
At dawn the next day I was up and fresh, a call made, no one suspecting anything. The distant blast echoed, I rallied a few lads, and we ran north as the Americans panicked. We walked back in fifteen minutes later, a dead goat between two lads.
‘What the hell was that?’ an American NCO asked, M16s pointed outwards.
‘Goat stood on an old mine, so we’ll cook it and eat it,’ I told him with a smile, his recruits looking worried. Back at the ponchos my lads were pleased at the prospect of barbeque goat.
Two hours later, after the first American range test, they were sent up the hill and told to make sketches and to mark out distances. Back down, I handed the NCOs a map with those distances clearly detailed, sketches to be marked, points awarded as the recruits hit the range.
Scores had started down on those witnessed in Nevada, but the robust men had climbed back up, the top men a little erratic.
At sun down, after a lecture on desert hygiene and desert navigation, the recruits were split into groups of four, a man nominated as map reader, paper instructions handed over, an NCO to tag along but not allowed to interfere. And many of my lads had snuck out quietly and were at the checkpoints already, hidden and waiting.
Meanwhile, British Wolves were on a twenty mile march, to camp out tonight and be back midday tomorrow.
By 3am the American recruits were all back, the night navigation varying
from good to complete shite. They were told to bed down.
At 8am, after the first range test, I gave them a lecture on desert navigation. ‘If you can, you get a compass fix on a distant feature, and walk to that feature, then pick out the next feature, even if you’re zig-zagging a little. See a clump of rocks in your way, go around not over!
‘If the features are distinct, use the map to tell you how far you’re walking, but also have each man count his paces, then average them out as a double-check.
‘If there are no features, each man counts his paces, and every thousand yards on average you update your map and you write it in your pad. 1,000yards on bearing 090, 1,000 yards on bearing 120, so that if you get lost you find a feature and work it backwards, or work it forwards from your last known fix.
‘You’ll have a similar map reading test now, whilst it’s light, but some stages will be after dark. Different men will be in charge. Some of you were a bit shite last night, so switch your brains on fast.’
After the last team had kicked up dust my phone trilled; the French Defence Minister. ‘We have discussed this American and British placement at our base in Mauritania, and we are happy to cooperate, the government there notified, yet they care little what goes on. What is it that you expect of us?’
‘I’d like one C160 aircraft, two helicopters on rotation, ground crews. I want the French responsible for protecting the fence and for basic supplies and fuel. I’d like one platoon of French Echo, then one platoon of 1st Battalion, plus a few other units such as the Marine Commandos or Legion. They will be at the base for one month, and I will organise standard patrol routes and map reading tests.’
‘That sounds good, yes, what else?’
‘The men will train together, hostage rescue, and if there is a hostage rescue launched from the base these men will be in support and see some action, a good newspaper story. And, sir, have a journalist to hand.’
‘This journalist will sit around much of the time...’
‘Sir, if there is no suitable action for the journalist, then once a month I will manufacture some suitable action.’
‘Ah, yes, good, we like such stories in the papers. I will organise what is needed at the base.’
‘I will send the British soon, sir. Thank you.’
Call ended, I hit the numbers for London, and for the Air Commodore.
‘Ah, Wilco, my boy, where are you?’
‘Morocco, sir. Listen, got a paper and pen?’
‘Fire away.’
‘There’s a French base in Mauritania, safe area, no trouble there. It’s going to be a base for a new group called the Special Forces Support Team, or similar. French are there, Americans are sending men, and it’ll be a desert training hub, parachute training, but if there are hostages nearby we launch a rescue from there – journalist to hand.
‘Can I have ... a bunch of Para School lads and chutes, one Hercules on rotation, a helicopter or two on rotation, a flight of 2 Squadron men on rotation – say four weeks, your medics, ground crew, plus a flight of RAF Regiment from any other squadron, men with no experience. They’ll do some standard desert patrols and map reading.’
‘Four week rotations?’
‘Yes, sir, up to you. Prime Minister has approved it.’
‘Pilots and crews can do four weeks in Sierra Leone and four weeks in Mauritania, be better for them. I’ll be all over it today. What timescale are you looking at?’
‘As soon as they’re ready, sir, but I’ll be there in two weeks to sort the standard patrol routes.’
Later in the day, I checked my watch and called Colonel Mathews. ‘Sir, the French have agreed your men being at their base in Mauritania, British will arrive in force in two weeks.’
‘Two weeks gives us time to plan and to move people around. What make-up of men and materials were you thinking of?’
‘A Hercules, maybe a helo or two, ground crews, parachutes – static line and HALO. One small group of Deltas, one of Seals, plus anyone that you want exposed to some live firing conditions. British will send medics as well, a small team.
‘I’ll devise standard exercises, the idea being that men rotate every four weeks or so, and they all do the standard patrol routes and exercises, get the experience, and if there’s a rescue to mount we’ll do it from this base – journalist to hand. And if it’s all quiet I’ll manufacture a crisis.’
‘So we get the exposure back here. Good. I’ll make a start. How are the Wolves doing?’
‘Map reading needs work for some, and they’re all nervous about stepping on a mine. That nervousness will either stress them or mature them, yet to be determined which.’
‘I’ll meet you in Mauritania, fix a date for when you’re there.’
‘Will do, sir.’
The map reading improved dramatically, and when they were all back I had them making sketches of star patterns that could be used to navigate by. ‘You’ll know all those star patterns by the end of these two weeks or be kicked off the course,’ I warned.
Under my poncho, Swifty asked, ‘How they doing?’
‘The map reading was much better, they’re thinking now, and tomorrow ... it’s helicopter crash time.’
‘You’re a cruel bastard, you know that.’
I lay down with a silly grin firmly fixed to my face.
In the morning, after the range tests, the American Wolves grouped in teams of seven with an instructor, the instructors none the wiser. I stood up on the firing point. ‘Gentlemen, deadly Lone Wolves, you will now be taken by helicopter to the point detailed for you. You walk back here in a good time, or get penalised. Simple. Different man to navigate after each hour!’
A few minutes later an old Moroccan Huey roared in, its doors open, no crewman in the back. It touched down whilst blowing up a sand storm, and I shouted at the recruits to board. Bent double, they ran in, soon aboard, the Huey pulling up and off and heading southeast.
Yablonksi closed in. ‘That fucking Huey is older than my father! He flew on it in 1969 I think – when it was written off!’
I shrugged. ‘Moroccans said it was OK, had a service.’
Twenty miles southeast, and way off course to the planned drop-off, warning lights flashed and sounded out, seen by the men in the rear. Smoke started to appear as the Huey shimmied lower, soon going sideways over large dunes. At six feet over the dunes the pilot shouted, ‘Jump! Jump!’
The NCO grabbed men and threw them out, but most did not need to be told twice, men hitting the dunes and rolling, the last man soon out in a hurry, the Huey flying off with a shimmy. And it disappeared, its pilots laughing their heads off.
The NCO gathered the men, one sprained wrist, a few mouths full of sand, no serious injuries. He called it in.
‘Captain Wilco,’ I answered as I stepped away from anyone in earshot.
‘It’s Sergeant Hoss, sir. The fucking helo caught fire and we jumped. We’re down, no serious injuries.’
‘Can you fix your position?’
‘Fuck no, there are no features.’
‘You should be southeast of us, so start walking till you can fix a point, then we’ll send a helo or truck.’
‘A truck, sir, definitely a truck.’
‘Start walking, find a feature, I’ll get organised this end.’ Phone away, Swifty was shaking his head at me and grinning.
The Huey roared in, the next eight men loaded, and I had to work hard not to grin.
An hour later, and all teams had been inserted, at least rudely dropped off, and the Huey touched down. I ran over and opened the door, an envelope handed over as the pilots laughed. It pulled away north.
At sundown the first hot and sandy team trekked in, Yablonski now aware of the trick as he stood with me.
An out of breath sweat-covered NCO began, ‘That fucking Huey caught fire, sir, we had to jump in the middle of nowhere. We had to walk ten miles to find a feature on the damn map! Then we couldn’t get through on the sat phone! Just what kind of fucking
casevac do we have here, sir?’
Yablonski couldn’t hide his grin.
‘What?’ the NCO asked, taking in the faces.
‘It was a trick, a test,’ I told him.
‘You ... fucking Limely bastard, I shat my trousers! I thought I was going to die!’
‘That was the whole point,’ I told him, his team of Wolves looking a bit put out.
I shouted, ‘Any of you afraid of danger, want to quit, go back and get a comfy safe job?’ I waited. ‘Well, do we have any quitters here?’
They stood fast, looks exchanged – dusty, sweaty looks.
I told them, ‘If you pass this course, expect someone to be trying to kill you every week, dangerous old helicopters to ride in, so get used to it or be somewhere else. Get some chow, then sleep. Dismissed.’
At my poncho, the lads were all grinning.
‘Well?’ Slider asked as he sat cooking.
‘They’re not too happy about their near-death experience. But they made it back.’
The final team made it back at 2am, very tired – dusty and sweaty and tired, one man carried, a twisted ankle. I allowed him to stay on the course, and to rest for a few days, his ankle bound for now. After all, it was not his fault.
Samantha and her colleagues turned up in the morning, but they would not be staying, not sleeping in the sand. Each recruit, British and American, had an interview between range tests, and now the recruits had to run up and over the hill.
Her team was done by 4pm, notes scribbled down, and they would be back in two days.
The next day was a rest day of sorts, the American recruits having lessons on the Valmet and the Elephant Gun, sniping at distance being the lesson and then the test. After the lesson, plenty of rounds used for practise, they were tested – twenty rounds before moving off to the ridge above the dummy village behind the butts. There they were handed a Valmet with twenty rounds, the rifle fitted with a large sight, and they had to find and shoot ten targets in the village, some out at 1,000yards.
