Wilco- Lone Wolf 12

by Geoff Wolak

  A few failed to find all the targets and were nudged where to look, and a few of the lads found and hit the targets like Davey Crocket.

  I knelt next to one. ‘Where’d you learn to shoot?’

  ‘Had a .308 for my fifteenth birthday, sir, and we hunted deer in the woods.’

  ‘Good practise for later life, British kids don’t do that.’

  The final scores varied greatly, a few of these lads being natural snipers. One had fired his first rifle at nine years old, a head start over his British counterparts. They also judged distance well.

  The following day, with Samantha back to ask some leading questions, the American recruits were having lessons on four-man team tactics, moving and firing, withdrawing with an injured man, stoppages, counting rounds and reloading.

  Samantha approached me as I stood with Yoblonski. ‘Two of these are home sick, and a concern.’

  I turned to Yoblonksi. ‘Send them back to the airport, they get the next ride out.’

  He took names, and disarmed the men, leading them off.

  I asked Samantha, ‘Our British?’

  ‘Love the desert, no issues so far.’

  ‘That’s just because the British weather is so crap!’

  I had the American recruits form teams of five men each, and each would have one of my lads leading them plus an NCO along, that man told to observe without interfering too much. With rations checked, water topped up, extra water taken, my lads led off the teams, each to take a different route.

  They camped out that evening after a hard march and cooked rations, sat in the sand miles from anywhere chatting about all sorts, a stag rotation set-up. Back at the range, Crab and Duffy had little to do.

  At dawn the Wolves stretched their legs, another long march whilst avoiding any locals, lunch cooked, a march back towards us, evening meal cooked, then a place found for the night, another stag rotation set up. They were back the following morning.

  Nicholson came to me as I stood with Samantha and Yoblonksi. ‘Guy named Weathers. We got chatting and he’s real keen to kill some niggers, or any niggers.’

  I pointed angry finger at Yoblonksi. ‘Get rid of the fucker.’

  Tomo came up to us half an hour later as his team claimed their part of the fence, Tomo sandy and dusty head to toe. ‘Yank lad named Trivsky. He says that what happens in the bush stays in the bush. Fancies little black girls for ... a bit of fun.’

  I faced Yoblonksi, who sighed and walked off to find the man.

  Slider came in next.

  ‘How were your men?’ I asked.

  ‘Solid, good lads, no issues I could see. One was a bit quiet, don’t share, keeps himself to himself. Peters.’

  Samantha made a note to keep an eye on him.

  There were no other bad reports, two men listed as being a bit introverted, but that was not a cause for dismissal for a Lone Wolf. But one had had enough of the desert, and said so, sent back.

  ‘These Russians,’ Yoblonski asked.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They’re ... Russian.’

  ‘They’re ex-Russian military, Russian hitmen and wanted criminals, but now working for me.’

  ‘Russian hitmen!’

  ‘We have French, a New Zealander, what’s the issue?’ I teased.

  ‘The French are in NATO, and New Zealand has never so much as raised its voice to another country!’

  ‘The men defected, they work for me, Intel has cleared them, CIA know about them and chat, so relax, eh.’

  ‘Odd fucking unit you have, Wilco. And that guy Tomo, did he really fuck Miss World with George Best taking photos?’

  I bent over forwards laughing, getting cursed at length.

  Samantha then played a trick. Each man was offered ten days R&R back in the States or an extra navigation course in the desert a hundred miles away.

  Four chose the R&R. Since they had only been at this just over four weeks that was a disappointment. They were not kicked off, but their sheets were marked – and they were told that R&R had been blocked by some senior officer.

  Samantha tried the same thing on the British, and only had one request for R&R - provided she accompanied the young lad. He got a pointed finger, and she got laughed at by my lads, Crab scolding our cheeky Wolf.

  Next came parachute training, most everyone moved to the airport, where all the Wolves received a lesson from our RAF Para instructors, eight of the instructors down from the UK with a shit load of chutes. Those British already with wings sat out the first part and had a refresher, only two of the American lads with wings.

  With an RAF Hercules sat on the apron getting a tan the recruits were all kitted out, and they each progressed through the egress drills, jumping onto green mats and shouting the count, soon back around for another go. With a dummy harness rigged up on rope hung from the ceiling, they practised kicking out of a twist, and all jumped off a two foot high step onto the green mats - and rolled.

  At the end of the day each man was rudely pulled off his feet and dragged behind a jeep in the sand – slow enough as to not injure them, a harness to get off in a hurry. A lesson on packing the chutes, and they were driven back to eat, to rest and to bed down.

  At dawn they were kicked up by me, breakfast on in a hurry. Whistle blown forty minutes later, they packed up their kit in a hurry and formed up, many of my lads out in the desert already. A Chinook thundered in low, the first twenty-five Wolves and NCOs sent on, and off it roared.

  It was back fifteen minutes later, the final batch running aboard, and I joined them. On the apron, I led them out the rear of the Chinook and to the hangar, their kit off and down, their bundle packs made up under instruction. Harnesses on and checked by our Para Instructors, the lads lined up, final checks made. They boarded a loud Hercules and sat in two rows, and I could see a few nervous faces.

  A roar of the engines and we were off, the nose up, a short fifteen minute ride, men standing up, lines hooked on and tested, men shuffling forwards as I stood at the rear. Door open, a look out by the instructors, green on, flashing green, and the first recruit was out at 1500feet, a margin of safety factored in.

  With them all dispatched the instructors peered out, no recruits hung up, static lines pulled in as a double-check as we returned to the airfield.

  In the desert, Moran was waiting, and now watching a lad with a twist. The man’s chute was fully open, but the twist was reducing its capacity. As the ground crew watched, the lad failed to clear the twist or release his bundle, and he hit the sand hard, men rushing over.

  The lad, an American, was shaken up, but he had not broken anything. He was soon bodily shaken by one of his angry NCOs, who threatened to break all sorts of bones, Moran also shouting at the lad.

  As they arrived back at the airfield in trucks, Slider jumped down and reported, ‘No broken bones.’

  That was good news, but the poor lads did not know what I had planned. Chute bags handed in, water drunk, a piss taken, and they were surprised to be led to fresh chutes and told to put them on – then shouted at to speed it up.

  Chutes on, reserves on, they were checked carefully, turned to the right and marched to the loud Hercules without a pause, soon sat – and soon looking perplexed. A few of the British lads were confident, some even smiling.

  Fifteen minutes later Moran gazed upwards as the chutes came down, this time a lad with a twist kicking out in time, and all but two released their bundles, those two shouted at.

  Back at the airfield they handed in chute bags, water taken, a piss taken, and they were led again to fresh chutes. Kitted and checked, this time they were led to a loud Chinook, led up the ramp. Sat down, the Chinook rolled forwards like a car, arse end up, nose down, and it was soon speeding low-level across the sand.

  Climbing, it reached 1,000ft, the ramp down. Green on, and the lads were waved forwards, last minute checks, and out the rear they went but staggered, not two at a time.

  Moran observed the line of chutes, no s
ignificant twists seen, and all but two remembered their bundles. Chute bags in the trucks, teams formed, and my lads led the Wolves back to the range, a three mile tab.

  At the range the recruits adopted their usual range test teams, weapons checked. First round, and an M16 blew apart, the lad shocked, his NCO dragging him off whilst shaking him like a rag doll. The recruit had gotten sand down the barrel, a lot of sand, and was now getting a lot of shit from several NCOs. Those waiting to fire had to strip rifles and check barrels.

  With the range test complete I was keen to see the scores, and most were down amongst the Americans, but a hardcore of their lads had held their previous scores, not affected by the para drop at all.

  One of my Wolves ran up and handed me a round. The cap had been struck, but it failed.

  ‘Rare that is, very fucking rare,’ I told the lad. And I showed the Echo lads.

  After a bite to eat, none allowed to sleep, they were lined up just after sun down. The drone of the Chinook was detected long before the helicopter was seen, that Chinook soon blowing up a sand storm as the first half of the group boarded.

  At the airfield they ran to the hangar, knelt, bundles packed ready. Chutes on, checked, a roar of Hercules in their ears, they knew what was coming next.

  ‘When you hear your bundle hit the deck, bend your fucking knees!’ was heard up and down the line. ‘Assess the drift, turn into the wind!’

  Lines turned, the Hercules boarded, familiar seats taken in a familiar routine, but now when they left the aircraft they’d have no reference points to start with, and panic could set in. I was at the rear as they left the aircraft, Moran below us and peering up at the stars, the chutes just about visible after opening, a line of jeeps with lights on as a reference point for the Wolves as they drifted down.

  Back at the range, Moran gave me the news. ‘Two badly broken ankles. One Brit and one American.’

  ‘Pity,’ I sighed. ‘Our Wolf can do the course again.’

  The Wolves had the night off, told to eat and to rest.

  In the morning the format was repeated exactly, but now we had fewer worried looks painted onto faces under helmets with numbers. I asked a lad from Kansas how he was coping.

  ‘Got it down now, sir. Was a bit flustered at the start, but I got it all sorted in my head now, I got the count out, assess the drift, release the bundle.’

  ‘Had you dropped before?’

  ‘One time, sir, at a fair when I was sixteen. Not with the Army. But my uncle had himself a Cessna, so I flew in that when I was young and I don’t fear the height.’

  ‘That helps, yes.’

  Three drops later and I had no reports of broken ankles, and no fatalities. I was relived. The night drop produced a few sprains but nothing serious; I was even more relieved.

  But next came the real test.

  The Chinook whisked the teams to the airport in the morning, and the recruits lined up.

  I began, ‘This next stage is high altitude dropping, free fall, but you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Raise a hand if you don’t want to.’

  Two of the American lads raised hands, suddenly getting shouted at and led away. It was a trick, and they were off the course, the other lads watching them go.

  Groups of eight were formed, a Para instructor then going through the drills, useful advice and practical advice given as a Skyvan with RAF pilots warmed up. My lads kitted themselves out, and most would drop whilst holding onto a recruit’s wrist, and they would pull that recruit’s release if necessary. We also had reserves that would pop open at 1,000ft if that altitude barrier was passed too quickly.

  Eight of my lads led eight recruits to the Skyvan, the aircraft taxiing straight away, and taking off with the ramp up. Over the same drop zone, at twelve thousand, the first pair fell forwards and out, Slider holding a recruit’s wrist.

  Moran craned his neck upwards, pairs seen, and Slider’s man reached back and pulled his release at 1500 after Slider squeezed a wrist twice, Slider letting go and grabbing for his own release. A pair of chutes could be seen, Moran breathing again.

  The second batch had Moran holding his breath, but all chutes were seen to open. Suddenly a reserve burst open, and now a British lad had two chutes, both interfering with each other as Moran stared up in panic. The Wolf came down a little fast and landed on his back, but hit a sand bank as men rushed over.

  He stood by himself, helmet off.

  ‘Lucky fuck,’ Moran shouted.

  ‘Dodgy fucking kit, sir,’ the lad complained, a British Wolf.

  ‘Mechanical device, and they can fail, or in this case – they can be over cautious,’ Moran told him.

  By the end of the day all of the recruits had dropped, and Samantha would be back in the morning to ask subtle questions, as well as some less-than-subtle questions.

  The Air Commodore rang that evening. He began, ‘I’ve moved some men and machines around, easy enough, and now the Hercules heading to Sierra Leone will stop in Mauritania for four weeks then on, and I’ve got the RAF Regiment packed ready, and medics, an officer in charge of our contingent, same as the Kenyan border deployment.

  ‘And men from 16 Squadron will go out, plus aircrew survival instructors, good experience for them – cooking in the sand. Oh, and the Parachute School will have a permanent small detachment there.’

  ‘I’ll be there in a few days, sir.’

  Next call was Colonel Dean, finding him at a hotel in London. ‘Sir, can I have a troop of men plus support, new combined training base in Mauritania. If there was a rescue to he had in that part of the world they would be involved, four week rotations. RAF are sending men and aircraft for four weeks then onto Sierra Leone, and vice versa.’

  ‘We have a steady rotation to Sierra Leone, so we can do the same, split it.’

  ‘There’ll be French there, and Americans, idea being that we’re more proactive against the bad guys, and when the lads are not on a job they can practise parachuting and desert patrols. I’m going to create a few standard patrol routes.’

  ‘Ah, good, so we have desert and jungle covered.’

  ‘Can you ask the Pathfinders to join in, sir, and the Paras, on rotation, small teams.’

  ‘How small?’

  ‘Twelve men at most from each unit.’

  ‘I’m with the MOD all day tomorrow, I’ll mention it.’

  In the morning my expected trucks and escorts arrived, cases unloaded by many hands and taken to the range. Today, the recruits would be taught to use a box-fed, a GPMG, old FN SLRs, Famas rifles and old Lee Enfield bolt action rifles.

  I made a few calls, checked transport, spoke to Colonel Mathews and then London, and the following morning we reversed course to the airfield, tanned recruits saying goodbye to this patch of sand in favour of a new patch of sand in Mauritania. And all were in need of a good wash, my Echo lads in need of a shave as well.

  With a pair of French C160s to hand and one Hercules allocated to me, we boarded with crates, the crates tied down, the recruits sat on the benches, and we were off for a short two-hour flight south over sparse terrain.

  On approach I could see a black runway and black taxiways in a sea of brown sandy soil, a line of large hangars, a control tower and several brick buildings. Behind the hangars, perhaps four hundred yards away, sat 3 x 5 rows of brick barracks, a truck park and several other buildings, an assault course and short range.

  I could see low hills maybe ten miles away, otherwise it was a flat area, chosen as such for the runway.

  We bumped down and taxied around, a touch of the brakes and we halted, the ramp lowering. Across the airfield I could see a few low buildings and a fence, little else, but there appeared to be a village not far away.

  Crates on trucks, assistance from French airmen and soldiers, and the procession of trucks took us the short distance to a barracks, two floors of one barrack block assigned to us, several black French soldiers walking by. One stopped dead, then rushed in and hugged Sambo, wo
rds exchanged.

  Henri gave some terse orders in French, the French soldiers laughing and walking off.

  ‘You were stationed here before?’ I asked Sambo.

  ‘Almost five years, sir, my woman is in the town.’

  ‘I could send you back if you wish to avoid her...’

  Sambo and Henri laughed as we lugged crates. I put the Wolves downstairs, all of them together, the remainder upstairs, and there was plenty of room, four single rooms on each floor plus a two-part open barrack room with a joining door. Four American NCOs would grab single rooms downstairs.

  Crate down in the opposite barracks, Swifty and I tested the beds, finding them modern and clean, the springs good.

  ‘Sambo, Henri, show the lads the canteen, then take me to the base commander.’ Across the road, I said to the American NCOs, ‘Get that rabble into the showers, feet checked, cuts with some cream on.’

  Ten minutes later, the Echo lads assembled - the Wolves left to settle in and to wash the sand out, we walked to the canteen in the heat, finding a dozen RAF personnel, ground crew. Leaving the lads inside, Henri grabbed a ride and took me to the HQ building behind the ATC.

  A French Echo captain stopped dead as we entered. ‘Captain Crazy Fuck.’

  I smiled and shook his hand.

  The man poked Henri in the chest. ‘Come to do so work for a change?’ he said in English.

  ‘Only if you wife is available. How is she?’

  ‘Back in France – thankfully.’

  We laughed as an RAF squadron leader stepped out, and I recognised the man.

  ‘Ah, Wilco, you made it. I’m Squadron Leader Preston, logistics, here in this lovely spot for four weeks, in charge of the RAF contingent.’

  We shook. ‘Who’s here already, sir?’

  ‘Ground crew mostly, some arriving today, some up from Sierra Leone. Tristar will drop men here then go on down to Freetown.’

  ‘Barracks are nice,’ I noted. ‘Lads will go soft.’

  ‘This place is well equipped, yes.’ He led me to the base commander, a colonel.