by Geoff Wolak
The dawn came up without incident reported, and I was relived, the lads getting a late breakfast before the flight, bags packed. I could not say that they were tanned because before they got here they were brown anyhow, at least forearms and faces were. Now they all displayed a more even tan.
Two coaches took us to the airport, a police escort, the detective meeting us – a worry.
‘We have some badly hurt English tourists...’ He waited.
‘Your wanted men are French special forces, sent back yesterday. You’ll find them in North Africa, somewhere.’
‘Ah, so not easy to find.’
‘And were the English tourists innocent of all blame?’
‘No, the bar staff said they started it.’
‘In that case ... fuck ‘em.’
He smiled. ‘Safe journey, Captain. And my uncle knows where to ship his equipment. In fact, I think it goes today.’
‘Then we shall have cold showers in the desert thanks to him.’ I shook his hand. ‘Thanks for protecting the hotel.’
‘This man, Petrov, he has a scar on his top lip, it was on an Interpol circular this week. I don’t know why that Russian thought you might be him.’
‘Everyone has a doppelganger, mine is a famous assassin, so I’m flattered.’
Aboard a commercial 737, the door closed by the hostess, I was glad to be going, and glad not to be proving that I was Petrov. What were the chances of that Russian being in the bar? I shook my head, and I made a note to avoid public places – for the rest of my life.
Two hours later we touched down, the sun low on the horizon, and I was glad to be back, back on a military base. Max met us.
‘Don’t you have a fucking home to go to?’ I asked him.
‘Been getting stories here, hoping for a few more, so pull your finger our and start some trouble somewhere.’
Moran and Swifty laughed as I gave Max a pointed finger.
‘You’ll get nuts shot off some day,’ I warned Max.
I checked in with Captain Harris, and all was quiet, the OPs still in pace, patrols out, the Seals and Deltas back – a few windows having been fixed or boarded up. A troop from “B” Squadron was now here, and they had brought two jeeps.
I popped in to see the Americans, getting the “low down” on the two jobs, as well as the funny stories. The Deltas had not gone after Dupree but had HALO’d in to get Huebert, a few shots fired in anger, one man chased by a snake across a putting green.
The “B” Squadron lads greeted me, and asked for a tasking, not yet having been given one, and I told them they could volunteer for the upcoming mission – if they were crazy enough to do so. I left them to debate the matter. I would, however, borrow their jeeps.
I called for a command meeting at 7pm, and after our evening meal the senior men met, the room full. ‘Gentlemen, I shall soon be taking the Wolves and others to a base in Northern Nigeria, a desolate and hostile spot. Many of your teams will remain here and maintain a standby hostage rescue team, to be training the rest of the time before rotating out as originally planned. We will, however, need men in the OPs at all times - just in case.
‘Pathfinders, 1 Para, I will be looking for volunteers for this next job, groups of eight to ten men, so call your bosses and discuss it, get men from the UK, but warn them that they’ll be going into hell itself. They will ... be in contact with local gunmen.
‘Mister Castille, you can send a team if you wish some experience. French Echo will be asked for a troop, and 1st Battalion. Since this next job is long term, Seals will not be asked to attend, but in the very near future we’ll be placing Seal teams in Sierra Leone and Liberia on rotation.
‘Gentlemen, the team make-ups here will be replicated there, teams on standby, so pass it up the line, but the E Ring is already aware of it, and Admiral Jacobs. The rotations are up to him.
‘RAF, we’ll be wanting 1 flight of 2 Squadron men on rotation, eight weeks, and four medics, but they must be your best people because conditions will be harsh, very hash, daily contact with the enemy. We’ll want a weekly supply run, alternated between the RAF, the French and the Americans.
‘Para School lads, we’ll be HALOing in soon, Echo will, so check kit and get chutes if we need them. And no, you can’t come along, the place we’re going to is very dangerous.’
‘How dangerous?’ the Squadron Leader pressed.
‘Your medics will be well back, sir, RAF Regiment will be at risk on the front line, Air Commodore already aware of it. It will be similar to Djibouti I guess. Oh, ask the RAF if they have any balloons left.’
‘Balloons?’
‘Like the old parachute balloons. I want one if they have one, still working of course.’
‘What the heck for?’
‘Lofty lookouts. Land is flat, need some advance warning.’
‘A balloon, are you mad? People could shoot at it, someone in it at the time!’
‘We’d give him a parachute,’ I quipped, men laughing. ‘And if he fell out he’d land on the soft sand.’ I faced Franks as he smirked back at me.
‘Got some satellite photos,’ he told me. ‘They’re blank.’
‘Blank?’
‘Runway is half buried in sand, then ... nothing, featureless for miles in any direction, no one home. What do we call it anyhow?’
I shrugged. ‘Camel Toe Base.’
The Americans snickered.
‘What..?’ I asked, a look exchanged with Moran.
Franks explained, ‘Camel Toe, to Americans, is what you see when a girl is in a tight bikini, the ... line of her pussy. It looks like a camel toe imprint.’
‘Filthy minds,’ Moran admonished.
‘To us Brits, and French, it’s not rude, so ... Camel Toe Base it is.’
Franks shook his head. ‘Can’t wait for the White House press spokesman to detail that.’
I told them, ‘We aim for an insert in two days, at dawn, re-supply and extra men to land the following day, not the same day. We may need to clear a runway. Oh, I need some sand-coloured tents if anyone has them.’
‘We ‘av zem,’ came from a French captain.
‘For those of you that will travel to this base ... there’s nothing there, so take everything, plenty of water. We do, however, have some water drilling kit coming, and there is water under the surface, so we’ll have a paddling pool set-up for you to cool off in.
‘RAF Regiment, I want eight GPMG and a shit load of ammo, enough to fire day and night for a week. NCOs training the Wolves, they use nothing but Valmets from now on, there should be enough, more on the way if needed. American NCOs, I want a list tomorrow of those of you volunteering this next stage, and drop-outs from the Wolves of course – if there are any.’
‘Can I come along?’ Max risked.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’ he puzzled.
‘There’ll be two American reporters.’
‘What, why bring those fuckers along when you have me?’
Castille playfully slapped Max on the back of the head. ‘Them’s our fuckers, Limey.’
‘Max, you get an exclusive as far as Europe is concerned,’ I told him. ‘Don’t go starting a war.’
Morten called me later. ‘You want some medics for a bad spot I hear.’
‘Four should do, eight week rotation.’
‘And they’ll be on the front line?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll get some volunteers, and I’ll be coming down.’
‘You’re a bit senior to go getting shot.’
‘Then make sure I don’t get shot, and make sure none of my team get shot, or you’re Girl Guide pants.’
‘Girl Guide pants? Ouch.’
‘I’ll be down tomorrow night, I was due to visit Sierra Leone anyway.’
‘Sir, are your wife’s relatives visiting again?’
‘They ... might be, yes.’
Laughing, I hung up.
In the bar, several of the 2 Squadron lads expressed a desire
to volunteer, as did a few of the Pathfinders and 1 Squadron lads. As I was discussing team make-ups with Moran and Ginger, Lt Col Liban called.
‘Lieutenant Colonel, sir?’
He laughed. ‘Fuck off, I know you are taking the piss.’
‘Who, sir, me, sir?’
‘Yes, you. So, you have some big job on?’
‘Northern Nigeria, very flat, nothing but sand and hostile tribesmen.’
‘And what do you expect to happen?’
‘I expect ten men followed by twenty, twenty followed by forty, forty followed by rockets and mortars, followed by a thousand men.’
‘Ah, so it will be not be sunbathing and relaxing then.’
‘Unlikely.’
‘We will have some men with you, some 1st Battalion, some Legion, and I will visit for a few days – time away from the desk, no.’
‘Wait till we are settled in, then visit. We’ll have the Officers Mess ready.’
He laughed. ‘And the swimming pool will be ready the second week, eh.’
‘I’ll have a lukewarm drink waiting for you, you bring the wine.’
‘I will see you in a week or two.’
Back in the bar, I gauged the American NCOs, but many had families and were already stretching it a bit. Three had no commitments and would willingly tag along. Captain Harris and his mate would go back to the UK, and the RAF team would rotate with others.
In the morning I was shown dusty old brown tents by the French, each tent just big enough for four men, and we had five tents to take with us. It would do, the tents for medics and others.
I made sure that we had shovels, small folding military shovels to be in our HALO bags, one per man, regular shovels to be brought out. I asked for brown cloth, or brown camouflage netting, and that the French get hold of large squares of brown cloth, but not thick cloth.
There were sandbags here, a few hundred in a dusty old shed, now scheduled to be delivered to us on the first supply run.
Colonel Mathews rang at 3pm our time. ‘I have twelve Green Berets, and they’re kitted for the desert, all distance snipers.’
‘Make sure they bring plenty of ammo, sir, and that they understand there’s nothing at this base till we get organised. Need something to keep the sun off to start with.’
‘I told them it was very basic, and damn hot.’
‘And do they know I’m in charge on the ground?’
‘They do, and they all know you better than you think, they get the mission reports. There’ll be a lieutenant with them, but he knows the score. I’m putting together a team of Rangers, and the men have spent time in the desert. When will you insert?’
‘Maybe as soon as tonight, sir, if we’re ready.’
‘Good luck then.’
The Para School lads laid out our chutes that afternoon as we loaded bags, shovels in, plenty of extra water, plenty of rations, extra ammo – a little more than usual. We had extra HALO bags, so three bags would be dropped without men holding those bags.
French Echo appeared, and subtly suggested that they drop with us instead of waiting, and that they had chutes, so I agreed it, but their C160 would drop them after the rest of us had landed and grouped, all of us to drop a hundred yards south of the runway, the window blowing south at the drop zone most days according to London’s Met Office.
The American NCOs had a shortlist of six men, and one American Wolf had seen enough sand for a while, he would be leaving us. I checked with Sergeant Crab, and none of the British were ready to quit, not yet at least, all being worked hard on the Valmets today.
I gathered Echo at 5pm, took opinions, discussed kit, and we agreed to go tonight, to be on the ground around 4am. French Echo were notified, but they said they were ready anyhow, our aircraft and pilots checked, the drop zone co-ordinates carefully checked – and then double checked.
Castille came and found me, and he informed me that he was on the volunteer list, but that they would join me in a few days, maybe a week, more men to arrive.
In the hangar, I grouped Echo around me, the ground crews busy around us. ‘We’ll drop on the runway, but the wind is blowing south at 3mph, so we aim to miss the runway. Use the black strip of runway as your guide, land just south of it, group up. There are no features other than the runway, so we have to use that as our target.
‘After we group, we call down the French, then we check the area and make camp. We’ll have to clear the runway in places, depends on the wind and the sand, a day’s work maybe.’
Moran said, ‘Hercules only needs a strip ten foot wide.’
‘Yep, so we should be OK, and it’s a fucking long runway, longer than Brize Norton. Tomo, misbehave and you’ll be sweeping it.’
The lads laughed at him.
‘Any last minute items, go get them, have a think, double check everything.’
‘Maps,’ Ginger asked.
‘It’s a flat desert, no features, and hostiles in every direction for five hundred miles, so either we’re picked up by plane or we’re dead, we won’t be walking out of there and map reading as we go.
‘OK, check batteries, check radios, top up your water, have a shit, get ready, we fly at 11pm, and you can sleep on the plane, it’s almost five hours flying time.’
They moaned.
In the command room I checked with Franks about local intel, and he had reports to hand but nothing relevant to the target airfield. Outside, I called Tinker. He had no data, but would watch that area for movement, the nearest villages and towns and - as asked - GCHQ had listening devices in the hands of local men, about to get me some useful intel.
At 10pm we started to get ready, chutes checked and re-checked, and half an hour later aircraft engines burst into life, soon a roar resonating around the large hangars, the ground crews fussing about again under the floodlights. Chutes on with an audience, bags on bogeys, and we pushed the bogeys to the rear of the Hercules, soon lugging bags aboard as French Echo boarded their ride. I made sure there were fresh water bottles for the ride, and that we had sandwiches from the bar.
I grabbed a seat with my team, carefully observing the other teams and making a mental note as to who was where. With me on the drop would be Swifty, Moran and Mitch as usual. Two Para School lads would be coming along, a long boring ride there and back for them.
The ramp finally lifted, the side door closed, and we started to move around in a circle, soon taxing, and I could see the edge of the taxiway and the start of the sand, an isolated clump of dried brown grass. A final turn, a pause, power on, a jerk as the brakes were knocked off, and we started down the runway, the nose lifting gently after twenty seconds, soon just blackness seen out of the windows.
I could see arms being folded, legs stretching out, a few men closing eyes, Henri with a magazine, Swifty taking out his puzzle book. It was all routine.
A long five hours later I got a wave from the crewman, so I stood and adjusted my straps, my arse having gone to sleep. Men started to stand as the red light came on, straps fixed and tightened, and we all moved back, the Para School instructors checking each man carefully in a well-practised routine.
Bags claimed, the ramp started to lower, a breeze invading the hold, just blackness beneath us. I called a radio check, my team all sounding off, and each team in turn sounded off. We had no green chest lights, just a bag light, but we were practised at this now and unlikely to bump each other.
A shuffle back to the edge, Rizzo’s team next to us, legs wide, shoulders held, and we observed the green light. Flashing, and we eased out, shoulders pushed, nothing but blackness below us, a roar in my ears, and gale blowing past my neck.
Settled, I peered around as I counted in my head, no lights, maybe something to the east, a long way off. ‘No lights anywhere nearby.’
Peering down, still counting, I could see the runway clearly, and I knew not to panic since the runway was so long it would appear that we were too low. The tone started at the right time. ‘Break ... one thousand ... two
thousand ... three thousand ... four.’ I pulled my release, pleased by the sudden jerk upwards, looking around for anyone about to tangle with me.
I could make out the other chutes, but looking down it took several seconds to find the bag chute. ‘Chute is drifting south as planned. Turn north before you hit the sand.’
Hearing the bag hit, I followed my own advice and turned hard, knees bent, elbows in, and I landed well enough, if any landing in this kit could ever be described as having gone well. I struggled up, the wind gone from my lungs, a knee jarred a little, and I looked around, a full 360 degrees. Nothing, just a black runway, lighter coloured sand, a million stars above us and that damp desert smell.
At the bag I moved the limp chute aside, opening the bag and pulling out the top bandolier, handing the second to Swifty as his dark outline appeared at my elbow. Webbing on, rifle out, I loaded and cocked, Moran and Mitch getting their kit on, quiet clicks registering through the dark.
I could see chutes drifting down east of us as they blocked out the stars, and I thought of what Rocko would be doing right now; I was so used to him being here. A final look around, and I punched in a number.
‘Alo?’ came badly distorted by background roar.
‘It’s Captain Wilco. OK to drop.’
‘Row-jair that!’ the voice shouted.
Smiling, I called Captain Harris. ‘We’re down, no hostiles seen nearby, no reports of injured men yet.’
‘Roger that,’ he said, but not with an accent.
I stepped to the middle of the runway and turned on my torch. And waited. Boots registered, teams walking in whilst loudly dragging their bags, and soon the last team made their presence known, one of Robby’s moving with a bad limp as I figured I could hear the C160 above us.
I transmitted, ‘Everyone walk to the north side of the runway, spread out in pairs, shovels ready, drag your bags. Find where the edge of the runway is, and dig down next to it, enough of a shell scrape for now so that at dawn you’re aiming south across the runway. Move out. And throw the sand you dig out north, not onto the fucking runway!’
