Wilco- Lone Wolf 12

by Geoff Wolak

  I led Swifty twenty paces, across sand resting on the runway, and we felt around with our boots till we discovered the edge, soon knelt and digging.

  A few minutes later, as we dug down, a crack had us lifting our gaze, a chute seen, soon the others noted. We carried on digging, hearing voices, seeing lights, and finally the French walked over to us.

  ‘What about the three independent bags?’ Swifty idly asked.

  ‘Find them in the morning.’

  I put my torch on as the French captain knelt. ‘Go east a hundred yards, in pairs, dig down like this, aim across the runway after dawn.’ With whispered orders he led his men off, and I wondered why the hell they were whispering, we were the only living creatures within ten miles.

  As the dawn came up I was sat with Swifty, brew in hand, Moran and Mitch a few feet away, brews also in hand. We could start to see the detail, what detail there was, and there was not much. Behind us there seemed to be a ridge, a low ridge, and I thought I could see something southwest, another ridge. There were no hills visible in the distance.

  Standing, I could see that the long runway stood twelve inches higher than the sand on the south side, level with it on the north side, so the sand was blowing north to south here. Peering south, the sand sloped down a little, just a few feet, a dip around 400yards out, then it climbed again, and I figured that the rise over there was higher than the runway here by a few feet.

  Turning east and peering down the length of the runway I could see that beyond the end of the tarmac the land dipped slightly before climbing, higher than the land south, but in reality it was probably just twelve feet above the runway as it hit the horizon.

  Brew finished, I patrolled the line, right down to the French, some of the holes quite deep. I told the French to keep digging, ponchos up to keep the sun off later. Back at my team I transmitted, ‘Keep digging, take it in turns, and try and rig up a poncho later, we sleep noon till three each day.’

  Swifty finished his tea and got his shovel working as I studied the horizon, the light improving, but we were quite alone.

  I transmitted, ‘One man from each team, dig a hole ten yards back, then put the bags in it, and one man from each team go collect chutes, the RAF wants them back. And look for the three extra bags and drag them over here.’ I patrolled along the line again, and I informed the French captain of what we were doing.

  With the sun up fully I had Nicholson and Swan abandon their hole for now and move north 600yards to the ridge, to take position there and to watch the north. ‘Smitty, Tomo, on me.’

  They came in a minute later.

  ‘Go north behind Nicholson and Swan, to the ridge, go on another six hundred yards, then left and around in a big circle, always a thousand yards out. Look for tracks, report them to me straight away. Go all the way around. Off you go.’

  They plodded off kicking up sand.

  Slider called to me, and I walked along the sandy runway to him. ‘Found a hole,’ he told me.

  ‘Underside of the runway I guess,’ I told them.

  ‘There’s concrete,’ Slider continued. ‘But here it’s kind of broken.’

  ‘Keep digging, be useful when rockets are coming in.’

  ‘We’ll be getting rockets?’ Fuzz asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re well spread out,’ Slider scoffed. ‘They’ll just move sand around.’

  Along the line, Henri had also found an opening, so I asked him to dig down, and I helped out for a while. Back at Slider, he emerged from the hole, squinting in the bright light.

  ‘Something must have shifted over the years, because there’s this black stuff at the top, then concrete, then rocks in concrete I think, then stuff as a bedrock. The top bit is OK, but something has dropped, because there’s a cave - like four foot across, and it goes about a hundred yards in, and it drops down to about ten feet at most – damp down there.

  ‘There’s water here, deep down, deeper down than that.’

  ‘When was it built?’ Slider asked.

  ‘1962.’

  ‘So maybe something has changed since then,’ Slider suggested.

  ‘Don’t go near the damp bit, a man could sink,’ I warned him. ‘But dig out the entrance, it’ll be a good shelter for us.’

  My phone trilled. ‘Da!’

  ‘It’s Libintov, do we deliver the cargo?’

  ‘Yes, when ready, men are there. They say that sections of the runway are clear, long enough.’ I stepped along to Sasha’s team as they sat cooking. ‘A plane will land soon, just your team greets it; they’re Russian pilots and crew.’

  ‘What’s on the plane?’ Casper puzzled.

  ‘Corned beef,’ I told him as I plodded off. Stopping to stare at the runway, I could see that only two places were an issue with sand, just half the width of the wide runway affected in those two places.

  An hour later the drone had us peering skywards, an An12 circling, a few of the men nervous till I reassured them. It lined up, flaps down, Sasha’s team stood ready, the giant plane landing with a roar in our ears in just a hundred yards, the ramp lowering. Cargo pallets on wheels were pushed off, pushed further by Sasha’s team, two small bulldozers driven off and halted a few metres away, towing fuel bogeys behind them.

  Cargo offloaded, Sasha spoke to a crewman for a minute, smiled and shook hands, and the An12 powered off, men covering faces from the sand.

  With the An12 just a spec on the horizon, I transmitted, ‘OK, everyone, come get the cargo.’

  I led them down to the pallets, and we pushed them as best we could till the sand stopped us. Pallet straps cut, boxes of AK47s were carried off the runway and stacked up, boxes of ammo, Russian box-fed, RPGs and heads, all stacked up.

  ‘What we need this for?’ Swifty puzzled.

  ‘Training the Wolves.’

  ‘Ah, right.’

  Sweating now, we carried large cardboard boxes full of corned beef to the sand, but I suggested that they were all for just Sasha. Boxes opened, the lads puzzled the barbeque kits for a few seconds then set them up ready for cooking, this side of the runway now appearing littered.

  I pointed the French captain to three long flag poles and ropes, and his men lifted bags of concrete and followed me south. In the sand that was just south of the middle of the runway - as far as the east-west direction could be called the middle, I could see tyre tracks. They were not recent, but within a month someone had been here.

  I halted the French and asked them to dig holes for the flag poles and to mix the concrete.

  ‘How long are we staying?’ was asked a few times by puzzled French lads.

  I left them to it, and with most of the cargo off the runway I had men start to fill sandbags. I transmitted, ‘I want each team with four sandbags to start, on the edge of the runway. Do that first. Once that’s done, dig some deep holes and put the kit in it, so that we have a lower profile. Get a move on, we break at noon.’

  Checking the inventory, I finally saw the three flag poles raised, but we had no flags yet. We did, however, now possess large shovels, so I handed them out. Box of corned beef in hand, I tossed several tins to each British team along the runway, Sambo pleased. Back for another box, I tossed them to grateful French lads.

  Robby and his lads had erected the lights, and I made sure they were facing south. Wire connected, generated yanked at, and we had power, and we had lit bulbs, although it was damn hard to tell in the bright sunlight. Generator off, ponchos were thrown over kit items that might heat up in the midday sun, the ponchos weighted down with corned beef tins.

  At noon I transmitted a break till 3pm, but many of the supplies were now resting in hollows and so had less of a profile on the horizon.

  My phone trilled as I sat with Swifty in our hole. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Tomo. We’re like ... southeast a mile, and there’s a gully, some green stuff growing, and a goat.’

  ‘A goat?’

  ‘Yeah, shall we kill it?’

 
‘No, I’ll send someone later, you keep walking around. Any tracks?’

  ‘In the middle of the runway sort of, due south, are tyre tracks, lorries or something, and they go south.’

  ‘Remember when I said to report such things...’

  ‘We were going to, then we saw the goat, so we figured we’d make it a proper report.’

  ‘Keep walking around, then get some sleep.’ I turned my head to Moran and Mitch as they got comfy. ‘Mitch, a thousand yards southeast is a gully, and ... a goat. Later, go shoot it, we’ll eat it.’

  ‘A goat, out here?’ Moran puzzled. ‘What the fuck does it find it eat?’

  ‘Tomo said there was a damp gully, green things growing.’

  ‘Green things growing, that was his report?’ Moran asked. ‘Does he know the word plant or shrub?’

  ‘No,’ Swifty suggested.

  ‘He doesn’t even know the word arboretum,’ I suggested.

  After a few seconds, Swifty said, ‘OK, what the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘A pleasant formation of bushes and shrubs, for fine Victorian gentlemen and ladies to appreciate,’ I told him.

  ‘Well I wasn’t around then,’ Swifty said as he eased back, cap over his face, the day damn hot.

  I eased back, thinking, and not that sleepy yet. The runway was shimmering from this angle, my eyes just a few inches above the height of the runway, and it was kind of peaceful. We benefitted from a breeze, but what had been a cool breeze became a hairdryer by 3pm.

  Swifty eased up and sipped his water. ‘Fuck it’s hot. I’m going to dig down like Slider.’

  Mitch eased up. ‘Fucking hot, yeah. I’ll get that goat.’ Moran went with him.

  When they came back they presented the goat to me. I stared at it, stared at Swifty as he frowned back, then stared at the goat as Mitch and Moran smirked.

  ‘That fuck-head, Tomo,’ I let out. I was sat staring at a baby goat, perhaps eight inches tall, and skinny. It was starving. ‘Feed the damn thing, fatten it up for ... about a year. It’s a bit skinny.’

  ‘You ain’t kidding,’ Mitch told me, causing many loud moans from the lads.

  Easing up, I stretched, soon walking along the line, a large number of shell scrapes empty. I stopped at Slider’s cave and knelt, peering in. ‘You all nice and cool in there?’

  ‘Yeah, Boss,’ came from Rizzo and Stretch. ‘We got wood from those pallets, made a base and sides.’

  ‘There’s some concrete, so do a proper job of it later.’

  ‘Got any sand?’ came a voice, the lad’s laughter echoing at me.

  ‘It’s 3pm, so front and centre, all of you, nice and warm out here.’

  Rizzo was first out. ‘Fucking bollocks...’ he let out. ‘Who turned the heating up?’

  ‘Get the supplies in deeper holes, especially the water cans. Stuff some supplies in that hole.’

  Tomo and Smitty were back, no report made.

  ‘Tomo? You forgetting something?’

  ‘Uh ... like what, Boss?’

  ‘Your report ... maybe.’

  ‘No tracks except what we said, and we went all the way around.’

  ‘Even if you don’t find anything, you still report that fact, idiot.’

  ‘I said that,’ Smitty dug at Tomo.

  At the French section they were sleeping, so I woke them, men soon yawning and stretching, and complaining about the heat. I told the French captain to get supplies for his men, Jerry cans to be buried to keep them cool, and to dig down deeper.

  My report to Captain Harris confirmed that it was OK to land the planes at 4am, and to use the south side of the runway - it was clear all along, the middle section clear of sand and best for landings. We would have the lights on anyhow.

  As the sun set the French found an opening and dug it out, torches used to explore it, and it could hold perhaps six men comfortably. But they found a concrete structure by accident twenty yards north of the edge of the runway, and so dug around the edges as I stood and observed, torches switched on, a fire made from pallet wood nearby.

  The concrete became a square some ten yards wide, steps down found and slowly dug out, a room found. I told the spare men to cover over the top with sand and to just keep the steps exposed. It became hard work, HALO bags used to shift sand, men working in rotation.

  After two hours we had most of the sand out, an old newspaper from 1962 found, and the room was just bare concrete, nothing in it.

  ‘It will be for the medics,’ I suggested. ‘Put some supplies down there to keep them cool.’ I wandered off thinking about what other structures there might be here. A fuel storage area came to mind, that would have to be underground.

  Back at my team, Moran said, ‘We patrolling out?’

  ‘What for?’ I asked. ‘We have a two mile clear zone, we’re spread out and dug in. Only blind spot is north, and we have men there. When the rest get here I’ll create a funnel trap.’ I pointed. ‘The only jeep tracks are in the middle of the runway, going south, but it looks like lots of them going back years, some caked in the harder dirt areas. So I’m thinking that the sand either side is too soft for a vehicle.’

  ‘Test it tomorrow,’ Moran suggested.

  ‘If I’m right, we’ll dig a trench say 600yards out, stop vehicles flanking us. Problem will be wounded men. If we have a position southeast a thousand yards, a man wounded in daylight, getting him back here is dodgy.’

  ‘Very fucking dodgy,’ Swifty put in. ‘They’ll have a clear shot at the medics.’

  Moran suggested, ‘We need to stop them getting close, so a ditch may help, then they’re on foot and exposed, and they won’t leopard crawl a thousand yards.’

  I said, ‘Danger will be mortars, but we’re spread out and dug in, or something like an APC with a turret.’

  ‘Do they have those?’ Mitch asked.

  ‘Not at the moment, no,’ I informed them. ‘Some mounted fifty cal, rockets, RPGs, mortars – and lots of men with AK47s.’

  Robby walked along to us. ‘We found a hole like Slider’s, but it’s got smooth sides, looks like it was deliberate, and it’s got a bit of water in it.’

  ‘Could have been deliberate I suppose, a drain,’ I told him. ‘Bound to have considered it. Does it go all away across?’

  ‘Think so, but it’s a fucking long way.’

  ‘Send a man down it with a shovel, but be careful in there.’

  ‘Roof is smooth grey concrete, safe enough.’ He headed off.

  Moran said, ‘Got a way to get medics safely over that side of the runway.’

  ‘If it’s safe to use, yeah. I’ll have a look - if someone pops up in the sand over there.’

  At 4am, nice and cool now, were heard the drone, radio contact made, the generators yanked hard. A cough and a splutter and they roared, the lights coming alive, the central section of the runway clear enough to us, so hopefully clear to the pilots as well.

  An RAF Hercules touched down first, sand blown at us, men walking out the back with heavy backpacks, Haines at the front, 2 Squadron men behind him, the remainder British, perhaps pathfinders or 1 Para. I waved them towards me, two lines of men, some kit lugged between pairs, more kit dumped on the side of the runway.

  The lines of men halted, a roar as I shook hands with Haines, and we held down caps and cursed as the Hercules gave us a face full of sand, the aircraft soon powering down the runway and lifting its nose.

  I shouted, ‘Move along the edge of the runway, dig in as you see the men here, in pairs, in teams, spread along!’

  Haines led them off, the first pair setting up a happy home just beyond my lads. When they were past me I transmitted, ‘Get that kit off the runway! Fast!’

  Men ran in and grabbed it, lugging it to the sand, and they piled it up. My radio crackled, an American accent, and I told them it was clear to touch down. A USAF Hercules hit with a screech and a skid on the sand, soon halting, its ramp coming down. Sergeant Crab appeared with Duffy, kit lugged between two men, two li
nes of Wolves coming towards me and I waved them to me.

  With the columns halted, kit was again placed on the side of the runway, my lads running in to grab it. A blast of sand, and the Hercules powered away, and now I could see a group of older men, some with beards, all with long rifle cases over shoulders.

  I told Crab, ‘Along the edge of the runway behind me, past the last man, dig slit trenches as you see here, then get some food on and wait.’

  He led them off, NCOs nodding at me as they passed. The separate group closed in as aircraft circled overhead.

  ‘I’m Captain Wilco. Which team are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Greenies,’ the lieutenant replied. ‘A mean bunch, but they shoot well. I’m Trapper.’ We shook.

  ‘Go back that way, past the last man – they’re French, dig in as you see here, then just rest, but get ready to shoot, most likely south across the runway, but we’re not expecting trouble for a day or so. Alternate the sleep and watch, and here at Camel Toe Base we sleep noon till 3pm, hot as hell.’

  They laughed.

  ‘So it is called Camel Toe Base then. We thought it was a joke.’ Smiling, Trapper led his men off down the edge of the runway.

  Radio contact, again American, and I puzzled who was on this next Hercules. It blasted past me, sand thrown up. Ramp down, two open-top jeeps drove off, “B” Squadron lads following on, finally Morten and his team laden with heavy bags. But, as I observed, several wire-mesh trolleys were pushed off and left, my lads running in to grab them. Problem was, small wheels and sand did not mix well.

  The jeeps had halted near me, the men walking up with large Bergens, most displaying VEPR or fifty cal rifles.

  ‘These jeeps will be used for medics, for fetching wounded men, park them on the sand over there.’ The drivers manoeuvred the jeeps past slit trenches, and on twenty yards. ‘Rest of you, go north 600yards and you’ll find a low ridge, two of my men there. Say hello, send them back, that ridge is yours, spread out and watch the north, dig in ready for mortars, come back here for supplies a few times a day.’