by Geoff Wolak
A burst of fire from below, and we opened up, the men in the rear of the jeeps peppered with rounds. Some jumped down, some fell down, and several opened fire – even when wounded, a short fierce exchange till it grew quiet.
‘Rizzo, forwards, check the bodies!’
‘We got fragged down here,’ came back. ‘All got some ricochet.’
‘How bad?’ I asked as they scampered down the slope to the road.
‘Not too bad, I think,’ Rizzo reported. ‘Minor cuts, lot of blood.’
They put a round into each limp body, soon pushing the first jeep.
‘Hey, Wilco, I think this twat is the main man,’ came Rizzo’s voice. ‘He has radios and phones strapped to him.’
‘He dead?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, were we supposed to take him alive?’
‘No.’
‘Just as well then.’
They pushed his jeep over the side, dragged bodies, working up a sweat, soon attending the second jeep, a three point turn badly executed, and over it went.
‘Wilco!’ came a shout. ‘There’s a hostage in the back of a jeep, wounded but still alive.’
I jumped up and legged it down the track, soon onto the road and along to the hostage, finding a tall and fat man in a tatty white shit covered in blood walking towards me. ‘Who are you?’ I asked. ‘And where’d you come from?’
‘I was working in an oil refinery,’ came a Welsh accent. ‘They grabbed us.’
‘When?’ I puzzled.
‘Well, two days ago now like.’
‘There were others?’
‘Aye, but one was shot for something, and one escaped last night.’
‘Escaped? From where?’
‘Village back there, we wuz in the basement.’
‘Where are you hurt?’
‘Well, most is not my blood like. But I got this wound yer.’
I examined a scrape on his arm. ‘You’ll live. Follow me.’
We set off down the road.
‘You’s SAS is you?’
‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.
‘I was in the Welsh Guards when I left school, know your lot well enough from Brecon. And that guy back there called you Wilco.’
I nodded. ‘I am, I’m afraid.’
‘You wuz in the papers.’
I led him up the track, but he seemed fit enough, not slowing down. Back up to Moran and the others I handed our Welshman a drink and some chocolate, getting a pad on his wound.
‘More jeeps!’ Moran sounded out. ‘Rizzo, you got two minutes at most! Move that last jeep!’
With Stretch dragging a body, the others moved the jeep, pushing it over the side.
‘Wilco, there’s a swimming pool full of blood down here, can’t cover it!’ Stretch reported.
‘Back up to us, now!’ I shouted into the radio. ‘Smurf, report!’
‘It’s all clear, I can see for fucking miles, not a soul.’
‘Stay there!’
‘Heavy weapons!’ Moran called.
I focused on the approaching jeeps, seeing men stood up in the rear with fifty cal machineguns. ‘Bollocks.’ I exchanged a worried look with Moran as Rizzo jogged up panting. ‘Elkin, Swifty, tear down the camp, move the two jeeps up the track!’ I shouted. ‘Rest of you get ready, they have fifty cal machineguns!’
The jeeps roared into life, low gears selected, handbrakes released, and up they went, but slowly, throwing up dust as our rescued hostage followed behind them.
When Moran called I turned. ‘They’ve halted!’ he hissed. ‘I can see men with binoculars.’
The rocks above us spat out, forcing us down.
‘They know about this track,’ Moran suggested, his head down. ‘It’s the only place we could be, and they know where it leads!’
‘Return fire!’ I shouted, cracks soon sounding out. I got comfy, took aim, and fired at the distant glistening windscreens, five hundred yard shots. I got one of the men on the machineguns, but he was replaced quickly, the rocks around us spitting granite, and I was hit on the side of the head, Moran wiping a wound on his hand.
Angered and determined, I set automatic, gripped tightly, and emptied the magazine, and that bought us a small respite as they withdrew a few yards back down the road and around a bend. I jumped up. ‘On me! Everyone up the track!’
As a disorganised rabble, we ran, kicking up dust.
A hundred yards up and I performed a head count, allowing for Smurf, Swifty and Elkin up at the ridge. Reaching the ridge and panting, a nice cool breeze offered, I called out names and double-checked that everyone was with us, seeing blood on several faces.
‘Call out the wounds when I point,’ I said, and they listed the minor wounds. All could continue unhindered, a few body parts sore, much dried blood on faces, dust mixed in.
‘They won’t get their civvy jeeps up that track,’ Rizzo noted as we stared down to the road, parts of it obscured from view, water swigged, sweaty brows wiped.
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘They’ll be on foot. But they know exactly where we are - just the one way out!’
‘They could block the far end of this track, or set an ambush,’ Rizzo noted.
‘Could have done without that fire, we’re in the shit now,’ I commented, looks exchanged. ‘Pity, it was going well enough. Best laid plans, eh...’
Moran lifted his face, ‘I counted thirty four dead on their side.’
‘A good tally so far,’ I agreed. ‘Smurf,’ I called. ‘Down this track a hundred yards, look left and right for goat tracks, footprints.’ Off he went.
‘Looks like rocks,’ Stretch noted. ‘Fucking hard to walk over that lot.’
I took in the opposite side of the valley and the pink-grey rocks. ‘Well at least they can’t get position with the fifty cal.’
‘What’s the plan?’ Swifty asked.
‘The plan,’ I began, ‘has not changed. We came to kill the fighters, we got thirty odd and the main man, but that’s half a job. If we leave now ... we might be tasked with coming back up next week.’
‘We’re here now,’ Rizzo noted with a shrug.
I nodded. ‘If ... we get those men below, and their jeeps with the fifty cal ... then that’s a job well done and we can go. We got a hostage as well. Leave now and ... it’s half a job, and we’ll be back, and maybe someone is killed on the next job.’
Bateman said, ‘We set a trap.’
‘Trap?’ Moran queried.
Bateman added, ‘When it gets dark they’ll come up that track, and we get them before leaving.’
‘Or,’ I began, ‘we split in two. We set an ambush for the fighters coming up after us, and go for their transport at the same time. Problem is those rocks, be hard moving across them, but not impossible. Thing is ... we have an hour to sun down, and it’s best to move across those rocks now, and get position.’
‘If they spot us,’ Moran cautioned, ‘those fifty cals will cause injuries.’
I focused on him. ‘We take that risk now, or a week from now, sir. You want to come back and do it again, different approach?’
‘Well, no, I’d rather wrap it up now.’
‘Me too,’ I quipped. ‘So, two teams. Rizzo, your team goes down the rocks to get position above or behind the jeeps, rest set an ambush on the track, we meet down on the road if all goes well. Any questions?’
They turned and exchanged looks.
‘Wilco!’ came Smurf’s voice over the radio. ‘Someone coming across the rocks.’
We turned, and we all keenly peered down the track to where Smurf stood, our rifles ready.
‘How many?’ I urgently asked.
‘Just one, white shirt, looks like a Westerner.’
‘Westerner?’ several people queried.
I smiled. ‘The Welsh hostage guy said someone escaped last night. I think we just found him. And if anyone asks ... we rescued him in a dramatic heroic fashion.’
They laughed as I stepped across to our Welsh hostage. ‘Go do
wn the track to my man, show yourself, your other hostage is in the rocks. Call him over will you.’
‘Aye, will do,’ he said, and off he went.
I faced the guys. ‘Check ammo, get some from the jeeps if you need more, top up your water, have a good drink, get ready. Rizzo, leave when ready, we’ll sneak down at dusk.’
Water was apportioned, drunk, bottles topped up, ammo issued, and Rizzo led his team off, soon scrambling down the rocks bent-double.
A minute later and a short skinny guy came up with his Welsh hostage buddy, Smurf with them.
‘You escaped?’ I asked.
‘Yes, last night.’
I handed him water, and he gulped, his hands and arms cut from the rocks. ‘Any paths back there, goat trails?’
‘No, hard going, no paths,’ he puffed out.
‘Any wounds?’
‘Just these cuts from the rocks.’
‘Get some rest, we’re not leaving yet, need to finish off the bad boys below.’
He nodded. ‘They shot the other guy for something.’
‘Smurf, tend their wounds please, take care of them, stay up here, watch our rear. And have our new buddies watch the rear as well.’
Taking out the sat phone, I punched numbers.
‘Captain Harris.’
‘It’s Wilco, Major there?’
‘He just got back from some visit. Hang on.’
A minute later came, ‘Wilco? Got a problem?’
‘Was going OK, we got position above a road between the two villages and killed a bunch of fighters, pushed their jeeps over the edge of a ravine, but one of the jeeps caught fire.’
‘Gave you away?’
‘It did, and we had a scrap, killed most thirty plus of them but picked up small wounds. Now we’re boxed in, and they have fifty cal mounted.’
‘What’ll you do?’
‘When it gets dark we’ll sneak down and have at them, a close up scrap, then get out of here with the hostages.’
‘Hostages!’
‘We rescued two hostages, killed the main man.’
‘Good show. What are you not telling me?’
‘Next scrap could be a fur ball, sir.’
‘Be careful, call me later.’
At dusk I led my team down the track, Moran and Swifty on the left, myself and Elkin on the right, Batman and Robin a few yards back. We stepped slowly, checking dark corners and listening, and we made it to our original camp without incident. Peering over the side we could hear movement, and we settled down into crevices. And waited.
I clicked on the radio. ‘Smurf, radio Rizzo, see how he’s doing.’
‘Rizzo, you there, sitrep,’ came back a little broken.
We heard a garbled response as we waited.
‘Wilco, he’s above the jeeps, hundred yards, some have moved along a bit. Be ready in ten minutes or so.’
‘Roger that. Tell him to hold fire till we engage them this side.’
We heard his outgoing message as we sat chilling, the temperature dropping, the breeze picking up.
‘Someone coming,’ Swifty hissed. ‘Just one man.’
‘Hide, don’t shoot unless spotted,’ I ordered as the dark figure slowly approached, a radio heard buzzing. He ambled past, took in the old camp with a torch, and he kept going. When he was well past I clicked on the radio. ‘Smurf, fighter walking up to you. Get to the jeeps, get the hostages hidden, and when you see him shoot the ground near him, scare him. If he gets a radio message out, then kill him after. Stand by.’
‘What you up to?’ Swifty whispered.
‘I want that fucker to report us up there – not down here.’
Waiting was hell, and we all chilled, soon hearing shots echoing.
A minute later and Smurf came on. ‘It’s Smurf, I shot at his feet, then hit him after he jabbered away for a minute or two.’
‘Good work, stay sharp. Let Rizzo know we’re waiting on the main group.’
A long ten minutes later and we could all hear men jabbering away, but we stayed down and hidden. I made ready, nervously observing the dark outlines of ten men walk right past – close enough to reach out and touch almost, hearing more lower down the track, and I finally eased out of my hiding hole and opened up through the dark, a hell of a racket made as the lads joined in. With the figures above me all down, I turned around and fired down the track, seeing dark figures running.
‘Moving down now!’
I ran down, firing at all dark outlines, one of mine besides me, and I skidded as a burst of fire tore into the rocks next to me, soon firing from the difficult position of lying backwards. Seeing movement on the road, a man highlighted by vehicle headlights, I hit him and spun him, two rounds put into him as he lay there.
Swifty called to me just as he fired into the vehicle’s windscreen, the two of us soon running down and halting on the road, distant gunfire now echoing from Rizzo’s position.
On the radio, I said, ‘On me, down on the road. Any wounded?’
‘It’s Bateman, got a scrape, stings like a bitch.’
When he got to me I had a look with my torch, his arm not bleeding much. In pairs, we edged along the road and around a bend, two dark outlines coming at us and jabbering away, both hit six times.
I clicked on the radio. ‘Rizzo, report.’
‘Think we got them all, some run off down the road. Hang on.’
‘What you doing?’ I asked.
‘Got the firing pins from the fifty cal, pushing them over.’ We waited. ‘OK, coming to you, is it clear?’
‘Can’t see anyone, but be careful.’
Five minutes later we heard boots on tarmac.
‘Over here!’ I shouted, not wanting our two groups to shoot at each other. As their dark outlines neared we got up and turned, walking back together. ‘Any wounds?’
‘Got a piece in my arse and in the back of my leg,’ came Slider’s voice.
‘Remember that three-day scenario, jelly and sand down your grits – well that was practise for this!’ I said through the dark.
‘I got a piece or two in my back,’ Rocko added. ‘That wasn’t in the fucking scenario.’
‘That comes with the four day scenario,’ I quipped as we walked along the tarmac road.
‘I’m not doing four days of that shit,’ Swifty insisted.
Reaching the track we turned up it, passing bodies as we climbed, Smurf warned of our approach. Cresting the rise the wind had picked up a bit, the night air now quite chill.
At the jeeps I turned on a set of headlights, placed down my poncho and said, ‘Rocko, Slider, over here. Anyone else with a wound? Slider, drop your trousers, turn around and bend over!’
Howls or derision echoed around, a very unprofessional way to maintain our hidden position on a live job. With the lads taunting Slider something terrible – and demanding I buy him dinner first, he dropped his trousers and knelt as I readied my first aid kit.
In the bright lights of the jeeps, and amidst a barrage of taunts, I cleaned up his arse-cheek wound, got antibiotic cream in and closed the wound with a large stitch, causing much cursing from my unwilling patient.
The leg wound was worse and it needed three temporary stitches, both wounds dressed and taped down.
‘Rocko,’ I called. ‘Get your kit off.’
‘Should we not be leaving?’ Moran tentatively asked through the dark.
‘Not with wounds that could have an effect on our ability to soldier, we don’t know how long we could be stuck here, and we ain’t going down that track at night into an ambush. We leave at dawn. And even then I have reservations about that track. But there looks like open ground lower down, we might be able to drive cross-country.’
Rocko had three minor back and neck wounds that needed some attention, and I injected him with half-dose antibiotics after I taped him up. Moran had a stitch put into his hand after I cleaned up the wound, Bateman two stitches in two small wounds, a pad on his scrape.
I told
the lads to get some food on and to get some rest, a stag rotation set-up, the hostages given ponchos and told to rest.
Done practicing my surgical skills, I washed up, had a chocolate bar and switched on my sat phone and punched numbers as I rested against a jeep.
‘Captain Harris,’ came a sleepy voice.
‘It’s Wilco. You awake, sir?’
‘I am now, paper and pen to hand.’
‘Sitrep: two hostages recovered, safe and well, main man is dead, eighty plus fighters dead, two fifty cals destroyed, ten jeeps destroyed. But we have minor wounds, lots of them, all dealt with, so no immediate panic. At dawn we’re going to try and get back to that road the Hercules dropped us at, so warn the pilots that we may call for an extraction around two to three hours after dawn. Got that?’
‘Yes, two or three hours after dawn for extraction – all going well.’
‘Wilco out.’
I got a brew on with Smurf, the tea much needed, and I sat against a jeep wheel and closed my eyes for an hour.
Just before dawn I kicked up the lads, many stiff and complaining, and we made ready to leave. No fighters had approached during the night, and by all accounts they had few left to bother us with, but movement had been seen below on the road, the odd vehicle passing.
With the sun threatening to rise in the east we trundled slowly down the track and towards the big orange glow, and it looked like the earth itself was on fire – it was not a good omen.
A hundred yards down the track, the jeeps grossly over-weighted, I was left seat to Rizzo when the flash blinded me, my ears blocked for a moment, and Rizzo hitting the brakes forced me forwards, a cloud of dust enveloping me.
Shaking my head, and turning, I could see Elkin on the ground screaming, holding his leg. A mine, we had hit a mine.
I jumped down, feeling a bit woozy, Swifty already attending Elkin, and I struggled to pull out my first aid kit. Swifty had a tourniquet on Elkin’s leg, and I lifted that leg and rested his dusty boot next to my ear as he lay on his back grimacing.
Using my scissors, I cut the trouser leg, revealing a large gash. Fingers into the wound, I pulled out the long piece of shrapnel, the bleeding slowed by the elevation of the leg and the effect of the tourniquet. The wound was not pumping, and lower leg wounds rarely pumped.
