by Geoff Wolak
‘Well, yes.’
‘So you’re a self starter, is what you’re trying to say...’
He shrugged. ‘I guess, I hate just sitting around and wasting time.’
‘If you had to train hard for three months, but at the end of it you came to West Africa with us and parachuted into some place, would that motivate you to stick at it?’
‘Well, yes.’
I nodded. ‘You have an opportunity, you just need to follow my advice, and train hard. Simple.’ I turned my head. ‘Rocko, make the new lad a tea, show him the base facilities, introduce all the staff, then get him on the short range, followed by AK47 workup.’
‘Right, Boss,’ came back.
I faced Smitty. ‘Use Rocko as a role model. If you get to be half as good as him you’re doing very well. But please, don’t copy the silly moustache.’
‘Hey, what’s wrong with my fucking moustache?’ Rocko protested as the lads laughed at him, Slider grabbing for the said same moustache.
The officers’ weekend went off well, and I chatted to most everyone at length, time spent with troop captains or Intel captains that I had not had much to do with. They each got at least five lap dances, free curry, and limitless beer, although they were well behaved compared to the lads.
Saturday afternoon we all strolled around Cardiff Bay as a group, lunch enjoyed overlooking the water, a rest before Saturday night, the young captains trying their luck with the ladies. When an oversized doorman tried to eject Captain Harris for accidentally spilling someone’s beer, I winded the man and left the big lump in a heap, making a note not to return to that club for a while.
On the Wednesday we dressed in civvy clothes, bags taken, a bus up to London and rooms at Chelsea Barracks for the lads to use, Bob Staines finally having organised a bash for all those units involved in the jobs in West Africa. We would be in civvy clothes, but with name badges so that we could mingle and chat.
We got there as a group around 8pm, a hotel function room with nibbles laid on, free beer or wine - as much as you wanted, already some fifty people in the room, Bob organising people and loving being centre stage as ever – his name tag simply said MOD. I could see several senior Army and RAF officers in uniform, as well as Royal Navy, and it looked like we were the ones in civvy clothes, most of the others in uniform – Rizzo stuffing his face as usual and not chatting to anyone outside the team.
An MOD photographer was in attendance, and I wondered who the people were he was snapping at, then it hit me when I saw the ladies – they were rescued hostages and their families. I walked over and got a big smile for the tall fat Welsh guy, who shook my hand vigorously, and I was soon inundated. I recognised a few of the faces, but most had to explain when and where they had been rescued.
‘That run down the road to the plane nearly finished me, like,’ the big Welsh guy loudly announced. ‘Bullets flying everywhere an all. Then the plane took off with the doors open and people firing machineguns, was like in the movies.’
I had to wonder how many times he had told that story in his local pub, and had it become more dramatic with each telling. Still, it made me smile.
‘You should keep yourself fit, for the next time you’re kidnapped,’ I told him.
‘Aye, well I’m back down there soon, but they says there’s better security an all.’
‘The pay must be good to take the risk,’ I noted.
The RAF crews got themselves photographed with the hostages, milking it for all it was worth. Still, that was part of the plan around this event.
The RAF pilots grabbed me and joked about cement bags, the other team of pilots wanting me to tell the Air Commodore just how great their rescue had been under fire. It was predictable, a bit silly, but this was exactly what I wanted, I wanted the various elements to come together and get along, and be ready for next time; so much red tape could be cut through if you just knew someone’s name or face.
I gave the pilots a good review to their bosses, and we chatted about joint training exercises, all sides having a few ideas, and that led to me being grabbed by the Navy, by the Sea King pilots, fears of RPGs recanted, questions of the jobs that they were not on.
Several gentlemen from the Cabinet Office mingled, I chatted with them for a while, then I noticed the easels setup, blow-ups of the newspaper stories displayed, maps next to them.
I was just starting to explain the last rescue job when the Defence Minister appeared at my shoulder, interesting himself in the detail. I gave him a long one-to-one on equipment, the practicalities, planning and training, finding General Dennet and some of his staff when I turned.
They greeted me warmly, many questions about the rescues, of the three-day scenario, and did the RAF really drop bags of cement. I had them in hysterics.
Group photographs were organised, not of my detachment, but Bob suspiciously had a fake moustache to hand, as well as sunglasses, so I joined in many photos, those groups being photographed all wanting me dead centre.
I had not noticed the staff from the Joint Intel Committee, and I finally chatted with them for ten minutes. I thanked the RAF pilots, the Navy pilots, and those who provided support services, doing my roving ambassador bit.
The Major did the rounds, and we met up and compared notes several times, talk of joint exercises with various units, which was what I was after. Myself and the Major agreed that the next job should have helicopters, and that we should have a surgical team to hand, and that fixed wing or helicopter support elements should be trained in the use of decoys.
By the end of the evening, my lot mostly drunk and wobbling, I was pleased with the way it had gone, and I had managed to chat to most everyone from the other units, ideas put in, hints dropped, input taken. Captains Moran and Harris were sober, and they helped me get the lads to the bus, and at the barracks they helped me put big drunk lumps like Rocko to bed.
Back at my hotel, and not wanting to listen to Rizzo snore at Chelsea Barracks, I put my head down whilst being pleased with myself, my aims achieved. But I had a chair up against the door, just in case someone from Mi5 came for me, or a Russian gang, or the IRA, or INLA, or a bunch of wandering Somali terrorists in sandals.
We got back the next day around 2pm, and most everyone went straight home. I entered the detachment room in civvys, O’Leary and the RSM there with our admin corporal, enquiries made of the London bash.
Smitty had been on the Ross-on-Wye range with regular lads, and was handed back by Sergeant Crab, who still whinged about me blowing him off his feet.
‘How’s his aim?’ I asked Crab.
‘Not bad. Not sure how he’d do on the three-day scenario, but he’s as good as the lads mostly.’
‘Then keep taking him to the range till he’s better,’ I asked, Crab complaining, but always happy to be involved – he would just never admit that.
Sat alone with a cup of tea, I scribbled the outline of a new training programme, and Monday morning after detachment orders I implemented the new programme. I had spoken to O’Leary, he had spoken to Bob, and we had a few instructors to hand. I had also spoken to the Major, and he knew the right people for what I wanted, but also wanted the training scenario copied for regular lads after we had perfected it.
Tomo, Smitty and Elkin were told that they would be eating and sleeping in the sand till Friday morning, and that chickens and goats would be on hand.
Monday was spent with two regular troop sergeants that were good with surmounting fences - Rizzo quite good with them as well, all kinds of fences, even those that were electric or had sensors. Starting simple, we went over the high base fences down near the railway line, first quickly, then quietly, then trying it quickly and quietly, everyone getting small cuts, uniforms torn, a few muscles strained.
The same fences were then tackled in pairs, then teams of four, and repeated many times over, and finally we snuck up and cut the fences, the Major aware of it - a section to be replaced afterwards at Bob’s expense.
With
one of Bob’s guys electrifying a short section of fence, we all had to touch it with bare hands, cursing at length, and then had to cross it, several of the lads managing to connect testicles with the live wire. For insulation we used rubber, jackets, back packs, and finally ran current diverters around a section, and we earthed the sections before getting over.
By 5pm we were cut and sore, but we had gained much experience of surmounting high fences.
The next day we found – made for us overnight - a strong section of razor wire and barbed wire, electrified, sensors placed on it, and a tight plan was put together, expert guidance to hand, many troop sergeants and officers watching.
In teams of four we would leopard crawl towards the fence, cut the razor wire or barbed wire, neutralise the live current and deal with the sensors – with varying degrees of success. I was damn glad that there was no one waiting on the other side to shoot us, or any journalists to hand.
On the Wednesday, Tomo and crew getting used to sleeping, eating and shitting in the sand, we again tackled the fence, but in teams of four and with increasing speed, the aim being to get through with covering fire positions in thirty seconds. We were finally starting to get it right by 5pm, more cuts accrued.
After dark, we mounted jeeps and trucks and headed out, soon to the large MOD wireless receiver near Leominster, but they were not expecting us, Bob’s people monitoring the local police channels.
Parked up half a mile away, I gave the lads the scenario, Moran in charge, and kit was checked, facemasks donned, blank rounds loaded, smoke canisters and stun grenades prepared. We approached in two teams across farmer’s field, cows avoided, and leopard crawled the last two hundred yards, a dog patrol spotted.
Fence tested for a live current, checked for sensors, we cut it and eased inside slowly and quietly, splitting into three teams. Team one placed thunderflashes with timers against the radio towers, team two headed for the electrical transformers, and team three headed for the guard room.
At midnight we simply turned the power off, deciding against the use of explosives – the MOD would be mad at us, and we had found the switch after breaking into a shed. The thunderflashes attached to the radio towers went off, and as people came running we fired blanks, stun grenades tossed, the residents grabbed and thrown to the floor, tired up and dragged. The resident OIC was not a happy bunny at all, some colourful language used as threats were against us levelled.
I explained who we were, what we were up to, and that he could complain in writing to the Colonel. We untied the hostages and legged it away quickly, informing them that they might need to repair the fence – and sorry about the dog we killed.
Back at base an hour later I held a debrief over a cup of tea, and we discussed what tactics and equipment might have been better used.
Friday morning saw the arrival of an officer with two expensive cameras, long telephoto lenses, and everyone had a lesson, teams then sent out to sneak up on a given house and photograph it, Moran and Harris in the house with binoculars - and earnestly looking out for people trying to photograph them. They had their own long-lens camera, and a sneaky attic skylight to make use of.
Friday also saw the arrival of a shitty letter from the Signals boys up at Leominster, complaints about the cut fence and the dead dog. I passed it on to General Dennet, and he shouted down the phone at them for their lax security.
By 4pm Moran and Harris were back, and they were sure they had photographed someone in the bushes, the resulting images to be examined when developed, punishments handed out once the guilty team had been identified.
That weekend I polished the plan of the scenario, and Monday morning everyone was expectant. The weather forecast was for rain, which was what I had hoped for, and the briefing was duly held, the Major sat in on it.
‘OK,’ I began, Moran and others with notepads. ‘At the following coordinates is a suspicious military base. We’ll be leaving here by Chinook and putting down in the dark after midnight, five miles from the objective. We will then walk towards the objective, avoiding all contact with civilians – and enemy soldiers of course. In position, we’ll set-up a command centre, patrols sent out to scan the area after dawn, OPs chosen and set-up.
‘During the day, teams will attempt to get close and to photograph the suspicious camp, returning unseen, teams behind them offering covering fire in case anyone is spotted.
‘A plan will then be made to effect a close inspection that evening, without penetrating the base. The second day will see observations of movements, additional photographs taken of vehicles and men seen, and - if practical – we will effect an entry for a close-up look at what’s going on inside, hoping to withdraw without setting off the alarms.
‘Get some rest today, we’ll be out all night, make sure you have blanks, and the right kit for cold old damp Britain – no deserts to hand.’
‘Bugger,’ Elkin said. ‘I’m getting used to the sand.’
‘Get used to the wet grass and the mud instead,’ I told him. ‘It’s not called The Hard Routine for nothing.’
After dark we boarded the loud Chinooks on the heli-pad, the locals inconvenienced, and we were soon heading north through a black wet night, heading for the vast Catterick military area, my mind on 51 Squadron and basic training; it seemed like a lifetime ago. I got the headsets on up front, the pilots from 7 Squadron, the same men having dropped us in the water down at Swanage.
After more than an hour of uncomfortable vibration we touched down in an unknown blackness, all out quickly to a soft floor of heather and in all-round defence as the Chinook quickly took off, and Moran held a green torch, flashing in the second Chinook.
With all the lads down, heavy Bergens on, we slowly moved off in two groups whilst trying not to trip over the deep heather, soon to a pitch black wooded area – the wind howling through the tree tops, and Moran called in our sitrep. We knelt whilst Moran checked the map with a torch, the Captain soon leading us off at a steady pace.
Whether trained SAS soldiers or housewives, the human eye was not that good in the dark, and we stumbled slowly around, a few people tripping. We were supposed to be the best, and in certain arenas of combat we were, but on a dark wet night in the forest our eyesight was just as bad as anyone else’s.
When a house with lights was spotted we moved around it, and two hours later we found the ridge we were after, much dense forest to hand to hide in, and below us – and across a river and a road, was the base in question, a few lights seen in the distance.
Camp was made in a gully, no risk of lights being seen from outside, and Moran got on the sat phone to Captain Harris and gave the sitrep, Smitty and Tomo keeping Harris company back at the detachment offices, the coffee on.
Poncho’s up in groups of four, two men would rest and eat whilst two were on stag or tasked with a recon. I took Elkin and checked our rear whilst Slider and Rocko snuck down to the river for a look. An hour later both teams returned. I reported no movement, Rocko and Slider drawing maps in dull torch light and discussing the layout with Moran.
I got three hours kip with Elkin next to me, both of us a bit chilled and damp, both up just after dawn and cooking, people coming and going in pairs.
Moran dispatched Swifty and Rizzo to do a close recon of the river for crossing points, cameras to be taken, Moran peeking down at the camp in the daylight and annotating and improving his hand-drawn map of the base as Stretch and Slider checked our rear.
Rizzo and Swifty returned fifty minutes later, their legs and boots soaking wet, comments made about the layout of the target base; fixed sentry posts, guards seen, dogs, sections of fence that were either exposed or seemed to offer blind spots. Vehicles seemed to drive once around the perimeter every fifteen minutes, dog patrol every half hour – the key facts.
The guard house had been spotted, the cook house, the HQ building and the wooden hut barracks for the men, those men being 23rd Territorial SAS from the north of England, and this was their back yard and traini
ng ground. And somewhere down there was the RSM having some fun time out of the office – he knew what I had planned.
When Moran and Elkin went forwards to a ridge to get a close look they noted that the patrol times differed to that reported by Rizzo, a heated argument going on upon their return. Rizzo and Swifty were sent back to the ridgeline and they returned an hour later agreeing that the morning pattern had changed – and that maybe there was a change of shift of men. We had a problem.
They had also seen a dog patrol on this side of the river, just some 500yards from base camp. A meeting was called, and I discussed the problems, input taken. The decision was finally made to move the camp back another 500yards at least, all traces of this camp to be removed.
We packed up and snuck out using the tree line, a new camp created as it started to get dark, and as it started to rain heavily. But we had only just settled down again when dogs were heard on the breeze, camp broken in a hurry and we legged it away in the opposite direction to the dog patrol, finally selecting a dense wood a mile from the target base.
Teams were sent out, and now they moved cautiously because of the dangers of roving enemy patrols. Rizzo and Swifty were going to cross the river, Slider and Rocko covering them, and the rest of us had no eyes-on, just radio contact.
Moran asked Elkin and Stretch to perform a sweep of our rear as we listened in on the radio to the action near the target camp. Rizzo and Swifty dodged a patrol, but had to wait twenty minutes as a jeep halted, the enemy soldiers seen having a cigarette on the side of the road.
With the jeep gone they used a half-flooded drain to go under the road save being seen, and soon slid into the icy black water, walking bent-double with water up to their knees, underwater obstacles a hazard. First two safely across, and now chilled, Slider and Rocko copied the drain movement, and they hid themselves this side of the river.
A cold and painstaking hour was used by Rizzo and Swifty to try and get close to the area they had selected, but dog patrols kept them at a distance, the vehicle patrols seemingly dispatched at random times.
