by Geoff Wolak
And half an hour later the French had a fire going in a make-do stove, bread and lamb stolen from somewhere, a pot simmering as we chatted.
A Hercules lifted off, the 2 Squadron insert, the apron a hive of activity as the other aircraft got ready. Travelling over to the hangars with Swifty, Rocko and the French troop sergeant - Henri, we took tops off to wash at the taps, many catching sight of me, Henri shocked at my scars.
‘You have to learn to get down more,’ he quipped, washing his bald head.
I smiled. ‘That would help, yes. I keep getting shot.’
Swifty tapped the French guy’s arm and pointed at me. ‘Don’t believe what he says; those scars, from his girl after she caught him with another lady.’
Our French sergeant laughed loudly. ‘My ex-wife, she would do worse. Much worse, yes. You are married?’ he asked me.
‘No, she is an officer.’
‘Officer? That is allowed in England?’
‘No,’ Swifty put in. ‘And he made her pregnant but won’t marry her.’
‘No?’ Henri queried.
I faced him. ‘She wanted the baby, not me. She is ... high society, and a doctor.’
‘Ah...’ Henri let out. ‘I see. We French soldiers, we have many tales and songs about a young soldier in love with a high society girl. This lady, she was a challenge for you I think.’
‘She was too good for me,’ I said. ‘I was her ... bit of rough man.’
He laughed loudly.
Back at the huts, we noticed that the French did not have personal radios, so some were grabbed from the regular lads – Sergeant Crab complaining, radios for those French lads that spoke English. They did have good ground to air radios and mid range radios.
An hour later, and a French Puma brought back three men from 2 Squadron as we observed; one broken ankle, one dislocated shoulder, and a sprained ankle.
‘Fucking good job this ain’t for real yet,’ Rocko noted, leaving us debating the pros and cons of parachute inserts with the French lads.
The Hercules were loaded with cargo pallets and made ready for the drop, we made ready our teams after a plan was discussed around a drawing in the sand, and an hour after the Hercules had departed - the sun low on the horizon, we mounted two Chinook and two Puma with lots of supplies to hand, timing being critical, the aim being to get there just after the Hercules drop.
Our “Short Leg” was just twenty minutes across the desert, losing the light rapidly, and we touched down whilst the ramp was down, soon off and in all round defence as the helos shut down their engines, the crew now becoming make-do soldiers and tasked with protecting their aircraft.
It fell quiet as we observed the parachutes on the cargo pallets fluttering, little wind tonight, 2 Squadron on their way back in buses by now, no sign of them here. I could see local police cars at the entrance to the airfield.
Running, we took up pre-arranged positions, most of the team covering the approach road whilst ignoring the local police, the French positioned across the airfield.
‘This is Wilco, no local fighters seen at the approach road. Henri, report.’
‘This side is clear.’
‘Rocko, Slider, back to the supplies, open them, get GPMGs. Henri, send two men back to open the supplies, get two GMPGs and ammo.’
‘Roger,’ came back in an odd French accent.
Fifteen minutes later, losing the light, we had GPMGs set up in good fire positions with blank rounds, aircraft heard on the breeze.
I clicked on my radio. ‘Henri, signal them down, all is clear.’
The aircraft landed in turn, a few basic lights set up by the helo crews, men and jeeps soon disgorged, torch signals used to guide them to us in the dark as the aircraft took off again. I took up a position near the supplies, the jeeps used to ferry supplies. The French, twenty strong, were sent to the far side with Henri, the “D” Squadron lads to the ends of the runways and the flight paths, to protect the flight paths.
The last aircraft to land had been a Hercules with two fuel buggies and a field generator, RAF crewmen with the kit. They now pushed the buggies and generator towards a Chinook and practised in-field refuelling, the generator there to power an electric pump, hand pumps available, and also to start a helo that might not wish to cooperate.
I observed the refuelling, as did a few of the pilots, and it worked well enough, the Chinook started up to check fuel levels, and to check that it would actually start up. The generator moved down the line in the dark, hushed comments made, and it was just as well it was here, a stubborn Puma not wanting to start on its own.
I clicked on my radio. ‘Henri, send out a small patrol, two kilometres and back, please, one hour.’
‘Roger.’
‘Sergeant Crab, send out a search patrol please.’
‘Roger that. Or should I say ... Wil-co.’
At 2am our three buses turned up, we met them, and they would now simulate transport from Bob’s men, although Bob’s men would not use buses - I hoped. My team and Henri’s lads split into three, and we occupied three buses for the one hour trip that became almost two hours.
Half a mile short of the target we pulled over next to local police cars, eased out and formed up, soon moving towards the make-do prison, lights seen ahead. On the real job we would be dropped close to the prison – in theory.
We now moved slowly forwards through the dark in three teams, and very slowly closed in on our final positions. One team would cover a side street, one team would cover the far side of the prison, and one team would go over the wall first – or blow a door or two. We decided that we would blow the doors since these walls were half the height of the real ones.
I used my sat phone and called Captain Harris, and he set in motion the aircraft - as well as our helicopters, Henri radioing his men at the airfield to be ready for a rescue, Sergeant Crab to be notified for a made-up rescue.
Charges set by Stretch, everyone checked in position and ready, a countdown sounded out, and with five seconds to go the paper man-targets were all hit several times. A blast, a puff of smoke, and we moved inside, paper targets hit. Up on the roof, we covered all the angles, hitting paper targets, the outside teams called in one at a time, the first team moving to the barracks, grenades tossed inside and echoing loudly.
The last team in had left two men to cover the doors, the rest of their team hitting the pretend prison commander’s officers and the pretend brothel as we covered them from above.
‘Clear,’ sounded out from each team, their objectives achieved as Swifty opened the door to the brightly lit room housing our “hostages”.
‘British soldiers, stay down! Are there any gunmen in here, have you seen any?’ he shouted.
Heads were shaken.
‘Can you walk, are any of you hurt?’
‘A few of us have injuries, we can’t walk.’
‘Able bodied people, held those that cannot walk, get ready to leave in ten minutes!’
His colleague shouted out similar instructions in French.
And we waited, but in the real world we would be sniping at curious locals, and possibly well-armed gangs – or very well armed gangs.
The helicopters were soon heard on the breeze, and with men left on the walls eight lads helped the simulated wounded out, our hostages told to kneel down in a group of thirty, the rest held back, Henri on the radio to let the helo know it was safe to approach.
The Chinook roared in, dispensing smoke canisters just a hundred yards from us as it passed. Out at five hundred yards it turned, and it came back down the opposite side, smoke dispensed, two huge plumes rising as it turned again and came in, its lights knocked on at the last minute, sand and dust blown up.
Those of us on the walls started to cough, the smoke a little too close and a little too strong, before the blast from the Chinook pushed the smoke back for us. Instead of smoke we got sand and dust, visibility reduced to zero.
Ramp down, its crew directed the hostages on board,
a head count performed, and it was soon lifting up with the ramp still down, and it barely cleared the walls. Beyond the make-do prison it pushed smoke back towards us. It was close enough for me to reach out and touch it as it passed, the blades a worry.
The second Chinook was a few seconds behind, more dust thrown up, the hostages loaded, many limping, some carried, and off it went. The first Puma grabbed nine hostages, the second Puma the same number, and we waited, plenty of hostages left.
This would be the hard part, the waiting, fighting off any counter attack. We could have done with six helos, I commented to Swifty as we waited.
Fifteen minutes later we heard their approach, radio contact made through the dark, and the next Chinook blew up a storm as it landed, hostages rushed out to it and on. When it lifted off there were just six hostages left.
I clicked on my radio. ‘Get ready to leave, get to the landing area now.’
The next Chinook took just eight Brits and four French, medics on board, the rest of my lads and the French soldiers for the next Puma, the final Puma to be empty as per the plan, Henri to signal it to circle but not to land, and I was soon sat peering out the window at the desert.
We hit the FOB with a bump, the helos to be refuelled, and twenty minutes later – as the hostages were being corralled like sheep, the first Hercules landed, forty hostages taken on board with one jeep, forty on the second with a jeep.
All remaining men closed in to one place, a defensive circle formed with the GMPGs, half of us on the next French C-160, half on the final C-160 to spread the risk, and half an hour later we were back, no dog leg used on the way back.
The RAF planning officer met me as the dawn came up, stood with Bob’s guy, the colonel from the Intel Committee, and the French Major. ‘How did it go?’ he asked.
‘Could have done with more helos, sir, to get the hostages in one go, we had to wait more than fifteen minutes for the second wave of helicopters, and in that time would come the counter attack.’
‘Something to consider. What was the load time?’
‘Good, hardly two minutes to load and off.’
‘That is good,’ he agreed. ‘Hope it’s like that on the day.’
Bob’s guy, and the Intel Committee colonel, walked me to a jeep. ‘What’s your opinion of this now?’ Bob’s guy asked.
‘Waiting is an issue, but ... depends on the quality of the counter attack, and if there is one. Certainly, the second wave of helos would be shot at, more smoke needed. Load time was good, and if there are just seventy or eighty hostages we’d have them away in one go.’
‘What you don’t know ... is that we paid for some to be released, and they’re being debriefed in Luanda as we speak, so we have exact numbers of guards and hostages left.’
‘And..?’
‘If the estimates are correct, a hundred guards, but they’re not guards. There are twelve guards, rest are simply soldiers that are based there, plus a few admin staff in with the commandant, plus six cooks. There’s an estimated sixty hostages left, one large area like two dorms, camp beds, simple doors. Hostages said that they could have escaped had they not been so far from Luanda.’
‘Soldiers in the town?’ I asked as we drove back to the huts.
‘Thousands, but irregulars that were once fighters, now with day jobs. Most households have a weapon.’
‘Could be a lot of people firing into the air that night,’ I cautioned. ‘Any fifty cal?’
‘Not seen by the hostages, and they had a good view all around.’
‘How many did you buy out?’ I asked.
‘Six, an expensive six. One was a Captain in the Guards in his youth, and he’s coming here.’
‘Good,’ I commended. ‘And the political will?’
‘Strong before, even stronger now.’
We pulled up. ‘I’ll see you after a rest and a clean-up. Oh, anyone hurt during the exercise?’
‘A Puma went down, the last one I think, crew a bit hurt. They wrote off a Puma, a mechanical fault.’
‘That’ll be the danger on the day, a helo going down,’ I pointed out. ‘Can’t train for accidents.’
I was not that tired, but lay down quietly for an hour before slipping out and going for a run around the perimeter, a few of the 2 Squadron lads on patrol. At the Chinook hangar I used their water pipes to wash, most of them asleep, tucked up in green Army sleeping bags on green Army camp beds.
Back at the huts I found Rizzo taking a piss in the sand. ‘Been for a run?’ he asked me, yawning.
‘Just to stretch my legs, would stiffen up otherwise.’
‘What’d you reckon to last night?’
‘Good enough, and now we know there are only sixty hostages, so we can do them in two Chinooks.’
‘Makes it easier,’ he idly commented, putting is dick away.
‘And basic wooden doors to the hostages, could kick them in, all the hostages in two large rooms.’
He took in the airfield as the sun climbed above the horizon. ‘Lot of fucking planes and choppers.’
‘Lot of hostages. Either that, or we’re more popular than we think.’
At 2pm we held the planned debrief, most of the same faces present. ‘Gentlemen,’ I called. ‘We’re happy with the way things went last night, apart from the accident with the Puma, a mechanical fault. As I keep telling people ... we cannot train for accidents, but we can try and plan for them.
‘Hostages - the hostages were moved quickly. Helicopter pilots, please note, you were close to hitting the walls of the prison, and close to killing my men on the tops of those walls. If the job goes ahead ... better clearance, please.
‘OK, the mobile refuelling went well, the mobile generator absolutely essential – we had a helicopter that wouldn’t start its engines by itself. May I request now an RAF controller to be designated airfield controller, with aircraft radios, for FOB, so that we don’t have any collisions or accidents.’ They made notes.
‘OK, we’ve got updated intel for the live job. There are sixty hostages, so the plan is to get them on the two Chinook, the Pumas for cover, so each Puma could have one or two soldiers in the back, no need for medics. We also have a man coming here who was, until yesterday, a hostage.’
‘He’ll be here in a few hours,’ Bob’s guy announced.
‘All of you can talk to that man about the exact conditions on the ground. We ... will talk to him first, so please give us an hour. And, given the new intel, the job is more likely to go ahead.’
Bob’s guy said, ‘Both governments are happy, awaiting a final go signal from you.’
It was a very odd thing to say, and I felt odd, all eyes on me. But it hit me that blame was being shifted here.
‘Does anyone have any questions about last night’s exercise, or the planned job?’ I asked, deflecting a decision for now.
‘Clearance at the prison?’ a Chinook pilot asked.
‘The exercise yard is supposed to be forty five yards long, twenty five wide, the buildings on the left twelve feet with a wall to sixteen feet, the building on the right about the same, the commander’s office reaching up to twenty-five feet, three stories, a flag pole on top. The rear wall, the one on the approach route, is twelve feet, but there are trees that look a little higher. You need to plan accordingly, and be very careful.’
‘Turn and land?’ he posed, looks exchanged with his colleagues, most in agreement.
‘RAF personnel at the FOB?’ our RAF planning officer asked. ‘They’d be in the firing line?’
‘Yes, but how does that compare to them being on a helicopter that goes down, sir? If anything, they would be in less danger.’
‘Point taken, but ... if things go wrong, what’s their role, and the dangers?’
‘Their role is to get the helicopters refuelled and started, so their role is critical, sir. If things go wrong ... they could be shot or captured. If the transports failed to come fetch us we’d have to fight our way out, and that would see many casualties. T
hey will be in danger, sir, but ... if there was a war with Russia, would you do a risk assessment first?’
‘Point taken, it’s all a risk, and they need to practise this, I just want a view on risk to pass it up the line, and to the people in question. This is not a war.’
I nodded. ‘If all goes well we’ll be in and out quickly, and we have plenty of fixed wing and rotary wing to come fetch us, also a very formidable and well-armed force at the FOB. Those at greatest risk will be the medics on the helos.’
‘How so?’ Morten asked.
‘Look at that Puma last night, sir. If a helo engine shuts down it drops like a stone, crews killed. That happens now and then.’
‘Accidents aside, what’s their risk?’ he pressed.
‘If no accidents, their risk is very low, sir.’
‘I’m happy with that, and we fly all the time, and we’ve lost people that way.’
‘Risk to the Hercules?’ the planning officer asked.
‘Being shot at when landing or taking off at FOB, but we have at least eight hundred yards from the runway to any attackers, so the aircraft would only be vulnerable to fifty cal on approach or take-off. The flight path is over swamp, no roads for someone to drive a fifty cal up. The SAS would be on the approaches, with GPMGs, keeping people well away, sir.’
‘And if two helicopters collided?’ he asked.
‘Be a complete fucking disaster; fifty or more dead, wounded being captured, a bad newspaper headline.’ I held my stare on him.
‘That ... could best be avoided.’ They all exchanged looks.
‘RAF Regiment,’ I called. ‘Last time my team was down here we created a few training scenarios, and we could re-create them for your guys if you like, including a helo drop in the desert.’
‘Yes, certainly, we came here to experience new terrain and conditions,’ the Squadron Leader agreed.
‘There is a shooting range as well, sir. If we move our helos by boat you should have a few days.’ I focused on Bob’s guy, a question in my look.
He said, ‘Ships will be offshore in a few hours, just under three days to get there.’
‘Gentlemen, we have maps and drawings of the FOB and prison, please study them. As for the job itself, surprise is critical to avoid casualties. We need to wait here till the helos are offshore in Angola, ready and tested, then land in the dark in one go – so plan with that in mind. If we sit at the ROB for a few days our presence will be reported, and we might just get a warm welcome – helicopters hit with RPGs, people killed.
