by Geoff Wolak
‘Wilco!’ came a scream, Slider’s voice. ‘There’s a fucking armoured personnel carrier coming down the street!’
‘Shit!’ I said to Elkin. On the radio, I asked, ‘What armament does it have? Does it have a turret?
‘No turret!’
‘It’s only good to get men in close to us, they can’t shoot out too well! What’s it doing?’
‘Still coming down the street, belching smoke,’ came Slider’s voice. ‘It’s slowing ... coming on ... turning towards us ... it’s stopped. Fuck...’
I heard the crash and saw the light, the light pouring in from the street as the tall wooden front doors gave way. The personnel carrier reversed, belched smoke and revved, and nudged the doors aside as it loudly drove inside the prison.
‘Turn about!’ I called. ‘Some of you turn about!’
Elkin and I both turned around and aimed at the carrier as it drove around the parade ground in a wide circle, leaving a trail of fumes.
‘What the fuck is it doing?’ Elkin asked as it clipped a wall and carried on.
It hit the barracks head on, reversed and belched smoke, reversed all the way to the hostages and clipped a wall, pulled forwards to the brothel and rammed a wall, bodies squelched underneath, then reversed again.
‘Wilco,’ came Rizzo’s voice. ‘What the fuck has that guy been drinking?’
Elkin couldn’t help but laugh and, as we observed, the driver revved again and drove out the main doors and into the street. I could see clearly through the tall space, and he drove over the road and crashed into the police building, coming to a dead stop.
‘What the fuck!’ came over the radio, Slider’s voice.
‘Moran for Wilco; I think our friend has been at the local brew.’
‘I think so too, sir,’ I said, a smile exchanged with Elkin. ‘But now the front doors are down, and the police could shoot hostages or a chopper on the ground. Rizzo, Stretch, come down and cover the front door.’
‘Moving.’
Back down in the exercise yard, I checked the rear and our two French conscripts – they were keen and resolute, so I returned to the hostage door.
‘Best knock off those lights,’ I told Swifty, and we both glanced at the hole where the front doors used to be, suddenly startled by a burst of fire out from Rizzo and Stretch. I knelt and aimed, but could not see anyone through the drifting smoke, a pain registering my left thigh. Swifty hit the ground with a thud, the thud of a dead body.
I dropped my rifle with little regard for it, or for my wound, and I knelt next to him, my gasp loud enough for the hostages in the doorway to hear and to come out, and I was soon seeing a head wound, but it was not pumping blood. Torch out, I quickly checked his eyes, his pupil responses a good sign. His pulse was OK, so I frantically got a pad on his head. ‘Get the lights out!’ I shouted at the hostages as the hostage-medic knelt over Swifty. ‘Get him inside, he has a concussion but he’ll make it.’
‘Wilco, it’s Rizzo, who’s down?’
‘Swifty is down, just a concussion, scrape on his head. Watch that fucking front door!’
The hostages dragged Swifty inside.
‘I know how to shoot,’ a grey-haired man told me in what I figured a South African accent, the man pointing at Swifty’s rifle.
‘Where’d you learn to shoot?’ I asked, a hand to my thigh, some blood evident.
‘RLI, then Selous Scouts,’ he admitted, and I looked up and studied him; the old Rhodesian special forces, and with a reputation for slaughtering blacks.
‘They disbanded a while back, 1979.’
He nodded. ‘I’ve been out twenty years, did three in after the infantry.’
‘Grab my man’s webbing and bandoliers, put them on, and then back to me.’ He headed off as I knelt, and I was soon tearing open my trouser where the scrape had cut it already. Small pad on, taped up, I stood and took in the exercise yard, realising that it was starting to get lighter - and wondering if we would get out of here, and figuring that the helicopters might be shot at, and shot down, or at least damaged so that we would have to set down some place neither here nor at the airfield.
My sat phone trill startled me, and I grabbed for it. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Bob, got some ... bad news I’m afraid.’
I knelt and faced the front door gap, my thigh registering its complaint, the tape tugging at the wound. ‘What’s that?’
‘The elite infantry brigade up the road from you, they’re getting ready to leave barracks.’
My chest heaved a sigh all by itself, my leg throbbing. ‘We might get the helos here in time, or ... we might leave via the rubbish dump. If we stand and fight we’ll get worn down in time, they’ll surround us. I’ve asked for GPMGs to be put on a Puma, that might help, and they’ll make smoke this time. So ... fingers crossed.’
‘Good luck.’
I studied the phone for a moment before putting it away. Clicking on the radio, I said, ‘Listen up. There’s an infantry brigade on its way here, and these boys weren’t out drinking last night.’
‘A brigade?’ came Moran’s worried voice. ‘That elite unit?’
‘Yes, so ... it might get interesting. They’re around fifteen to twenty minutes away, choppers might be here by then.’
‘What if they get here when the choppers do?’ Rizzo asked.
‘We fight them off as best we can and cover the hostages, then ... then we leave the back way. Pumas will be coming in with GPMGs in the doors and ... the Chinook will make smoke.’
‘So we’re fucked then,’ came Rizzo’s voice.
‘Not yet we’re not. Stay sharp, and do the job you’re paid to do.’
‘Wilco, it’s Slider. That shop we set fire to, it’s set alight the shop next it, and the one after that, and the police station over the road is now on fire in one spot. If we stay here we’ll cook alive, or choke to death.’
‘Cheerful fucker,’ came Stretch’s voice.
‘Wilco, it is Henri. Helicopters are coming, ten minutes or less.’ An idea hit me, and it was obvious. ‘Slider, you’re a genius.’
‘I am? What did I do?’
‘Men on the roof, come down now. Henri, set fire to the offices, on the double. Rizzo, Stretch, grab mattresses from the hostages, wood, anything, make a fire in the doorway. Move it!’
I turned to the hostages milling around. ‘Grab anything that will burn, take it to the front door! Quickly!’
My Selous Scout returned, and he had picked up Swifty’s rifle, unloading and reloading it, and checking it as I keenly observed him. ‘It’s been a few years, but you don’t forget.’ He studied me for a moment. ‘So what went wrong with this operation to rescue us?’
I pondered his meaning. ‘Intel said sixty hostages, four helicopters. Otherwise we would long gone by now and in the air heading back for a full English breakfast.’
He nodded. ‘Big group arrived last night.’ He again studied me. ‘You could have left with half the hostages...’
‘That would have been a hard conversation to have back at base, and a hard conversation to have with myself. I’d rather take the risk and fight.’
‘I left men behind, wounded, back in the war. It ... stays with you always.’
I nodded. ‘That it does. Back door, please, support the two French lads there.’
He walked to the rear, and I looked up at the sky. It was turning from black to dark blue.
Rizzo and Stretch got a good fire going, paraffin lamps shot through at point blank range and mattresses set alight, the hostages throwing chairs and tables on the pyre, smoke drifting, which was what I wanted. The top floor of the offices displayed two flickering fires, smoke escaping from the broken windows.
Moran appeared at my side. ‘What the hell you up to, we’re likely to cook in here?’
‘You’re an officer, you tell me.’ I waited. Then I sighed. ‘When that brigade gets here ... they might just figure us gone. From the street it looks like a war zone.’
&n
bsp; ‘Well ... it might work,’ he agreed.
‘Go set fire to the barracks, sir, there’s a good officer.’ I clicked on the radio. ‘Rizzo, set fire to the brothel as well, quickly. Henri, set fire to the lower floors, everyone else down to the ground level.’
Many of the hostages assisted in the burning of their former mattresses and furniture, as if a ritual of cleansing, the burning of that which reminded them of their ordeal here, most of the lads now down in the exercise yard, some assisting in the setting of fires.
I took out my sat phone and dialled.
‘Major Bradley.’
‘Wilco, sir. Sitrep. We’re waiting the helicopters to return, most enemy combatants killed, sporadic small arms fire, we’re clear to receive the choppers, but the local elite infantry brigade is on its way. If they get here first it will be twenty of us against three hundred of them, and a bad newspaper headline. Fingers crossed. Wilco out.’
As I observed, Rocko and Slider carried a large gas canister into the barracks, and a minute later they fired at it after first opening the valve. A bright flash lit the inside of the barracks, and what was left of the windows blew out, people ducking, and I quietly cursed the idiots as smoke now billowed out of the former brothel.
‘Wilco, it’s Henri, convoy approaching, many army trucks.’
‘Everyone hide, no on visible, but get ready!’ I ordered over the radio, then shouted, ‘Hostages, back inside, quickly! Hide!’ I turned and waved at the men at the rear door. ‘Hide yourselves!’
With the last of the hostages back into the former home, little furniture left to sit on, I eased in an took position just inside the door and knocked off the remaining lights, smoke wafting around the exercise yard, but for the most part the smoke hung around ten feet high, or it rose slowly and swirled. For now we could still breathe.
‘It’s Henri, they have stopped at the junction, one man running forwards.’ We waited. ‘He is looking around the front.’ Again we waited, expectant looks exchanged between the hostages as they waited some good news, the smell of smoke ever present – and a worry, the tension rising. ‘He is leaving ... back to a jeep ... they are turning away and leaving.’
‘Henri, where are the helicopters?’ I asked.
‘Moment.’ A minute later, he said. ‘They are coming, five or six minutes.’
Knocking the lights back on, I turned my head to the hostages. ‘Everyone into the exercise yard, the helicopters are coming, get lined up, knelt down, thirty five men for the larger helicopter! Make that all of you!’
I stepped out as the hostages ran out, soon organising themselves in a line against the wall, all knelt down ready. The back wall held my attention for a moment, a part of it missing where the Chinook had clipped it. I clicked on the radio. ‘Any explosives left, any RPG?’
Moran came on with, ‘Those five RPG are in the corner.’
‘Hit the back wall, quickly, we need clearance for the helos.’
A minute later Rocko ran out with the RPG launcher, Slider and Moran lugging RPG heads, and beyond me they knelt, got ready, took aim, and hit the wall two thirds of the way up, the blast reverberating, a chunk of wall blown down. A second shot, left ten feet, and another chunk of wall came down, the poorly built structure not putting up much resistance.
A third blast, a third chunk removed, and I halted them. ‘Get to the wall, push it over!’
Many of the lads ran forwards, joined by our two French conscripts, and where the wall had been breached they pushed sections over, the net result being a section wide enough for a Chinook to squeeze through and gain some speed.
A heavy drone could now be heard through the smoke, and looking up I found a light grey sky, broken clouds, a gentle breeze moving the smoke away. ‘Rocko, Slider, on me.’ I scrambled up onto the roof of the hostage cells, Elkin still in position, and I peered through the haze created by the police station’s smoke, that smoke slowly drifting past.
‘There!’ Elkin called, and we could see a Chinook powering in at rooftop height and a great speed. Three hundred yards short of us it dispensed smoke, which was hardly needed now, and it roared past just above the flag pole and off into the distance, where it banked around. It had dispensed a great volume of light grey smoke, the street shrouded, a hell of a spectacle to watch from our vantage point.
But by watching the first Chinook we had missed the second one. It came in low from the rear with a roar and a blast as it spun around, its rotors a danger to those of us up on the roof, and we ducked out the way as it put down. Peering down into the yard whilst lying down on my side, I could see the hostages running to the rear of the Chinook, Swifty being carried.
‘Henri, tell the pilot to take maximum load, use the broken wall at the back.’
As I lay there I could see the crewman counting heads and waving people in, and he waved forwards more than I would have credited him with, and soon there were no more hostages, the crewman peering out.
I lifted up and gave the crewman a flat hand signal, soon pointing at the two French conscripted men and the Sella Scout, waving them over. They ran across and up the ramp.
A thumbs-up given to the crewman, ramp closing, the Chinook powered up and climbed just a few feet, ground cushion effect helping here, and it slowly inched forwards and up no more than was needed to clear the broken wall, and it sliced through a few trees as it reached the rubbish dump, gaining speed and height slowly, rubbish blown aside, feral dogs seen running away.
Holding my breath, I saw it gain altitude and bank away to the right. Standing, I could see the second Chinook coming around in a circle and low on the horizon. It slowed, closed in on us, but then a flash caught my attention; it had clipped a power line. The Chinook started to spin out of control, and my heart stopped, a lump forming in my throat as I observed it struggle to gain control.
Just when it seemed that the pilot had it under control it dropped like a stone from thirty feet and smashed down onto a house.
‘On me!’ I shouted, scrambling down off the roof and landing in a heap, soon running out the rear doors, boots echoing. I turned left and ran as fast as I could, past the broken rear wall and to the prison’s corner, a quick glance left down the side road, over and on another thirty yards, jumping over a long rotor blade lying in the road, seeing another rotor blade embedded in a car. It had sliced the car in two down the middle.
The Chinook’s rear ramp was down, movement seen. ‘Get out! Get out now!’ I shouted. But as I observed, a tangle of wood in my way, the crew grabbed webbing and rifles and ran down the ramp. ‘Run you fuckers! Get out!’ I shouted, smoke coming from the engines, an acrid smell of burnt oil.
The first crewman scrambled over the splintered wood that a moment ago had been someone’s home, followed by a girl – who I figured to be a medic, the two pilots tossing helmets aside and coming out with webbing loosely on, rifles to hand.
When they reached the street, the lads knelt in an all-round defence now, I led the crew off at a sprint. But we had not gone five steps when a burst of fire knocked someone down behind me. I spun and fired, as did others, a youth with an AK47 knocked backwards.
I knelt next to the body, wide eyes staring up at me; the girl. Opening her jacket, I could see the blood pumping freely, three high chest shots; the youths aim being accidentally perfect.
I lifted up and grabbed the crewman trying to attend to her. ‘She’s dead! Move it!’ And I dragged him off.
‘No!’ he screamed, so I punched him in the side of the head, Rocko helping to grab the man and drag him back. The man dropped his rifle and tripped over it as he fought against us, but we dragged him on regardless, the man bent double.
‘She’s dead, and you’ll be dead soon if you don’t run,’ I shouted at him.
‘Run Billy!’ a pilot screamed at him, both pilots encouraging the man onwards.
Light improving rapidly, we made it back inside the prison just as the rear wall was racked with fire, the lads returning fire and covering us.
Inside the walls the medic collapsed – attending by the pilots, and I could only guess at his relationship with the girl.
‘How many hostages left?’ I shouted at no one in particular, a bit fogged.
‘None!’ came back from Moran. ‘They all got away.’
I faced Henri. ‘Bring down the Pumas, nine men in each, sorry, eleven or ten with the RAF crew.’
He got on the radio, the two Pumas circling high above us, and both circled down as we peered up.
‘Everyone to the yard on the double. Moran, head count!’ I stepped to the pilots, their rifles pointed at me. ‘Pilots, safety on, fingers off triggers. When you get in the Puma, be careful with your weapons. In fact, unload now, reload but don’t cock them.’
They did as I asked without complaining, single rounds left lying on the floor, breeches checked, safety off, triggers pulled, magazine back in, weapons not cocked as I stood over them.
With the Puma blasting us – and helping to disperse the smoke, its tail rotor close enough to be a worry, I pointed at Henri and waved his line of men in, followed by the Chinook crew, the upset RAF crewman just about carried along, the Puma soon lifting off and climbing over the back wall, my lads all now knelt in a line, eyes everywhere, rifles ready. I counted them twice – came up short, panicked, then allowed for Swifty.
‘Swifty,’ Moran said when he noticed my look, and I nodded at him.
Puma down, I waved them all inside, finally sat on the side and easing my legs in as we lifted off over the broken rear wall. I had just closed the door when its glass shattered and turned white, the lads exchanging horrified looks. A second or two earlier and that round would have hit someone. Now we worried that the helicopter had been hit, and I tapped Rocko’s leg wound, a scrape. He nodded a signal to say that it was OK for now.
The joy of getting out of the prison was tempered by men looking up at the ceiling of the Puma, and wondering if it would catch fire or crash.
