by Geoff Wolak
Back at base I made sure that the metal boxes were checked, all kit back, and I sat with Moran, coffee in hand, some paperwork to tackle.
‘How’d it go?’ O’Leary asked.
‘They got some necessary exposure to what they needed to learn, or re-learn,’ I began. ‘A bit of a holiday away from here as well, one long route march through the jungle, which was experience for those who had not done it – like me.’
‘Ready to fight in the jungle?’
‘Not really,’ I responded. ‘I’d want a proper work-up period, acclimatisation. But, if need be, they’d do as well as anyone jungle trained, and many have done six week courses out there – and then forgotten the basics.’
‘Might have a job in Djibouti,’ O’Leary mentioned.
‘French are there, civil war,’ I noted.
‘There are hostages, which would be an excuse,’ O’Leary mentioned.
‘Excuse to ... thin out the bad guys,’ I noted, a look exchanged with Moran.
‘Oh, new lads got here this morning – expecting you back, they’re sorting out accommodation, got a temporary set-up, old mansion that officers used to use, one still living there, a few rooms spare. They’ll all be here in the morning for orders.’
‘Who ... exactly?’ I puzzled. ‘Mouri and ..?’
‘Snitty, if you can believe that name,’ O’Leary began.
‘They call him Snotty,’ I put in, nodding.
‘And Westbourne and Dimick, not sure about nicknames. All SBS on loan.’
‘Find out from Bob if Mouri can stay on when his year is up.’
O’Leary made a note. ‘And ask the RSM to contact the sniper school - his mate, and see if we can get the last two lads on the three-day as soon as we can.’
‘How did Smitty do in Belize?’
I made a face. ‘He loves it, keeps up with everyone. He lacks the kill that Rocko has, but he’ll get there.’
‘Should Smitty do the three-day?’ Moran asked.
‘Yes, but when he can do well at it, I don’t want him disheartened. Bob may have a use for him, and that doesn’t mean he has to score well. He’s excellent at house breaking.’ I faced O’Leary. ‘Arrange some extra house breaking for him, advancing step by step, and alarms. Perhaps he could be our specialist in that area, he has the knack for it, so I’m thinking that he had more than just a paper round making cash in his youth.’
At home that evening I called Bob.
‘All back safe?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, no problems, no one bitten by a deadly snake.’
‘Good training?’
‘Not really, bit of a break and a holiday, some training benefit, some experience for the new lads, and one hell of a long jungle route march for us all – good experience. But don’t go thinking we’re jungle trained and volunteering us for some job, I’d want a longer work-up period.’
‘Got no jungle jobs in the offing.’
‘But maybe Djibouti...’
‘Yes, but it’s not definite since there’s no clear need, no newspaper headline waiting. There are hostages, a few white faces, French I think, but the French did make an informal request for you because the terrain is very much like Morocco, and the PM is interested because we like to use French hardware, cutting back ourselves, and future defence reviews may see us sharing hardware with the French.’
‘And sharing risk...’
‘Yes, it helps with that as well.’
‘I have no objections to a job there, but it should be a six week to three month job, some rotations out. But there is one angle here that will keep the powers happy, and that’s if we drag in other units, as someone said recently – valuable wartime experience accrued in peacetime.’
Bob laughed. ‘Yes, I heard that phrase as well.’
‘So how about volunteers only, a dozen men from a few units, plus RAF, plus medics, one giant live-firing exercise. I doubt we’d get full-on support from the regular SAS for any length, but volunteers could be used, rotated out.’
‘How long before you could be ready?’
‘At least two weeks,’ I said. ‘Some specific training, some training with the volunteer units. Drag Captain Harris and some of his buddies up to you, a thorough briefing on the French dispositions and assets, background and geography, then they brief us, and we’ll start on a plan. In the meantime, I’ll contact other units and put it across as a maybe.’
‘I’ll start the ball rolling this end.’
The next day, a Saturday, I called the Air Commodore at home.
‘Wilco, my lad, coming around to see the wife?’
‘Soon, sir, soon. Listen, I may have a job in Djibouti, not much of a need for RAF support because the French have aircraft and helicopters to hand, but ... might be a good exercise for your lot.’
‘We’d be interested, yes.’
‘Could you see if the medics have a dozen volunteers, six weeks away, and the RAF Regiment could send two flights at a time, two weeks and rotate, experience for them.’
‘Be on it first thing Monday, because Angola shook out the cobwebs, made people think about what we need and what we can do, small wars are good for that, and the various units are milking it. RAF Regiment recruitment posters have them sat in a Chinook – in support of special forces in Africa.’
I laughed. ‘Why not.’
‘And the medics have posters of them in Chinooks and Hercules, also in support of special forces in Africa.’
‘Then we’re doing some good, sir. Let’s talk again next week, but make it look like you’ve heard about it and want in.’
‘I always make it look like it was my idea,’ the dryly stated, making me laugh. He put his dear lady wife on and we chatted for ten minutes.
At 5pm I drove around to the mansion come boarding house, finding that it offered splendid gardens and enough grass to play golf on. I found Mouri coming out, and he led me in and gathered the other lads, soon in the communal – yet very dated Victorian kitchen, and getting the kettle on. I had a good look at a stove that could have been first used in 1875, and I peered up at a ceiling that had to be fourteen feet high.
‘We do the three-day scenario next week,’ Westy and Dicky - as they were known – informed me. ‘Your RSM moved us up ahead of someone.’
Westy was a carbon copy of Tomo, tall and slim yet fit with it, an intense look and jet black hair, a nose that had been broken and reset, whereas Dicky was short and stocky, a thick neck, no hair, a few scars visible.
‘You may be in at the deep end, we have a job in Djibouti, near Ethiopia, and it would be at least six weeks of fighting in shit terrain.’
‘What we signed up for, Guv,’ Westy said, Dicky nodding.
Dicky explained, ‘Life’s a bit dull down in Poole, and my troop officer was a right prick, glad to get away. Being shot has to be better than looking at his face every day. Guy has never fired a shot in anger yet talks the talk as if he has.’
Westy asked, ‘How many confirmed kills do you have?’
‘I stopped counting after three hundred,’ I told them, and they exchanged looks.
‘Odd to meet you it was,’ Mouri began, ‘after hearing the stories, and in the British Army – or any army – they’re always exaggerated.’
‘True, but I’ve not gone a month without seeing action somewhere, from Northern Ireland to Bosnia to West Africa and Angola, and that doesn’t include the jobs for Mi6, who I work for technically.’
‘”E” Squadron is Mi6?’ Westy asked.
‘Yes and no. “E” Squadron is SAS, but was designed for Mi6 to use for operations around the world, dodgy jobs, political jobs, bodyguard work. Back in the day Mi6 had its own men, like SOE in the war, then Harold Wilson shut them down, and later “E” Squadron was formed, but Mi6 can borrow lads from the SAS or any service if they’re any good. I worked for them in Saudi in the Gulf War.
‘”E” Squadron was never supposed to be on the SAS base, they should have been separate, but I altered that, and a
fter a long list of successes “E” Squadron are no longer seen as the bad boys causing trouble, but more your regular work. Jobs like Somalia were typical “E” Squadron, in that if we had been killed or captured we’d not have been acknowledged as SAS – we’d have been left to rot.’
‘Bit unfair,’ Dicky noted.
‘If you want such a job, you take the risks, and it’s all a risk,’ I told them. ‘If you work well, and you have a good attitude, you could be asked to go off and do a naughty job some place.’
‘James Bond?’ Snotty asked.
‘Not with a face like yours, no,’ I said, making them laugh.
‘What’s wrong with this handsome mug? I’d look great in a tux.’ They laughed at him.
‘Whether you get selected, and don’t get kicked out, depends on attitude and blabbing. Bad attitude, and you go. Blab down the pub about jobs we do, and you go. Never touch another man’s kit, no practical jokes, and when you’re on the job you’re a stone cold professional, mess about all you like off duty.
‘Make an effort to get on with everyone, respect the troop sergeants and officers, or we’ll kick you out in an instant.’
‘What are the other officers like?’ Mouri asked.
‘Just me and Captain Moran, and he’s shit hot, better score than you on the three day; he can out run you and out shoot you. Rocko is your troop sergeant, was Paras Pathfinders, and he’d rip your head off if you answer back. Be warned, this is not regular work: if Rocko shoots you in the foot he’d not be prosecuted.’
They exchanged worried looks.
I continued, ‘Most SAS or SBS see action once a year, we see action every month; this is the sharp end. And don’t chat to the regular SAS too much, some have a shit attitude, and they will dick about with your kit. I had one smash my car door in.’
‘What happened to him?’ Dicky knowingly asked.
I took a moment. ‘His own car was trashed, his house trashed beyond repair, and he was pulled over by my friends in the police, heroin found on him and so he was kicked out. I’m not like other officers, fuck with me and it’ll hurt, and there’s no appeals process if you’re upset. Only option is to quit and return to the SBS.
‘We’re a small tight unit, and we go into action most every fucking week, so we need to be able to trust people, and get along with them. No room for clashes of personalities, because a bad mood can get someone killed. You could be in a war in three weeks, relying on us, so you’ll have to adapt quickly.’
Monday morning we welcomed the new lads, Elkin knowing them all except Mouri already, and I briefed the lads - that there might be a job in Djibouti, so maps and atlases were keenly consulted. I requested RTC driving instructors and two three-tonne trucks, and everyone would get at least four hours tuition in, Smitty and to get quite a few sessions in, Tomo fully qualified.
Rocko and Rizzo were tasked with long-axle Land Rover driving practise and maintenance for the lads, and I requested stores get us our own M82 fifty cal, and plenty of ammo.
Walking over to the HQ building, I knocked on the Colonel’s door, soon in and saluting. ‘Still happy to see my face, sir?’ I asked.
He waved me in. ‘Sit.’ He took a moment to study me. ‘Your outburst shook a few cobwebs loose, I’m leaving.’
‘What did I do?’ I quietly protested.
‘You ... made me think back to unhappy times, and to consider my future, and I don’t fancy staff college, so ... I’ve resigned, be gone in three months, house up for sale.’
‘That all took some planning, sir, so don’t pin it on me.’
‘No, not all down to you, but you helped make my mind up about this place, and I needed that final kick.’ He eased back. ‘I met a girl on holiday, younger than me, Asian girl -’
‘How much younger?’ I teased.
‘None of your sodding business,’ he said as I smiled at him. ‘I’ll be travelling with her, Far East, Australia, New Zealand, a little “me” time.’
‘Your kid here?’
‘Her mother is ... getting more difficult, has remarried, they don’t like me around.’
‘You have rights, sir.’
‘Not in this fucking country I don’t,’ he snapped. ‘She can be as difficult as she likes.’
I nodded. ‘I know that feeling.’
‘You and Kate..?’
‘We still talk, and she talks about me at dinner parties, so for now I still have my uses.’
‘You don’t sound at all bitter,’ he quipped.
‘Might be joining you in the Far East soon enough.’
He nodded. ‘What you after today?’
I eased back. ‘Bob has a job in Djibouti, solidarity with the French because we’re shutting down our own navy and giving back the helicopters we bought. It might be a long job, so ... I was thinking that the lads here volunteer, four weeks and rotate, give them all some experience.’
‘Sounds practical, yes. Some will be dead keen to kill someone, or to kill anyone, others have family and behave like old men. So yes, volunteers may be best.’
‘And from all squadrons, sir, say ten men from each per month.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll get that organised.’
‘Do it as a maybe, sir, we’re still finalising the plan.’
That week I had the new lads on the AKM – stripping, cleaning and firing, everyone getting in some time in Sennybridge on the M82 fifty cal and the GPMG since I knew what the terrain would be like, and they were all required to snipe at 600yards with the AKM.
Westy and Dicky tackled the three-day scenario with a purpose and scored eighty eight and eighty seven, which was OK for now, Rocko winding them up about the scores, the “Salties” as he referred to Marines and SBS.
That following week, as plans were seen to be coming together at Bob’s end, I got a call from the Air Commodore, and he was pressing for the RAF Regiment to be involved, soon a call coming from the CO of 2 Squadron. He had eight men that were considered to be shit hot, all volunteers, and they would be made available, plus any others we wanted on rotation.
I had Swifty sent across to Abingdon for a day, AKM work-up and firing for the chosen eight, Bob arranging for a dozen AKM to be handed to 2 Squadron, plus a shit load of ammo. Swifty reported that they had some good lads, and that most were considering applying for the SAS.
I placed a call into the SBS, and they were also keen, a team of ten to be ready, AKMs used, practise to start in earnest.
Fl Lt Morten then called me, and he had a fourteen man-and-woman team, a surgical ability, and they were training hard, working on fitness and marching with heavy back packs. They had been practising loading their tents and kit into a Hercules on two jeeps, flying to a remote airfield, driving off and setting up their tented MASH unit – to be inspected by Morten, then have it taken down and brought back the same way. They were truly mobile.
“G” Squadron called me, offering a troop on rotation, soon “B” Squadron on the phone, and “D” Squadron listed twelve men volunteering, Captain Hamble with them. He had done the three-day without me noticing and scored eighty one, more than OK for an officer, three other troop captains not evening putting their names down for it – a bit lame we all agreed. Hamble’s name was down on the volunteers list.
I dispatched Swifty to Poole, and he took the SBS volunteers to the range, AKM work-up practise, sniping at 600yards, rapid shooting at 100yards and 200yards. Their lads ranged from very good to just OK, so I rang their CO and bitched a little. They would be back on the ranges.
The following Monday, and Swifty returned to Abingdon to find that the volunteer unit had been using up the ammo in a hurry, but were all now shit hot, evenings and weekends given up to get standards up.
Bob came down that day, men and maps with him, as well as two nice lady Captains from Intel. I had seen the French dispositions and hardware listed a week ago, and I had viewed the map of a late evening or early morning. I had half a plan.
With our ping pong table brought back i
nto use - the Major called over with Hamble, I had Moran, Harris and Bob’s team stood around a large map.
‘OK,’ I began. ‘What’s been happening in recent years in sunny Djibouti ... is that the French have come and gone, ebbed and flowed, and I suspect that politics has much to do with that.
‘They have several fixed bases, safe bases near the coast, although they have had men killed and wounded from individuals loyal to the rebels, so safe is a relative term.
‘They also have fixed bases in the hills, and the way it works ... is that they move into one, get mortared on, rocket attacks, small arms fire, a few half-hearted assaults, take casualties and withdraw. If there’s any logic to their strategy ... be fucked if I can find it.
‘They also send out jeep patrols, and when they engage the rebels they kill ten for every French soldier wounded, yet they’ve not gained ground or secured the main roads. Such patrols are denial of area ... and they’re half hearted. Overall, they’ve not moved forwards or backwards in years.’
‘And your plan?’ Bob nudged.
‘Simple: we use the French as nice smelly bait. The French move back into certain bases a day after our helo inserts into the approaches to those bases, and we wait the bad guys.’
‘Downside?’ Bob asked.
‘It’s mountain goat country, broken ankles a good possibility, slow moving, and carrying a casualty out would be near impossible over jagged rocks. But, at the end of the day, it’s simple and in our favour. When the French move in the locals tip off the rebels, who then attack in a predictable way, so we play our game on chosen ground, to suit us, a war of attrition.
‘Then there’re the hostages, and the rebel leadership. They hang out in the hills, a plateau with few accessible roads, donkeys are often used to move munitions around. There’ve been no attempts to hit that area because it can only be reached by helicopter – or a three week donkey trek – and the rebels have fifty cal Duska, RPGs, the rebel HQ an old fort built into a hill and a bit tough to raid.
‘French considered a fixed wing attack, but there are civilians in the fort, kids in a school, and – oddly enough – an old monastery with a hundred monks in.’
