by Geoff Wolak
‘Recently, sir, it was felt that I should have a rank that reflects the ... high level planning and organisation I get involved with.’
‘Yes, can’t be an enlisted man and be in a position of influence, and you always had the General’s ear.’
‘How is General Dennet?’
‘Still moving on up, be head of the Army one day they reckon.’
‘Be good to have a friend at the top,’ I said. ‘Help get me out of trouble.’
‘You have lots of friends at the top I hear, not least the Prime Minister,’ he teased.
We chatted for ten minutes before another group of officers dragged him away. Just as I was thinking of leaving, two Hercules pilots wandered in, but in clean and pressed blue uniforms, and they came straight over, ordering us beers before sitting.
‘Brought some of your lot down today,’ the pilot said. ‘And the kit. Be taking you down to Djibouti in a few days.’
‘Four engines, or just the two?’ I quipped.
They laughed. ‘Engineers found a bad fuel mix, we cleaned it out and refuelled, she’s been fine since.’
The co-pilot asked, ‘We be needing any cement on this run down, Captain?’
I cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘No, Flying Officer - a rank beneath me, but maybe gunners in the doors. And when you’re down there, trust no fucker, they lob grenades over the fence.’
‘That FOB, it safe?’ the pilot asked with a smirk.
‘Hell no, that’s why it’s a forward operating base,’ I told him. ‘A few stray rounds, RPG here and there. French are on the perimeter, so it’s their responsibility. I don’t think they’ve lost a plane yet.’
‘So what’s the job?’ they asked.
‘Hostage rescue, but it could take a while to find them,’ I said.
‘I did the run down there last year, Egyptian fighters came up and shadowed us, some mix up in flight plans. We now cross Sinai to Sharm airport beacon, then follow the water south using the Saudi beacons. Simple.’
‘How long?’ I asked.
‘Eight to nine hours on a good day, air traffic control permitting.’
I was glad to get back to the huts, our driver still a bit puzzled as to who we were, and I checked in on both troops, beer having found its way in. I was not mad at them, since we were not in a war zone – and I had just drunk four pints, but Moran gently told off his troop and reminded them we were up in the morning.
At 6am everyone was ready, the SBS lads a little late, and we started the run as the sun offered us a brilliant morning, two RAF PTIs keenly leading the way, and at a brisk pace.
One complete lap of the airfield and we were sweating, that lap being more than five miles, RAF Tornados taking off on some training sortie. We had glimpsed the ocean at several points, a welcoming sight on the horizon, but also a distraction; we all wanted a cool swim.
After a quick wash we jogged as a group, webbing on, and to scrub land, jeeps and rations waiting, and we sat in the dirt and cooked our rations in small groups. I sat chatting to Mouri about the New Zealand SAS and their training stints with the Australians. Seems their selection was based on the British SAS standard, the mountains in the South Island very similar to Wales, the sheep very familiar, the houses and the accents the same. Brecon was home from home for him.
The 2 Squadron lads had missed us, then had their own run without seeing us, and had breakfast in the canteen after a shower. They joined us at 9am, kit on, and we took coaches to the base’s long range, the range facing south towards the ocean.
A competition was organised, AKMs to be used, each man given twenty rounds, the scores tallied and averaged out. We won easily enough, the RAF Regiment second, the SBS just a point under them – much banter from our SBS lads towards their former colleagues. I moved everyone forwards, and groups of four would practise advancing and firing, withdrawing and firing, troop sergeants behind and shouting.
Rations were again cooked, just off the range and on scrub land, and after lunch I gave a lecture on trauma first aid as they sat in the shade of the range roof, and I had brought many tampons and yellow elastic tourniquets, all handed out and shown where they should be stored.
In groups they would simulate a gunshot wound, and I spent time with the 2 Squadron lads, shouting a bit, making sure they had it right. We went through fluid replacement in the field, compound factures, dislocations, dehydration and dysentery, personal hygiene, many questions fired at them.
Towards sun down we organised another run, this time with the 2 Squadron lads in tow, once around the airfield. An hour after evening meal a speed march in full kit was held, ten miles, most everyone sweating and quite spent – Mouri always cheerful, but the lads were allowed to sleep after 10pm.
In the morning we boarded coaches with our full kit, extra kit in boxes and the local RAF Regiment helping out, some formerly from 37 Squadron and keen to chat to me, a long coach ride to the west, poor roads, and up into the hills. I had men waiting, organised in secret, as well as a great many sandbags and small shovels, dried old branches and string.
Down from the coaches, we were led half a mile to a spot I had chosen off the map a week earlier – a flat area with a good view down a valley, and I arranged the lads, the local RAF Regiment stood ready to assist.
‘OK, listen up,’ I shouted. ‘Where you’re stood is Camp Bad. West is the enemy. The edge of this flat area is the cliff.’ I pointed. ‘RAF Regiment, the rear, SBS far side, my lads this side. You have trenches to dig, sandbags to fill, but you must also maintain covering fire positions and take this seriously.
‘You have two hours to get settled in, and if it’s not done properly you’ll be running all the way back to the fucking base. And officers – you die from incoming mortars just like your men, so dig.’ I checked my watch. ‘On your marks – go, you fuckers!’
They ran to their corners after grabbing handfuls of sandbags, and started to get organised, two men in fire positions maintained.
After an hour they were sweating, the sun climbing higher, those in fire positions rotating, and trenches were appearing in the hard sandy soil, sandbags piled up.
Coming up to two hours I reminded them of the time, and the need for sun shelters. Brown cloth or ponchos were taken out, twigs used, covers rigged up. From a jeep, the local RAF Regiment lads handed out cammo netting, and sometime after the two hours I checked each position from the front, its depth, the use of the sandbags, its effectiveness as a fire position, comments made, plenty of time spent with the 2 Squadron lads.
Calling them all in, I told them to have a drink and to cook rations, giving them one hour, but rations had to be cooked under cover in their slit trenches.
With the hour up I shouted that fact, and told each troop to dig further down as I handed out more sandbags, the lads soon sweating again.
At 4pm, the sun dipping, I was handed a bag of grenades, my rifle slung. ‘Take cover!’ I shouted. ‘Get down!’
I first approached Moran’s troop, four trenches with two men in each, and I pulled the pin on a grenade as they peered around, wide-eyed. ‘Grenade!’ I shouted, and lobbed the grenade just six feet in front of the first position, diving down behind, the blast washing over me – and over the men inside.
Mouri and Napoleon had a deep hole and a good number of sandbags to hand, they had even camouflaged it a little. Westy and Snotty had a wider hole, not as deep, fewer sandbags, little cover at the rear – and were told so.
With each position I lobbed a grenade, everyone staying low, and I soon stepped back to the 2 Squadron lads. ‘Get your fucking heads down!’
Blast after blast washed over them, their officer not looking happy. Back in the centre, I called them all in.
‘Form a circle, kneel down.’ I waited. ‘OK, in a few short days you will have a grenade blast like that – only louder and more dangerous – every few hours. Get used to it, think about it, plan for it. You’ll be spending tonight in your fox holes, and from time to time I will be sniping
at you, so stay down. You cook in them, you shit in them, you don’t move from them. Get used to it.
‘And if you want them deeper or more comfortable, make them more comfortable, make a happy home, always one guy in the fire position, one sleeping, never both. Troop sergeants, you have till 10pm to check on your men, adjust positions, and to dispense useful advice – no bedtime stories please.
‘The purpose of this exercise ... is to think about life in a trench getting shot at, and how to make it comfy and bearable. Go to it.’
After they returned to their trenches the local RAF Regiment lads carried out man-sized targets, around two hundred yards out, and hammered them into the soil, some resting against distant stone walls or against trees. When my helpers were back I walked around each troop.
‘When you hear a blast in the night, shoot the target you can see once or twice, then settle down. Never ... just ignore the blasts, never go back to sleep till ten minutes has passed.’
After the sky turned black and the stars had put in an appearance I sent a keen local RAF Regiment corporal down with thunderflashes, and he lobbed them over the top of each position, some a bit close. Shots echoed out, the cracks echoing off nearby hills.
Then nothing, and I sat in a jeep for an hour chatting about Saudi and the Gulf War. Checking my watch, I gave our helpers the signal, and they radioed a man waiting. He flicked a switch, one hell of a blast throwing soil into the air, soil and rocks raining down on many of the west-facing trenches, smoke wafting over the position.
Smiling, I gave a nod, and a whistling sound preceded two blasts inside the field, but there were just cement powder, rounds cracking out towards the targets.
I left it an hour almost, then sent a message, the 2 Squadron lads subject to cement blasts a little too close for comfort, followed by a large blast that rained down sand and dirt.
Sneaking off, I got a comfy fire position behind a rock and loosed off rounds into the dirt in front of trenches for ten minutes. Risking going further east fifty yards, but hidden behind a low wall, I fired over the trenches and into the middle of the field.
Back at the rock, half an hour later, I set automatic and fired long bursts into the dirt in front of the trenches, and an hour later I worried the 2 Squadron lads with some close fire.
By dawn they were exhausted, sleep grabbed an hour at a time at most, the local RAF Regiment lads asleep in the jeeps, and I woke everyone with three loud blasts.
Whistle blown, I called them all in, many a bit slow. ‘Make safe your weapons!’ I bellowed, and they did, some a bit slow. ‘OK, I hope you all slept well.’
‘Fucking sadist,’ came back from the SBS, Mouri as cheerful as ever.
‘What you experienced yesterday and last night is what you can expect in a few days time,’ I said as Sergeant Crab walked up, a smirk on his face. It had been his explosives.
‘Sleep well?’ he asked, getting back a few rude comments.
‘Think about the trenches, how to make them safe, make them comfy, how to rotate duty and sleep, how to cook in them, how to shit in them. Right, you have one hour to cook breakfast, then we leave. Get to it.’
An hour later, as the coaches returned, the tired faces watched our volunteer SAS teams step down with Captain Hamble, fully kitted, and they would be occupying the trenches, unaware of sergeant Crab’s nasty surprises.
Rocko shouted, ‘I left something for you in my trench!’ the lads laughing.
Back at the huts the lads were allowed the day off, and most slept. The 2 Squadron officer, Haines, was a worry for me; he was tired and seemed stressed, but I was willing to help him rather than trip him up, so far at least.
The volunteer SAS troop occupied the trenches for half an hour, indeed finding a few things left behind, and they endured a route march through the hills, back before sun down, rations cooked. Hamble briefed them, and pointed out that I was nearby, and armed with grenades, which scared them – I was not seen as the most sane of people. Eyes peered out warily.
An hour after dark a blast rocked them, the targets fired at, and they were kept awake all night, partly by myself and partly by Crab, and at dawn they were bleary-eyed – as well as shell-shocked.
I gave them a similar speech, told them what to expect, and then brought them back to Akrotiri base, finding the French Paras – all fast asleep and so not disturbed, the RAF medics and two additional flights of 2 Squadron lads on the base. I had no intention of subjecting the medics to the same treatment, they would have to learn on the job, and we packed up ready, off before dawn the next morning, split over four Hercules, jeeps in several aircraft.
The eight hour flight dragged on; ocean, then desert, then ocean again, coastline and the odd oil refinery spotted far below, and we landed in a busy airfield, French transports around, a few Pumas.
Out of the aircraft for refuelling, we waited inside a hangar for an hour – nervous of the local blacks seen walking around, soon re-boarded and heading inland for a short flight, and I peered out of the window, trying to see detail as the sun dipped.
We landed as we lost the light, kit offloaded under floodlights, jeeps driven off, the medics driving off their jeeps with their bulky kit, and we had two long concrete huts to occupy, plus a nearby hangar.
Stag rotations were set, I was taking no chances, four men on at any one time and spread out. The jeeps were stowed in the hangar, two lads tasked with sleeping in them, other lads on stag nearby. Rations were cooked on concrete floors in the huts after beds and tables were moved aside, spirits high as the medics chatted to us.
An hour into our food, Henri appeared at the door, and we greeted him like a long lost relative; he and his men had just landed, but had been delayed leaving West Africa because of aircraft technical faults. They had flown back to France and then Cyprus and then down, a real fuck-up in planning, many French curses aimed at his government.
I told him to get some rest, and that we would chat in the morning. After checking in on the second hut, SBS and 2 Squadron - officers in with the men, I told them lights out at 11pm, and I repeated that in my own hut, people soon asleep, a few snoring, so I took stag till 2am and hit the bed feeling tired.
At 7am I nudged people awake, breakfast soon on, the RAF lady nurses being Irish and always with a joke on hand, and always with a comical put down for the lads, especially Rizzo, but they thought Tomo the best looking, so Tomo wound up Rocko and Rizzo about that fact.
Tomo then blew it, a joke about not minding a big arse, but was overheard. He got a slap, Rocko and Rizzo more than happy with the turn around, Tomo having learnt a painful lesson and being taunted something terrible.
Telling the teams to check vehicles over, I headed off with Moran and found Sergeant Crab and the volunteer SAS just now arriving with 2 Squadron - they had been delayed at the first airfield after technical faults. I grabbed Crab and Hamble and we headed for Henri.
His men greeted me loudly, arms in the air, hugs given, and we got nothing done for fifteen minutes – my rank a subject of many questions and many jokes. When they finally settled I took out a map and Henri studied it. His men would go to Camp Bad by Puma – we had to explain the name to him and he found it hilarious, and he would secure it with us, the French soldiers already there to be relieved and brought back, two platoons remaining.
Additional French soldiers would then escort our vehicle supply convoy up to Camp Bad during daylight hours - we’d not risk that road at night, and we’d settle in. Supplies were discussed, to be brought in by Chinook or Hercules once a week, the rest of the plan fluid. I told him that we would make no decisions about anything for a week; one step at a time. I got a suitably mocking salute as I left.
As my teams got ready two monster C5 Galaxy landed at the coast with support staff, a day late, so we boarded five French Pumas instead of our planned Chinooks, Henri to accompany me with just two of his men, the rest to follow the next day.
Lifting off, I bent double and peered out the window, keen to
see the lay of the land, but at first we crossed towns and factories, even railway marshalling yards. Soon I glimpsed sandy soil, then hills, mountains and cliffs, a very unfriendly landscape spread out below us.
Recognising the terrain, and feeling us slowing, I loaded my rifle, those in with me copying, and we hit with a bump and a cloud of dust, soon out and down and past a line of kneeling French soldiers. Seeing a high yet broken sandstone wall I ran to it and spun around as the Puma lifted off, soon kneeling with the lads and squinting, our backs to the wall, faces full of sand.
Seeing faces peeking out of trenches I waved, getting a wave back as the next line of French soldiers moved into place. Their tired faces told a story, those tired faces soon screwed shut as the Puma blasted them, British men out and to me, French men in. I directed my lot to the right, and they knelt.
With the 2 Squadron lads down I pointed them to a low stone wall at the south end. ‘Go there and wait, get fire positions,’ I said as the last Puma landed, Henri with it, and he led me to the cliff-top trenches as the Puma lifted off, a spectacular view offered to me.
Twelve French soldiers remained, a tired and dusty captain in charge, and I got my first glimpse of the dodgy OP and the steep rocky gullies, a small section of the road below visible.
‘I want these French at the rear,’ I told Henri. ‘Covering the road, well back.’
He translated, the captain shrugged, and he led his men out, packs and weapons carried, and off they went. I waved forwards my teams, and we all stood tall for a minute, staring at the spectacular view, the scene we had imagined, and had seen on the maps.
‘SBS, trenches on the right, fill them up right to left. Go!’
We observed as they occupied six positions, and I walked left. ‘Captain Hamble, Sergeant Crab, in this one,’ I said, pointing at a larger hole. ‘Regular SAS, fill them up right to left. Go!’
Men slipped into the holes as we moved left, past a gap with no positions, then to another line of recently vacated positions, more than enough for us. ‘Occupy the positions, two men in each!’
