by Geoff Wolak
Touching down, French soldiers met us and assisted with stretchers, the wounded carried around to the medical tents, some placed on jeeps and driven slowly around. Four French army medics assisted with the wounded, our keen reporter getting plenty of snaps.
I got to the control tower and called back the Cessnas. When they landed, I had them join me in the command room. Stood over the map I said, ‘Get fully fuelled - always one of my lot in with you, armed, survival gear in the rear, water, binoculars, and fly due east seventy miles, find this mine, then go due north at two thousand feet, try and spot the bad guys. They could be sixty miles north by now, or hanging around. Go!’
The pilots rushed out with Swifty and Moran.
That evening there was a buzz to the place, people more alert now, everyone talking about the attack at the mine, our medics having been kept busy. A French transport had landed around 5pm and had taken the wounded away, most with drips in arms, many hands assisting them onto the aircraft.
Our cheap and low-tech, low and slow spy planes, had returned after sundown and the pilots and observers met me in the command room.
‘We spotted a vehicle convoy,’ Moran began. ‘Armed men, heading north, probably thirty miles north of the mine, and the road they were on would take them northeast.’ He put a finger on the map. ‘That town.’
‘It’s a hotbed of activity according to intel,’ I told them. ‘OK, so we have some action, and now we have half a plan. Captain Moran, Swifty, make sure you have sat phones, sleep in the pilots area, and I want you up and off before dawn, fly to that town and have a look around, report back. I’m going to put a patrol on that road, high visibility, denial of area. Pilots, to bed early, long day for you tomorrow.’
‘So much for the training work-up period,’ a pilot quipped.
‘It’ll be on-the-job training,’ I responded.
I called a command meeting at 7pm, the same faces assembled, but now keenly attentive, our reporter sat with notepad ready. ‘OK, listen up. All training patrols are cancelled for tonight, get to bed early, we’ll be off before dawn. Make sure your jeeps are fully stocked and fully fuelled.
‘We will all drive east, at least all those that can fit into the jeeps, but each unit should leave two men behind ready to go out in the Pumas, so that’s eight men plus RAF regiment to call upon.
‘Seventy miles due east is the mine that was hit, and we’ll go pay our respects there first and have a chat. We’ll then split up, in so much as we will all drive the same route but at least two miles apart. If any one unit is attacked, the others can close in quickly.
‘We could drive around as one long patrol, and scare the locals, but we don’t want that, we want them to attack us. If we scare them ... then they’ll just go away and attack mines a week after we’ve gone home to the green and wet land.
‘So, my jeeps will take the lead in the morning, then the Paras, then the SAS split into two groups, make sure that you all have sat phones. The plan is simple: we drive the route indicated on the map here, camp out together, then drive back the next day. Part of the aim is denial of area, in that we convince them that there are patrols out and about, and part of the aim is convince them that those patrols are small – and could be attacked.
‘We have the Pumas on standby, and we have two Cessna spotter planes overhead and scouting ahead for us. OK, Captain Harris, what intel on the mine attack?’
Faces turned towards him.
‘About thirty men in the attack, eight vehicles seen. They dismounted, sprayed it around for five minutes and drove off, two RPG fired. Eight dead, twelve wounded, one of the wounded died. We have little more than that to go on.’
‘Do we know numbers?’ I asked.
‘They don’t often come together in large groups, but there are thousands of resistance fighters, most holding down a day job and picking up a weapon now and then.’
‘So what we can expect,’ I told everyone, ‘is that they may wait weeks before hitting another target, so we’ll offer them some bait.’
A Para raised his arm.
‘Go ahead,’ I told him.
‘Rules of engagement, sir?’
‘Different now, and different around that town. If they open fire then we attack, we flank, and we kill every last one of them. But never fire near civilians if you can help it, better to withdraw. Most likely, if there is an engagement, it will be on an open road, no cover, sniping at each other at five hundred yards. We have the sniper rifles and the trained men, they don’t.
‘If you do come under attack, use the GPMGs on your vehicles - sure, but your best tactic is to spread out and find a hollow, run fifty yards left and right, then snipe at them. As with the mine, they’ll spray it around, so you can get hit by accident. If you’re spread out, less chance of that.
‘If this was a normal engagement, say in a forest in Europe, you’d stay together and fight as teams, but the land here is dead flat in many places – bunching up is a bad idea.’
The reporter raised his hand. ‘Can I tag along?’
‘No, because I’m not going to explain your death to some irate editor.’
‘I came to have a look, won’t see much stuck around here.’
‘You’re lucky to have gotten this far -’
‘I know the risks,’ he cut in with. ‘And in Bosnia I went out on patrols, and my boss knows what a nutcase I am, that’s why he sent me. That and the fact that he’d like to see me killed.’
The men laughed.
I took a moment, and faced our logistics officer. ‘What do you say, sir?’
He made a face. ‘Been many embedded reporters in the wars, many killed. It’s his life to throw away, and we’re all witnesses to the fact that you discouraged him – and that he still wants to go.’
I faced the Press Corp major. ‘Major?’
‘We discussed this before coming out, and we see no problem with a patrol, but we would shy away from him being on a rescue.’
I nodded, and faced our reporter. ‘OK, you got yourself some risk exposure. Guys, if he’s killed, check to see if he has anything worth stealing in his kit.’ They laughed at our new hero.
I did the rounds at 10pm and told people to bed down, and I was up early, peeing into the sand outside the hut, the RAF Regiment lads on guard nearby. The canteen would not be open at this hour, but we had rations, including tins of meat, so my wholesome breakfast consisted of water, corned beef and chocolate Rolos as the lads stirred. I left Mouri and Napoleon in bed, they would be in the Pumas.
Checking my watch, I gave the rest of the lads a nudge, soon leading them out into the pre-dawn darkness, our jeeps claimed, engines turned over as the SAS started their jeeps. Driving slowly around to the access road we parked up and waited, the Paras a little late and finally pulling in behind us, the SAS behind them.
My detachment occupied four jeeps, and I now mounted up next to Dicky and waved him on. Turning east I peered over my left shoulder, my window down, seeing a long line of vehicle headlights.
‘Like going on holiday as a kid,’ Smitty commented from the back.
‘It is?’ Dicky asked. ‘You must have gone to some strange fucking places!’
‘We always got up early and drove early,’ Smitty explained. ‘Beat the traffic, my dad used to say.’
I smiled. ‘My father too, as we drove down from Gloucester to Cornwall or Devon.’
‘We got the fucking sand,’ Smitty said. ‘Any water?’
Dicky coughed a laugh. ‘No fucking water here unless you bring it with you.’
‘Deep down there’s water,’ I idly commented as we progressed down the road. ‘They drill for it. If we run out, get your shovel out and dig down a mile or so.’
‘Moisture in the air,’ Smitty said. ‘Plastic traps it. Look.’
We peered at the long plastic sheets covering crops as we drove past them.
The border was indicated with a sign that someone had shot at, and an hour later the sun started to rise dead ahead. Twenty miles short
of the mine I told Dicky to pull over.
‘Get a brew on.’
Jumping down, I walked back along the line as the eastern skyline turned pink, telling everyone to get a brew on. Most jeeps soon sat with open bonnets, kettles sat on warm engine parts, but they would be brought to the final boil by a hexamine cooker.
Sat with a metal mug in hand, sipping my tea and eating chocolate Rolos, I stared at a gerbil scurrying about the sand and looking for juicy grubs to eat as the sun rose over an orange featureless expanse of nothingness, a lunar landscape of sand and sharp rocks. I could see our reporter chatting to the SAS, tea mug in hand.
Tooting the horn of our jeep after checking my watch, I gave the lads a minute to mount up, and we set off east again.
A lorry passed us, no doubt a local farmer heading to market, but also someone who might report our position, and nearing the mine we passed large trucks full of whatever ore they mined here. Approaching the mine, we passed huge mounds of red sandy ore, the Earth’s surface having been rudely cut open and piled up. At the gate the locals were nervous.
‘British Army and French Army, we patrol. Boss ... mine ... here?’
They pointed, and we drove in and parked at the main building, faces peering out. Armed men were making them nervous. I stepped over to the offices and the South African manager appeared, recognising me from yesterday.
He took in the jeeps. ‘We well protected now, eh?’
‘We’re not here to protect the mine, sorry, we’ll go out on patrol in this region. To get to you ... they’ll have to use roads, and we’re watching the roads.’
The buzz of a Cessna caused us to look up.
‘And we have spotter planes up.’
‘That should help, yes. Come on in, get you some coffee.’
He led me through and to his office, the coffee made. Sitting down, I gave him my sat phone number; he had the base number already.
‘See anything suspicious, call me, we can be here quickly by helicopter.’
‘So how come there’s British yer, been just French as long as I can people yer can remember.’
‘Joint venture, closer cooperation, that sort of thing. We’re the same team that rescued hostages in Western Mauritania, and Angola.’
‘That was you? I read about it. I was working in Mauritania last year, been over yer four months, right fucking spot this is – nothing for a thousand miles in any direction.’
‘But the money must be good,’ I nudged.
‘Why else do this?’ he said with a shrug, and offered me some cake. ‘Ten years from now I’ll be retired, at fifty, and back down in South Africa, a farm, a good size.’
‘How many times have they hit this mine?’ I asked.
‘That was the first big problem for a year or so, and before that they shot at drivers or at the gatehouse.’
‘So they’re stepping things up a bit,’ I noted. ‘Good job we’re here.’
Ten minutes later I rejoined the troops, our reporter having photographed the mine – as well as the blood stains, and we set off back west, soon turning north at the first junction, having briefed the teams whilst at the mine. As we drove on the Paras slowed down till we could not see them, the SAS doing likewise, all teams aiming at thirty-five miles per hour steady once the gap had been created.
An hour later, and I saw the Cessna come over as it headed north, and ten minutes later my sat phone trilled.
‘Wilco here.’
‘It’s Moran, can you hear me?’
‘Just about, lot of background noise.’
‘Body in the desert, ahead of you a few miles. Look for a mud brick house on the right, fuck all else around. Body on the left. Moran out.’
I put my phone away. ‘They spotted a body up ahead.’
We soon saw the mud brick abode and slowed down, easing to a halt fifty yards from it as it stood out alone on the landscape. Ahead, on the left, lay small dried brown bushes, dense enough for someone to hide in. I stepped down, signalling the others to get down and to spread out. We soon had an all-round fire position as Rocko and Rizzo came up to me.
‘What’s up?’ Rizzo puzzled.
‘Cessna reported a body, there on the left somewhere, opposite the mud house.’
I got up onto the bonnet, then up onto the luggage rack, and peered ahead. I thought I saw something blue. Using my rifle sight I peered at the bushes, finally seeing a boot. As I observed it, it moved, and bodies don’t move.
In one fast motion I knelt, got a hand on the side and launched myself onto the sand whilst shouting, ‘Contact!’
Hitting the sand I rolled, and was down as the blast washed over me.
Rizzo’s face blocked the sun. ‘You OK?’ he shouted.
‘I .... think so, yeah.’ He helped me up, a monster of a cloud of dust rising up and expanding towards us. I clicked on my radio. ‘There’s a man, ten o’clock, hundred yards. Open fire.’
Cracks permeated the air as I knelt and caught my breath, taking a drink to wash out my mouth. Behind, the sounds of a jeep screeching to a halt was overlapped by a GPMG firing out.
‘Rocko, take men right and around. Cease fire!’ I stood and walked back beyond our jeeps, waving for the Paras to cease fire. It grew quiet as the Para sergeant ran forwards, our reporter closing in.
‘You OK?’ the Paras asked.
‘Got down just as the blast hit. Roadside bomb. Take a few men, go left hundred yards, some fucker out there.’
Hearing the Cessna, I dialled Moran.
‘Can you hear me?’ Moran asked.
‘Just about. Listen, there was a roadside bomb, but we’re OK. Try and spot the trigger man, come in low.’
‘Roger that,’ came back distorted. ‘Stay on the line.’
I peered up as the Cessna dived towards us, the aircraft soon banking over and turning tightly.
‘Nothing, no one there.’
‘Then he’s hidden. Carry on with what you were doing, we’ll get him. Wilco, out.’
I clicked on the radio. ‘Listen up, plane can’t see the guy, so he’s hidden. Be careful.’
I turned to find Captain Hamble as he closed in. To the closest Para driver I said, ‘Get a fuel can, we’re going to burn down some bushes and choke the fucker.’
With the lads covering me, more jeeps pulling up, I walked forwards to the edge of the bushes – Rocko and his men off to the right, pouring the fuel for a minute before lobbing the can ten yards towards where I had seen the man. Lighting the bushes, which went up easily they were so dry, I knelt, seeing the Paras moving left bent double.
The fire spread like wildfire, crackling, the gentle breeze in the right direction, light grey smoke given off.
A burst of fire came from the Paras and Rocko at the same time.
‘He’s down!’ came a voice.
‘Get the body before he burns!’ I shouted.
The Paras ran into the smoke, dragging out a man by his wrists, and onto the sand.
‘Any papers or ID, otherwise leave him.’
A minute later a Para walked over with an ID card. ‘Might do some good. I think that guy trained in Northern Ireland, Boss.’
‘Bomb on a wire,’ I noted, pocketing the ID card. ‘Mount up, carry on as before!’
An hour of boring road produced no more excitement, and instead of skirting the town we decided to drive straight through it, to show them we were still alive, and we made it out the other side without incident, many black faces having stared at us, kids running around and waving at us.
Turning west, we drove for an hour and then halted on a rise, a brew on. I took out my sat phone.
‘Captain Harris here.’
‘It’s Wilco.’
‘Still in one piece.’
‘You heard?’
‘From Moran, he’s down, Swifty is up.’
‘At least we know we’re in the right place, and real fucking unpopular with it!’
‘Are you still going to patrol?’
‘Yes,
same plan, no injuries. Wilco out.’
Henri closed in on me. ‘If you had stopped by that house...’ He shrugged.
‘Luck, my friend, just luck.’
‘To the south, sometimes they put a wire on the road, a bomb attached.’
‘We’ll have to keep a sharp lookout,’ I said, sipping my water, the day hot, the road shimmering as I looked out to the horizon. I wandered back to the Paras jeeps.
‘This is a lovely spot, ain’t it, Boss. Locals are friendly as well.’
‘It’s their turf, and they want to be independent from the south; always some fucker wanting to re-draw the borders, or break away.’
‘This is a bad place to have some shit happen,’ another man said. ‘Not so much as a blade of grass, and them rocks look like fucking razors.’
‘You’d prefer a cold wet night in Armagh?’ I teased.
‘I’d have to stop and think about that one.’
I reached Crab and Hamble, stood with our reporter.
‘Roadside fucking bombs?’ Crab complained.
‘Need to drive slow and look ahead, and then be lucky,’ I told him.
‘Good for defensive positions, this place,’ Hamble noted. ‘Can see for miles, but that also makes it damn hard to sneak up on them.’
I nodded, taking in the featureless horizon. ‘Going to need to re-think our plan, not that we have one, maybe use the helicopters more.’
‘Can’t walk around here,’ Crab complained, wiping his brow with his sleeve. ‘Those rocks would tear your boots up in no fucking time. Sand is OK, but this place is all fucking rocks.’
I faced our reporter. ‘If you had been in the front jeep, and if we had halted thirty yards on, you’d be a headless corpse in the sand. Getting enough excitement?’
He exchanged looks with the others. ‘I’ve had better ideas on how to spend a pleasant day.’
They laughed at him.
He said, ‘Who was that bomb for, we just got here?’
‘For the French patrols,’ I said. ‘But the local police also patrol, local army. He must have figured that after the mine attack there would be an increase in patrols, standard tactic.’
Crab told our reporter, ‘Pleasant fucking spot, ain’t it. And you could be in a nice office in London.’
