by Geoff Wolak
After lunch they drove me back, and I showed them around the Killing House for ten minutes, taking my pistol out, the detectives loving it. I waved them off as the Colonel stepped out with the RSM. I saluted.
The Colonel began, ‘Had the Chief Constable on the phone, very pleased, quick work, forensics and the murderer inside of ten minutes. You’re slacking Wilco, I had bet on seven minutes.’
The RSM laughed.
‘Sorry, sir, be quicker next time.’ I gave them the story.
‘Very common, the murderer revisiting the scene,’ the RSM noted.
In the detachment room I gave them the story, all fascinated. Later, when it was just myself, Swifty and Moran sat with cups of tea, Swifty said, ‘Why’d you leave him alive?’
‘Who says he’ll live,’ I posed.
They exchanged looks.
‘You said he’s still alive and kicking.,’ Swifty puzzled.
I glanced around. ‘His airway was blocked for more than six minutes, he’s in a coma.’
‘Ah, a vegetable murderer,’ Swifty realised.
‘Anyway, Government in Mali wants me up on murder charges for that police station. Apparently, the cleaner and some visitor were caught in the crossfire. They’re filing charges.’
‘Fuckers,’ Swifty let out.
‘What’ll you do?’ Moran asked, concerned.
I took out my mobile and made a call. ‘Clifford on the newsdesk, please.’
The next morning The Sun, and many other papers, ran the story, that I was facing a court martial and murder charges for the rescue, innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire. They then listed a dozen hostage rescue attempts where police had accidentally killed hostages and civilians, including British and French police.
I made the lunchtime BBC news, questions asked in Parliament, and Bob called me.
‘Shit storm brewing,’ he began. ‘Everyone furious at the Mali Government, but the Prime Minister has been getting it in the neck for the suggestion that you could face a court martial. Given the mood of the public, and the mood of the average enlisted man, there’ll never be a trial.’
‘Good to know, it would have set a bad precedent for hostage rescues.’
‘Damn right. And most hostage rescues end in complete disaster. So how’s your back?’
‘Better day by day, but I’m not running, just gentle walking.’
‘Good result with the local police as well I hear, you made the Welsh papers, and I just heard that the story goes national tomorrow.’
‘All this publicity is useful, but some fucker will blow my cover soon enough.’
‘Doesn’t matter that much to the powers, they like the good publicity and the recruitment effect, so even if you never do a job again - just having your name out there helps.’
‘Bob, if you replace me with a body double when I’m dead I’ll come back to haunt you.’
He laughed. ‘You’ll be stuffed and put in a glass case, on display for young servicemen to look at.’
I had study material to go through - I was finally having to study how to be a captain, and the Major was helping a great deal; military law and procedures, military history, practises, planning. I had books to read, and when Ms Turner was asleep I would study, but she had a bad habit of turning over and leaving her boobs hanging out, which I would play with, she would wake and I’d shag her, then she’d go back off to sleep. She was wearing me out.
On the following Monday I got an early train up to London with a bag, civvy clothes, pistol under my jacket, the tube around to Charing Cross, regional line down to Greenwich, ID flashed, invite shown, and I claimed a small room, soon being issued chits for the officers mess, which was just a large canteen.
Kit dumped, I was to report to room 10.1 on the second floor, and I found it half full, all the officers in suits like me, and I grabbed a desk.
‘Captain Parkson, Engineers,’ said the man next to me, since we’d be sharing a desk.
‘Milton, er ... RAF Regiment.’
‘RAF? Here?’ he puzzled. ‘You a Flight Lieutenant?’
‘No, a captain.’
He adopted a deep frown. ‘Oh. Anyhow, no booze on this sortie, all work, work, work for a week.’
I nodded. ‘I’ve been reading the books like mad, but I studied military history as an enlisted man.’
‘Came up through the ranks, eh. You don’t look that old.’
‘Thanks, it’s the soap I use.’
His mouth opened and then closed, and he adopted a puzzled frown before offering a disapproving look.
The rest ambled in, then our teacher, a colonel in a suit. It went quiet. ‘OK, first we see who we have.’ He went down the list, and I was not on it. ‘Finally, we have a Milton, MOD.’
I raised a hand.
‘MOD? What does that mean? We’re all MOD. And you look familiar.’
‘SAS, sir.’
‘Then why did they not put that down, we have SAS officers all the time, no great secret,’ he said, my desk partner staring at me. ‘Even had one come in with a pistol under his arm.’
I smiled.
He stared across at me. ‘You’re armed.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He sighed theatrically. ‘You’ll need to hand it in.’
‘No, sir, can’t do that.’
‘You what?’
‘I keep it everywhere I go, even in the shower, sir.’
‘Why do you look familiar, and why are you disrupting my class, eh?’
‘Perhaps you could just forget that I have it, sir.’
‘I’ll notify the MOD police, and you can chat to them about it. They’ll persuade you.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it, sir,’ came from the back, our teacher not looking pleased.
I turned my head to match a head to the voice, and the face looked familiar.
He added, ‘He goes by the nickname of Wilco.’
All heads turned towards me.
The teacher stared at me. ‘So you’re Wilco.’ He took a moment. ‘Why did they have you down as MOD?’
‘Because most of my time I work for ... Intel, sir. And as for the pistol, I currently have a dozen Red Book threats against me, and there’ve been attempts on me on British streets.’
‘Not least the IRA,’ he noted. ‘Well, since you’re here we’ll make good use of that fact.’ He lifted a paper and shook it. ‘I was going to start with this anyhow, but we can get it from the horse’s mouth. OK, everyone, let’s consider the legal and ethical problems with a military hostage rescue where civilians are caught in the crossfire.’
They debated the issues, the white board annotated, and we covered responsibility, starting with the politicians authorising my transit to Mali, authorising the use of force, the Mali government’s acceptance of that, orders at ground level, the pulling of the trigger and the state of mind of the man pulling that trigger.
The teacher said, ‘A soldier in a war sees a dark shadow, he shoots, it’s a civilian. So, did he consider himself under threat? What were recent events leading up to the idea that he was under threat, what were his standing orders, what was his suitability to be there in the first place, was he trained, well led, was he tired and hungry, cold and wet.’
We debated the matter around for half an hour, and I was learning all about the chain of command and the chain of responsibility.
He finally focused on me. ‘Give me an instance of a solider breaking a rule, but a grey area. Stand please.’
I stood. ‘OK, we had an SAS lad, time served, a good man by all accounts. He was at the end of a three day OP, tired probably, but he should have had plenty of time for sleep, not cold, wet or malnourished. He got into a French helicopter without making safe his weapon, and put a round through the skin of the aircraft.’
‘A serious offence, yes. What did you do?’
‘I had operational command on the ground, so I sent him back to his own major.’
‘You sent him all the way home, instead of issuing char
ges then and there?’
‘The French needed to be appeased for one...’
‘Ah, an interesting topic, politics getting in the way. Excellent, we’ll debate that after lunch.’
I added, ‘Second, he was not one of my men, and in the SAS it’s the squadron CO, the major, that would deal with such matters. It would never be normal practise for a troop captain to issue a reprimand, but that is fault with the SAS.’
‘How so?’
‘Troop captains don’t hang around long, and most all command decisions and disciplinary decisions are taken by the squadron CO.’
‘Would a staff sergeant charge someone?’
‘No, never heard of that.’
‘It’s a quirk to do with the traditions of the SAS, but it serves us well as an example compared to what should be done. So, hands up those that would court martial a man who put a round through a helicopter?’
Almost all put their hands up. I did not.
‘You don’t agree,’ he asked me.
I stood. ‘In Angola ... there was an RAF medic on a Chinook that crashed. His lady colleague was shot dead right in front of him, I ordered him away but he wouldn’t move, so I punched him in the head and we dragged him; we were under fire at the time. He disobeyed a direct order, and could have got me and my men killed. But ... I took no action against him, nor made a report.
‘The day after ... I told him that the military had invested a great deal of time and money in his training, and that it would be a shame if he quit. Later, I created an elite unit of medics, and he volunteered, got himself fit, and he was a great help in Mali recently. Everyone deserves a second chance.’
‘Interesting, very interesting, and a topic we’ll hit tomorrow as well. And the man who shot the helo?’
‘The MOD has a great deal of time and money invested in him, sir, and we all make mistakes when tired. I’ve accidently misfired when fatigued, and I accidentally shot a civilian who surprised me when semi-conscious and wounded.’
In the afternoon session we debated the chain of responsibility, and if an order was legal or not, and if a sergeant who pushed a man too hard was culpable for an accident, all interesting stuff.
Before we finished, the colonel focused on me. ‘Give us an example of political interference.’
‘Off the top of my head I would have to say that my operations have not been interfered with once committed to, but ... my hostage rescue in Mauritania was deliberately timed to coincide with a security conference where the MOD was trying to sell arms and security services.’
They laughed.
‘And did that timing cause you problems?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And French interference on the ground?’
‘In Mauritania, the first rescue, we observed an ambush being put in place for the French, we reported that fact up the line ... and I went so far as to report it to the French commander on the ground, but he ignored the warnings because Paris told him to go ahead.’
‘Ah, good example. So, hands up if the French commander on the ground was culpable for the deaths of his men.’
Only a few raised their hands.
A man said, ‘He was following a direct order.’
‘But was that order specific,’ the colonel posed. ‘Did it say ... ignore the warnings and go now, or did it say ... do what you can, but soon.’
‘If it was the first, then he was following a direct order,’ the man insisted, others agreeing. ‘If it was the second, then he was culpable ... having made a risk assessment and ignored warnings. He could have issued a stark warning up the line, and that would have passed the blame back to them.’
The colonel nodded. ‘So what you’re saying is ... if in doubt, get it clarified, because that shifts blame...’
‘Yes, sir, always get clarification if there’s a doubt. Then Paris is to blame.’
The colonel faced me. ‘Was the commander on the ground held accountable?’
‘No, sir, because he had a plan given to him, and he stuck to the plan.’
‘Ah, he had a plan from above, and so by sticking to it he could pass the blame, despite knowing that he would lose men.’ He nodded. ‘If I recall, you press-ganged hostages that were French soldiers into fighting with you.’
‘Yes, sir, and if they had been killed I would have been responsible, but ... their added firepower helped us not get killed. I have on three occasions put weapons into the hands of hostages to help out.’
‘At great risk,’ the colonel noted. ‘Which we shall debate.’
That night I sat in my room studying, and had to do an essay on a conflict of interest, but it was hard since I could not give away too much.
The following afternoon we discussed accidental civilian deaths and responsibilities, reports to write up, when to open fire and when not to. When he came around to me, I explained the RAF use of cement, the colonel astonished, a lively debate about the role of the RAF and its legal remit to do what it did.
Before we broke for the day, I stood and said, ‘Sir, if an illegal and improper act ends in a good result, the result redefines the act as being justified and proper – and the politicians reinforce that every time I do a job overseas. A good newspaper headline is what matters, because that’s currency ... currency that can be converted into an increase in recruitment, a feel-good factor for enlisted men.
‘And if I accidentally shoot dead a man that looks like a civilian, yet it turns out he had a hidden pistol and was a terrorist, I’m in the clear – despite the fact that when I shot him I did not see the pistol or know who he was.’
The colonel nodded. ‘As happened when your lot shot IRA men in Gibraltar. The IRA men were unarmed, yet perceived to be armed because of who they were.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The next day we got onto the role of a captain within a battalion structure, how to issue orders and who to, the role of sergeants in platoons, staff sergeants and warrant officers, technical positions, and I was learning about regular army structures. They were not relevant to me, but I was interested anyway.
On the final day we discussed surrender to the enemy, taking prisoners, and the Geneva Convention.
After lunch, the colonel faced me. ‘Ever been in a situation where surrender was considered?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then give us the scenario.’
I stood, and outlined Bosnia in general.
When I had finished, he said, ‘So the troop captain, although only along for experience, considered surrender, yet the men were against it. Did you consider going along with the suggestion?’
‘Yes, because the troop captain was a close friend, and I did not wish to disobey him. But ... if I had known the future, if I could go back in time, then I would never have considered surrender having seen what they did to Muslims. I was right, but at the time I did not have all the evidence to hand to prove I was right.’
He nodded. ‘A tank commander fires at a building, no idea who was inside, but later they find enemy soldiers inside, civilians in the next house. He was lucky, wrong – yet lucky. Does that make it OK?’
We debated the matter of accidentally being correct, and on the train on the way back I considered that I had learnt a great deal. It would not help much in my detachment, but if I ever made major then more of it would become relevant.
I called Ms Turner from the train, and she would pick me up in Newport, a meal away from Hereford. She knew a place in the Wye Valley that had rooms, so this would not be a weekend spent in a cold wet OP someplace, I would get a good meal and the large warm breasts instead, no chance of a mentally-unbalanced trained assassin climbing in the window. That and I needed a back rub.
I had sent out invites to the 2 Squadron lads and the Paras Pathfinders, and the following Monday they came down to see us, kit lugged, and they would be up at The Factory and sleeping there, plenty of huts and camp beds for them, the canteen better now, rations stacked up, a mini armoury with ammo.
&nbs
p; Myself, the Major, Swifty and Moran took them up to the factory whilst the rest of the lads had a week of intense first aid to look forwards to – an exam at the end of that week. At the factory, some of Bob’s men to hand as well as regular SAS directing staff volunteering to assist, a few of the visitors practised tackling high fences whilst other groups tackled doors and windows, small teams in the Killing House.
The visitors were worked hard all day, and worked hard in the evening with simulated infiltration exercises. I visited The Factory most days that week, all of our visitors receiving the kind of training that they would not normally be exposed to – they did not need it for regular soldiering.
I chatted to the 2 Squadron officer, Haines, at length, and always insisted that he tackle what his men tackled, and his pistol work improved as the week progressed, his ability to get over a fence a great improvement. He even blew open a few doors and windows.
The Pathfinders displayed a reasonable attitude, questions asked of carrying Sergeant Crab, and as the week progressed they worked more like a team than on day one.
On the Friday they all tackled a more complex infiltration and rescue scenario in their teams, and once completed I thanked them and sent them on their way having got to know a few more faces.
Gossip from my Salties reached their buddies down in Poole, and so the following week many of the directing staff were back with Swifty, an eight man team from SBS put through their paces. They had their own training, their own purpose in the British military, but they wished to be able to claim more of a hostage rescue role – and they wanted to attend more jobs.
The fact was they already had a hostage rescue role, as they explained to me, they were tasked with getting aboard a liner at sea using magnetic clamps and dealing with terrorists, or getting aboard a North Sea oil platform from a submarine and dealing with terrorists.
Getting onto an oil rig involved leaving a submarine whilst it was submerged and allowing the tide to push the men towards the oil rig, a long line played out to “catch” the rig, then to climb up a hundred feet, but in forty foot waves. I was glad I did not have to train for that myself.
