Wilco- Lone Wolf 13 Read online

  Wilco:

  Lone Wolf

  Book 13

  Copyright © Geoff Wolak

  Started January, 2014

  This book is historically very accurate in places, technically correct for the most part, yet it is fiction, really fiction, definitely fiction, and any similarity to real people or real events – although accidental - is probably intentional. Some characters in this book may be based on some of the wankers I have either worked with or unfortunately met over the years.

  www.geoffwolak-writing.com

  Has the war started yet..?

  Dawn was my favourite time of day, especially here in the desert, and as the greys turned to browns and then yellow I was south of the runway, Camel Toe Base, Northern Nigeria. Studying the old tyre tracks in the harder dirt, I could see that the vehicles had kept to the same track over and over. Scraping sand with a boot, away from the track, I put my foot through a caked layer, suddenly up to my knee.

  That confirmed it, there was dry quicksand here, layers created by the rare winter rains, air pockets under the top layer, and a bad place to get a wheel stuck. Back on the runway - which seemed to stretch out forever, I could see a few men stirring, easy to spot on a flat horizon, so I got a brew on in my sand hole.

  Sat there, I had an insect’s view of the world, my eyes down at ground level. The runway stretched out left and right, seemingly to the far horizon, and I noticed very slight dips in it, sand having collected in odd places and reminding me now of estuary sandbanks at low tide.

  In front of me, the gentle breeze was moving sand around on the runway and creating temporary patterns, sand deposited for a brief moment and then moved off again south. I wondered how far those grains of sand had travelled on their journey north to south, and had they been blowing around since the Pharaohs ruled Egypt. Here, in this expanse of sand, it was easy to picture all those old movies about the Egyptian Empire.

  And this vast sea of sand I now sat in was once lush green grassland, during the last ice age, or so the experts claimed, dried-out seeds found here dating back tens of thousands of years. It certainly wasn’t a lush green landscape now, not so much as a blade of grass nor dried brown husk of a bush visible. Everything that had once been here had long since dried out, and had blown away on the wind over the centuries.

  Peering left, to the east, I could see the pallets and water bogeys littering the side of the runway, boxes opened and left, ration packs, the water pump’s drill stood tall, an isolated feature in a flat landscape. I could not see Moran and Mitch, but I could see Mitch’s rifle poking out and Moran’s cap. Further down, someone’s boots were above ground level just about, his legs crossed, the owner of those legs still in the land of nod and not keen to get up yet.

  Henri eased up, his lower half in his sand hole, a stretch witnessed by few before he clambered up and out, a few steps taken, a hole dug with his boot, and he peed into that hole whilst scanning the horizon, kicking sand over afterwards. Back in his hole, words exchanged with someone, he got his cooking kit out and placed it on the ground above his hole.

  With my own tea ready, I reached across and nudged Swifty awake, although I had seen him turn over twice, and that meant he was awake but not willing to get up yet. He took his facemask off, yawned, and accepted the large black plastic cup.

  ‘We got company?’ he asked, bleary eyes trying to focus on the flat horizon.

  ‘Not yet. And I need a day to disperse the teams, so maybe the bad boys will give me that day.’

  ‘They might have a sausage fest going.’

  As the day brightened I patrolled the line and woke the teams, telling them to get their breakfast on, stopping to feed the tethered goat some chocolate; it would be many years before the skinny little animal would be ready to slaughter.

  Kneeling there, I spotted a hole, a giant spider staring out at me through a dozen black eyes. Stamping down, I demolished the roof of its hide, hard enough to kill the spider, or at least to piss it off a great deal. To the nearest team I said, ‘Watch out for large spiders in holes, they’re poisonous.’

  ‘What large spiders?’ they asked, now wary and checking the sand.

  I transmitted a time warning about breakfast, and when the time was up I stood on the runway and blew a whistle. The Greenie lieutenant and his men walked purposefully across the runway, flag soon raised, reveille blown out the trumpet for us. We had no British or French flag yet, the French soldiers a bit miffed about the Americans raising and lowering their flag.

  Gathering the French, I told them to place webbing and rifles down, and to grab shovels and pickaxes. I was soon demonstrating that under the sand - near the square drain we had found - was hard dirt, and once dug out the sides would remain vertical.

  I gave them a curved line to follow, and they got to it, digging out the dirt. ‘One metre wide, one point five metre deep!’ I shouted.

  At the Wolves position I told Crab I wanted sandbags filled, lots of sandbags filled, fucking shit loads of sandbags filled. ‘Get to it!’

  At Echo I asked Moran and Ginger to inventory the supplies, and for the rest to dig a trench backwards from Slider’s hole. After they stopped laughing they got to it, Slider warning people off making references to “his hole” or they would get smashed in the face with the back of a shovel.

  I found the two French lads that were great with driving the mini bulldozers, and they started their small rides, following me across the runway – albeit slowly. Opposite the drain, yet to be opened this side, I had them both start on a trench heading southeast. ‘Two metre deep, and four metre wide here, one metre wide further out!’ They got to it.

  Back near Echo’s position I led Swan away and onto the runway. ‘You holding up?’

  He took in the bleak featureless horizon. ‘I’m angry at him. If I saw him I might shoot him on sight. He was my best mate, and he hid it and - don’t take this the wrong way, Boss - but I would have been happier if he had asked me to help him kill that guy.’

  ‘Of course. If Swifty confided in me about wanting to shoot someone we’d make a plan and not get caught. He was stupid to do what he did. You ... OK to stay with us?’

  ‘I’d never choose to leave the team, Boss, I love the work, and being in a place like this – well, I probably need my head examined, but I love being in weird places like this, I like the desert.’

  ‘Beats the UK, doesn’t it,’ I agreed. ‘Got any doubts or problems, come see me, you’re one of my best men and I don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘I’m solid, Boss, don’t worry about me,’ he insisted. ‘Worry about Tomo telling the Green Berets about you fining him for parachuting naked on a live job.’

  I smiled widely, and shook my head. ‘Go do some work.’ My phone trilled; Rocko. ‘Bored back there, Sergeant Major?’ I teased.

  ‘Little bit, yeah, but I spend time on the weekends with the territorials, keeps me busy. How’s it going down there?’

  Hand in pocket, I ambled slowly along the runway and gave him the rundown for fifteen minutes, kicking sand with my dusty boots. He passed me over to the Major, and I repeated much of what I had just reported, the Major sorting out his house for the upcoming move, Colonel Dean having visited GL4, more regulars seen using the facilities, standard runs and the 24hr speed march being conducted on my airfield.

  At midday, and after moving a great deal of sand around in the damp drain, they broke through, right where the mini bulldozers were working. Those bulldozers were not lifting sand but slowly pushing it up and out of the way, reversing back and doing it again, a large trench created already.

  I grabbed a few men and had them dig out this side of the tunnel, and we made a hole quickly. Meeting Robby emerging from the new opening, I told him
, ‘Even out the sand in there, at least twelve inches above the concrete base, so that men can sleep on it.’

  ‘Damp as hell,’ he warned.

  ‘And now that the sides are open, a hot breeze blowing ... what do you think will happen..?’

  ‘Ah, yeah, it’ll dry out quickly.’

  ‘Throw some dry sand on top after you even it out, I want men sleeping in there tonight.’

  ‘Could get two hundred men in there, easy,’ Robby suggested.

  ‘Have the bulldozers even out the sand for an hour.’

  I left them to it, but at noon I blew my whistle, time to down tools and take a nap in the searing heat. I was OK in the heat, but many men made use of the cool interior of the drain.

  The airfield had been dotted with men on the horizon, but within minutes that horizon was clear, men in their sand holes, in trenches or in the drain, just a few moving around up top. Sat in my sand hole, cap pulled down over my eyes, I glanced left and right, no one seen, and from a distance we would be invisible.

  At 3pm I blew the whistle, many teams less than enthusiastic about getting up and moving around. So what if was 42degrees Celsius. Standing tall so as to enjoy the breeze, it was like a hair dryer hitting me in the face.

  I patrolled the line, men stretching, many queuing up and taking cold drinks from Jerry cans stored in the drain. I told them to go easy on the water. At the water pump I found Morten supervising his team, and they had the large black rubber bag sat in its hole ready, pipes attached and tested, water being pumped, air being pushed up and out.

  I allocated Morten a few lads, and they took it in turns to work the pump, the bag slowly inflating with shitty brown water. I returned an hour later, the bag up to the height of the hole it now sat in, sand now being thrown over it.

  Morten said, ‘Important to keep the outflow pipe and pump well above the level of the inflow pipe.’ He used wooden boxes to support the pipe and pump, filters tested, bowl placed down, and the resulting water was clear-ish. ‘Needs a day to settle,’ he said, wiping his brow. ‘Good enough tomorrow for cold showers, and I’ll test the water, I read the booklet last night.’

  ‘Make sure there’s plenty of sand on top, ponchos, cardboard, a good insulation to keep it cool.’

  He got to work, no wounds to treat yet, the lady nurse making bread, at least a version of flat roti seen in these parts, the goat at her heels.

  Ginger had rigged up two metal cages, the castors taken off, but it was not very stable.

  I told him, ‘Use cardboard or ponchos around the inside, fill the bottom with sand.’

  ‘Ah...’

  ‘Dope,’ I called him.

  Fifteen minutes later they had a stable platform, but I had them drag it well away from the runway since plane wings could clip it. Finally, a small French guy climbed up, no kit on, just binoculars, and he scanned the horizon for us.

  As the sun hung low I stood over a deep and long French trench, telling them to place sandbags along the top to stop drifting sand blowing into their trench, and to make half-width sandbag walls in a few places, to help if a mortar landed.

  Walking through the dimly lit drain, it now had sand evenly spread out, and it took a while to reach the far side, more than forty yards. Walking out that side I stepped up a few feet, the growl of the bulldozers coming from the left, a large deep grove now cut out of the desert.

  Clambering up to the runway, I transmitted, ‘Sergeant Crab, have the Wolves bring over the sandbags, you’ll see me stood on the runway. Chop chop.’

  I could see them in the distance, west down the shimmering runway, emerging from their holes and standing upright, recruits soon lugging two sandbags each, one over either shoulder. When they got to me I said, ‘Go down there. I want a wall three feet high around the excavated area, then shovel in the dirt and sand behind the sandbags, make a flat area say three sandbags deep, then a sandbag wall up to the top, no higher.’

  A line of recruits and NCOs lugged the bags, placed them down, and a wall started to grow as the light started to fade. Ten minutes later we had a three foot section, a half-circle of perhaps twenty yards, the sand shovelled into the gaps, more sandbags fetched and placed down.

  I soon had a firing position to test, and kneeling on the bags I could fire out south across the desert, space here for perhaps twenty men, more space further down the trench. I grabbed a few men and had them flatten the sand that had been piled up by the bulldozers; the trench was a bit obvious.

  The generator kicked in when it got too dark, the lights moved so that men could dig, the lady nurse handing out her flat bread, and it was tasty enough. The French grabbed an empty wooden box, placed it over part of their trench and filled it with sand, sand banks built up at the ends of it. It was not for people to walk over the trench, but for men to hide under from falling mortars.

  By 11pm we had made good progress and I called a halt, telling everyone to rest, lights off. The Wolves had filled more sandbags near the lights, the trench southeast getting a sandbag wall along one side for perhaps thirty yards.

  The Greenie officer, Trapper, came and found me as I sat in my hole. ‘Should we be bedding down in that drain?’ his black outline asked as he stood on the runway.

  ‘Bed down wherever you like, but when the fun starts it’ll be a good idea to have something solid over your heads. If you want, take the far end of the drain, because I was going to assign you the far end of the ditch southeast – when it’s ready that is.’

  ‘I’ll move the boys, which will take a whole five minutes. But we can cook in that drain?’

  ‘Sure, just watch the smoke in there.’

  His dark outline plodded off, and I started cooking with Swifty. My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Tinker. Radios fifty miles south of you now mention your presence at the airstrip.’

  ‘So, company is coming tomorrow I guess. Let me know when they start moving.’

  ‘Will do. Oh, the Wolves coming to you have listening devices as well.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’ I called Captain Harris back at GL4. He was there, but helping to monitor things here, in touch with the base in Mauritania. ‘When are the others arriving?’

  ‘I was going to call you. Got two planes ready for 4am.’

  ‘Runway is clear, no wind, we’ll be ready. Try and get more sandbags from Mauritania, and if you can - get some lengths of strong wood, say seven foot long, like a man stands on to paint a wall.’

  ‘OK, I’ll have them look around for some.’

  I stood on the runway and transmitted, ‘Wilco to all teams, Intel has radio contact fifty miles south, and they’re chatting about us up here. Might have some company in the morning, and planes will be here at 4am. Someone tell Mister Morten: lights on when we hear the planes, aim for 4am. End of message.’

  I settled down with the team, hoping get a few hours after some food.

  At 3.45am my radio crackled, distorted, soon a clearer voice as I stood on the runway. I transmitted, ‘Ground Wilco here, say again.’

  ‘Hercules, Wilco, we should be over you in a minute.’

  ‘Standby. Wilco for teams near the supplies, get the lights on now.’

  It took a minute, but the bright lights burst into life.

  ‘Wilco, Hercules, lights are on, land as before, wind is nil, no hostiles nearby, over.’

  ‘Hercules, Wilco, in-bound now.’

  The drone grew, the Hercules putting its bright lights on, and I scanned the desert south, just in case. The first Hercules, an RAF Hercules, blasted past me and touched down as I knelt at the side of the runway, a roar of reverse engine, it’s ramp coming down as I walked forwards, a line of men emerging, Castille at the head, nine men behind him, long rifle bags over shoulders.

  I shook his hand and smiled. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘We had us some sight-seeing to do, some rugs to buy at the local zouk.’

  Behind him trailed men in British uniforms, a few with bushy moustaches.
>
  A captain said, ‘We’re 1 Para.’ Since he was wearing a Para beret it was a redundant statement.

  ‘Mister Castille, lead this lot across the runway, east till you see a big hole in the ground. Get down to it, it’s a large drain under the runway. You all sleep in there for a few hours, cook inside - or outside in the trench.’

  Castille led them across the sandy runway as supplies were pushed off the Hercules and dragged to the side. A roar, and the Hercules powered down the runway and lifted its nose, and now I could see the second Hercules on approach. This was a USAF Hercules, and it eased to a halt two hundred yards past me. I ambled towards it.

  Ramp down, kit bogeys were pushed off by crewmen and soldiers, French Foreign Legion emerging lugging large bags, Famas rifles slung across chests, many of the men carrying long rifle holdalls over shoulders. Behind them came ten British Wolves with Valmets, and looking just like my lads.

  I shook hands with a Legion captain that looked familiar, and he greeted me warmly. ‘Go along the runway north side, you will find a tunnel under the runway, sleep there tonight.’ I motioned for the Wolves to follow on, several of the men waving at me and smiling. I waved back, glad to see them.

  The Legion captain led his men down the runway, twelve of them followed by the Wolves, leaving two civilians in beige stood looking lost, both around forty years old, large backpacks carried. I closed in on them as the Hercules blew sand at us. With the Hercules powering down the runway I held down my cap for a minute, cursing, then closed in on the civvies.

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Press,’ came in an American accent. ‘You Captain Wilco?’

  ‘I am, I’m afraid.’ I shook their hands. ‘What do you know already?’

  ‘We had a good briefing, background notes, units, old photos to use, and we took a shit load a snaps at that base we flew out of.’

  ‘Where do your loyalties lie?’ I asked, their faces half-lit from the lights, long shadows cast across the runway.