Wilco- Lone Wolf 6 Read online

  At the end of the day I stood in front of them. ‘Just because you have orders ... doesn’t mean you have to follow those orders. And if the orders are shite, tell them that, back off; a reprimand is better than being captured or shot dead.

  ‘This is not World War II and D-Day, no one is saying you have to do something or thousands of lives will be lost. And people in Intel make mistakes. In the Gulf War, the SAS risked lives to attack a communications position, only to find that the Americans had bombed it a week earlier.

  ‘In Angola, I arrived at a hostage prison expecting sixty hostages ... and found twice that number. Intel doesn’t get it right all the time, and you don’t risk your life for nothing – you think for yourself.

  ‘I’m always telling my lads: make a plan when you see the ground. Many times we’ve arrived at a place and our assumptions had all been wrong, and the plan was modified. We’re the very best, and we get stumped a lot, a plan altered when we get there. You have an objective given to you, how you achieve it is up to you.

  ‘And on many occasions I was tasked with a stealthy look at a place, yet ended up blowing the place up and killing everyone in it after being spotted. We don’t expect you to be perfect, we expect you to think – and not blindly follow orders. OK, back here at 9am, and Sunday night we’ll be off to Catterick Ranges to do this for real.’

  The next day they had a lesson on photography - and how to use a long lens, low light photography, and making sketches. They were each shown an aerial view of a camp and were told to draw it three-dimensional, some odd drawings created. That was followed by a photo of a camp, and they had to make a plan of it and list distances.

  I stood at the front. ‘OK, how do you measure distance in that photo? Well, there’s a Land Rover. How long is a Land Rover? If you lay down next to a Land Rover, is it longer than you? Yes, but not longer than three of you, so maybe ten feet, four yards. There are huts, huts have doors, doors are the size of a man.

  ‘So look for things you know are a certain size - vehicles, people, and then judge the distance. Look at the target enemy base and say ... is that as big as a soccer pitch? Half the size, more?

  ‘In the photo you see a jeep next to a hut. You’d get three jeeps in that hut, and all the huts are the same size, so three times four yards. If you get the hut sizes, and the gaps, then you can work out the distance to the bridge seen. Now go back and work it all out.’

  After lunch they were given photos and asked to create a map, contours and all. I walked around with Swifty, correcting a few assumptions.

  That completed, they were handed a map and asked to create a three-dimensional drawing, and now they were starting to picture the ground in their minds.

  With Swifty mentioning the lack of wind, I called in Pete and we got two sets of ten static line drops in, one at sundown and one in the dark, with eight Wolves HALO dropping with bags after dark – no injuries and a tight landing around the bag.

  The next morning we checked feet and injuries, all recovered, a few blisters still needing a bit of time, two lads sitting out today’s event; they would have extra map reading anyhow, which they needed.

  In gym kit, the day pleasant, the Wolves had to run or walk for eight hours, those with best scores to get time off, the worst to get extra laps next week; this was a race, the most laps in eight hours.

  They could stop for water in the hangar, or to take a piss, and Crab was ticking names as usual, Batman and Robin helping out.

  I started them all as one group, after reminding them to pace themselves, and sat with Crab. Smitty, Nicholson, Leggit and Swan came around first in a tight group, one of Sasha’s team behind, the rest spread out. Names down, they ran off.

  After an hour we saw some groups walking in stages, then running, all sweating, all taking drinks, a few subjected to being chased by an excitable puppy.

  Swifty commented, ‘That bloody dog hasn’t bitten any of them. What we feeding it for?’

  The TA Major stood and observed for a while, chatting to me, and Mally and his pals stood near their cabin for a while and observed our young Wolves.

  After lunch, Smitty was still in the lead with his group, and they were extending that lead, now at least three laps ahead of some. But they risked burning themselves out, Crab warning them about just that.

  At 5pm we halted everyone as they came around, and we tallied the laps, then pinned the sheet up in the canteen. All we were keen to read it.

  Swan, Leggit, Smitty and Nicholson had clocked 24 laps, walking quite a few laps towards the end. One of Sasha’s civvys had hit 23 laps, two lads on 21, Tomo on 20, the worst lad on 15 – which was almost thirty miles. They now all had an idea of where the fitness levels were, but as I pointed out, ‘No good being fit if you can’t read a fucking map.’

  The Wolves were not needed now till Sunday at 8pm, some heading off for a rest.

  At 9pm Sunday the Wolves were lined up in the lights from the hangar, fully kitted, old FN SLRs in hand – no ammo. Myself, Swifty, Crab and Duffy would be with them, the RSM already up in Catterick with TA volunteers, plus a few keen dog handlers with their keen dogs, hopefully all fully grown dogs with sharp teeth and loud barks.

  The roar grew, and the lads looked around, soon two Chinooks touching down, ramps down. The lads were split, and ran aboard, the Chinooks powering off north as I went forwards to chat to the pilots.

  A long two hours later we touched down on soft heather, the lads running out the rear and to two large green tents with lights on, the RSM greeting us with TA volunteers. As the drone of the Chinooks abated I lined up the Wolves. Each was handed a map in a map case, a compass, a notepad with a pen, whistle, a torch and a pack of mini-flares.

  ‘OK, listen up,’ I called, the lad’s faces just dark outlines. ‘Tonight you have a map reading exercise, and how much sleep you get depends on if you screw it up or not. You will operate in pairs for safety, and you brought radios, so radios to be used in emergencies. If you break a leg, turn it on, call for help, then fire a flare, use the whistle.

  ‘Each pair will have a different set of coordinates to get to, and at each set of coordinates will be something of interest to note. It could be a crossroads, a road sign, a stream, a bridge, all sorts. Some will have a jeep and a human, note the registration, ask for a name. If you find a courting couple … you took a wrong turn!

  ‘You may come across others at the checkpoints, just ignore them and move on, and if four of you are suddenly on the same track ... them some of you are heading the wrong fucking way.

  ‘This should last around six hours, and it’s not a race, you’re required to be stealthy to a degree, avoid other people, avoid civvies. And there’s no point being fast if you miss something, points will be lost.’

  I handed the first two their envelope. ‘Sit down, torches on, study the map, look at the coordinates, plan a route.’ I handed out the rest of the envelopes to the pairs.

  ‘When you think you know where you’re going, set off. And switch your fucking brains on!’

  Pairs knelt down, and I could see many illuminated maps, many a hushed conversation, the RSM passing me a mug of tea.

  I sat with him inside one of the tents. ‘All set to lose the cost of a curry to me?’ I teased.

  ‘These are not Echo, and we’re ready,’ he challenged.

  ‘Some of these are shit hot,’ I warned him.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  I squinted at him. ‘Have you electrified the fence or something?’

  After an hour I walked with Swifty to where the Land Rovers had been left, and we drove to a checkpoint a few miles away. Down from the Land Rover, I chatted to the TA already there, Swifty setting some sneaky tripwires in a narrow track between two square blocks of trees.

  The first pair came in, almost on time, one tripping and cursing, making us laugh.

  Torches were shone in faces, names noted, TA names given, the pair moving off, and cursing us. As we drove back, we could see the mist coming down
.

  ‘Mist will fuck with them,’ Swifty noted.

  ‘They need to count paces and use the compasses,’ I put in. ‘Or they’ll be going around in circles all night.’

  At 3am Nicholson and Smitty came in, so I sat and quickly marked their papers. They were 100%.

  ‘You get four hours kip. Off you go.’

  Leggit and Swan arrived back next, also at 100%, allowed to sleep, soon followed by Tomo and Gonzo, two checkpoints described wrongly.

  ‘Two wrong, fuckwits. Pay attention. When we get back that’s extra laps.’

  At 7am we were missing two lads, and so in a light mist the vehicles set out, radios on, and we found them heading the wrong way, a lift back given. I allowed them to cook breakfast and get two hours sleep as we got the first pair ready to go out again.

  ‘OK, your job is to move towards the enemy camp at the coordinates on the paper. Be very stealthy – there are dog patrols, and when you get close enough make a sketch, make a map of the surrounding area, judge distance. Off you go, back inside one hour.’

  I waited twenty minutes, then sent out the next pair and, as the day brightened, each pair brought back drawings and maps, each presenting them to me for criticism. Some were works of art, some a bit poor. Names and scores were noted.

  Leggit and Swan did well, so too Nicholson and Smitty, but Tomo’s drawings were smudgy and inaccurate.

  Swifty had been out whilst Crab and Duffy ran the camp, and had judged the lads stealth. Few had spotted him close by.

  At 2pm, the worst three pairs were sent back out, this time with Swifty in tow, the remainder now being handed live rabbits and chickens.

  By 5pm we were ready for the next map reading test, so I lined them up. I began, ‘You now have a similar map reading scenario, but you’re required to plan it so that you avoid enemy soldiers, dog patrols – and getting shot. You each have different objectives, so you should not bump into each other.

  ‘You will move to the coordinates given, and you will note what you find at each of the coordinates, and at the final coordinates you will find ... something. Draw a sketch of it, don’t be seen, then come back whilst being just as stealthy. If the dog handlers get you it’s a bite in the leg, a good kicking, and a loss of points.

  ‘Think about being downwind of the dogs, think about planning a route as you were taught. Move quickly yet stealthily, and ... watch out for trip wires.’

  I handed out envelopes to pairs, and they sat under ponchos planning a route. But at least tonight was clear. That aided in navigation, but also aided in getting spotted by hungry dogs.

  After fifteen minutes the first pair moved out, and with the last pair moving off I set off with Swifty.

  An hour later, in a dark wood, I fired a flare, two of mine darting into the trees, Swifty smirking.

  ‘That loosened bowels,’ he noted before we moved off.

  Half an hour later, as two lads crossed a stream very quietly, I lobbed a brick into the water, a large splash made. They scrambled to the bank that Swifty and myself hid near.

  ‘What was that?’ came a whisper.

  ‘Salmon, it must be.’

  ‘Is it salmon season?’

  They moved off through the dark, wondering about giant salmon.

  ‘Fucking knobbers,’ Swifty let out before we moved off.

  At 2am I was hidden with Swifty as a pair crept up on a civvy house, a sketch made, windows peered through. But the lady inside the isolated cottage was walking around half naked, so the pair had a closer look. A dog barked, and they ran off. With the dog set loose into the garden, Swifty and I had to run as well.

  At 5am, back at the camp, a Land Rover pulled up, two handcuffed pairs manhandled down, slapped about a bit, and roughly thrown to the ground.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I loudly let out. ‘Did we get caught?’

  ‘Fucking dog bit me,’ one of the lads reported.

  ‘That happens when you get caught. You also get shot dead, so learn not to get caught, fuckwits.’

  We untied them, Crab and Duffy chastising the lads, and they were allowed some sleep, their rifles returned to them.

  At 10am, the rain holding off for now, I went through each planned route with the pairs, and they described why they planned the route a particular way. I gave what useful advice I could.

  Three pairs had approached the RSM’s camp, which had been where two had been caught. The final pair, Leggit and Swan, had found the drain and snuck through it, a sketch made from memory – not least a view of it from the second day, and they had dodged the patrols.

  I assembled everyone at 11am. ‘OK, listen up. Some of you are still preferring deep dark woods to open areas, yet in those deep dark woods you’re open to ambush. All of you avoided bridges, which is good, but most of you tried to get right up close to your objective, and some got caught.

  ‘The objective ... is to make a sketch as far away as possible from your objective. The closer you get, the greater the chance of being killed. So keep your distance. If you can see it from a mile off, great, stay back.

  ‘As for dogs, as soon as you see or hear the dogs - get the fuck away. If they’re chasing you, go over fences, zig-zag over fences, go through thick trees, and remember that the damn dog is on a lead – so tangle the lead and piss-off the handler. And if this was a real war, leave a grenade trap behind if circumstances allow.

  ‘Also, tear off bits of cloth, wipe your arse with them and throw them into the thickest and nastiest bushes you can find. The dog will want to go in after it, and the handler will think that you’re in the bushes. Put a piece up a tree, it will slow them down. You’ll meet many more dog patrols this week, so switch your brains on – or get bitten.

  ‘OK, first four men, with Swifty.’ He led them off. ‘Second four with me. Rest of you ... rabbits and chickens on the way.’

  I led my four as if on patrol, and we moved quietly, an enemy patrol avoided. Above the camp, I called them forwards and we cut heather to make a hide. With bits of cloth wiped around arseholes, and tossed into bushes fifty yards away either side, we got comfy. Inside the hide, I began. ‘OK, down there is an enemy camp. Notepads out. Right, study it. How many jeeps, how many guards, how often do they go on patrol? Which huts are for who? Which is the mess hut? Where do the patrols go? What’s the best route to get close to it? Two hours, then back to me.’

  I slid out and moved off.

  When they got back, we sat in a group and discussed the camp, the make-up of patrols, patrol times, ways in, best way to approach it.

  ‘Guys, you may not know the patrol times, but you know that after a patrol goes out you have so many minutes. Use that fact. Think about being downwind. Right, get some rabbits to kill, cook and eat – one hour, then you go south a mile, cross the river, back up, and have a look at that camp – don’t get caught. You should be back around 2am at the latest.’

  I took the next four down the hill to have a look, Swifty with his second group, others skinning rabbits – and all now dab hands at it. I dispatched my second group, to go north a mile and then around, Swifty’s two groups to be this side of the river, no orders given not to cross the river, so we were keen to see what they would do.

  The final group, my Echo lads, we tasked with sneaking up on a regular Army camp some six miles away, and stealing something worthwhile. Swifty and I laid off bets with Crab and Duffy, and Swifty bet on a call from the MPs around 1am. Crab bet on a Land Rover being pinched away.

  Swifty and I drove down to the TA’s camp, greeting the RSM in his basic wooden hut, and we sat with cups of tea, wondering how well our lads would do, the RSM worried about the Army camp about to be raided.

  As we sat there, the radio came to life, a team spotted and chased off, but the dog handlers were now a tad pissed off. My lads had zig-zagged over low barbed wire fences, famer’s fences, and had put smelly cloth up trees, Swifty and myself smiling smugly at the RSM.

  Half an hour later, and more radio chatter caused the RSM t
o listen in, many false leads left for the dogs, his dog handlers now frustrated.

  Swifty asked the RSM, ‘What are they using, puppies?’

  Back at camp, we got a few hours kip, and at 3am the first team returned to us after admitting to having a hard job finding us. They had not been captured, they had fooled the dogs, and they had got close to the camp without being seen.

  All of the teams made it back, and when my Echo lads returned the laughter permeated the trees. They stood with a large yellow gate barrier and two flags on poles. They had stolen the barrier, which should have been manned.

  ‘Was it manned?’ I asked with a broad grin.

  ‘Yeah, Boss,’ Tomo began. ‘But we distracted them for five minutes, and had it away.’

  ‘And the flags?’

  ‘From the CO’s office,’ Smitty reported. ‘He ain’t going to be happy, someone shat in his drawer.’

  With a broad smile, I said, ‘Get some food on, then rest.’

  At 8.30am I phoned General Dennet, and he laughed, but then threatened to roast the men at that base.

  Magsee had just arrived, and would take the lads down to the river to see what could be caught or found, and then eaten. I drove with Swifty down to the Army camp, yellow barrier sticking out the rear.

  As we drove in, men on guard duty at the gate, they shouted, ‘Hey, that’s our fucking barrier!’

  We drove on, and followed the signs to the HQ area, getting odd looks. As we unloaded the heavy barrier, people came out, all wanting blood.

  A major shouted, ‘What the fuck you doing with our barrier, Captain?’

  ‘It’s Captain Wilco,’ I told him, and he backed off a little. ‘And General Dennet asked us to test your security – which you failed obviously.’ We handed back the two flags on poles from the CO’s office.

  ‘CO is mad as hell,’ the Major pointed out, calmer now.

  ‘Has he checked his desk drawers yet?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘Why?’ the Major asked, squinting at us.