Wilco- Lone Wolf 6 Page 3

  ‘No reason,’ Swifty said as we got back into the Land Rover, and we sped off before they lynched us.

  At 6pm, I dispatched my Echo lads to try and get close to the RSM’s camp, or even inside – but they had to be back for midnight.

  At 9pm, getting dark now, I dispatched the same teams in the same directions, all tasked with getting closer, all told to avoid other teams. We uncovered our secret weapon, a radio with a scanner, and sat listening in to possible sightings, the RSM heard shouting at people.

  At 11pm, came, ‘Sir, Corporal Michaels, they ... they stole his Land Rover, sir.’

  ‘They what? How’d he lose his fucking Land Rover? Did he leave the keys in it?’

  In the tent we were in hysterics, a Land Rover soon arriving, one careless owner, Tomo and my lads stepping down.

  ‘Sir, permission to leave a little something in the rear,’ Tomo asked.

  I nodded. ‘Carry on, trooper,’ I said, the RSM driving in fifteen minutes later.

  ‘Is my fucking jeep in one piece? I signed for that, I’m responsible!’

  ‘Calm down, it’s fine,’ I told him. ‘Have someone drive it back.’

  ‘This doesn’t mean you won a curry!’ he threatened, storming off.

  Back at the radio, we huddled, tea mugs in hand, silly grins still in place.

  ‘Sir, it’s Rogers, sir, and someone shat in the back of this Land Rover.’

  ‘Corporal Michaels will be cleaning it! And all of you, switch your fucking brains on!’

  As time went on, reports came in of possible sightings, and one definite sighting, but as the RSM’s men and dogs ran after the sighted patrol, both man and beast hit trip wires, lots of trip wires. The pursuit was called off, complaints filling the airwaves, the RSM shouting at people.

  An hour later, and we frowned at the radio.

  ‘What do you mean, a section of fence missing, how can it be missing?’

  ‘They took a section of fence?’ Swifty puzzled. ‘Why, for fucks sake. Supposed to go over it, not nick it.’

  When the team in question arrived back, all soaked in sweat, I asked them about the fence.

  ‘We could see it was in poor shape, and – well – two of us started over it but leant back a bit too much and it bent.’

  ‘Bent?’

  ‘Bent over, so we all grabbed hold and it broke, the old concrete. Figured we’d move it before they spotted it.’

  ‘They’d spot a gap!’ I pointed out.

  ‘Actually, no, sir, first patrol just walked past it.’

  ‘They did?’ I puzzled, a look exchanged with Swifty.

  ‘Second patrol spotted it, as we were legging it away.’

  ‘Well done anyhow, you got close and not caught, get a brew and some rest.’

  At 9am the next morning I gathered everyone in a half circle and sat them down. ‘When you plan a route, think about dogs – dog patrols are usually near roads for vehicle access, think about ambushes in dense forest, think about rivers and streams.

  ‘Use smelly cloth to confuse the dogs and, if they chase you, go over fences and through thick trees. No good trying to out-run the dog, or hiding your scent.

  ‘If your objective is to look at a place, don’t get too close. If you need to get close, study it for a day. How many patrols, how many men per patrol, how often, what are the regular patrol routes? Do they have dogs, jeeps, what? You study first, move second. Get a good position, hide under the heather, use smelly cloth nearby just in case – and plan an escape route.

  ‘OK, pack up ready, helicopters will be here in half an hour.’

  At 2pm I opened the door to my house, Swifty hot on my heels, a hot shower much needed, as well as some clean clothes. It was Friday, so we’d be heading out later, a curry needed after a week of rations.

  Bob rang, and I could have timed it. ‘How did they do?’

  ‘Some great, others not so, there are areas that need addressing, so I’ll give extra training to some men.’

  ‘How would you rate them?’

  ‘Way better than the average enlisted man, but I tend to compare them to me.’

  ‘That’s not a good idea,’ Bob noted.

  ‘Question is, Bob, are good soldiers born like that – or trained to be like that?’

  ‘A subject of much debate in the MOD, and with us.’

  ‘Your civvies are good, they’re thinkers, and I think future groups need more thinkers and less fitness.’

  ‘Well, this first batch is a learning curve.’

  ‘What extra training do they get when they finish with me?’ I asked.

  ‘A great deal, we’ll not send them off. They’ll do courses on infiltration, cover stories, house breaking – we’d not send them off till they’re ready. What we need is potential, and a good attitude.’

  ‘They all have a good attitude so far, keen to get on with it.’

  ‘What’s on the agenda for next week?’

  ‘If the weather is OK, parachute work, if not they’re at The Factory – depending on who’s booked it.’

  On Sunday night the weather forecast was mixed; good weather on Monday, shit weather the rest of the week.

  I woke early Monday morning, a look out the window, some broken cloud, no wind. After breakfast I rang Pete and got the Skyvan, and a great many chutes from Brize Norton – MP Peter sent for them. The parachute packers at Brize had taken charge of forty freefall rigs for us, and they would be responsible for re-packing and testing; we would not take chances with someone tampering with our kit at Pete’s school.

  After a modest run, just a few laps, the Wolves were made ready and kitted out, many of my lads helping out or jumping as well. And now, for added safety, the Major would ring Brize Norton and Lyneham to let them know about parachuting in the area from 14,000ft, as well as Bristol Airport and Birmingham Airport.

  My four lads on the Wolves course dropped as a team with a HALO bag, followed out the door by the four civvies, last to be four Echo lads.

  They all made it down without injury, one bag damaging the roof of the para Portakabin slightly, and next up would be the four least experienced Wolves, Rocko and Rizzo close by as they jumped.

  What we could not see on the ground, was Rocko grabbing a lad and stabilising him, a minor mid-air drama. The lad opened his chute on time, and he landed safely.

  ‘Send him straight back up,’ I told Rocko, a different three Wolves to join him.

  This time the lad just about got stable, but one of the lads pulled his chute at 500ft, scaring us. I gave him five laps and a good shouting at.

  By the end of the day all of the Wolves had jumped, the almost-worst four trying a HALO bag. Two lost hold and drifted off, but landed next to the bag – which was the whole point. I sent them back up.

  After sun down, the four civvies dropped from 14,000ft with a HALO bag, but all managed to land on the range somehow, a Land Rover sent for them. Next would be the least capable Wolves, with Rocko, Rizzo, Henri and Swifty holding their hands.

  All of the Wolves, clearly nervous at the outset, managed to maintain a stable position and not panic, chute pulled on time, if a little early. All came drifting into the light, but as I watched one land awkwardly, men running to him. He was unresponsive, I was shouted for, and CPR had no effect, an ambulance called.

  Swifty had run for my big first aid kit, and I intubated the lad and got our defibrillator working, all to no avail. The ambulance took the lad away, all of us scratching our heads as to what went wrong.

  I called Bob. ‘It’s Wilco, we just had a Wolf killed, parachute accident, so send the necessary people.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He pulled on time, chute OK, drifted in, looks like he had a leg straight on landing, jolted his spine.’

  ‘Broken neck?’

  ‘Looks like it. I saw him land, right in front of me.’

  ‘I’ll get the paperwork started, talk to the MOD.’

  The mood was off as we packed up, everyo
ne dismissed till the morning, when we would drive up to The Factory.

  I addressed the Wolves at 9pm in the barracks. ‘Listen up. Accidents happen, but we reduce them through training, and through switching our brains on. It looks like he had a leg straight on landing, a jolt to the spine, snapped neck. Such things are rare, and it should not have happened. Knees bent on landing – or you fuck your spine.

  ‘And you could just as easily do that in a car crash someday soon. We carry on, back at work tomorrow, up to The Factory. And all of you – it’s OK to care, it’s OK to be upset by something like this, but in a war you move on quickly. If you’re behind the lines and your best buddy is shot dead, you don’t stop for a second. You get home safely, then you mourn. If any of you have issues, problems or doubts, come see me.’

  At 9am we set off, kit packed for a few days, plenty of ammo in metal crates, and we drove up to The Factory, just over an hour to get there. A few of Bob’s spy types were unhappily ensconced in Stalag Luft 13, trying to figure ways out no doubt – whilst not enjoying the food.

  I greeted the gate guards and the dedicated Range Master, and we claimed dated beds with well-worn mattresses. First order of business was fences, lots of fences, all types of fences, and Crab and Duffy put the Wolves over each type of fence in turn, a few jackets torn, a few unwelcome cuts accrued.

  As that was happening, pairs of Echo lads were sneaking up on each other with paint guns in the house of horrors, the windows of the upper floor blackened out, just a few points of light. It also now offered a hole in the floor, holes in the roof, a few rubber plants, as well as resident rats.

  When the rats had been discovered, many months ago, I had arranged for them to be fed rather than killed. Now, as Rocko knelt and peered through a hole, he came face to face with a well-fed rat, and shot it with paint. Doing so gave away his position, and ten minutes later he was hit from behind; Slade had gone up onto the roof and down behind Rocko.

  Rocko emerged complaining, the next pair to look out for a bright green rat in a really bad mood.

  By 5pm the Wolves had gone over or under every type of fence imaginable, many a small cut picked up, and after a meal in the canteen they were sent off in staggered pairs to find map coordinates, circle around, and to then make a sketch of Stalag Luft 13, to note guards, patrols, patrol timings.

  I joined the Mi6 prisoners at 9pm, all dressed in old military coats, an odd bunch of men mostly in their forties, some grey, some overweight. ‘So, gentlemen, do you have a plan?’

  ‘We have some ideas,’ came back.

  ‘First study, then think. How many guards, how switched on are they, how often do they patrol, which are lazy? You’ve all see the old war movies, so start thinking like the men in those movies.

  ‘Examine this hut, see what will come loose, what will break, how much noise it will make. And if you get outside, how will you get across a double fence, how much time between searches here, what tools are to hand. Delegate tasks, eyes on, get the facts, then think of a plan.

  ‘Maybe you can slip away at chow time, hide somewhere, miss roll call. Examine everything you can see and touch, then act.’

  The Wolves returned in pairs up to midnight, all presenting myself and Moran in turn with their sketches and valuable intel on the enemy. I corrected a few distances, but overall they had done a reasonable job. All got some sleep.

  After an early morning run down country lanes, and after a good breakfast, the Wolves were studying doors, windows and locks, trying to defeat those inanimate objects as if hated enemies, and after lunch Stretch blew a few doors and windows, each of the Wolves getting to blow something.

  After evening meal, and still some daylight left, teams of four were sent off thirty minutes apart, to circle around, approach unseen near Stalag Luft 13, penetrate the outer fence, work their way around unseen, up and over the House of Horrors quietly, over or under six fences in sequence, and to climb up and over the Killing House quietly.

  We observed via the cameras - now fitted with microphones, and my four Echo lads did well, good team work displayed, all quiet enough. Next came Sasha’s team, Sasha leading them. A dog barking caused them to pause and move away, penetrating the fence further down.

  As a team they moved quietly, covering all the angles, and they moved with quiet professionalism over the fences, up to the roof of the House of Horrors and down, across to the Killing House. But as they came down from the roof Stretch detonated six small charges, scaring the hell out of the Wolves, one falling six feet.

  ‘That was not English fairness!’ Sasha complained.

  ‘It was Stretch, not us,’ I lied. ‘Go file a complaint in triplicate with the correct department.’

  They wandered off cursing in Russian, but at least their accents were good.

  The next four were again barked at and had to withdraw in haste and circle around. They tackled the fences well enough - one bad cut to worry about, and got up onto the House of Horrors quietly. Down again, they moved towards the Killing House, but two hit trip wires and fell, curses given as those of us in the gatehouse laughed.

  As I supervised, one of the Wolves stitched his buddy’s arm, his three stitches not too bad; the wounded man would have a manly scar.

  The next four did OK, but not great, the final three quiet enough, the value here being the practise and the experience of infiltration, that feeling of sneaking around in the dark whilst being nervous.

  In the morning I took them for a run, and after breakfast they were split into two teams, some on the pistol range, some in the Killing House. They objective in the Killing House was not to rescue anyone, but instead to kill anyone they found and to steal documents from a locked desk drawer.

  Briefed, armed with pistol and two magazines, four grenades, in they went with Rizzo behind them, dummies and targets having been placed – a few loud bangs heard. Some tried to force the drawer, some to kick it, some to shoot the lock.

  What turned out to be the best method was to upturn the desk, and smash down and through the other drawer’s flimsy bases. Brutal, but effective. And we’d need some more tables with drawers. By 5pm, all had made a loud noise storming the Killing House with pistol and grenades, documents retrieved, one lad picking up a piece of grenade in his leg, and sent off.

  Tonight would see a combination of skills brought together, as each man would penetrate the base, scale the fences, go up and over the House of Horrors, then storm the Killing House, this time to get files from a metal cabinet, no drawers left to play with.

  Clipboards in hand, Swifty hidden in the House of Horrors, the directing staff and I sat in the gatehouse watching the cameras as the lads moved in, points to be deducted if we spotted anything. Rocko and Rizzo laid off bets.

  The first lad on the roof, Smitty, got a shock, Swifty having placed a large rat on the roof, but Smitty leopard crawled around the inconvenienced rodent and proceeded on down.

  Tomo was also shocked, trying the swipe the rat away at one point, making us laugh as we observed, and when the rat found its way down Swifty put up a rabbit from a cage. Unknown to us, and to Nicholson, was that the rabbit was a bit pissed off. As Nicholson leopard crawled, the rabbit ran and bit him, Nicholson suddenly on his side and trying to fight off the manic rabbit, eventually swiping it so hard the rabbit was stunned.

  Nicholson continued on down as we wondered about the rabbit, and Gonzo moved up to the stunned rabbit, had a look, and moved on.

  Next came Leggit, who had timed it wrong, or maybe the blasts from the Killing House had woken the angry rabbit, because the pissed-off rabbit went for him. After screaming from a bite, he shot it at point blank range, lots of points deducted – after we stopped laughing.

  Swan puzzled the dead rabbit and the blood, and moved on, Swifty putting another rat on the roof as one of the civvies clambered up. The civvy puzzled the rat as the rat stared back at him, moved on, but the rat went for him. As we observed, a hammer first came down, the rat quietly killed. The civv
y moved on, and made a few loud noises in the Killing House.

  We know had a dead rat and a dead rabbit on the roof, so it was time for Plan “B”.

  As the next civvy opened a door in the Killing House, hunting for his metal cabinet, a manic dog from the pound went for him, a nasty leg bite before he shot it, wrestling to get the dog off his leg as we observed via the cameras. Five minute later, I was applying cream to a nasty bite.

  The next civvy heard an odd scratching sound, a whimper, and figured it, so opened his rations and placed meat down after he opened the door an inch. The dog ate the meat as the civvy forced the metal cabinet, all of us observers disappointed, but as our man left the room the dog bit him on the back of the leg, a scream issued, and as he fell he put four rounds into the dog. We could not decide whether to deduct points or not, and I had another bite to tend.

  Swifty unleashed his secret weapon onto the roof, a chicken. The next man puzzled the dead rabbit, the dead rat, and was then set about by a crazed chicken. Swiping it away achieved nothing, and he finally broke its neck.

  I noted, ‘So dead chickens don’t run around then. I was hoping for a zombie chicken.’

  The next Wolf puzzled the dead rat, the rabbit and the chicken, wondering what the hell had happened here, and slipped down. The following Wolf stopped to examine the dead animals, then clambered down, putting his foot in a rabbit snare Swifty had rigged up, suddenly in great pain and trying to get it off, five minutes used up before he hobbled off. Points were deducted for panicking.

  With one dog left we put it in the Killing House, but in a room at the start.

  The next Wolf checked that room, missed the dog, and moved on, all of us in the camera room encouraging the dog as it poked its head out. But with each loud noise it withdrew and hid, till finally the Wolf walked past with his stolen papers, suddenly tripped and accidentally discharging a round – points lost, the dog licking our lad’s face.

  The lad got up, puzzled the dog, patted it, and moved off, those of us in the gatehouse disappointed with our less than psycho dog, which now ran off across the camp.