Eye of the Storm (46 page)

I will admit that that’s the impression I like to project. It’s both my nature and the way I operate. Faced with a choice I will always go for positive action, but I would never risk people’s lives unnecessarily. Nevertheless, the SAS is a regiment whose motto is ‘Who dares wins’, and that’s what our job is all about – going forward and actually trying to achieve a mission or a goal. Pat seems to have found me a bit too blasé, even careless; I found that he lacked what I was looking for in a 2IC to drive the patrol on to complete its tasks.

The distance to the landing site was only thirty kilometres, and we should have been there well before midnight – giving us a couple of hours in which to make the site secure before the chopper came in – if Yorky hadn’t driven Pat’s Land Rover over the edge of a sheer drop into a ravine, something which, in those conditions, can happen to anyone. How nobody was killed or badly injured God only knows, for the 110 dropped about six or seven feet and then rolled over, landing upside-down in the ravine. I think the three of them were saved by the roll bar, which took the main force of the crash, but they had all suffered some hard knocks and were badly shaken up. All the fuel had spilled out of the vehicle’s tank, and ammunition, fuel cans, weapons, equipment and rations were scattered along the bottom of the ravine.

It took us nearly an hour and a half to get the Land Rover out, but we were forced to work with great care so as not to cause any sparks that might ignite the fuel. Eventually we managed to winch the thing upright, hook it up to the Unimog and drag it backwards out of the ravine.

They were amazing vehicles, those Land Rovers. We refuelled Pat’s battered 110 once it had been checked over and it started first time. In fact, in our whole time in the field, during which we covered thousands of kilometres over some appalling terrain, we didn’t experience a problem with any of them. I would endorse Land Rover’s product any time.

Pat and his crew were so badly shocked that I actually relented in my decision to ship him out. Pulling him to one side, I told him that I had decided to give him one last chance. But, I added, he had received his final warning. I think he appreciated it. He damned well ought to have done, charity not coming high up on any RSM’s list of priorities, least of all mine. He mumbled some kind of a thank you, though he was still pretty shaken from the accident. By some miracle Yorky was also unhurt and, to his credit, declared himself fit enough to drive. We were able to resume our journey in our earlier formation, delayed but still more or less in one piece.

In the event we arrived at the landing site with a good two hours to spare before the rendezvous, set for 0200, and immediately set about securing the area. We had to make sure it was completely sterile – free of the enemy and of any civilians – and this was done by sending out patrols for several kilometres around. If there was no sign of the enemy we would arrange the vehicles in defensive pickets around the site, and station members of the patrol in the centre to guide the helicopter in. Since we had to maintain complete radio silence, the pilot wouldn’t land if he didn’t get the correct signal from the ground.

Right on time the Chinook came clattering in, flying just thirty feet above the ground. It made a sweeping pass overhead, turned within a hundred metres and landed, noisily but gracefully enough, exactly where planned. Dust blew up in great clouds from the down-draught and the noise was horrendous, since the engines were kept running.

The first person I saw when the tail ramp came down was the load master, and I went forward beneath the spinning rotors to greet him. Then I handed him a confidential report I had written to the CO, explaining the situation with Alpha One Zero. Some things I couldn’t trust to the airwaves. In that report, after giving the CO my appraisal of the men I urged him under no circumstances to consider splitting the unit into two patrols. I’d heard over the radio that one Delta half-squadron had split, but I felt that we would be a more effective fighting force if Alpha One Zero remained intact, not least because Pat’s way of operating gave me cause for concern. It was imperative they remain together under my command until we quit Iraq.

While I had been talking to the load master another man had disembarked, carrying an M16 and a bergen. This must be my new 2IC. Having safely handed over my report I turned to the newcomer and we shook hands. I still didn’t know who he was, but I yelled in his ear for him to follow me away from the noise of the engines. As we moved off my men clambered aboard the Chinook and began rolling everything off. The helicopter had already resupplied other patrols on that run, and the fact that we were the last unit to be resupplied on that flight meant everything left aboard was intended for us, which made the unloading simple.

When we were a couple of hundred metres from the helicopter the new arrival set his bergen down and put out his hand again.

‘I’m Major Peter,’ he said. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Billy.’

I took a moment to look him over carefully. He was in his early thirties, about five feet nine inches tall, stocky, with a thick mop of fairish hair and a steady, confident gaze. He seemed like a nice guy. This was the first time we had met, for he had been on a staff posting in Riyadh and our paths hadn’t crossed during the couple of days when I had been there. When the previous patrol commander had been pulled out Peter had been designated as his replacement. He was not due to take over as OC A Squadron until November, but the CO thought that sending him in to join us for a few weeks would give him a chance to meet half his squadron and set him on a very good learning curve. A very steep learning curve, if you had asked me, but I was confident the CO knew what he was doing.

I quickly brought Peter up to date on the mission so far, and briefed him on my future intentions. For a couple of days I had been mulling over an idea in my mind, and while waiting for the helicopter had finally decided to go ahead with it. I intended to start moving during the day as well as at night, and to carry out operations in daylight, where that was possible. There was no hesitation from my new 2IC – he was in full agreement. ‘It’ll give us a chance to see what the enemy is up to,’ he said. ‘I’m all for it.’

I warmed to him even more a few moments later when he produced a familiar-looking bottle from under his coat. ‘This is for you,’ he said, glancing around to make sure no one else was watching. ‘I feel as though I shouldn’t be giving it to you, in view of the CO’s orders, but I’m told it’s purely for medicinal use.’

I laughed. ‘Give the thing here,’ I said, taking the bottle of dark rum, ‘it will come in very useful. A little tot in hot chocolate or coffee will do wonders for the guys’ morale.’ Then a thought struck me.

‘Where’s the rest of it?’ I asked. I had put in for half a dozen bottles.

‘That’s it,’ he told me. ‘I only brought the one bottle.’

Well, there goes the guys’ morale booster, I told myself. I was damned if I was going to share the one bottle around. It was going to stay in my pack and provide an occasional solo nightcap in the days to come.

By this time everything had been unloaded from the helicopter, including a replacement motorcycle for one that had packed up, and I went down and gave the load master the all-clear to pull out. Within forty-five minutes of the Chinook clattering off into the night sky the vehicles’ tanks and all the jerry cans had been replenished with fuel, and we had our maximum supply of water stowed aboard. As usual we had a lot of fuel left over in the burmoils that the chopper had brought, but I knew from earlier experience in the Middle East that if it was left where it was then the bedouin would eventually find and make use of it. They weren’t our enemies, however, so good luck to them.

Our other cast-offs, mainly the cardboard boxes that had contained our ration packs, were all placed in a pile and set on fire the following morning. I wanted to make as much smoke as I could so as to attract a little attention to ourselves in an attempt to draw out the enemy. The Union jacks were spread out as usual, so that friendly pilots could identify us from the air as British if, attracted by the smoke and flames, they flew by for a closer look. A few of the lads got a bit nervy about giving away our position, and once again wanted to know what would happen if we attracted enemy tanks.

‘Then we call in the RAF,’ I explained to them. ‘We’re on a plateau and can see one hell of a long way. A tank doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. It blows up a great cloud of dust which can be seen twenty miles away. Just relax. Settle down and enjoy the fresh grub.’

It was a real treat to have fresh fruit and vegetables – and even meat – again, although we knew we’d be back on the rations soon enough. I had noticed that I had already begun to lose weight. A different way to diet, perhaps, but very effective.

I decided that the patrol would stay put that day, which would allow the men to cook themselves a couple of decent meals and catch up on a bit of personal maintenance. Just after midday, however, we received orders from Al Jouf that we were to try to find them a usable airstrip somewhere in our territory, and safe from prying Iraqi eyes. In the coming month, February, we would be without moonlight from the 14th to the 20th, which meant that the helicopters would not be flying and so would not be able to resupply us. Someone at HQ had suggested, as an alternative which had been backed by the CO, that a C-130 fly in at night to make the resupply. In other words, an aircraft 30 metres long with a wingspan of more than 40 metres and weighing, when fully loaded, over 75 tons, would put down in absolute blackness on an unknown airstrip 200 miles behind enemy lines.

The RAF pilots in 47 Squadron
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really were brilliant flyers, all of them. Most were former fighter pilots who had flown Harriers, Tornados, Jaguars, Buccaneers and the like before being switched to the Special Forces flights because of minor medical problems or something equally trivial. They and their aircrew were a great bunch of guys; they were also extremely brave men. Give them a short, narrow strip of barely level ground and these characters would set a Hercules down on it. I have never encountered their like anywhere. They would fly in at almost zero altitude and land these huge monsters on grass, gravel, mudflats, even a frozen lake – anything that was just long enough and wide enough, and more or less level.

For night flights we would mark the runway ourselves. We would set markers at each end and in the middle of the runway – that was all these pilots needed to set down in the middle of nowhere, unload or collect men or gear, turn round and get back in the air.

That evening I took part of my group on a recce north-west of our location and sent Pat with part of his group to the north-east. Our task was to find a suitable landing strip for the C-130 and, if we were lucky enough to locate one, to try to pinpoint and assess any enemy activity in the area. It must have been our lucky night, because after some twenty kilometres we came across a disused airfield; better still, it wasn’t even marked on the map. Like dozens of others, it had probably been built during the Iran-Iraq War and then abandoned after the armistice.

It was a clear night with barely a cloud in the sky, and even though there was only a slight moon it was very light. The scrub-grass runway was sharply etched by the moonlight, looking for all the world like a worn, pea-green carpet. Peter and I walked its length to check that it was still level and free of any craters, then sat on the centre line to have a cigarette.

‘If you think about it,’ he said after we’d smoked in silence for a while, grinning across at me, ‘this is really quite bizarre. Here we are, sitting in the middle of a grass runway, in the middle of Iraq, having a fag. There’s nobody here who gives a damn, or who is going to stop us or check our passports. It’s quite surreal, actually – but it gives me a damned good feeling.’ I could see what he meant, although being in strange situations in remote places is so much a part of SAS life that I probably wouldn’t have even thought about it if he hadn’t said something.

In the early hours of the next morning, having caught a fascinating glimpse of the new motorway, still under construction, which would soon replace the main supply route out of Amman, we returned to our LUP, where I’d left half our force with the Unimog and some of the Land Rovers. We waited for Pat to return. He was back just before dawn, reporting that his unit had found only one possible landing strip, which would in any case need a certain amount of clearing.

The disused airfield seemed our best bet, and I therefore radioed headquarters to give them the exact coordinates, which would then be passed to the C-130 pilots. Once that minor task was out of the way I could give time to planning our way forward. I intended to move north again that night, 5 February, and take up position near the main supply route so we could begin observing the enemy’s movements along it – including, I hoped, movements of mobile Scud missile launchers.

The morning of the 6th found us in position close to MSR3. It was drizzling and bitterly cold. Around us the desert was a dun and dirty grey, studded with low black hills and huge grey boulders. It looked and felt fiercely inhospitable. Early that afternoon, while I was trying to catch up on some sleep under the Land Rover, I found myself being shaken awake by Harry, my radio operator.

‘Sorry to wake you, Boss, but it’s your call sign coming in from HQ. They have an immediate signal for you.’

‘Probably only routine,’ I groaned, rolling from under the vehicle and staggering to my feet.

But the message, when I had finished decoding it, proved to be not at all what I had expected.

Alpha One Zero was ordered to penetrate and destroy a microwave Scud-control station known as Victor Two, the mission to be carried out by no later than 0600 on Friday morning, 8 February – just under thirty-nine hours away. We had to take out the major switching gear and fibre-optic cables contained in a fortified underground bunker. The control station, situated right on the MSR, was in a key staging area used by civilian convoys, and was defended by a minimal enemy force of about thirty soldiers, according to the signal.