Bravo two zero (3 page)

    The one good thing about Winter Selection is the weather. The racing snakes who can move like men possessed across country in the summer are slowed by the snow and mist. It's a great leveler for every man to be up to his waist in snow.

    I passed.

    After this first phase you are put through a four month period of training which includes an arduous spell in the jungle in Asia. The last main test is the Combat Survival course. You are taught survival skills for two weeks, and then sent in to see the doctor. He puts a finger up your arse to check for Mars bars, and you're turned loose on the Black Mountains dressed in Second World War battle dress trousers and shirt, a greatcoat with no buttons, and boots with no laces. The hunter force was a company of Guardsmen in helicopters. Each man was given the incentive of two weeks' leave if he made a capture.

    I had been on the run for two days accompanied by three old grannies-two Navy pilots and an R.A.F, load master You had to stay together as a group, and I couldn't have been cursed with a worse trio of millstones. It didn't matter for them: the course was just a three-week embuggerance, and then they'd go home for tea and medals. But if SAS candidates didn't pass Combat Survival, they didn't get badged.

    We were waiting for one particular RV (rendezvous) when the two on stag fell asleep. In swooped a helicopter full of Guardsmen, and we were bumped. After a brief chase we were captured and taken to a holding area.

    Some hours later, as I was down on my knees, my blindfold was removed and I found myself looking up at the training sergeant major.

    "Am I binned?" I said pitifully.

    "No, you nugget. Get back on the helicopter and don't fuck up."

    I'd caught him in a good mood. An ex-Household Division man himself, he was delighted to see his old lot doing so well.

    For the next phase I was on my own, which suited me fine. Our movement between RVs was arranged in such a way that everybody was captured at the end of the E&E (escape and evasion) phase and subjected to tactical questioning. You are taught to be-and you always try to be-the gray man. The last thing you want is to be singled out as worthy of further questioning. I didn't find this stage particularly hard because despite the verbal threats nobody was actually filling you in, and you knew that nobody was going to. You're cold and wet and hungry, uncomfortable as hell, but it's just a matter of holding on, physically rather than mentally. I couldn't believe that some people threw in their hand during these last few hours.

    In the end a bloke came in during one of the interrogations, gave me a cup of soup, and announced that it was over. There was a1 thorough debriefing, because the interrogators can learn from you as well as you from them. The mind does get affected; I was surprised to find that I was six hours out in my estimation of the time.

    Next came two weeks of weapon training at Hereford. The instructors looked at who you were, and they expected from you accordingly. If you were fresh from the Catering Corps they'd patiently start from scratch; if you were an infantry sergeant they'd demand excellence. Parachute training at Brize Norton was next, and after the rigors of Selection it was more like a month at Butlins.

    Back at Hereford after six long, grueling months, we were taken into the CO's office one by one. As I was handed the famous sand-colored beret with its winged dagger, he said: "Just remember: it's harder to keep than to get."

    I didn't really take it in. I was too busy trying not to dance a jig.

    The main bulk of the new intake, as usual, was made up of people from the infantry, plus a couple of engineers and signalers. Out of 160 candidates who had started, only eight passed-one officer and seven men. Officers only serve for a three-year term in the SAS, though they may come back for a second tour. As an other rank, I had the full duration of my 22-year army contract to run-in theory, another fifteen years.

    We went to join our squadrons. You can say whether you'd like to be in Mountain, Mobility, Boat, or Air Troop, and they'll accommodate you if they can. Otherwise it all depends on manpower shortages and your existing skills. I went to Air.

    The four squadrons have very different characters. It was once said that if you went to a nightclub, A Squadron would be the ones along the wall at the back, not saying a word, even to each other, just giving everybody the evil eye. G Squadron would be talking, but only to each other. D Squadron would be on the edge of the dance floor, looking at the women. And B Squadron-my squadron-would be the ones out there on the floor, giving it their all-and making total dickheads of themselves.

    Debby came back from Germany to join me in Hereford. She had not seen much of me since I started Selection way back in January, and she wasn't too impressed that the day after she arrived I was sent back to the jungle for two months of follow-up training. When I returned it was to an empty house. She had packed her bags and gone home to Liverpool.

   In December the following year I started going out with Fiona, my next-door neighbor. Our daughter Kate was born in 1987, and in October that year we got married. My wedding present from the Regiment was a two-year job overseas. I came back from that trip in 1990, but in August, just a couple of months after my return, the marriage was dissolved. In October 1990 I met Jilly. It was love at first sight-or so she told me.

3

    We assembled at 0750 at the OC's table and headed off together for the briefing area. Everybody was in a jovial mood. We had a stainless steel flask each and the world's supply of chocolate. It was going to be a long day, and saving time on refreshment breaks would allow us to get on with more important matters.

    I was still feeling chuffed to have been made patrol commander and to be working with Vince. Approaching his last two years of service with the Regiment, Vince was 37 and a big old boy, immensely strong. He was an expert mountaineer, diver, and skier, and he walked everywhere-even up hills-as if he had a barrel of beer under each arm. To Vince, everything was "fucking shit," and he'd say it in the strongest of Swindon accents, but he loved the Regiment and would defend it even when another squadron member was having a gripe. The only complaint in his life was that he was approaching the end of his 22 years' engagement. He had come from the Ordnance Corps and looked rough in a way that most army people would expect a member of the Regiment to look rough, with coarse, curly hair and sideboards and a big mustache. Because he'd been in the Regiment a bit longer than I had, he was going to be a very useful man to have around when it came to planning.

    The briefing area, we discovered, was in another hangar. We were escorted through a door marked NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. As a regiment we were in isolation, but the briefing area was isolation within isolation. OP SEC (operational security) is crucial. Nobody in the Regiment would ever ask anybody else what he was doing. As unwritten rules go, that one is in red ink, capital letters, and underlined. Doors either side of us were labeled AIR PLANNING, D SQUADRON, INT CORPS, MAP STORE. There was nothing fancy about the signs; they were A4 sheets of paper pinned to the door.

    The atmosphere in this building was markedly different. It was clinical and efficient, with the ambient hiss and mush of radio transmissions in the background. Intelligence Corps personnel, known to us as "spooks" or "green slime," moved from room to room with bundles of maps in their arms, being meticulous about closing doors behind them. Everybody spoke in low voices. It was an impressive hive of professional activity.

    We knew many of the spooks by name, having worked with them in the UK.

    "Morning, slime," I called out to a familiar face. "How's it going?"

    I got a mouthed word and a jerk of the wrist in return.

    The place had no windows and felt as though it had been derelict for a long time. There was an underlying smell of mustiness and decay. On top of that were the sort of ordinary office smells you'd get anywhere-paper, coffee, cigarettes. But this being what we called a remf (rear echelon motherfucker) establishment and early in the morning, there was also a strong smell of soap, shaving foam, toothpaste, and aftershave.

    "Morning, remfs!" Vince greeted them with his Swindon accent and a broad grin. "You're fucking shit, you are."

    "Fucking shit yourself," a spook replied. "Could you do our job?"

    "Not really," Vince said. "But you're still a remf."

    The B Squadron room was about 15 feet square. The ceiling was very high, with a slit device at the top that gave the only ventilation. Four tables had been put together in the center. Silk escape maps and compasses were laid out on top.

    "Freebies, let's have them," Dinger said.

    "Never mind the quality, feel the width," said Bob, one of Vince's gang.

    Bob, all 5'2" of him, was of Swiss-Italian extraction and known as the Mumbling Midget. He'd been in the Royal Marines but wanted to better himself, and had quit and taken a gamble on passing Selection. Despite his size he was immensely strong, both physically and in character. He always insisted on carrying the same load as everybody else, which at times could be very funny-all you could see was a big bergen (backpack) and two little legs going at it like pistons underneath. At home, he was a big fan of old black-and-white comedies, of which he owned a vast collection. When he was out on the town, his great hobbies were dancing and chatting up women a foot taller than himself. On the day we left for the Gulf, he'd had to be rounded up from the camp club in the early hours of the morning.

    We looked at the maps, which dated back to the -1950s. On one side was Baghdad and surroundings, on the other Basra.

    "What do you reckon, boys?" said Chris, another from Vince's team, in his broad Geordie accent. "Baghdad or Basra?"

    A spook came in. I knew Bert as part of our own intelligence organization in Hereford.

    "Got any more of these?" Mark asked. "They're fucking nice."

    Typical Regiment mentality: if it's shiny, I want it. You don't even know what a piece of equipment does sometimes, but if it looks good you take it. You never know when you might need it.

    There were no chairs in the room, so we just sat with our backs against the wall. Chris produced his flask and offered it around. Good-looking and soft spoken Chris had been involved with the Territorial SAS as a civilian when he decided he wanted to join the Regiment proper. For Chris, if a job was worth doing it was worth doing excellently, so in typical fashion he signed up first with the Paras because he wanted a solid infantry background. He moved to Hereford from Aldershot as soon as he'd reached his intended rank of lance corporal and had passed Selection.

    If Chris had a plan, he'd see it through. He was one of the most determined, purposeful men I'd ever met. As strong physically as he was mentally, he was a fanatical bodybuilder, cyclist, and skier. In the field he liked to wear an old Afrika Korps peaked cap. Off duty he was a real victim for the latest bit of biking or skiing technology, and wore all the Gucci kit. He was very quiet when he joined the Regiment, but after about three months his strength of character started to emerge. Chris was the man with the voice of reason. He'd always be the one to intervene and sort out a fight, and what he said always sounded good even when he was bullshitting.

    "Let's get down to business," the OC said. "Bert's going to tell you the situation."

    Bert perched on the edge of a table. He was a good spook because he was brief, and the briefer they are the easier it is to understand and remember what they're telling you.

    "As you know, Saddam Hussein has finally carried out an attack on Israel by firing modified Scud missiles at Tel Aviv and Haifa. The actual damage done is very small, but thousands of residents are fleeing the cities for safer parts of the country. The country has come to a standstill. Their prime minister is not impressed.

    "The rag heads, however, are well pleased. As far as they're concerned, Saddam has hit Tel Aviv, the recognized capital of Israel, and shown that the heart of the Jewish state is no longer impregnable.

    "Saddam obviously wants Israel to retaliate, at whatever cost, because that will almost certainly cause a split in the anti-Iraqi Coalition, and probably even draw Iran into the war on the Iraqi side to join the fight against Israel.

    "We knew this was a danger, and have been trying from day one to locate and destroy the Scud launchers. Stealth bombers have attacked the six bridges in central Baghdad that cross the river Tigris. These bridges connect the two halves of the city, and they also carry the landlines along which Baghdad is communicating with the rest of the country and its army in Kuwait-and with the Scud units operating against Israel.

    Since Iraq's microwave transmitters are already bombed to buggery and its radio signals are being intercepted by Allied intelligence, the landlines are Saddam's last link. For the air planners, they have become a priority target.

    "Unfortunately, London and Washington want the attacks to stop. They think the news footage of kids playing next to bombed-out bridges is bad PR. But gents, Saddam has got to be denied access to those cables. And if Israel and Iran are to be kept out of the war, the Scuds have to be immobilized," Bert got up from the table and went over to a large scale map of Iraq, Iran, Saudi, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, and Kuwait that was tacked to the wall. He jabbed his finger at northwest Iraq.

    "Here," he said, "be Scuds."

    We all knew what was coming next.

    "From Baghdad there are three MSRs (main supply routes) running east to west," he went on, "mostly into Jordan. These MSRs are used for the transportation of fuel or whatever-and for moving Scuds. Now, it appears the Iraqis are firing the Scuds in two ways. From fixed-launcher sites, which are pre surveyed and from unfixed sites where they have to stop and survey before they fire. These are more tactical. We have hosed down most of the pre surveyed sites. But the mobiles."

    We had even more of an idea now.

    "Landlines are giving information to these mobile launchers, because all other com ms are down. And I doubt there are that many people left in the country who can repair these things. And that, basically, is the situation."

    "Your task is in two parts," said the boss. "One, to locate and destroy the landlines in the area of the northern MSR. Two, to find and destroy Scud."

    He repeated the tasking statement, as is standard tasking procedure. His task now became our mission.

    "We're not really bothered how you do it, as long as it gets done," he went on. "Your area of operation is along about 150 miles of this MSR.

    The duration of task will be fourteen days before resupply. Has anybody got any questions?"

    We didn't at this stage.

    "Right, Bert here will get you everything you want. I'll be coming back during the daytime anyway, but any problems, just come and get us. Andy, once you've got a plan sorted out, give me a shout and I'll have a look at it."

    Rather than dive straight in, we took time out to have a breather and a brew. If you fancy a drink, you take one from the nearest available source. We emptied Mark's flask, then looked at the map.

    "We'll need as much mapping as you've got," I said to Bert. "All the topographical information. And any photography, including satellite pictures."

    "All I've got for you is one-in-a-half-million air navigation charts.

    Otherwise, there's jack shit."

    "What can you tell us about weather conditions and the going?" Chris said.

    "I'm getting that squared away. I'll go and see if it's ready."

    "We also need to know a lot more about the fiber optics, how they actually operate," said Legs. "And Scuds."

    I liked Legs. He was still establishing himself in the Regiment, having come from Para Reg just six months before. Like all newcomers he was still a bit on the quiet side, but had become firm friends with Dinger.

    He was very confident in himself and his ability as patrol signaler, and having started his army life in the engineers, he was also an excellent motor mechanic. He got his name from being a real racing snake over the ground.

    Bert left the room, and discussions started up amongst the blokes. We were feeling relaxed. We appeared to have plenty of time, which is rare for the Regiment's operations, and we were in a nice, sterile environment; we weren't having to do our planning tactically, in the pouring rain in the back of beyond. There is a principle in the infantry that's referred to as "The Seven Ps": Proper Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance. We had perfect planning conditions. We'd have no excuses for Piss Poor Performance.

    While we waited for Bert to come back, blokes wandered off to fill their flasks or make use of the remfs' plumbing facilities.

    "I've got the mapping for you," Bert said as he came through the door a quarter of an hour later. "And I've got the information on the ground-but not a lot of it. I'll try to get more. There are some better escape maps coming through. I'll get you those before you leave."

    We had already pocketed the others as souvenirs in any event.

    We'd now had time to think things through a bit more, and Bert was bombarded with requests for information on enemy positions; areas of local population; the nature of the border with Syria because we were immediately thinking of an E&E plan and that frontier was the closest; what type of troops were near our area and in what concentrations, because if there were massive concentrations of troops, there was going to be a lot of movement up and down the MSR, which would make the task harder; what type of traffic moved up and down the MSR and in what volume; plus everything he could find out about how landlines worked, what they looked like, how easy they were to detect, and whether, having been found, they could be destroyed with ten pounds of plastic explosive or just a bang with a hammer.

    Bert left with our new shopping list.

    Looking at the map on the wall, I saw an underground oil pipe that had been abandoned. "I wonder if it's laid parallel to the MSR," I said,

    "and if the cable runs through it?"

    "There's a boy in the squadron who used to lay landlines for Mercury,"

    Stan said. "I'll see if he knows the score."

    Bert came back with piles of maps. While some of us taped the separate sheets together to make one big section, two lads went out and nicked chairs.

    The atmosphere was rather more serious now. We mulled things over in general for another half an hour before we launched into planning proper. Chris studied the maps and made pertinent comments. Legs scribbled memos to himself about radio equipment. Dinger opened another packet of Benson & Hedges.