Immediate Action Part 42

When the patrols were first issued with magazines for their weapons, they started taping them together because they'd seen a few Oliver Stone movies, and they thought it looked rather macho. We discouraged them as much as we could. The 7.62 is a heavy round, and a twenty-round magazine is a hefty object. When they were down on the ground, some of the lads could only just about lift the rifle up, let alone deal with the weight of a double magazine.

The Regiment blokes all took 9MM Brownings. The pistols the rest of their patrol took were weird and wonderful. Some had cowboy six-shooters; some had Colt.45s. What they expected to do with them probably even they didn't know.

We carried plenty of plastic explosive for destroying the DMP, and also we had the means to burn down any fields that we came across-P.E4 mostly and American C4, and all the odds and hods that went with it such as detonating cord, detonators, and claymores for our own defense.

Once we'd found the target we'd put in a CTR. A picture speaks a thousand words when it comes to reconnaissance, especially if the troops you're briefing don't speak your mother tongue. We therefore also carried cameras and video recorders and portable darkroom equipment to produce negatives. I favored a Nikon with a zoom lens, plus a 28 men lens for I.R photography, and a Canon point-and-shoot, also fitted with an I.R filter for night photography.

A video camera was excellent for CTRS, and we also had with us a little Sony play-back machine; with it, we could brief the patrols with visual reference, so they'd know what they were looking for when they got onto the ground. The video had a manual-focus lens; an auto-focus lens latches on to the nearest object in the center of the field of vision, which in jungle is almost always a leaf.

We also took night-viewing aids, either pocket scopes or weapon-mounteds, and all the kit had to be waterproofed.

Almost more important than the kit we took was what we didn't take.

Everybody had to go out sterile, apart from any obvious doc.u.mentation.

The boys carried their police warrant cards, but no home addresses or pictures of the wife and kids. They all knew the statistics; they'd all had family, friends, or colleagues gunned down in the street.

We set off that afternoon in a convoy of four cattle trucks and traveled through the night. Everybody was subdued; n.o.body was talking much. The occasional f.a.g flared in the darkness. It reminded me of Selection and the long drives to the Elan valley, and I tried to get as much rest as I could; I knew I'd be running around like a lunatic for the next couple of weeks.

For most of the next day we traveled through towns and villages, the roads getting more and more outrageous. A couple of hours before last light we stopped and had a brew. Gar came over and said, "We're going to split off about three Ks up the road. I'm going to take two groups, Wayne's going to map-read your lot. If there's any dramas, get on the net, because we've got the helicopters standing by.

Don't f.u.c.k about, just get on the net and get the people out. See you soon."

We got back on the wagons. I was in Wayne's vehicle, which was leading.

The road was metaled but badly potholed. The suspension was shaking itself to pieces, and we were getting shunted about in the back; soon everybody was standing up to save himself from a battering.

It was coming to last light. The vehicle stopped; the engine was turned off. It went very quiet, and the noises of the savanna took over. Wayne got out and said: "This is your dropoff point."

I got the blokes off the wagon. They looked as if they didn't want to get off but at the same time knew the job had to be done.

Shades again of Selection.

"We aren't going to do anything tonight," I said. "All we have to do is tab into our area."

It was all in slow time. We got our bergens on, sorted ourselves out, and started to walk off toward the cover about half a kilometer away.

Once we'd gone a couple of hundred meters we heard the engines start up then drive away. After a minute or two there was total silence. I watched the headlights threading their way along the road and disappear into the distance.

I could hear my breath. I'd had twenty-four hours of total inactivity, and now I was starting to get my second wind.

The weather was very warm and moist. The night was full of 'ungly sounds, though we were still in savanna."could hear crickets.

There was a very light breeze. It was moderately cloudy, but I could see stars.

I was feeling fairly comfortable. We had plenty of food and water and were going to get our heads down for the night. I was actually looking forward to a few hours in my hammock.

In the morning, because we weren't in any danger, I let the guys start with a brew and hot scoff.

One of the blokes in the patrol was called Rodriguez.

He was about twenty-two, tall, black, and rather effeminate. He had unnaturally long eyelashes and very fine, defined features, a pianist's hands and immaculate nails.

He spoke with a soft tone and seemed to apologize for everything he did.

He was, however, very good at his job, and I wanted him to be the scout.

I said, "I want you to set off on this bearing, Rodriguez. We're going to go forward, and after about an hour we're going to stop and have a brew. Keep your eyes,open and keep on the bearing; we don't want to start getting lost. Do you understand? We are depending on you!"

"Si." He smiled. "Si, sorry, no problem."

The scout kept far enough ahead to give advance warning of a problem, but close enough for me to see him and signal occasional directions. He really dictated the movement of the patrol as The moved along: If he wanted us to stop, he'd tell us to. If he stopped dead, I'd also stop dead, and everybody else would do the same.

He was the first set of eyes.

After an hour Rodriguez stopped in a dip in the ground under a large tree. We hunkered down and got a brew on. Birds twittered in the branches overhead; some form of wildlife rustled in the undergrowth. We talked in quiet whispers.

"This will be the last brew," I said. "Make sure you don't tell anyone I let you have it!"

They were pleased to think it was our little secret.

I looked at. them and said, "Let's crack on and do it.

n.o.body let me down. Any problems with that?"

"No. no problems." Rodriguez wanted to be the scout again, so I let him.

Normally I'd have changed the scout every couple of hours because it was a strenuous job. Chopping his way through would have made noise and leave sign; the scout had to move the vegetation out of the way as he patrolled through. He was on the lookout for movement or any sign of there having been movement. It could be ground sign, such as mud prints, or it could be top sign, such as leaves overturned. A large rubber leaf or fern, for example, doesn't naturally turn up onto its underside, and after a short while it would turn its way back to the sun-so something must have turned it, and that meant that somebody had been there quite recently.

The scout was looking, too, for any signs of animal traps.

Indigenous people leave signs that these things are around, and we didn't want to land up in a net dangling from a tree. He was also looking for any signs of the DMP. This could be a lot of footprints going in one direction; it could be a noise; it could be a smell. If he spotted people, we wouldn't take them on; the object was to avol id them, to see where they went, and to follow them.

It took us nearly half a day to start getting into the rough area of our four grid squares. By now we were all wet with sweat. It hadn't rained; I was just hoping that if it did, it was before last light so we didn't have to sort ourselves out that night in a downpour.

Then we started our search pattern, which varied with the terrain.

Sometimes we might be paralleling along grid squares; at others we'd fan out from prominent objects. About once every hour we'd stop for five minutes. That gave us time to tuck our s.h.i.+rts in, pull our trousers up, have a drink, refill the water bottles. Every time we came to a source of water we'd fill up; if the bottles were already full, then we'd drink as much as we could. Some of the blokes put lemon powder in one of their water bottles and had the other as plain water. I preferred both to be plain.

For the first afternoon all the blokes were keen, but then fatigue started to take its toll-the mental fatigue of continually looking for sign and the physical fatigue of carrying a bergen' in the heat. It was showing on these people quite a lot.

About an hour before last light it was time to look for a place to L.U.P, but first we'd need to break track to make sure no one was following us. Gonzalo-Gonzwas the scout. I gave him the signal to stop and went forward.

"We're going to look for an L.U.P-I said into his ear.

A big smile came up on his face. He had ma.s.sive tombstone teeth with black marks between from chewing tobacco.

I said, "Follow me," and he tagged on behind.

Gonz was about twenty-three or twenty-four. He had a really youthful look on his face, as if he still had puppy fat, and was always smiling.

At times I didn't know if he was stupid or just happy. It was a mischievous sort of smile; I never really knew what was going on in his mind, but I hoped there was a lot more tucked away than there appeared to be.

We looped the track and put in an instant ambush on our own trail, because no matter how carefully we went through the jungle, we were always going to leave sign.

Then, when we were happy, three blokes stayed with the bergens, while Gonzalo and I went to look for an L.U.P.

The ideal site was not necessarily somewhere that could be defended; the main consideration was concealment.

Everybody knew what was going on now and was happy at the prospect of getting his head down.

At the site we took our bergens off again and got into all-round defense, standing to until last light. First, however, came a good dousing of mozzie rep. All around my head I heard the steady buzz of insects. Standing to in the jungle, you always see and hear a lot more than you realized was around you. You think you're moving covertly, but the wildlife has you sussed, and by the time you get there they're well and truly gone. Now, just sitting there, doing nothing, I could hear everything around me. Apart from the mosquitoes it was lovely, being sort of embraced by the jungle.

As soon as it was last light, we put up our hammocks and ponchos.

There was no need to talk; everybody knew what to do, taking it in turns. While two of us got ourselves organized, the other three looked and listened.

I put my dry kit on and got into my hammock and fell asleep listening to the hums and rustles and the rain that came about midnight.

About an hour before first light we packed our equipment up.

Again, there was no reason to talk; we just did everything slowly and carefully to avoid making a noise.

We left as soon as it was light enough to move.

We patrolled for about two hours, then stopped to make our sitrep to the F.O.B, giving our location, any enemy location or activity that we'd seen, and our own activity and future intentions, which in this case was "carry on patrolling." Back at the HQ the blokes would then plot us on the map; if the s.h.i.+t hit the fan later in the day, at least they'd know where we'd been at 0800.

The boys sat there eating sugar and corned beef.

For the next few days that was the routine: moving off, changing over scouts, changing over check pacers.

Once or twice we got lost. We stopped, moved off track, sat in all-round defense, and got the map out.

"Where were we last time we definitely knew where we were?" I said to Gonz.

We methodically worked it out from there; it was no good running around like lunatics, chasing shadows. I sent two boys out on a short recce to confirm that the next feature was five hundred meters further along. I hoped they'd come back and report, "Yes, there is a river, and it flows from left to right."

On the third occasion I sent out Gonz and One-of three-Joses on a recce patrol. "Go down there no more than four hundred meters. As you start moving down towards the low ground, we should be on the highest point.

Look around and there should be no higher ground around you.

If not, we have una problems. And there should be a river about three hundred meters further down, running left to right."

Off they went, Gonz with a big black toothy smile on his face.

They came back much sooner than I had expected, and Gonz's smile had vanished.

Putting his mouth to my ear, Gonz said, "We got down there. We were on the highest ground, but there's movement ahead. We heard a sound of metal and some shouting."

I got everybody together and said, "There's something down there.

We don't know what it is. What we're going to do is move forward as best we can. Gonz is going to take us down there to the area where he heard it, and we'll stop and take it from there. Is everybody ready?

Just take your time; there's no need to flap."

Everybody started to switch on. We moved down the hill very, very slowly. Gonz was ahead of me, the others behind. I couldn't hear anything.

Gonz stopped and pointed forward.

I motioned for him to come with me, and the other three to stay with the bergens. "If there's any problems, you're soon going to hear.

If we're not back by last light, wait until midday tomorrow and then skirt around the noise, hit the river, and turn right until you hit the road.

We'll sort ourselves out. Leave our bergens where they are."

We crept forward through the vegetation, with nothing but rifles and belt kit. We were going to go just far enough to confirm; it would be no good jumping up and down thinking that we'd found it, after only a cursory look.

I inched through the jungle, following Gonzalo. My eyes were darting around all over the place. He was looking ahead, concentrating on trying to remember where he had heard the noise. Every now and again he looked back for a bit of rea.s.surance, and there was no smile.

At a point about two hundred meters from where we'd left the bergens, he stopped and held up his hand. I stopped. As a technical adviser I should now have been helping him to go and do the CTR, but I had to make sure the job was done and we all got out safely. Motioning for him to stay where he was and give me cover, I signaled that I was going to go and have a look.

I got down onto my belly and crawled forward very slowly. I took three or four little crawls, stopped, us- I tened, looked around, and crawled again. After about twenty minutes I couldn't believe what I saw.

I was looking through about two meters of brush, and then the area opened up into almost a small industrial complex. I saw three or four buildings. One was a long, low one, which I knew was the trademark of a

DMP.

Inside, the coca paste would be laid out on long tables.

Two other single-story buildings were higher. They had corrugated iron roofs, with attempts to camouflage them with leaves and branches.

I heard a South American voice shout a question. The answer, in Spanish, was slightly drowned by the sound of a generator, but it had a strong, almost Afrikaans tw.a.n.g to it.

I saw an old boy walking between two of the buildings. He wasn't armed.

I stayed there for about half an hour, watching and listening for more activity, not believing our good luck.

It was the first manufacturing plant I had seen in operation; I didn't want to f.u.c.k up. I couldn't see much from my perspective but heard another couple of people and the occasional banging of a door.

The mosquitoes loved what was happening. They could land on my face, and it would take me long, slow seconds to bring my hand up to wipe them away. I didn't want to move to another position or kneel up to get a better view. I didn't need to do that at this stage; all I needed to do was make myself happy that it was indeed a DMP.

I crawled my way back to Gonz. I put my mouth to his ear and gave him a thumbs-up. "Bingo!"