Bouncers and Bodyguards (20 page)

As well as the action, there were other reasons I chose Djibouti: the sunshine and the higher wages!

I had some great moments in the Legion. One time, during basic training, there were really severe floods in Avignon, very similar to those in the UK in 2007, and the Legion was sent to help out. We spent days rescuing people, saving lives and belongings, and cleaning up. Afterwards, when the floods had receded and the city was almost back to normal, we were asked to parade through the town centre, and we all received commendations for the work we had done to help the local community. It was a proud moment.

Then, while on leave in Marseilles, I managed to be in the right place at the right time and prevented two girls from being robbed at knife-point. I was 21 years old at the time and on leave after returning from Djibouti. It had been a tough two years, and I was settling back into life in France. I had met a French girl while on leave previously; she had fallen pregnant and had just given birth to a baby girl. We had a little apartment in the town and had just moved in together. I went out to the local hypermarket to buy milk, a few fluffy toys and a couple of cans of lager for my own private celebratory drink, as I didn’t know anyone locally whom I could get pissed with. I was standing at the bus stop waiting to return home to the weird smell of nappies and to my girlfriend’s pretty puffed up face, brought on by a lack of sleep. I was in my own little world, enjoying a precious few minutes of ‘peace and quiet’, listening to Metallica on my Walkman. Metallica deafens me and helps to take my mind off things. There must have been at least 40 to 50 people standing at the bus stop: little old biddies with their trolleys on wheels, pumped-up guys returning from the gym, and the token single mother with three kids and a pushchair with at least a dozen carrier bags of crisps and sweets hanging from every corner.

There was also a couple of girls sitting on a little wall just a few feet away from the bus stop chatting happily to each other. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a group of about nine young Algerian lads walking towards them. They were a typical bunch of street lads, aged around 20 to 23ish, kicking Coke cans, spitting on the floor, larking about and pushing each other into the road. I assumed that the two girls knew them, because they started talking to each other. Metallica was bursting my eardrums, so I couldn’t make out what was being said, but then one of the lads grabbed one of the girls’ handbags. Because no one else said or did anything, I didn’t realise anything was wrong for a few seconds, but then the girl lunged to get her bag back, and once she did that the other lads started to severely punch and kick the pair of them and grab at the second girl’s handbag. Even though there were several guys who were a lot bigger than me standing at the bus stop nearer to the group, no one reacted or did anything. It was obvious to me that these Algerian cunts were prepared to do whatever it took to get these poor young girls’ handbags, and it seemed that no one at all was prepared to stop them. Big mistake! I quickly took off my Walkman, shoved it into my carrier bag and hurriedly gave it to an old woman standing next to me to hold while I went to work.

I went straight for the biggest and nutted him hard. He fell. As soon as I did that, the rest turned and were stunned for a second. This gave me a few seconds to unleash a torrent of punches and kicks, and I had managed to down five of them before they knew what was going on. I noticed a couple of them were already gone; they were halfway up the road. The two who remained gave me a couple of quick digs. I kicked one of them in the chest, and he collapsed like a bag of shit. His mate quickly followed the others up the road. As I was standing over the scumbags on the floor, looking down at them deciding whether to kick them in the ribs or the stomach, a screeching of tyres broke my concentration.

Next, I felt the hot metal of a police car bonnet as my face was slammed into it. I was handcuffed and put into the back of the car. Over the pounding of my heart, I could hear one of the officers calling on his radio for an ambulance. As I stared out of the window, I noticed several people at the bus stop rushing over to the policemen, obviously explaining to them what had actually happened. Thankfully, one of the officers immediately came over to the car, took me out and removed my handcuffs. He was babbling away to me in French, but even though I spoke the language fluently and had a French girlfriend whom I only spoke French to, I was bizarrely oblivious to what he was saying. I could see his lips jabbering away, but my mind was elsewhere, and I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. For a few seconds, it was as though I didn’t speak a word of French. Rage? Anger? Mental breakdown? Stress? I don’t know.

I was taken to the police station to make a statement, and once I had identified myself as a Legionnaire I was immediately treated in a more respectful and courteous manner. Once I had made my statement and had calmed down a bit, a high-ranking police officer walked in and introduced himself. I guess he would have been the equivalent of a British superintendent. He told me that one of the girls attacked at the bus stop was actually his daughter. He shook my hand so hard it seemed as though he was going to cut off my circulation. He said he owed me and would do everything he could to make sure that what I had done would not go unrecognised.

My leave lasted 93 days, and upon returning to the regiment I saw my name on the notice board telling me to report immediately to the base commander. Everyone in the regiment knows that if you get nicked when on leave, you are going down big time, and doing time in a Legion nick is not something that anyone wants to do.

So there I was in my parade uniform, in a long line of guys who were all reporting to the base commander to be punished. My shoes were shining in the roasting summer sun, sweat was streaming down my neck and back, and my trusty white
képi
was keeping the sun off my worried head and out of my eyes. One by one, the colonel and his assistant worked their way down the line of soldiers, dishing out various punishments for stupid things like drunkenness, crashing a jeep, coming back from leave a day late. They all got prison time. Harsh? Yes, but (in theory) they would think twice before making the same mistakes again. Then they reached me. Fuck. The colonel stared at me for what felt like ages, and then in a harsh tone said, ‘You know what happens to people who get arrested outside of the regiment, don’t you?’ Of course I fucking did. ‘This is really unfair,’ I thought to myself, but what was I supposed to do? Let those girls get mugged and beaten?

As I stared at the colonel, I wondered what he would have done? Probably fuck all. He was half my size, in his late 50s and French. I stared straight at him and unkindly thought to myself, ‘Not the bravest chap in the world, are you? Weren’t so fucking brave in both the world wars, were you? Isn’t that why you have Legionnaires? You need a foreign army because the fucking French Army are a bunch of cowards.’

Fuck it. In a similar situation, I would have done the same again. ‘Fuck all those pussies at the bus stop who didn’t help, and fuck you,’ I almost shouted at the colonel.

‘While you prats were crashing jeeps and getting pissed,’ he said, turning to rant at the other guys who were being punished, ‘this crazy bastard fought off a gang of nine Algerians who were mugging two girls with no regard for his own safety.’ I wasn’t going to be punished after all. ‘Damn right I’m not,’ I happily thought to myself. The colonel didn’t seem so bad after all. ‘This is why I want to see Legionnaires standing here in front of me,’ he shouted. He then pulled out a sheet of paper and told me he was presenting me with a citation. He read out loud, embarrassing me, ‘It is with great pleasure . . .’ Blah blah blah. My citation looks great framed, but I didn’t really want it and didn’t really need it – it is something I think I would have done any time, anywhere, and it certainly didn’t merit a fuss.

I served five years in the Legion altogether, and ten years later I am still immensely proud of what I achieved personally and what the Legion achieved as a unit. We did some good work in Somalia: we delivered tons of food, managed a massive vaccination campaign, and escorted a large number of medical convoys throughout the region and into some of the worst places in the world.

I certainly missed the Legion when I left. Five years were enough, but for a few years after I left I pined to see some action again and was chomping at the bit for an adrenalin rush and to smell the smell of war. It is an experience unlike any other: gruesome yet compulsive; exhausting yet exhilarating; exciting yet fucking scary.

I first decided I wanted to go to Iraq when the war ended and reconstruction of the country began. I knew then that private security would be big business, as many of the major security providers were already in discussions with both the British and American governments with regard to tendering for security contracts. Most of the large private security companies are run by high-ranking ex-military officers, who have all the contacts to be able to secure the ripest contracts, and discreet nods were already being given to the likes of Olive Group, CRG, ArmorGroup, etc. I had just started close protection training and had attended a three-day course run by Robin Barratt in Norwich. Robin had just returned from Moscow and was eager to start instructing again, both in the UK and abroad. He ran a three-day course entitled ‘Introduction to Close Protection’ for those of us who were keen to enter the industry but wanted to know more before committing a lot more money and time. After that, I went on to join Robin in Iceland for three weeks of intensive training and then went back to Iceland once more on a course for instructors.

It was while I was on the initial three-day course that I decided to qualify and go to Iraq. I was given a list of contractors, and a friend of mine called Craig Hales, who was also on the course, heard that a company called Hart Security had just secured a major contract. They were a lot smaller than the other major players setting up in Iraq and probably a lot better to work for as a result. Hart was a fairly new company, originally founded in 1999 by Richard Westbury, who had previously been the chief executive of Defence Systems, so they seemed to have a good commercial manager. I sent off my application and was called down to London a week later for an interview. I thought the interview went well, and the fact I was a Legionnaire seemed to help – 95 per cent of their staff, they said, were ex-military or ex-Special Forces.

I was expecting to hear back from them pretty quickly, but days turned into a couple of weeks, then a month, then six weeks. Then early one morning, and almost exactly six weeks after my initial interview, the telephone suddenly rang. It was just past 9 a.m. I had had a late night and was still half asleep, so I initially thought about letting it ring, but curiosity took hold, and I sleepily picked up the receiver. Did I still want a job? ‘Fuck, yes,’ I almost shouted. I was told to be at Heathrow airport in 48 hours. The first contract was for ten weeks.

After returning home, I decided to go out one more time. Hart had called to say that they had one of the most important and dangerous contracts in post-war Iraq and to ask whether I would be interested. Again, it was a case of, ‘Fuck, yes!’ And again, I was given 48 hours’ notice and told to pick up my tickets to Kuwait from the Emirates desk at the airport. I have to say that my wife was not pleased. It was Christmas, after all, and a time for family and friends and log fires and ‘Jingle Bells’, not for scrambling frantically through the sand, being chased by a deranged fanatical Iraqi who believes his God would welcome him with open arms if he blew the arms and legs off a British non-believer. Of course, Iraq is not really like that – we never once scrambled through the sand.

After collecting my tickets, checking in and making my way through Customs, I met up with a few other guys who were also on their way out into the field – it was good to not have to sit alone, thinking of the missus waiting for me back at home and the heat and dust and shit to come. Like me, most of the guys had been out before, so we had a lot to talk about.

Just before we boarded, I called my wife, but she didn’t answer. Maybe she was on the toilet, or doing her hair, or maybe she just didn’t want to answer, but I left a short, cheerful message, telling her that I loved her, that I would be back soon and not to worry, because everything would be fine – as if that would make a difference. For me, this was much better than actually speaking to her, as I was never any good at saying goodbyes.

After what seemed a fairly quick six-hour flight, we arrived and were met by a Hart representative holding up a big placard. Once we had all gathered together and were checked off his list, we were ushered to a waiting minibus. Leaving the airport terminal and chilly England and entering the searing, oppressive heat of the Middle East is a complete shock. It is hard to imagine a wall of heat, but that is exactly what it is like – like being slammed up against an invisible brick. Immediately, you start to sweat. I was used to the feeling, as I had already been out to Iraq and had lived and worked in hot climes with the Legion, but for the newcomers it was a shock. Thankfully, the minibus was air-conditioned.

We drove through the centre of Kuwait City to a rented safe house, where we were to spend the night before going into Iraq the following morning. Most of us hadn’t yet signed a contract for the trip, as recruitment had been rushed due to the large number of personnel needed for the job. Therefore, we didn’t know anything about the job – we just knew it was going to be fucking dangerous. I signed a nine-week contract, visas and permits were sorted, insurance and waiver forms were signed, and the rest of the administration associated with sending Westerners into a war zone was hastily completed.

While this was all being sorted out by the guy who had picked us up from the airport and a couple of his administrative assistants, we were allowed to go into town for an evening stroll and a bit of shopping. I spent most of the money I had, just in case something happened to me and I ended up coming home in a body bag.