Chris Ryan (8 page)

breath, and a pause long enough for everyone's heart to hit the floor before he added, 'yet.' Faces lit up. Everyone burst out laughing. There was continuation training to come � but so what? We did combat survival � in which six more of the guys failed � and after that, build-up for Northern Ireland and 100 The One That Got Away the counter-terrorist team. Then at last the survivors passed, and we were given our berets. Normally, before joining the regular SAS, a soldier would have to put in three or four years of TA courses and exercises; but I had already done seven years as a territorial, and so was able to skip that requirement. It was a tremen�dous thrill for me. I'd achieved the goal on which I'd set my heart. But I soon found that the regulars were not particu�larly pleased about TA guys coming into the Regiment by the route I'd taken � as they saw it, by the back door. Some people thought of the TA in terms of Dad'sArmy, and didn't realise that I'd already done more work than many members of 22. So one or two of the guys gave us newcomers a hard time, forcing us to prove ourselves even more. For instance, when I did Junior Brecon � a six-week tactics course aimed at anyone who had not been in an infantry unit � someone told me, `Go down there, and make sure you get a dis�tinction.' Luckily I managed to do just that � and from then on, everything was fine. I soon developed fierce loyalty to the Regiment, and saw that anyone who worked really hard to achieve his best earned a lot of respect and credibility within the unit. I realised that in any small group the key thing was to keep tight, and for everybody to work as one; by that means, sticking together, you can get through quite a lot. Next stop for me was the Parachute Regiment, which I joined as my parent unit. After Christmas at home I re�ported to Aldershot with Barry Hilton, who'd come from the Navy, and also needed a parent unit. I'd had a real skinhead haircut, because I knew the other recruits would be the same. Barry turned up with long hair. We went in to see the Company Sergeant Major, who acted the part for all it was worth. He had the pair of us standing in front of him and said, 'OK, I want you to come back to me in uniform.' Glar-ing at me he added, 'And make sure that tart's had a haircut.' Then we were marched out. Round at the hairdresser's, Barry only had a trim. 'Jesus!' I said. 'Get a shorter cut.' Down To One 101 `Not a chance,' he answered. 'I'm in the Regiment now. I'm not getting my hair cut for anyone.' `Oh, for God's sake! Please, just get one, or we're in for some flak.' When the CSM saw us again, he said, 'Right, I told you to get him a haircut,' and he started bollocking me. After that short, sharp introduction, we started working with the recruits, lads straight from civvy street who looked up to us because of our experience. Unlike the SAS, where you're left largely to make your own decisions and make sure that you turn up in the right place at the right time, here people were yelling at us the whole time. The activities were all done in groups: team running, a steeplechase, a log race, the assault course and so on. There was always someone on top of us, kicking us to get from A to B, and some of the young guys of seventeen and eighteen began getting ham�mered. The instructors just beasted them, hitting and kicking them so that they were frightened and didn't learn anything. Being five or six years older, I found I could cope pretty well. I was living in a room with eight or nine recruits, and in the evening I used to teach them map-reading. One in�structor was having trouble with his wife; now and then she'd kick him out of the house, and he'd come down to live in the accommodation block. To relieve his feelings, he'd knock a couple of the young lads around. One night he came in screaming and shouting. I walked up to him and said, `Hey, cut it out now, or I'll go and see somebody.' He didn't know what to say, because to all intents and purposes I was an ordinary recruit � but he knew I'd passed SAS selection, which he would probably never get through. He just mut�tered something, slammed the door and got his head down. I realised how bad the atmosphere was one Saturday, when most people had knocked off for the weekend. I had collected the lads who were left behind and taken them map-reading in a training area called Long Valley. I told one of them, 'Right � you're leading the way now. Can you use a compass?' 102 The One That Got Away `Yes, yes!' he said quickly. But it was quite clear that he couldn't, and when I asked him why he'd lied, he said, 'I thought you were going to hit me.' That was the mentality they'd got into. Another day one of the instructors came up to us and said that his mother was ill and he ought to go home, but he had to give a lecture that Friday evening on the gympi, the general-purpose machine-gun. I volunteered to take the period in his place. While I was in the middle of my talk, in walked the OC of the camp. He sat there and listened, and at the end, thinking I was one of the regular instructors, came up to tell me off for being improperly dressed (I didn't have my belt on or my wings up). I apologised and said, 'I'm Private Ryan from Hereford.' `What are you doing here?' he asked. `Just working with the guys.' `You're wasting your time down here.' I believe he telephoned Hereford and said he was going to send us back � but outside events accelerated our return anyway. At that time, law and order were breaking down in Aden, and the order was given to evacuate all British per�sonnel; the QE2 was going in to pull them off the beaches, and `B' Squadron was detailed to parachute into the sea to secure the beach-heads. Everyone was loading up, and my sergeant major rang the Parachute Regiment, asking to have us back immediately, as he needed everyone he could get. The original intention had been that Barry and I should spend three months with the Paras � but now we were leav�ing after only eight weeks. In the morning we had to say goodbye to the CSM. I knew Barry hadn't enjoyed himself at all, so as we were about to go in I told him, 'Whatever they say, just tell them you've had a good time. Say you thought it was great, and you've learned a lot � because that's what they want to hear. Then we'll leave.' `Yeah, OK,' he went. So we marched in and stood to attention in front of the OC, with the CSM behind us. `And did you learn a lot?' the OC asked. Down To One 103 `Yes,' I said, 'a great deal.' `And how about you?' he asked Barry. 'What do you think?' think it's a load of crap.' Fucking hell! The CSM was right behind us. The hair on my neck stood up, and I started shaking. `RYAN!' roared the sergeant major. `Atten-SHUN! About TURN! Quick MARCH!' Out I went in double time, with the others yelling at Barry behind me. Back in Hereford, we found that the trouble had run ahead of us. The OC saw us, also with the sergeant major in attendance. `One of you two didn't enjoy himself down there,' said the colonel. 'Who was it?' We stood there looking at each other. Inside I was screaming, 'Come on, Barry, say something!' I thought, `You wanker!' Then the OC said to me, 'Chris � thin out. You've got to go to "B" Squadron.' So off I went, and Barry got a terrible bollocking, because obviously they knew already what he'd been saying. Looking back on my stay with the Paras, I realise that all the ferocity and bullying had the desired effect, in that they produced a breed of fearsome fighting men � as testified by the actions at Goose Green in the Falk�lands, and many other campaigns. As soon as I joined IV Squadron I did a couple of exer�cises with Government agents in the United Kingdom and Europe. In one, which was highly realistic, we flew into Jer�sey in the middle of the night, our helicopter landing in a public park, to kidnap an industrialist who � according to the scenario � had been in touch with the Russians and was liable to defect. Wearing civilian clothes, we booked into hotels and made contact with agents who already had the target under surveillance. Then, having hired a van, we snatched him as he came out of a restaurant late at night. After a quick transfer to a car, we drove to a pre-designated pick-up point on the coast and the helicopter, which had 104 The One That Got Away been cruising out of sight off-shore, slipped in at wave-top height to land on the beach and collect us. That was the first time I'd been exposed to anything of the kind, and I thought, 'This is for me!' Next I went on to the SP or anti-terrorist team, and found it really exciting. Part of the team was on stand-by the whole time, for immediate response to a threat like the hijacking of an aircraft, and we all trained to a very high level, each guy putting down at least a thousand rounds a week. Within the squadron I found a wide mixture of people. Some guys were really quiet and tended to withdraw into themselves; but the chief requirement was that everyone should mix and get on with each other, so that they could work together under extreme pressure. Everyone was highly motivated by pride in the job and the determination to be best � and with a lot of healthy young guys thrown together, the competition was intense. At times when nothing much was happening, this could lead to back-stabbing and un-pleasantness; but when things were moving, and the guys were working together, nobody could compete against them. One thing I couldn't help noticing was the speed at which people seemed to age. Guys of twenty-three or twenty-four were still relatively fresh-faced; but by the time they reached thirty, a lot of them were wrinkled, with their hair turning grey. By that age nearly everyone had some injury � broken legs, broken wrists, back strains, hearing problems brought on by firing weapons and detonating explosives... As I lay against the bank of the wadi, Hereford seemed a long way off. I took off my boots � one at a time, in case we were surprised � to have a look at my feet. As I thought, they were badly blistered along the sides, especially round the ball, and on the heels. But I had nothing to treat them with, and could only put my boots back on again. We'd become so confused during the night that it took us some time to work out which day this was. We decided it was Down To One 105 the morning of Saturday 26 January. Time passed slowly, but we weren't too uncomfortable. The sun was reviving us, we were chatting in low voices, and our spirits were kept up by our belief that the Euphrates was only just over the next hill to the north. Because we'd walked all night, I knew we'd covered a long distance, and thought we must be within a couple of kilometres of the river. We said to ourselves, `We'll hit the river, get some water, and walk out into Syria �no problem.' We managed to convince ourselves that we were safe for the time being. We'd put so much ground be�tween us and the scene of the contact that we didn't think anyone would come looking for us. Of course, we were wondering about Vince. I hoped against hope that, like us, he'd come down off the plateau and found a warmer place; but in my heart of hearts I felt that he was dead. I imagined him lying down in a hole among the snow, falling asleep, and drifting away, without any pain or knowledge of what was happening. At the back of my mind I kept hoping that we would see the rest of the patrol appear � that we'd hear one of them say something and they'd pop up out of the ground. Together we did a map appreciation, trying to work out how far we'd come in the night. There was no feature on the ground that we could identify, but we knew that we'd been on the move for eleven hours. Some of that time had been spent back-tracking in search of Vince, but we calculated we must have advanced about forty kilometres. We thought that one more good night's push would bring us to the Syrian border. We spent a profitable hour cleaning our weapons, which were covered in mud and grit, doing them one at a time in case we got bounced. In my right-hand pouch I had a small but comprehensive kit � pull-through, four-by-two cleaning patches, oil, rag, and a tool like a pocket knife fitted with screwdriver, scraper and gouge. With this I gave my 203 a thorough going-over. I pulled a piece of four-by-two through the barrel, cleaned and oiled the working parts, and checked the loaded magazines to make sure no grit had got 106 The One That Got Away in among the rounds. By working carefully, I stripped the weapon and reassembled it making hardly a sound. Then, at about midday, we heard the noise we'd already learned to dread: the jingle of bells. Fucking goats! Again! We went down flat with our weapons and looked along the little valley. There they were, a scatter of brown, black, grey and dirty white animals, coming slowly into the wadi from the north-east. Then their minder appeared and sat down on a rock in full view, only fifty metres away. He was a young man with thick, curly black hair, and stubbled cheeks, dressed in a big old overcoat of what looked like dark grey tweed. There he sat, day-dreaming, kicking his feet, chew�ing on stalks of dead grass. The goats began feeding our way. Stan and I lay still with our 203s ready. 'Right,' I whispered, 'if he comes up on us, we're going to have to take him out.' `Wait a minute,' said Stan. 'He might have a land cruiser, or even a tractor � some vehicle he'd lend us.' It went against the grain to kill a civilian. But I felt certain that if the man saw us at all, he'd go back to the nearest habi�tation and give us away. It flashed through my mind that we could tie him up � but if we did that, he might die of ex�posure. I thought, 'He's either going to escape or die � so we might as well do him now.' The goats kept feeding and moving towards us. I began to fancy eating one of them, a young one � goat steak. Goat curry � even better. Also, I liked the look of the coat the guy was wearing � it was obviously a hell of a lot warmer than anything I had on. The lead goats reached our position, walking on, stop�ping, nibbling. When they saw us, they jerked their heads up, but that was all � a jerk, and on they'd go, meandering past within a few feet of our faces. All this while the herder was sitting there, looking up at the sky now and then, but basically doing nothing except minding his herd and his own business. Certainly he hadn't locked on to anything. `He's bound to come after them,' I breathed, 'and if he does, we'll do him.' Down To One 107 We didn't want to fire a shot, for obvious reasons, but both of us had knives. Mine was a folding knife � a good one, but with relatively small blades. Stan had a k-bar bayonet on his webbing with a six- or seven-inch blade. 'I'll grab him,' I muttered, 'and you run up and stick him.' But Stan, being a gentleman and a good
soldier, wasn't happy. He didn't want to kill an innocent civilian. 'Shouldn't we take the chance of seeing if he's got some vehicle? We could nick it and drive off.' `No, we'll do him.' Then the man stood up. On his feet, he looked quite a big guy � about the size of Stan, and hefty with it. Immediately I changed my plan. 'Fuck it,' I whispered. 'Stan, give us that knife. You grab him and I'll do him.' `No,' Stan muttered. 'I don't think . . . You're not having it. `Then you'd better do him . . Suddenly it was too late. With the guy nearly on top of us, Stan jumped up and grabbed him. `Siddown, mate!' he said loudly. 'Hurrh! How're you doing? Good? Right! Siddown!' The guy jumped and let out a stream of Arabic, but Stan forced him down on the bank-side. I sat down too, staring at him. He was only a young fellow, in his twenties, but of low intelligence, I guessed. He was dressed like the village idiot, dishevelled, with several ragged jumpers under his over�coat, and dirty bare feet in slip-on leather shoes. He kept looking at me, but I didn't say anything. Stan did all the talking. 'Car?' he said. 'Tractor?' He made driving motions with his hands. 'House?' He drew in the air, but our visitor didn't understand a word of English. All he said was, 'Aiwa. Aiwa' � 'Yes. Yes.' It was aiwa to everything. In between, he jabbered Arabic and pointed down the wadi. `Where's there a vehicle?' b `Aiwa.' `How far to walk?' � with walking motions. `Aiwa.' 108 The One That Got Away I exclaimed, `Ah, bollocks, man, he's just saying yes to everything.' After a bit Stan said, 'Listen � I'll go with him and see if we can get a tractor.' `Don't do it!' I said fiercely. It seemed incredible to me that Stan should want to go off with a total stranger. I re�minded him that we were aliens in a foreign country, where we had no business to be. I knew we'd get no friendly help from the Iraqis. The natives weren't going to do us any favours. Quite apart from being enemies in war, we were in-fidels. This man would sell us down the wadi � but Stan couldn't seem to see that. `Listen,' I said. 'Suppose this was World War Two, and we were a couple of German paratroopers, lost in the Welsh mountains. We meet this farm lad and try to chat him up. Of course he says he's going to help us. But what does he want really? To get us in the nick. Nothing else.' Even that didn't change Stan's mind. 'It's OK,' he said. `I'll take the risk and go with him.' `Stan! You're fucking not. You're staying here.' `Chris � I want to go.' This was a big shock to me. I thought he was crazy. But I couldn't force him to stay, because that sort of thing doesn't hold water when you're on the run. So I said, 'Well, OK. I can't order you, because we're on our own. But listen, mate: I don't want you to go. It'll mean us splitting up. You'll be on your own. You're making a big mistake here.' `No, no,' he said. 'What I'll do is leave my weapon and webbing with you. Then I won't cut such an aggressive figure. I'll just walk next to him. Why don't you come too?' `Not bloody likely! I disagree with what you're doing. It's dangerous, and stupid too.' But I could see that he was determined, so I said, 'Well �I'll wait here for you till six-thirty, last light. If you're not back by then, I'm off on this bearing.' And I gave him the northerly course we'd already decided on. `Fair enough,' he said. `Go on, then. When you're out of sight, I'll take your Down To One 109 weapon and webbing fifty metres up that dry stream bed, and hide them there.' `Yeah � OK.' So Stan stood up with the Arab and said, 'Come on, cob�ber. Let's go,' and the two of them started walking off, with the Arab whistling for his goats to follow. I crawled down to the bottom of the wadi and sat and watched them. When they'd made a couple of hundred metres, I suddenly thought, 'NO! This is wrong!' and I yelled out, 'STAN! Stan, come back here!' Back he came, almost running. `For Christ's sake, think about what you're doing,' I told him. 'Leave your webbing if you like, but at least take your weapon.' `I don't want to look too aggressive.' `Sling it over your shoulder, then, and carry it down the side of your body � but have it with you. And if you change your mind when you get back down there towards him, just drill him, like I said. Put one into him, and we'll sit the day out together.' But Stan was overboard about his new friend. 'No, no, Chris,' he said. 'He's quite all right. He's offered me food.' `What food?' `It's only a few berries.' `Bollocks to the berries,' I said. 'Just drill him.' `No � I trust the guy. He seems like, you know, friendly. If we get to a vehicle, I'll give him a sovereign.' `Drill him,' I repeated. `Go back and shoot the bugger.' But Stan wouldn't have it. Away he went with the Iraqi, meandering down the dry stream bed. For nearly a kilo�metre he remained in sight. He'd wrapped his shamag round his head, and from a distance he looked quite like an�other Arab. I could see the two of them trying to chat together, matey as anything. In the end they went round a bend to the left and disappeared. `Jesus!' I thought. 'Now I'm on my own.' I wished I hadn't let Stan go � but for the moment I didn't feel too worried. I found it difficult to keep still. For a few minutes I'd sit 110 The One That Got Away against the bank in the side of the wadi; then I'd come up on to a mound in the middle of it and scan with my little binoc�ulars. Looking straight down the line of the watercourse I could see for miles, up on to a big hill in the distance. Again and again I looked for the two men walking up there. Then I'd go back into cover. Time crawled by. After a couple of hours I took Stan's webbing and tucked it into the side of the stream bed, where I'd told him it would be. On top of it I left four of the extra 203 rounds which I'd taken from Vince during the night. Then I had nothing to do but wait for dark. As the hours dragged past, I grew more and more jumpy. Several times I imagined I heard something. Whenever that happened, I'd creep round to one side of the mound and look out, hoping like hell that I'd see Stan returning. Dusk came on. By 1730 I was in a state of high anxiety. Very soon I was going to have to make a decision. I was hungry and thirsty and cold, and on my own. Six o'clock came, and I thought, 'Jesus, this is it.' I took one last look back down the wadi. Night had come down, and there was still no sign. I still kept hoping I'd see the lights of a vehicle heading out � but no. It was a tough decision. My last friend had disappeared. He could still be on his way back. But when 1830 came I thought, 'This is it. You can't sit around here any longer.' So I checked my compass and started walking north. For fifteen minutes I tabbed it steadily over level, open ground, with darkness settling in on the desert all round me. Then I happened to look over my shoulder, and I saw a set of headlights coming up the wadi I'd just left. 'Bloody hell!' I thought. 'Stan's got a vehicle after all. Brilliant!' I started running back as fast as I could. I must have been half-way back to my start-point when suddenly I saw that it wasn't one set of lights coming towards me, but two. Im-mediately I thought, 'Shit � he can't have two vehicles. He must have been captured, and this is the enemy. If he'd been on his own, he'd never have brought two vehicles.' So I turned and ran north again. Down To One 111 Already I was out of breath. Glancing back over my shoulder to check the vehicles' progress, I searched desper�ately for cover on the flat plain. A burning sensation seared the top of my throat and forced me to slow down. Behind me, the vehicles had driven up the side of the wadi and were heading straight across the open desert for me. Then the clouds parted and the moon shone through, lighting the place up like day. It may have been my imagination, but my smock seemed to have become luminous, shining like an electric beacon. The old adrenaline had started up, and my heart was going like a sledgehammer. Then I saw a little bush with a shadow behind it, and threw myself down into that tiny patch of black. As I lay there panting, I frantically sorted out my kit. I checked the magazine on the 203, and piled spare mags in a heap beside me. I opened out the 66 so that it was ready to fire. I even bent together the ends of the safety pins on my white phos grenades, so that I could whip them out quickly if need be. For a moment I got a respite. The lights swung round, whipping wildly up and down as the vehicles went over bumps, and headed back into the wadi. There was a lot of banging of doors. Obviously some guys had got out to have a look round the place where the goatherd had found us in the morning. I squinted through the kite-sight, trying to make out what they were doing, but the glare from the lights shone everything else out. Then the vehicles moved off again and started driving about the floor of the wadi. The moment the lights were away from me, I picked up my kit, stuffed things into the webbing pouches down my front, and legged it. Now I was really running, looking right and left for cover � and suddenly the lights swung round and they were coming for me again. I dropped down and got my kit out once more. I set up the 203 with the battle sight, and as I piled the spare magazines, it went through my mind that this was just like range practice. I cocked the 66 again, lifted the bomb sights on the 203, and waited. Whether they'd seen me or not, I couldn't tell. But they 112 The One That Got Away were driving towards me at a steady roll. I got the 66 lined up on the leading pair of lights � and then I became aware of this amazing noise: ke-kik, ke-kik, ke-kik, ke-kik. It sounded like a steam train, and I thought, 'Jesus! Here's another ve�hicle, and the engine sounds really rough. Where is it? Where's it coming from?' When I closed my mouth, I couldn't hear the noise any more. I strained with my ears and Wondered, 'Have they switched off, or what?' Then I opened my mouth to breathe, and it was ke-kik, ke-kik, ke-kik again. Suddenly I realised that what I could hear was the accelerated pounding of my own heart. The lights were still coming. Obviously the vehicles weren't going to stop. Someone on board must have realised that I would be heading due north, for the river, and they were driving on that bearing. The wagons were rolling at maybe 15 m.p.h., and the lights were quite steady. They would pass so close that there was no chance of them not seeing me. It was going to be them or me. I hugged the ground and tried to stop myself shaking. An age seemed to pass as the vehicles ground on. Now I thought, 'This is it. You're going to get killed here.' The worst thing was that I suddenly saw an image of my daughter. 'I'm going down here,' I thought, 'and Sarah will never know how her dad died.' I felt sudden fear that if I did get killed, she wouldn't remember me. She would never really know who her father was or what he'd been like. She was never going to understand how or where my life had ended � and I found that desperately sad. Fifty metres, and they kept coming. Two Land-Rover�type vehicles, advancing at a purposeful crawl, obviously in search of me. I couldn't tell how many men they might con-tain. I held the sight of the 66 aligned between the front pair of lights. When they were twenty metres off, I pulled the trigger. Whh0000sh! went the launcher, right in my ear. Out front there was a big BANG as the rocket took the vehicle head-on. Oddly enough, I remember no flash, just this heavy explosion, and a cloud of white smoke billowing out in Down To One 113 the moonlight. The vehicle rolled to a stop. I dropped the 66, grabbed the 203 and lined up the grenade sight on the second pair of lights, a few yards to the left of the first. From maybe forty metres I smacked that one right in the bonnet. Then I was up and running towards the enemy. In a moment I had reached the first vehicle and put a burst into it. Coming to the second, I sprayed it all down the side, through the canvas back. Then I looked into the back and put another burst in. There were men in the back wear�ing dishdashes. I let off another burst over the backs of the front seats into the driver's compartment. Then I had to change magazines. At the front again, I put more rounds into the first vehicle. Suddenly I thought, 'Fucking hell! I've left all the other magazines.' I sprinted back to them, snatched them up, stuffed them down the front of my smock and ran. I ran till I thought my heart was going to burst. I imagined that everybody was on to me and chasing me. The moon was so bright that I felt as if a spotlight was beaming down on me. I was swept up in panic, just as I had been when chased as a kid. It was as if I'd been found out, and was on my own. I ran till I had to slow down, because I was feeling like I had during the initial contact: my throat was heaving, my chest exploding, my mouth dry as the desert. I'd had no water all through that day, and soon I was so knackered that it was painful even to walk. All the time I was turning to look behind, to see if any more lights were coming up � but nothing showed. At last I thought it was safe to stop, sit down and sort out my equip-ment. After a contact like that, it takes time to recover. Gradu�ally I chilled out and got myself together. One minor improvement was that I had less to carry: once I'd fired the 66 I threw away the tube, which was useless to the Iraqis. Walking again, I kept on for a couple of hours towards the north. All the time I was wondering what had happened to Stan, and hoping to hell he hadn't come back in one of the vehicles. Or had he sent them up to me? No, I decided: he 114 The One That Got Away couldn't have. It must have been the goatherd who brought the Iraqis back to the wadi; no one else could have directed them on to my position with such accuracy. Thinking over our confrontation with him in the morning, I realised I should have done him there and then. Of course I should. My intuition about him had been right. I should have done him with my own knife, but he was a big guy, and somehow, with Stan not keen, it hadn't been on. Then I should never have let Stan go off with him: I should have put a round through the bugger myself. But then, if he had come back in one of the vehicles, maybe in the end I'd done him after all � because I don't think anybody in either of them could have survived. The question was, what had happened back on the site of the contact during the last couple of hours? If anyone had got away from one of the vehicles I'd hit, or if someone else had found the wrecks, word might have gone out that an�other enemy soldier was on the run. People would surely guess that I was heading for the Euphrates. From the fire-power I'd put down, they may have thought that there were several guys at