We also had another radio, operating on “Simplex”-the same principle as TACBE but on a different frequency, which worked over a range of about a kilometer. This was so we could talk to the helicopter if we had a major drama and call him back, or to direct him in. Because the transmission wattage was minuscule, it was almost impossible to DP, and we could use it quite safely.
The main elements in our belt kit would be ammunition, water, emergency food, survival kit, shell dressings, a knife, and a prismatic compass as a backup for the Silva compass and for taking a bearing off the ground. Water and bullets: those are always the main considerations. All other kit is secondary, so personal comfort items would be the last to go in-and only if we had room. Survival kit is always suitable to theater and task, so out came the fishing lines, but we kept the heliograph, thumb saw, and magnifying glass for fire making. We also carried basic first aid kit, consisting of suture kit, painkillers, rehydrate, antibiotics, scalpel blades, fluid, and fluid-giving sets. The SOP (standard operating procedure) is to carry your two Syrettes of morphine around your neck, so that everybody knows where it is. If you have to administer morphine, you always use the casualty’s, not your own: you might be needing your own a few minutes later.
We wouldn’t bother with sleeping bags because of the bulk and weight, and because the weather would not be too bad. I would take a set of lightweight GoreTex, however, and everybody else took their poncho liner or space blanket. I also took my old woolly hat, since you lose a massive amount of body heat through your head. When I sleep, I pull it right over my face, which has the added advantage of giving that rather pleasant sense of being under the covers.
In our berg ens we carried explosives, spare batteries for the patrol radio, more intravenous fluids and fluid giving sets, water, and food. Bob was elected to carry the piss can, a one-gallon plastic petrol container.
When it was full, one of us would carry it a mile or so into the bush while on patrol, move a rock and dig a hole underneath it, empty the can, and replace the earth and rock. This would prevent detection by smell, animal interest, or insect activity.
I delegated various other tasks.
“Chris, you sort out the medic kit.”
He would automatically get trauma equipment, including a complete intravenous set and field dressings for everybody.
“Legs will sort out the scaley kit.”
For some reason unknown to me, signalers are usually called scaleys. I knew that among other tasks Legs would make sure we had spare antennas for the patrol radio, so that if we were compromised when the antenna was out we could just leave it out and move. We would still be able to communicate using the spare antenna. He would also check that everything had a fresh battery, that we had spare batteries, and that everything was actually working.
“Vince and Bob, can you sort out the dems kit?”
They would take the PE out of all its packaging and wrap it in masking tape to keep its shape. This would save the noise of unpacking in the field and any risk of compromise as a result of dropped rubbish, “If the enemy see as much as a spent match on the ground in front of them, they’ll know you were there,” the instructor on my Combat Survival course had said. “And if they find it behind them they’ll know it was Special Forces.”
“Mark, you can sort out the food and jerricans.”
The Kiwi would draw eight men’s rations for fourteen days from Stores. You strip it all down, and keep just one set of brew kit in your belt kit. I throw away the toilet paper because in the field I shit by squatting and therefore don’t need it. But everybody keeps the plastic bags for shitting into. You simply tie a knot in them after use and put the contents into your bergen.
Everything must go with you, as nothing can be left to compromise your position, old or present. If you just buried shit it would create animal interest, and if discovered the ingredients could be analyzed. Rice content, for example, would indicate Iraqis; currants or chili would point to Westerners.
There’s always a lot of banter to swap menus. The unwritten rule is that whatever you don’t want you throw into a bin liner for the other blokes to sort through. Stan didn’t like Lancashire hot pot but loved steak and vegetables, so unbeknownst to him we swapped the contents. He would go over the border with fourteen days’ worth of his least favorite meal. It was just a stitch; once we were out there we would swap around.
We still needed cam nets to conceal ourselves and our kit.
“I’ll do it,” Dinger volunteered.
He would cut rolls of hessian into six-by six-foot squares. Brand-new hessian needs to be messed up with engine oil. You put the hessian into a puddle of it and rub it in well with a broom. Then you turn it over and put it in the mud and rub it all in. Give it a good shake, let it dry, and Bob’s your uncle-your very own cam net.
“Everything to be done by 1000 tomorrow,” I concluded.
We would check and test, check and test. This wouldn’t prevent things going wrong or not working, but it would at least cut down the odds.
It was about 2230, and Dinger announced that he had just run out of fags.
I got the hint. We’d covered everything and to carry on would just be reinventing the wheel. As the blokes left, they put every scrap of paper into a burn bag to be destroyed.
Vince and I stayed behind. We still had to go into the Phases (outline plan) with the squadron OC and sergeant major. They would hit us with a lot of questions of the “what if?” variety, and their different track of thinking might put a new angle on things. With luck, they might even approve the plan.
4
I couldn’t sleep because my mind was going at a hundred miles an hour. It was people’s lives I was playing with here, my own included. The squadron OC had given the plan his approval, but that didn’t stop me wondering if there was a better way of going about it. Were other people just nodding and agreeing with what I said? Probably not, since they all had a vested interest in our success and they were outspoken individuals. Was there anything I’d left out or forgotten? But you reach the point where you have to press on regardless. You could spend the rest of your life thinking about the different options.
I got up and made a brew. Legs had just finished sorting out the signals kit, and he came over and joined me. There was no sign of Stan or Dinger. Those two could sleep on a chicken’s lip.
“The signals Head Shed have just given me our call sign,” Legs said.
“It’s Bravo Two Zero. Sounds good to me.”
We had a bit of a chat about possible shortages. As I watched him head back to his bed, I wondered if he was thinking about home. He was a strong family man, with a second child that was just five months old. My mind drifted to Jilly. I hoped she wasn’t getting upset by anything she was reading in the media.
There was the constant noise of kit being lugged and blokes mooching around sorting themselves out. I put my Walkman on and listened to Madness. I wasn’t really listening because my mind was screaming in so many directions, but I must have nodded off at about three, because at six, when I woke, the lead singer had dropped two octaves and they were just about grinding to a halt.
It was quite a frenzy that morning. We checked that we still knew how to activate the distress signals on the small TACBE radios and use them one-to-one so we could actually talk line of sight on them.
Vince had collected the 5.56 ammunition for the Armalites and as many 40mm bombs for the grenade launchers as he could get his hands on. We had a lot of shortages on these bombs because the grenade launcher is such a formidable, excellent weapon. The bombs are quite a commodity; when you’ve got them, you hoard them. I explained the problem to a mate in A Squadron, and he poached about and got us some more.