On the Thursday Tak phoned. The Sultan and his wives had decided to purchase all the diamonds. Job done! Thank fuck we don’t have to transport the gems back to London, I thought. Relief surged over me. I could relax now. I went to the bar to celebrate. Tak joined me an hour or so later. He had a surprise for me. He’d been talking to the palace officials. ‘You’ll never guess who’s staying on the tenth floor.’ He broke into a wide grin. ‘Alfie Tasker, ex-D Squadron.’ At first this seemed like a huge coincidence, but over the coming years I would get used to bumping into former members of the SAS working in the world of security. There were so many of us that we jokingly called ourselves ‘C’ (Civvy) Squadron 24 SAS (21 and 23 SAS being the Territorials and 22 ‘A’, ‘B’, ‘D’ and ‘G’ Squadrons being the regulars.)
The mini-Regimental reunion was soon underway. Alfie explained that he was over from the UK on a liaison visit. He was working with the Sultan’s family to beef up security on their expensive portfolio of properties in the south of England after thieves had plundered £20 million of valuables from the Sultan’s mansion on Billionaire’s Row in Hampstead.
As the drink flowed, Alfie began reminiscing about his time with the ill-fated Edward’s Patrol in Aden’s Radfan Mountains, near the Yemeni border, in 1964. Russian-backed Communists in North Yemen sneaking across the border and down the wadis into Aden were threatening not only British interests in the region but also the stability of the whole of the oil-rich Arabian peninsula itself. Captain Edwards was in charge, with Alfie as second-in-command. The object of the patrol was to mark out a DZ with Aldis lamps for a night descent by the Paras in the mountains sixty miles north of Aden. Reaching the area in the morning, the patrol had to take cover and lie up in two ancient stone sangars to await nightfall. Things did not go to plan.
In mid-morning they were compromised by a herd of goats, followed by a man and a woman – an eerie echo of what would happen years later to the famous Bravo Two Zero patrol in Iraq. Within minutes a large band of heavily armed tribesmen were on the scene. What followed was a vicious, day-long sniping duel, a struggle that left Captain Edwards and his signaller, Trooper Warburton, dead and two others badly wounded. Under cover of darkness, they decided they had no option other than to abort the mission and make a run for it to try and get the casualties to safety before the enemy, vastly outnumbering them, had a chance to storm their position. With shock and fatigue setting in, they finally reached safety at first light the next day. Seven patrol members had survived, but for Alfie and the others, the worst shock of the mission was yet to come. News filtered through that the heads of two British soldiers had been put on display, skewered on stakes in the main square of the mountain city of Ta’izz. A patrol later found the decapitated bodies of Edwards and Warburton.
As Alfie finished talking, it occurred to me that this could well have been the fate that awaited Tak and myself had we lost the battle of Mirbat. I shuddered at the very thought of it, and ordered a menu and another bottle of champagne. Nah, I thought, I’ve moved on from all that now. I’ve had enough of patrols in hostile terrain, hexamine stoves, hard-routine rations, incoming fire zipping millimetres from my head, not knowing if I’ll survive from one second to the next. This was the life for me now. Five-star hotels, champagne and steak, first-class VIP travel. I could get used to this. Civvy Street’s not so bad after all.
But before I knew it, I was back in a war zone.
22
Aid Convoy
Bosnia. The stench of death, the merciless crimes, the rape, mutilation, theft and murder, the madness of war, proud buildings reduced to rubble, ethnic cleansing, starving refugees with wailing children trudging barefoot and ill-clad across harsh and freezing mountain terrain, and all, unbelievably, right in the heart of Europe. Ten cruel years of conflict, 1991–2001. The former Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, held together by Tito and communism since 1945, was falling apart under an upsurge of nationalism. The Balkan federation was crumbling. Like some great iceberg, huge chunks were tumbling away. First Slovenia. Crash! Then Croatia. Crash! Then the rest followed in turn, leaving the patchwork quilt of federations and republics that is south-eastern Europe today.
My job? To escort and advise a humanitarian convoy of 150 tons of supplies to north-eastern Bosnia. Mission statement: ‘To relieve the besieged city of Tuzla.’ Just my luck! Right up to the front line, no less. The aid consisted of medicines, pasta, sugar, yeast, and tinned fish, meat and fruit. Tuzla was in dire straits. Serbia had isolated and besieged the city despite it having been declared a UN ‘safe haven’. It was under constant bombardment. Normally home to 130,000 residents, its population had swelled to 400,000 desperate souls with the influx of wave upon wave of bedraggled and penniless Bosnian Muslims, forced to flee from their homes elsewhere in Bosnia by ruthless Serb gunmen. In theory our convoy was to travel under the auspices of the UN High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR), protected by the British contingent of the UN Protection Force (UNPROFOR2), and with the support of the Bosnian Government and the municipal authorities of Tuzla. In practice, we were on our own.
Our convoy was being organized by the great and the good of London society. A worthy or a witless venture? A raw and deeply felt humanitarian impulse, or a cause célèbre for rich kids with nothing better to do, a chance to play boy soldiers and go on a romantic mission? I know what my first impressions were.
The main mover and shaker was Orlando Fraser. His family tree was like a page out of Who’s Who. Son of writer and historian Lady Antonia Fraser, stepson of playwright Harold Pinter, grandson of social reformer Lord Longford. An impressive dynasty. Would his organizing abilities be equally impressive? Other high-profile patrons and supporters included Eric Clapton, Mick Jagger, Bruce Oldfield, Dave Gilmour of Pink Floyd, William Stirling (great-nephew of Sir David Stirling), South African actor Jamie Bartlett (who would later play the role of Ray in the film of Bravo Two Zero), and diplomat, soldier, adventurer, writer and politician Sir Fitzroy MacLean – another relative of Orlando’s and supposedly the real-life inspiration for James Bond.
As it turned out, I could have done with James Bond to help me out on the trip to Tuzla. Impressive as the list of supporters might be, it was a convoy organized by civilians, funded by civilians and manned by civilians. Not a professional in sight. Apart from me. We were going to a war zone. How could I possibly guarantee the safety of a bunch of civilians on the front line? In war, anything can happen. Any time. Anywhere.
They didn’t even have shell dressings! I remember asking Orlando, ‘Where’s the medical pack?’ He handed me a plastic bag full of Elastoplasts, safety pins and a sling straight off the shelves of Boots! Not remotely good enough for a war zone. I decided to give 21 SAS (TA) a ring. They were only a short hop away in the King’s Road. By a stroke of luck, an old B Squadron mate of mine answered the phone. He was a permanent Staff Instructor there. He said he’d leave me a full trauma kit and a box of shell dressings in the MoD Police lodge at the main gate.
As the atrocities mounted and the icy grip of winter made life even more intolerable for the sick, the wounded, the starving and the homeless, London was gripped by a wave of humanitarian concern bordering on hysteria. Understandable. This crisis wasn’t unfolding in some far-flung country nobody had heard of. This was happening in Yugoslavia, right on our doorstep. An emotive logo was designed, press releases issued, old favours called in. A benefit evening was held to raise funds. At the event, Sandhurst-trained Prince Khalid bin Sultan, the son of a Saudi Crown Prince and Joint Allied Commander in the Gulf War, set the ball rolling by donating £50,000. The cash came pouring in after that and the target was reached. We were on our way.