A New Years To Remember Part 1
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Chepstow, South Wales. Late October.
Lieutenant-Colonel Matt Wardle looked up at the discreet knock on his office door. The door was already open, a signal to his subordinates that he was available. He nodded invitation to enter to his adjutant. “Come on in Paul.”
Matt frowned slightly as he saw the pale face of his normally quite florid faced adjutant. “Sir,” the voice wavered very slightly, but Captain Paul Quinnell cleared his throat gently and tried again. “Sir, there’s been an incident.”
“Incident? What sort of incident?”
“B Company were up at Warcop doing a ten day anti-tank training exercise.” Matt nodded but didn’t interrupt. “They had not long left the base this morning to head back here when they appear to have been attacked.”
Wardle frowned and glanced at the digital clock on the wall. As he looked, it flicked to 08:41. “Attacked?” Wardle’s frown deepened. “How attacked? By whom? When?”
“The attack would have happened about or maybe just after five-thirty-five this morning, and the MPs from Warcop were on the scene very quickly. It appears to have been light automatic weapons. The MPs and medical orderlies from Warcop have recovered eighteen bodies. There were also three very seriously injured survivors who had obviously,” Quinnell paused, swallowed convulsively, and then continued, slightly slower. “They had quite deliberately, callously, been left to die. Two may still not survive. Two men managed to escape off the coaches and hide, but the rest of the coaches occupants are missing.”
“Missing? There should have been over eighty men on those coaches. What happened? Where are they now?” He raised a hand. “Hold on. I think I should get Major Fjeld in here to hear this as well.”
“Yes sir.
Wardle picked up the phone and dialled his second in command.
“Tommy, step into my office please. It looks like we might have a bit of a situation.”
“Yes sir.”
Major Thomasina, “Tommy”, Fjeld came in a few moments later, carrying just a notepad and pencil. “Sir?”
“You’d better hear what Paul has to say. I think we may have a fight on our hands.”
“Sir?”
Wardle took a few moments to précis the little he had got from his adjutant so far, then turned back to his adjutant.
“Paul. Sorry. Carry on.”
“Yes sir. In answer to your last question ‘where are they’ that’s unknown sir. According to the two uninjured survivors, a rifleman and a lance-corporal, both from number two platoon, it was the Security Patrol. They shot up the coaches, killing both drivers instantly. The survivors, some of whom are thought to have had serious injuries, were taken off and herded into what I’ve been told looked like prison vans.”
“Prison vans?” Wardle looked angry now. “Those animals have gone too far this time.”
“Sir, it was off-duty members of B company who beat up on a Safety Patrol two weeks ago.”
Wardle’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Ah. So it was. Hmmm. That sort of leads to a number of questions. Was it chance that they were the ones attacked here? If not, how did they know? How did they find out? How did they find out that B company were now at Warcop? Also, what sort of weapons? Did any of the survivors see? How many were there? Of course where were my men taken?” He frowned at the captain.
Quinnell nodded and continued. “I’ve got an initial report from the MPs on the scene, which includes initial interviews with the two escapees.” He flicked open a folder and scanned the front sheet of the thin pile. “According to Corporal Richard Edwards, who managed to escape from a smashed side window of the second coach, he counted about twenty-five Patrollers. He does say that this is likely to be an underestimate though, but also says it was sufficiently dark that he may also have counted the same people more than once.
“Rifleman David Yates escaped out of the back of the same coach and hid underneath it. He says there were over fifty Patrollers. It should be noted though that all the riflemen in number 2 platoon are only months out of basic training, and Yates himself only turned eighteen a month ago. Edwards has been with us for seven years. I’m reading more than a bit of panic in Yates’ report unlike in Edwards’ report.” Wardle nodded and signalled Quinnell to continue. Fjeld said nothing but just listened and scribbled notes onto her own pad.
“Edwards thinks they were using something like H&K machine pistols, but cannot confirm it for certain. The MPs have certainly found a lot of spent 9mm ammunition, both cases and rounds, appropriate for an H&K. Almost all of the dead appear to be from the front coach, where most of the officers and senior NCOs were sitting. Only six of the dead were from the second coach, but that includes the driver. The three seriously injured and taken to hospital are a corporal, a lance-corporal and a rifleman; the rifleman from coach one, the others from coach two. I’m told the rifleman and the corporal are not expected to make it. Major Langtry and the second lieutenant are missing, the three other officers are accounted for in the dead. Four junior NCOs are also assumed to have been taken captive, three corporals and a lance-corporal. It looks like the officers and senior NCO’s were specifically targeted.”
Wardle listened, his face expressionless now, but a feeling of hatred and rage was building up inside him. His voice when he finally spoke though was calm. “How far from Warcop were they when they were attacked?”
“Less than three miles sir. They were on the,” he paused and consulted his notes again, “the B6259 a few hundred yards before it crosses the River Eden, just where it turns south to go around Great Musgrave. It’s why the MPs were on the scene so fast. Apparently one of the gate guards heard something and reported it. The camp commandant acted on it instantly despite it being not yet six in the morning. I’m guessing he either had suspicions, or he has had previous problems. I’ll try and find out later. The gate guards had logged our men through about five minutes earlier, at zero-five thirty-one so they were immediately suspicious. The call to the duty officer was logged at zero-five thirty-seven.”
“It’s less than forty miles from there to Catterick barracks,” mused Fjeld.
“Yes Ma’am, I wondered that too.”
All three were wondering if the captured men were now at Catterick, which they now knew was the main training base for both the Safety Patrol and the new Security Patrol.
“Go on. What about the support vehicles?”
“There were three MAN SV nine-tonners. They left just on forty minutes beforehand and the vehicles and the nine crew are still on the road.” The captain glanced quickly at his watch. “If they are on schedule, they are due to stop at Keele services on the M6 sometime in the next,” he looked at his watch again, then at the clock on the wall, “well, about now. They are expecting to meet up with the coaches there, if the coaches hadn’t already caught them up. I’m hoping they contact here when they don’t contact the coaches. All the vehicles have satellite trackers on them, so I’m trying to get hold of someone who may be able to track them, just to ensure they still are actually on the road.”
Wardle nodded. “Is there a list of the dead?”
“Only a partial list sir. Two bodies were unidentified at the scene. The bodies were too badly, erm, damaged for a quick and easy identification, and for security reasons, everyone was in civvies.”
Wardle closed his eyes. “Who do we know has died?” he asked dully.
“Captain Martin, Lieutenant Jacobsen, Lieutenant Hi, CSM Grant, Serjeants Phillips and Eddings. Edwards thinks one of the unidentified bodies is that of the other serjeant, Serjeant Oldfield. If that’s the case, all the senior NCOs except the Company Quarter Master Serjeant are dead, plus three of the five officers. The remaining deceased are four corporals, two of whom were the coach drivers, two lance corporals and a rifleman, plus the two unidentified.
“We know neither of the unidentified bodies are Langtry or the missing Second Lieutenant, Skipton. According to Edwards, one of the bodies may be that of Lance-Corporal Eddison, the other may be that of Rifleman Tim Jones, Major Langtry’s clerk. If that’s true, then both the Jones brothers have been killed: Corporal Martin Jones is one of the confirmed dead.”
Wardle dropped his head into his hands in grief, but also to give him a few moments to think. “Thank you Paul. Let me know as soon as you have any more information. And try and pass the message on to Colour-Serjeant Williams on the nine-tonner.” He looked up. “No. Belay that. Don’t tell the CQMS anything until he gets back here. I don’t want him or his men doing anything rash.”
“I don’t think Williams will do anything rash, sir.”
“No, probably not. But let’s not risk anything until we know more.” He shook his head. “What the hell Brigadier Haldane will make of this I don’t know.” He nodded his dismissal to Quinnell, but before the captain could move, another man sauntered into the office with a smug grin on his face.
“So where’s B company then? Wasting tax-payers money? Shooting at sheep?”
“Go away,” snapped Fjeld.
“Now now,” the interloper said coldly, his smile gone in an instant. “Don’t forget who I am.” He stared at Fjeld, eyeing the attractive woman lasciviously for a moment, before turning to Wardle.
The three officers stared grimly at the newcomer. “Chief Assault Leader” James Bail was an unpleasant individual who looked to be barely twenty years old, but he was the political officer that had been imposed on Wardle from outside some two months earlier.
“What do you want?” asked Wardle equally coldly.
“Just checking you’re not doing anything you shouldn’t.” Bail grinned maliciously at them, his good humour back again. “You know. Like getting in my way. And of course I’m making sure you’re doing what you’ve been told.”
“Like what?” asked Wardle coldly.
Bail turned and pointed at a notice board on the wall. “You can’t spell. I’ve told you before. S - e - r - G - e - a - n - t,” Bail spelled the word letter at a time, emphasizing the ‘g’. “You keep spelling it with a ‘j’ That’s just stupid.”
“Go away,” Quinnell snapped. “In this regiment, in The Rifles, we spell it the traditional way, the old way, the English way,” he leant slightly on the word ‘English’, “with a ‘J’. The fact that we’ve told you this before and you can’t seem to take it in, just makes you pathetic.”
Bail stared at Quinnell. “Pathetic eh? Well we shall see what you’re made of soon.” He turned to Wardle. “If you see B company, give them my regards.”
He turned and sauntered casually out of the office again, giggling madly.
“I want to...” Captain Quinnell didn’t finish his sentence.
Wardle nodded. “He knows what’s happened. He probably knew before it happened.”
“That’s how they knew of course.” Fjeld’s voice was tight with grief and frustration.
Wardle nodded again. “Should have occurred to me too.” He frowned. “What happened to B Company’s Political Officers? I’m assuming they weren’t on board the coaches, and there would have been no room on the nine-tonners.”
“No sir. The POs travelled up in a couple of Discoveries I believe,” said Quinnell. “Four by fours anyway. The Warcop gate guards logged them out nine minutes before the coaches left. It seems they, the POs that is, were furious that the support vehicles had already left, left without them being aware of it. I now think it’s probable they were hoping to catch those men in the same trap, so I’m hoping that the thirty minute head start means they reached the M6 before the Security Patrol could catch them. It’s also why I’m hoping they’ll get in touch when they reach Keele.”
“Hmm. Do you know that part of the M6, or that part of the country at all Paul?”
“Not really sir. I grew up in West London, never really travelled much north of the M25 before I was twenty. I’ve been to Warcop of course, but not for a good few years now.”
“Mmm. That part of the M6 rarely has much traffic, and at that time of the morning could be all but deserted. They need to get as far south as the Blackpool junction before the motorway gets busy enough for us to say they are safe.” He paused for a moment, then added, “For some strange definition of the word ‘safe’.”
“Oh.” Quinnell moved over to peer at a map on the wall. “Hmm,” he said after a moment. “That’s the best part of seventy miles to that point. Twenty of that before they even get onto the M6.”
“Something like.” Wardle frowned. “But with the restrictions on travel these days due to fuel shortages...” he trailed off, then looked at Quinnell. “Let me know if you hear anything new. I’ll get on to Brigade HQ, but I suspect whatever monkeys they have hanging around there will already know, and my guess is will already have passed on the news.”
“Yes sir. Very probably. I’ll leave you to it.” Quinnell put the folder onto the colonel’s desk, and left smartly. The RSM would need to know, both because CSM Grant had been a close friend, but also to help ensure discipline amongst the ranks when the news eventually broke.
Fjeld also left. She knew Wardle would be in contact with Brigade shortly, in the mean time she would see to the defence and security of the base.
Regimental Serjeant Major Cooper took the news calmly, he had noticed that many of the ‘minders’, political officers, seemed to be in a meeting of some sort, including his own minder, Squad Leader Cooke. He now knew what the meeting was about. “I’ll ensure the men don’t do anything until you’re ready sir.”
Quinnell paused in surprise, then nodded slowly. “Thank you. And you’re right, we will do something.” He paused and shook his head slowly, “though what or how soon I don’t yet know.”
“Yes sir. I look forward to it.”
“As do I.”
Salutes were exchanged and Quinnell went back to his office to inform all the remaining officers, while Cooper went searching for the other senior NCOs on the base. An hour later, only a small number of people on the base, all civilians, did not know what had befallen ‘B’ company. There were many angry mutterings, but the NCOs kept a very tight grip on the men, and both A and C companies went out on long runs, both to keep them occupied and out of the way, as well as to channel their energies into something at least semi-productive. Everyone else left on base were kept very busy with other activities. Many of the minders were physically unfit, so the serjeants knew they would not accompany the troops on their run.
When the political officers had first arrived on base, some two months earlier, it had been obvious just how unfit they were, and plans were made to rub that fact in. Two mornings after the minders had appeared, each of the CSMs in the battalion had ordered their men out for a ten mile cross-country run. The minders had heard about the run, and some had turned up expecting to run alongside the troops; and keep an eye on them at the same time. They were all wearing gym kit and trainers; totally unsuitable to the muddy terrain they would be running over. To the surprise of the POs, the soldiers were all in full battledress including helmet and boots, each carrying a fifty-six pound Bergen rucksack, webbing with attached gear and their personal weapon. Not one of the POs had managed more than five miles, the first one dropping out after barely a mile. The soldiers, with their heavy loads, had just kept running, jeering at each ‘sissy’ Patroller as he dropped out.
They had never been accompanied again, but a week later an order had come down through the political officers stating that the morning runs had to be around the base running track where the troops could be watched.
RSM Cooper had completely ignored the order, and each of the CSM’s had followed suit, the three SP’s on the gate being roughly brushed aside as the men left. The day after that nearly forty armed SP’s had blocked the entrance to the base. The gate guards had very quickly passed on the message; and that day, making it look like it had been planned that way all along, the men did drill training on the parade ground. It had been a bitterly cold day, and the gate guards had deliberately wound up the armed Patrollers outside by standing where they could be seen, the guards all holding mugs of steaming hot coffee.
Since then the officers had rarely allowed the men off base, as much for their own protection as anything else. However two evenings before their training deployment to Warcop, Major Langtry and CSM Grant had relaxed the restrictions and allowed the men of B company to go into Chepstow for the evening. Not many had bothered, but about a score had walked the two and a half miles in, intending to start at a pub and move onto a nightclub later, finishing the evening at a late night Indian restaurant for a curry before walking home again.
It hadn’t quite gone as planned. The men had naturally drifted into three groups, each of which had started at a different pub. The smallest group, of four, had been in a fairly loud pub not far from Chepstow castle for maybe ninety minutes, drinking, chatting and laughing with some of the local girls, when a group of six males, all in their mid twenties and obviously quite drunk, decided to pick a fight with the soldiers. This had gone badly for the six, as the soldiers were still reasonably sober. The fight had been swift and brutal with three of the six thugs ending up all but unconscious, though this was as much to do with the alcohol inside them as it was to do with any thumps they had received.
Accompanied by the derisory laughter of the other patrons, the youngest of the four soldiers had told the one thug who had managed to remain standing, albeit with an eye that would be black and closed by the following morning “I don’t think you children should be allowed out without your mummies.”
“I’ll remember you,” had come the response. “You’ll wish you hadn’t messed with us.”
“Go away,” came the rejoinder. “You’re not wanted here.” The soldier had deliberately turned his back on the furiously embarrassed thug, showing his utter contempt.
The six battered and bruised thugs left the pub, but then the landlord had spoken softly with the four soldiers. “You really need to be getting back to base. They were Security Patrollers. They’ll be back for you in real force before long. I enjoyed seeing them taken down a peg or two, but if you’re still here when they get back you’ll be lucky if you get just a severe beating.”
The four had nodded and left, thanking the barman, and apologising for the trouble. Spotting the second group of half a dozen men who had not long come out of another pub, they passed on the news. For a few minutes they stood and talked it over and then began to walk slowly back through town heading home. The ten men were all somewhat put out, but they also knew when an orderly retreat was necessary. They had just reached the edge of town when, having heard about the fight from other people in the town, the remaining nine squaddies had joined them, and the nineteen men set off at a reasonably quick march back to barracks. It could have been only minutes later when four trucks had roared up each containing a round half dozen Patrollers, all armed with steel piping or similar.
Again the fight had been swift and brutal. Despite being both outnumbered and initially unarmed, the soldiers hand-to-hand combat skills and superb levels of fitness as well as their training in team-working, had easily matched and exceeded the limited skills of the SPs both to fight together as a unit, and to use their weapons. Indeed before the end, most of the squaddies had been armed with the same pipes that not long before the SPs had been armed with. A few of the squaddies came out of the fight with some painful injuries, one with a cracked radius, but all twenty-four Patrollers had left with far worse injuries than any of the nineteen soldiers, and all had vowed bloody and fatal revenge.
To Lieutenant-Colonel Wardle it looked like this was the trouble promised. He wished, and not for the first time, that Langtry and Grant had not allowed the men to go off base. But it had happened, and there was nothing to do about it now.
Picking up his phone, he dialled Brigade HQ. It would not be a happy conversation, he expected, and in that he was correct.
At that moment Brigadier Andrew Haldane(RM) was having his own problems. As the man in command of 3 Commando Brigade, his problems extended further than just the fact that he had lost entirely two of his four Royal Marine Commando regiments. Whilst he had managed to hang on to all the other regiments under his command, almost all were half the size, and in a few cases smaller than they had been two years before, with the sole exception of the First Battalion The Rifles, the only army unit under his direct command, and he’d just been notified that that was about to change. It was to lose two of its three companies. One immediately, one in four months time. His entire brigade would be not much bigger than a reinforced battalion. Worse, he had just received an order to put the whole of his command on alert, yet hadn’t been told why. Some unofficial sources suggested Belfast, but he couldn’t confirm it.
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