Hellfire. Ed Macy

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       SKYLINED WITH NO B ACKUP

       MAY 1992

       Fremington Camp, Devon

      Fremington Camp was a miserable blot on an otherwise beautiful landscape. Its huts had been built during World War Two and looked as if they’d been through the Blitz. The windows dripped with condensation, the frames were rotten and a number of the panes were cracked or broken. The wind whistled between the gaps, bringing the moist, salty tang of the sea into the improvised Ops room. If I’d been based here I’d have slit my wrists long ago. Thank God we were only passing through.

      The Gazelle was the army’s training helicopter. I loved flying the nimble little single-engine machine with its huge perspex bubble canopy. I’d been taught how to ‘autorotate’ so I could carry out an emergency landing if the engine failed, and how to do basic night-flying. I’d then gone on to more advanced techniques: flying low level, landing in confined areas, advanced navigation and instrument flying.

      I was six months into the pilots’ course. I’d done another thirty hours on Chipmunks, passing ‘Basic Fixed Wing’ and the ground-school exams that went with it, which allowed me to transition to ‘Basic Rotary Wing’: learning how to fly a helicopter.

      From the very outset we operated under a ‘three strikes’ rule-three mistakes and we were out. From an initial twenty students on the course, we’d already lost four guys during the fixed wing phase, then three more during my fifty hours of instruction and solo practice during Basic Rotary Wing.

      We were now on the ‘Advanced Rotary Wing’ or ‘tactical’ phase of our training: learning not only how to fly a helicopter, but how to fight in it.

      Tim, a 2 Para mate on the course ahead of mine, had introduced me to the ‘cheat-sheet’ routine. Ground school involved exams on fourteen different subjects, from basic flight principles to meteorology and navigation. As there were only ever three different papers set for each subject, the drill was for students to acquire these papers-and the answers-from students on earlier courses. No one ever failed a ground-school exam; the challenge was not to get 100 per cent and give the game away.

      Tim’s pal Billy was the only bloke anyone knew of who didn’t do this and since he looked like a dark-haired version of Dan Dare and I was impressed by the way he applied himself to flying, I decided to follow his example. In the Air Corps, I had glimpsed the life I wanted. I would have to touch every base if I was to become an SAS pilot.

      Rejecting the cheat-sheets paid off when the instructors decided to set a new paper on every subject for our intake. Blind panic ensued and more guys fell by the wayside.

      I listened cautiously, therefore, to those who recommended cheat-maps for the advanced tactical course: recce positions that had been highly marked during previous exercises. When we got to Fremington and were briefed on our ‘mission’-to identify an ‘enemy’ vehicle convoy heading from the east on the B3042 towards the A377-I took one look at the cheat-positions and decided to formulate my own plan.

      I walked into the ad hoc planning room-little more than a broom cupboard-and studied the three faces gazing expectantly at me.

      Herbert and Bateman, the two instructors, looked like they wanted to eat me for the breakfast none of us had had yet-and wouldn’t get until we returned from the sortie. The other guy, a fellow student called Mick Baxter, was peering at me so intently I thought his eyes might explode.

      ‘Right,’ I began, trying to sound authoritative, ‘for the purposes of this exercise, I am the patrol commander and I am going to lead us out. I am flying with Mr Herbert and you, Corporal Baxter, will be flying with Mr Bateman.’

      Mick’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Warrant Officers Herbert and Bateman were already busy with their clipboards.

      Today’s exercise was about reconnaissance: finding and observing enemy convoys while maintaining tactical superiority; seeing and reporting without being seen.

      After briefing the met, air traffic and timings I proceeded to the execution of the mission. ‘When we leave here, we’re going to follow this valley south-east.’ I pointed to a black line on the map behind me. ‘We will conduct an under-wires crossing here, where the pylon line crosses the River Taw.’ It was the lowest point of the pylons just south-east of Chapelton.

      ‘There are no roads and no villages nearby, so there’s every chance we won’t be seen. We’ll continue to fly the СКАЧАТЬ