Kisses From Nimbus Read online

  The Special Forces Club is a private members club in Knightsbridge just around the corner from Harrods, the world-famous department store. Despite its name, the club has very few members who have ever served with any Special Forces, most qualify for membership instead because of their parents’ wartime exploits, or some vague connection with intelligence organisations. The club had only about ten bedrooms which were, more often than not, fully occupied. I had been a member for a few years and had become very friendly with Jenny, the manageress at the time. Jenny would always do her best to fit me in, and often rang me to tell me that she had only one room left, but would keep it available for me for as long as she could. Knowing that Barbara and I were normally pretty desperate, Jenny would often make up a temporary bed for us in the library, putting a ‘Closed for Maintenance’ notice on the door and locking us in for privacy, until I rang for a taxi to take Barbara home.

  Back at base we continued to prepare and train for the next terrorist incident regardless of the argument that, because of the decisive action that was recently taken during Operation Nimrod, another siege involving the taking of hostages, was unlikely to happen again, anywhere in the UK.

  We did get some free time, however. Having the luxury of three dedicated pilots I could organise a weekly flying roster. In blocks of seven days, one pilot would be on half hour standby, the second on four hours, and the third would be completely off duty for a week. Even during my weeks off, I would be on camp playing squash, running for miles on end, or free fall parachuting.

  Every Wednesday morning at ten-thirty I would have to attend ‘prayers’. Prayers was a meeting of all Heads of Departments to discuss problems together and receive briefings and updates on any potential threats and ongoing operations. Regardless of whether I was rostered to be on duty or not, I would always attend prayers.

  It was a Friday night in the Sergeant’s Mess of 22 SAS, what we often referred to as the most exclusive club in the world, that we were celebrating another promotion. Mick Shearer had just been promoted from warrant officer to captain when, with the celebration barely underway, Mick stunned everyone present by saying that he had to leave. It was a Friday evening and he said he needed to be in Gütersloh, in Germany, no later than Sunday afternoon. The only way he could make it was to get the evening train to London via Bristol and then a very early flight out of Heathrow on Saturday morning.

  It was then that I came up with one of my, by now almost famous, ideas – not the brightest one I had ever come up with, as it later transpired. There was a spare helicopter in the hangar and, being a weekend, there would be very few people about. I was off duty for the whole of the following week so, as long as I could be around for Wednesday morning prayers then, I was unlikely to be missed by anyone, if I decided to go away for a few days. I reckoned I would have plenty of time to drop Mick off in Gütersloh and be back in Hereford by Sunday afternoon. Even if the weather turned against us we would be back by Tuesday, at the very latest, and we would be able to pick up a stack of duty-free booze and cigarettes as a bonus. The new captain readily accepted my offer and declared that the drinks were on him for the rest of the evening.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was close to one o’clock the following day before the hangover had subsided sufficiently for me to lift off for a planned refuel stop at Lydd Airport in Kent. On board with me were two Micks. Mick, the new captain and Mick the aircraft engineer who had agreed to come along, mainly to keep me company on the return journey. Engineer Mick would also be needed to help me load up the large amounts of contraband we were going to pick up from the duty-free store in the Royal Air Force station at Gütersloh. What wine and spirits we didn’t drink we planned to sell, along with the cigarettes, and finish up by making a handsome profit.

  It was a beautiful summer’s day as we took off from the east coast after refuelling. We crossed the English Channel and coasted in abeam Le Touquet in Continental Europe. Shortly after transiting France and entering Dutch airspace, I noticed that things were not quite right. I was having to progressively apply more collective pitch than was normal, almost certainly meaning that the engine was not producing the optimum amount of power. The engine oil pressure was gradually decreasing and the oil temperature starting to rise. There was little doubt in my mind as to what was going wrong. All the indications were pointing towards an imminent engine failure. I looked across at ‘Engineer Mick’ and pointed towards the instrument panel. After studying the instruments for a few seconds, he looked back at me with a frown on his face and shook his head slowly. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. We both knew that we had to land without delay or risk falling out of the sky.

  The Royal Netherlands Airforce base of Deelen was about five miles off to our port side. I selected the international distress frequency of 121.5 Mega Hertz and transmitted. “Pan Pan Pan, Deelen this is British Army two four zero, Imminent engine failure, request clearance to land immediately.” A ‘Pan’ call is an urgent message rather than a ‘Mayday’ call which would indicate a dire emergency. “Roger, British Army two four zero, you are cleared to land directly on the main runway,” came the reply.

  The engine continued to run, albeit with diminishing power, until we were safely on the ground. But the oil pressure was by then seriously low and I decided to close the engine down without carrying out the normal run-down procedures in an attempt to minimise any further damage.

  Before any military aircraft can land in a foreign country, diplomatic clearance must be applied for and granted. I, of course, had no such clearance to land. There was now every chance that my unauthorised entry into Holland was going to be reported, via the British Embassy, to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, and a complete shit-storm was going to descend upon me.

  The fact that we were all in civilian clothes certainly didn’t help matters at all, since that left us wide open to being arrested as spies. Despite Captain Mick now being a higher rank than me, it fell on my shoulders, being the aircraft commander, to try to talk our way out of the politically embarrassing situation.

  I decided that I would have to play the NATO card, which would allow me to focus on the fact that the United Kingdom and Holland were close allies. Both of us facing up to the nasty Russian hordes preparing, right now, to come storming across the river Rhine. I explained that since we were merely transiting through Dutch airspace, I hadn’t considered it necessary to acquire diplomatic clearance. The exercise we were taking part in required us to be dressed in civilian clothes and that if we could just be allowed to contact our unit in Germany, then we could arrange transport and be on our way.

  The airforce officers formed a huddle and began chattering away in their native tongue. Despite not understanding a word of Dutch I found it impossible to stop myself from eavesdropping. I managed to pick up the words ‘leugenaar’ and ‘spionnen’ which sounded very much to me like ‘lying spies’, leading me to the conclusion that our troubles were about to get worse. But the old blarney must have had the desired effect. We, or at least I, was still going to be in trouble, but when the senior officer approached us with a smile I felt certain we were not going to be arrested. He not only offered us any assistance we might require, including accommodation, but he also invited us to dine with them once we had made the necessary arrangements to be picked up, enabling us to carry on with our very important work on behalf of NATO.

  I rang the commanding officer of the Army Air Corps in Detmold, Germany and told him who I was, where I was from, and what I needed. I had to get one passenger from Deelen to RAF Gütersloh by mid-afternoon the following day, and I also required a low-loader vehicle to transport the unserviceable helicopter to Detmold for a replacement engine to be fitted. I was somewhat surprised when he didn’t question me as I expected him to. Instead, he said “Ok, Mr Riley, need to know eh, don’t worry, leave everything to me”. The fact that he had said ‘need to know’ could only mean that he thought we were on some sort of, officially sanctioned, clandestine Sp
ecial Forces mission, so I thought it might be prudent to leave him in his blissful state of ignorance.

  The following morning a helicopter arrived to pick up ‘Captain Mick’ and he was safely dispatched, in good time for his appointment at RAF Gütersloh. At least the main objective of the sortie had been achieved. All I needed to do now was get back before ten-thirty on Wednesday morning and I would have nothing much to worry about. That didn’t happen.

  We low-loaded the stricken aircraft back to Detmold and a new engine was fitted and ready for flight testing on Tuesday. Everything was looking good until the new engine failed to meet the standards laid down in the Flight Test Procedure and a second engine had to be fitted.

  We were eventually ready to head back to the UK, but by then it was Wednesday afternoon. In a phone-call back to base I had been told that my absence from the weekly prayers had been noted, not only by the adjutant but also by the C.O.

  Meanwhile, there were rumblings in the corridors of power. The Foreign and Commonwealth Office made an enquiry to Group Headquarters in London asking why British soldiers, in civilian clothes, had flown into a foreign country without the mandatory diplomatic clearance. Group Headquarters, of course, had no idea what the fuck was going on. The commander of the Special Forces Group, Brigadier Peter de la Billiere, handed the enquiry down to the C.O. of 22 SAS, Colonel Mike Rose, to provide some answers.

  The next morning, I was summoned to the adjutant’s office and told to be prepared for an interview with the C.O. The adjutant, Captain Sam Mallard, was a regular squash partner of mine and a good friend, but today he had his serious head on. “Red. What the fuck have you been up to now?” he said. “On second thoughts don’t bother telling me, you can save it for the boss. He’s rather looking forward to seeing you.”

  Officers in the SAS are always referred to as ‘boss’. Anyone other than a commissioned officer is referred to by their Christian or nickname.

  The boss spoke. “Morning Red, no bullshit, just tell me what happened.”

  I told the boss the story just as I have told it to you.

  “Do you have any regrets?” asked the C.O.

  Thinking that I was about to get the sack, I gave him my reply. “I do regret putting you in an embarrassing position but, to be honest, if I thought I could get away with it I’d probably do the same again.”

  The boss looked thoughtfully at me and pushed the papers in front of him to one side. “You’ve just saved your skin Red by being truthful with me,” he said. “Now fuck off out of my office and get on with your job, while I try and clear up the mess you’ve created.”

  “Thanks, boss,” I said, as I left, giving Sam a big smile and a thumbs-up on the way out.

  It would turn out to be far from the last time Mike Rose would save my skin.

  Back at my desk, I pondered about just how fortunate I had been. I felt sure that any other C.O. would have had me sacked. I was determined that things were going to change and I made a promise to myself, right there and then, that from that moment on I would start to behave like a mature and well-disciplined warrant officer. Deep down inside me though, I had a nagging inkling that there was little or no chance that I would be able to keep that promise.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  OPERATION CORPORATE

  When the regiment first moved into Bradbury Lines it had a large central Parade Ground. Not a facility that the SAS tended to make good use of, since marching about was not something they were likely to spend much of their time doing. In 1982 the Parade Ground was used to house a large marquee-like aircraft hangar and was laid out as a helicopter landing site, for use by day or night. It also had parking spaces for up to three helicopters.

  It was a chilly spring morning and I had left my home at about six-thirty to give me time to run the five miles, or so, into work. By the time I had showered and had breakfast it was coming close to nine o’clock when I arrived at my office. There was a note on my desk, for my urgent attention, from Major Clive Fairbrother. The note explained that the queen’s birthday was not too far away and the regiment would be holding a parade to commemorate the occasion. Since the regiment had not marched together for such a long time – a rather poor state of affairs in Clive’s opinion – any members of the regiment not on essential operations would need to practise marching if they were to maintain the standards expected of one of the Army’s finest infantry units. He pointed out that the parade ground was, at present, being inappropriately used and that rehearsal needed to get started as soon as possible. He also made it clear that not only was I required to move the hangar, but the whole square had to be cleared before the end of play that day. I was stunned. I just could not see how I would be able to dismantle the hangar and transfer it to another site in less than a day. There was also all the equipment and engineer’s office from inside to consider, not to mention, of course, the helicopters.

  I picked up the note and stormed across the square to Clive’s office.

  “Boss, this is outrageous. How can I possibly have this completed by the end of the day?” I said somewhat disrespectfully.

  “What’s the date on that note, Red?” asked Clive with a grin.

  “First of April 1982 … April first …You bastard,’ I said even more disrespectfully.

  The rumour going around that day was that Argentinian forces were about to invade the Falkland Islands. The consensus was that this was, obviously, another April Fools’ Day joke. More than likely started by members of the Intelligence Corps, and it was not a very good one at that.

  It made no sense at all, to anyone, that the Argentinians would invade some little-known British Islands which everyone I spoke to assumed lay somewhere off the mainland of Scotland. This whole story just reinforced our opinion that the term Army Intelligence was, without a doubt, an oxymoron and the spoof was nowhere near as well thought out as Clive’s.

  About ten-thirty the following morning I received a call from Joyce in the telephone exchange next door to my office. She told me that all heads of departments were to attend prayers in the regimental briefing room immediately. Prayers on a Friday, especially at such short notice, were unheard of, so I guessed there must be something serious in the offing. As I entered the briefing room I realised that the rumours of an invasion had not been a substandard April Fools’ day spoof after all. Spread across the wall were three large maps, the largest being a Transverse Mercator Projection of the world. The second was a standard Topographic Chart of South America from Buenos Aires in the north to Tierra del Fuego in the south. And finally, a one-to-a-half-million-scale map of the Falkland Islands, remarkably close to Antarctica.

  The I.O, intelligence officer, Ron, opened the briefing and explained that, at that very moment, Argentinian marines were invading the British Sovereign Territory of the Falkland Islands almost eight thousand miles away in the South Atlantic Ocean. The director of Special Forces was at present, attending a meeting at the Cabinet Office Briefing Room, known to all as COBRA and chaired by the prime minister, Margaret Thatcher. The chief of the defence staff had already been instructed to prepare a counter-operation, including the assembly of a Task Force capable of sailing down to the South Atlantic to deal with the situation. All units likely to be involved in the Task Force were now to prepare for war. Twenty-Second Special Air Service Regiment was designated as one such unit. The counter operation was given the codename ‘Operation Corporate’.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The following few days were hectic. We still had our anti-terrorist role to fulfil but requests for helicopter flying hours in support of Operation Corporate increased the workload of all the flight personnel dramatically. I found it easier to sleep on the floor of my office rather than driving home to Moreton each evening, as did some of the other guys. There was not one complaint from any member of the team even though they were having to work around the clock to meet the demand, grabbing meals and a few hours’ sleep at irregular and intermittent intervals. There are normally, strictly enfo
rced flying and duty time limits for pilots but, as Corporate began to gain momentum, these limits had to be overridden and I left it up to the individuals to let me know if they felt that they were no longer fit to fly.

  The, newly appointed, regimental operations officer, Crocker, was required to attend numerous meetings in London as the Task Force was being prepared, but now the reason for our trips had taken on a new meaning and they were strictly for business. Once that business was done we would fly back to Hereford regardless of the weather, the time of day or our extramarital affairs.

  On the night of the tenth of April at about ten-thirty, I lifted off from our group headquarters at the end of the Kings Road in London. I spoke to Barbara, who was the duty Air Traffic Controller at Battersea Heliport that night. She told me that there was a band of thunderstorms just west of the city and she strongly advised me to divert to the Heliport and stay overnight. As much as I appreciated the offer I felt duty bound to decline and decided that, in this instance, Corporate would have to take precedence over Copulate.

  Flying through a band of active thunderstorms, at night, and with no weather radar is not something for the faint-hearted. We tightened our seatbelts as the cloud base lowered and the rain started, light at first, but quickly increasing until it was lashing against the windscreens, making the wipers totally ineffective. I lowered my helmet visor over my face, normally used to protect my eyes from the glare of the sun, but now it was needed to safeguard me from temporary blindness from the lightning flashes. As the turbulence increased from moderate to severe the rain simultaneously transformed into hail, crashing into the aircraft like a scatter gun. The maelstrom continued for about twenty minutes, but it seemed to me like an awful lot longer. Coming out of the cloud we began to make out the lights of Oxford and as things started to settle back down to normal Crocker was able to speak. “As soon as we get back I want you to go straight into quarantine, Red,” he said. “You won’t need any kit. Just make your way down to Pontrilas, without speaking to anyone, and stay there until further notice.”