Soldier 'I' - The story of an SAS Hero: From Mirbat to the Iranian Embassy Siege and beyond

323 Pages·2010·2.27 MB·English

by  Michael Paul Kennedy

During the Second World War, David Stirling, founder of the SAS, had just
outlined to Field Marshal Montgomery an audacious plan for one single
squadron of SAS to penetrate miles behind heavily fortified enemy lines to
attack the Tripoli to Tobruk coastal road along a 400mile front. Montgomery
paused for a moment, then turned to his staff officers and said: 'Gentleman, the
boy Stirling is mad. Quite, quite mad. But in war, there is a place for mad
people.'
THE STORY OF AN SAS HERO
PETE WINNER
MICHAEL PAUL KENNEDY
Contents
Foreword
New Territory
Initiation
Sickener 1
Sickener 2
From Hereford to the Jebel Massif
Isolation Ward
Operation Jaguar
Transfer
The Battle of Mirbat
Belfast
Hong Kong
A Visit from the Colonel
The Embassy Siege
The Falklands
Fallen Comrades
Frustration
The Final RV
When the Camp Gates Close
On the Circuit
Champagne and Diamonds
The Sultan's Palace
Aid Convoy
Port and Stilton
My Kingdom for a Stinger
Banned and Blackballed
A Living Hell
On the Ragged Edge
The Bodyguard
Mafia in Moscow
Revenge is Sweet
Postcript
Glossary
Foreword
I first met Pete (or Snapper as he was called then) in 1984. I had just joined the
SAS at the age of 24, and had been sent out to join the rest of B Squadron in the
jungles of South East Asia.
I'd only just been introduced to the rest of the troop and was enjoying a quick
brew with them under the canopy, when Snapper and four of his mates came
crashing through the jungle, looking for the new boy. It didn't take long for
Snapper's torchlight to find me, and from the residual glow of the fire we were
brewing our tea on, I got a vague glimpse of him: a tall, bearded guy, with a flat
face and a nose broken so badly it seemed to be heading east when he was facing
north. His accent was dramatic Northern, and he stretched the last word of the
sentence he spat out at me, as he and his mates loomed over me in the darkness.
'You a fookin' Masonnnnnn?'
Snapper was obsessed; he was sure that the Freemasons were infiltrating the
Regiment. It had become a running joke – the troop had set up a 'lodge' in the
jungle, where Snapper and his mates spent their evenings conducting spoof
rituals with their trouser legs rolled up. That was my first meeting with the man
who'd become Soldier 'I', and fortunately, I was able to reassure him that I hadn't
been sent by the Masons on any kind of secret mission. But my first impression
of Snapper was that he was as mad as box of frogs, and someone I would do well
to keep away from.
The next time I came across Snapper was when our squadron was back in the
UK and we were in training to join the counter-terrorist team. I spent quite a lot
of time with him during those months as we practised our 'room clearing' skills
in the training building in Hereford known within the Regiment as 'The Killing
House'. The Killing House was the only place where the Regiment's assault
teams were able to fire live ammunition, and it was here where I really began to
see Snapper's skills first-hand. Of course, it turned out that there was a whole lot
more to Snapper than I had first thought.
Snapper was, and is, a Regimental institution. An outstanding soldier, he was
one of the SAS troopers who successfully stormed the Iranian Embassy in 1980.
He also played an enormous role in the Falklands War in 1982. If that isn't
enough, Snapper was also one of the pioneers of undercover operations in
Northern Ireland. He tells it all here in his remarkable book.
But perhaps Snapper's greatest piece of soldiering took place in the battle of
Mirbat, which occurred during Operation Storm – the secret war fought by the
British in Oman in 1972. Over 250 well-armed Communist insurgents attacked
the isolated SAS base near the coastal resort of Mirbat, and Snapper (manning
the machine gun) together with eight fellow SAS soldiers, chose to fight against
overwhelming odds until reinforcements arrived. If the Communists had come to
dominate this area, the whole of the Western world would have been held to
ransom, since over half of the world's oil passes through the Straits of Hormuze,
just off Oman in the Persian Gulf. But the nine men resisted fiercely, and pretty
much won the war single-handedly. For this reason, Operation Storm remains
one of the most famous actions ever carried out by the SAS, and to this day, is
one of the Regiment's proudest moments.
But Snapper's skills don't stop there. Many of the undercover techniques that
he helped to develop are still used by the Regiment today in their anti-terrorist
operations. They certainly helped me tremendously during my two years in
Northern Ireland as an undercover operator.
Snapper is a true innovator, and really pushed the boundaries of soldiering
within the Regiment. It was always him who would say, 'Let's try it a different
way,' or, 'Hang on a minute, what if we do it like this instead?' There's a real
creativity to the art of combat, and Snapper has it in spades. Not only during
training back in Hereford, but also out in the field where it really counts. Without
people like Snapper, the Regiment would not be the same professional fighting
force it is today.
If it's Regimental war stories you are after, Snapper's are among the very best.
Sure, he might have had the occasional incident of paranoia along the way, but
as one of our mates, Nish, always used to say back in the jungle, 'Just because
you are paranoid doesn't mean that no-one is out to get you.'
I met up with Snapper again in Kabul, in 2006. It was great to see him, even if
he did make me pay for the tea. He was still as mad as a box of frogs, and had
enough weapons and radios dangling off him to take on the whole of the Taliban
single-handed. Nothing much had changed. But seeing him out in Afghanistan
reminded me once more of the debt the British Army owes to guys like Snapper.
If you think of the soldiers running around in body armour and helmets in
Afghanistan today, spare a thought too for Snapper and his fellow soldiers. Apart
from their weapons, the only kit they had back then was a pair of shorts and
desert boots. Remarkably, they still managed to win through, and this book
shows you how.
This is a book by a true soldier, who really gets what soldiering is all about –
the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Andy McNab DCM MM
1

New Territory
'You are a time bomb, trooper, a time bomb just waiting to explode.'
The Colonel's words were still beating in my head as I lay back on the bed. His
face, bulging with anger as he roared out his verdict, floated before me. It did not
matter whether I opened my eyes or closed them, he was still there, accusing,
taunting, assailing my self-respect. 'What happened yesterday was a total
disgrace, a total insult to the Regiment. We cannot and will not tolerate this
behaviour. You've had your chances but this is the last straw.' A time bomb
waiting to explode.
This was it then. The end of the road. On Colonel's orders for the third time.
That must be some kind of record. Usually Colonel's orders meant you were
finished, RTU'd, out in the cold. I was lucky. I was still serving with the SAS –
at least for a little while longer, anyway. It all now hinged on the official medical
reports. The Colonel seemed confident that they would provide the ammunition
he needed. He had me right in the middle of his sights now. He could pull the
trigger at any time.
I looked around me nervously. Ward 11 of the British Army Psychiatric Unit –
the thinking man's Belsen. Was this really the end of the line? Everything in the
room was white, clinical and empty. Empty walls, empty windowsill, empty
tabletops, empty cupboards. My holdall lay slumped on the floor unopened. I
reached down into a side-pocket and pulled out a picture of my favourite pin-up,
smoothed out the creases and wedged it into a tiny gap at the top of the bedside
table. It was a relief to see the splash of colour, the bright, smiling face, the
beckoning body.
I glanced out of the single window. Nothing but dreary grey London rooftops.
A feeling of isolation swept over me. I turned back to the room and swung wide
the cupboard doors, rattled open every drawer, gazing into the emptiness,
seeking clues. There wasn't a single trace of the previous detainee – not even a
shirt button, a screwed-up ticket or the cellophane wrapper from a cigarette
packet. Everything had been swept clinically clean. If only I could have found
something, no matter how small, it would have given me some sense of reality, a
feeling that others had passed this way before me.
I prowled around the room like a caged animal. This was new, unfamiliar
territory. I was jetlagged from the sudden transfer from camp, heady from
disorientation. I needed to establish my base, my reference point, my safety
zone. At least in the jungle or in the mountains you knew the likely spots where
the enemy might be waiting. Training and experience taught you where danger
lurked. But here it was different. There was a feeling of threat, but I could not
tell where it was coming from or how bad it was going to be. I needed to
unscramble my head.
It was like being in an enemy pen, except the guards wore white coats. I'd been
told there was even an escape committee – the boys in the pathology lab. They'd
test my blood every day and wouldn't let me go under the wire until my LFT
count was down to normal.
I came in on a Thursday. The first few days would be observation. I knew what
that meant. I knew all the tricks of the interrogation trade. They'd put me under
stress by making sure I was completely bored. Completely deprived of all my
normal activities and pleasures. Then they'd monitor me to see if I was showing
any signs of stress or unusual behaviour: apprehension, restlessness, weird
tendencies, withdrawal symptoms. Then, after they'd softened me up, the
advanced sentence, the brainwashing would begin.
The door opened and a white-coated nurse came in. He looked at me very
closely. Not a flicker of emotion registered on his face. He said nothing. I
wondered whether he was one of them, part of the system. I imagined him
making mental notes, assessing the situation in detail: where I was in the room,
whether I'd arranged my things, my general demeanour and my facial
expression. He put a small, brown tray on the bedside table, glanced at the pin-
up, then at me. I wondered if this had been my first mistake. There was a plastic
beaker of water on the tray and two torpedo-shaped pills, bright green at one
end, pink at the other. 'Take both of them,' was all the orderly said as he quickly
retreated, locking the door behind him.
I decided to go along with the game at this stage, play it by their rules. They'd
know anyway from the urine samples whether I'd taken the pills or not. I picked
up one of the torpedoes, held it up to the light and rolled it between my finger
and thumb. I wondered why they'd chosen these particular pills, what mind-
bending drug was concealed in the thousands of tiny balls cascading around
inside the coloured cases. I wondered what ragged phantoms would come