Investigations have revealed that the Special Air Service was operating ‘death squads’ on combat tours of Afghanistan. It is alleged that one squadron was responsible for 33 highly questionable deaths, all in just a three-month period in 2011. Emails from senior officers suggest a cover-up from the Ministry of Defence. But why are British special forces allowed to act with such deadly impunity? Our military insider, a veteran of 20 years standing, explains why normal rules don’t apply to the SAS.
Let me take you back to Basra Palace. Tucked away in the corner of the huge compound was Brookside Close. Like its Merseyside inspiration, it was a suburban street, lined with six-bedroom houses and drives for suitably large cars. Prior to our arrival, Brookside Close might have been occupied by Saddam’s local secret organisations. Now, in 2004, you would hear of Friday night parties in one of these swimming pools, along with whispers of skinny-dipping. The houses were now occupied by our more exclusive military and civilian elements. One night, some soldiers from the unit I commanded were invited to a party in Brookside Close by a kindly spook. The house belonged to the ‘Blades’, the ‘Boys’, ‘Hereford’: perhaps better known to you and me as the SAS.
We know these men to be super-soldiers. They are not like you and me, having passed ‘selection’ and being able to munch girders and slaughter enemies while opining on lacunae in Kant’s moral reasoning. Either that, or they are infantry soldiers with an unusual level of physical stamina sufficient to carry them up and down the Brecon Beacons in short order, combined with military skills deemed adequate to be part of the ‘Regiment’. It is true that they’ve a bit more above the neck than your averagely intelligent soldier. Make of that what you will.
But back to Basra: the party was not wild and I was not aware of any skinny-dipping. Though for one 19-year-old infantryman on his first tour this was an eye-opener. A lot of people were drinking; some were drunk. He stuck to his permitted two cans of beer and left at 11pm as instructed. We had a patrol to do the next morning. On his way out of the house, he was tripped up. ‘Sorry Sir,’ he said to the SAS man on the doorstep whose boot he had – apparently – inadvertently caught.
‘What the fuck are you doing in this house, craphat! I’ll fuck you up!’ said the ‘Blade’.
The British Army loves its badges: the narcissism of small differences. They guard their sanctity with a combination of abuse and in-group language. My soldier, while part of an excellent regiment, was not in possession of an elite badge and beret. He was therefore a ‘craphat’.
‘You’ve no fucking right to be here, craphat. I’ll ask you again, what the fuck are you doing here?’
As the courtroom evidence might have put it, my soldier realised that the man was very drunk. He was also armed with a pistol.
The American military bans drinking in operational theatres for obvious reasons. And we are strict about our two-can-a week limit. The possible consequences of being in possession of a firearm while intoxicated suggest why these rules are taken seriously. For those not members of the SAS, being caught pissed with a gun in an operational theatre would generally result in being sent home, with terminal consequences for further promotion. At this point, my soldier’s immediate superior – a corporal – stepped in, mollified the drunk SAS man and the two quickly went on their way.
I heard about this the following day. Though my career in the military was unlikely to go any further, I was senior enough (a Major) to gain a hearing. I reported it to the Brigadier, the guy in charge of the whole sorry mess in Basra at that time. More fool me. ‘I’ll have a word. But you have to let it drop.’ purred the Brigadier. An alcoholic special forces NCO, armed with an evident propensity to threaten his fellow British soldiers, well, that was nothing to be too worried about. And so it goes.
There were other matters to attend to so I did let this trivial incident go. We had other issues to occupy us, not least the daily threat of being killed by the local insurgents.
It was some years later, and I’d just returned from a tour in Afghanistan when I received a call from a colleague. I’ll call him Harry.
Stationed in Helmand, his job was to handle men ‘lifted’ by the SAS in ‘kill-capture’ missions. Some of these prisoners were dangerous and very violent; others were bewildered and genuinely had no clue why they were in a strange prison in a military camp. The way these raids would go down was this: upon receipt of ‘intelligence’, the SAS would board a helicopter, fly to a ‘compound’ – Afghan houses are always ‘compounds’ – and arrest some men. But killing anyone who – supposedly – presented a threat.
These operations all too often seemed to be based upon rumour and tribal feuding more than anything approaching actual ‘intelligence’. But no one would accuse the special forces of being overtly aware of local dynamics. Those arrested would be returned by helicopter to Camp Bastion to be processed, interrogated and held. And my colleague was part of that end of the operation.
Harry told me about one particular incident. A prisoner who had just come in asked about his two friends who had, he said, come with him on the helicopter. Harry was mystified. Only one prisoner had arrived. Where were the others? Had they escaped? Prisoners who went missing were presumed to be at large in the base, which usually triggered a very robust response.
On one occasion during my time in Iraq, a ‘person of interest’ went missing. The response involved the entire camp being placed under lockdown, while armed teams scoured every nook and cranny. In the end, it turned out this character was being questioned by military police who had failed to report what they were doing. They were unaware of the palaver that had befallen the rest of us. Such is the seamless character of some of our operations.
So, as you can imagine, Harry needed to find out where these men were. And he needed to do that immediately. He went across to the SAS compound with Susie, another officer. Admitted to the walled enclosure housing the SAS, he made his way to their operations room where a sergeant was on duty. Harry explained the situation.
‘So?’ said the irritated SAS man.
‘Where are the other guys you took? The prisoner clearly said that the other two were taken to the helicopter with him, before he was blindfolded.’
‘They didn’t make it. There was only one Bravo [person of interest] on the chopper.’
‘What do you mean they didn’t make it?’
‘Didn’t make it, that’s what I mean. They weren’t on the chopper… ‘
The SAS man paused and continued: ‘Remember this if you’re interested in taking this further. Its 600 yards between this compound and yours. Accidents happen on this camp. Suicides happen on this camp. Could happen to anyone.’
Harry and Susie walked those 600 yards quickly and quietly.
Both had their eyes on their career, so neither of them reported it. Both are now quite senior officers. Neither will acknowledge that this ever happened. Blank looks. Let it go. Move on.
As far as the rest of the Army is concerned, you don’t mess with the SAS. This is not because they can kill you with a glance, or whatever, but because they are the blue-eyed boys. They are beyond discipline in the normal way. Few people within the military know to whom they ultimately answer.
Over the past decade and a half of failed wars, special forces – which comprise the SAS, the Special Boat Service, as well as other smaller units – have grown to become larger than at any time since the Second World War. They now have a strategic and political importance in that they constitute the only major capability we can offer to the United States, the only one that our vastly more powerful ally genuinely values. The American generals take the view that the regular (or ‘green’) British Army failed in Iraq and Afghanistan and failed badly.
In both Basra and Helmand, the British dug themselves into situations they could not control, resulting in the deployment of large numbers of American forces to try to dig them out again. As one commentator put it, the British Army wrote cheques that it couldn’t cash. While professional and skilled, the Royal Navy consists of two pointlessly vast aircraft carriers and little else. It is no longer significant. The Royal Air Force is relatively small and possesses nothing the Americans cannot supply in huge numbers.
Special forces, however, are a genuinely important asset and much respected by their American counterparts. Their utility in the baleful wars on terror, which are ongoing and evolving, is considerable. They have worked pretty seamlessly, if very quietly, with their American counterparts.
Few of my colleagues have any idea as to the real chain of command for the British special forces. As a consequence of their perceived importance as a ‘strategic asset’, it is sometimes said that the Prime Minster has a line directly to the Director of Special Forces. No one really knows who is ultimately responsible for what the ‘Blades’ get up to.
Unlike their American counterparts, they seem to sit outside the realm of accountability. Some years ago, the American special forces stepped out of line, got too big for their administrative boots and tried to go their own way. The Congressional committee responsible for overseeing their activities placed them firmly and decisively ‘back in their box’.
People like me have no issue with these people being killers. We are proud of most of the things they have done. We believe that these are a highly skilled group of people, like our sailors, marines and airmen. But we also believe that they should be accountable – the same as the rest of us.
Recent revelations about special forces death squads in Afghanistan surprise no one who has had extensive dealings with them. Nor are the apparently routine attempts of their commanders to ignore or conceal their crimes.
There will be more assiduous digging into what exactly happened in Helmand from 2007 to 2014. Soon, the crimes of what is probably a small rogue minority will taint them all. In Australia, similar murderous practices by their SAS are now common knowledge, due to heroic efforts from brave journalists and even braver special forces soldiers.
These men have displayed extraordinary moral courage in coming forward with their accounts of the murders of unarmed men by their colleagues.
No British special forces soldiers have so far displayed similar fortitude. They may take the view that no one will go to prison anyway, unless a film is leaked to the press, which was what occasioned the Australian investigation. They may have a point.
In the single British war crimes case so far litigated from Afghanistan, a Royal Marine was seen on film killing his wounded prisoner, while declaring that he was breaking the Geneva Conventions and instructing his men to ensure that ‘this doesn’t go anywhere.’ ‘This’ resulted in a manslaughter conviction and eventual release after four years in prison for shooting an unarmed civilian while offering a commentary on the murder. On camera.
The SAS have not yet understood that they now live in an environment saturated with media, in a complex and multi-dimensional combat ecology. Image counts: in a ferociously unstable environment, we cannot afford to have our best soldiers going rogue.
Public opinion matters. Our self-image as the ‘good guys’, old-fashioned as it sounds, really matters. Even more important to soldiers such as myself, good order and discipline matters. And of course, accountability matters.
The alternative is bloody mayhem. The current commander of the Australian special forces, Major General Adam Findlay, gathered his men at their HQ in July. He blamed their crimes and public disgrace on ‘self-righteous entitled pricks’ who believed that the rules of the regular army did not apply to them. Preach.