Peter Lyderik
20th February 2005, 06:47
This SAS gun for hire
Britain’s top troops are quitting for the kind of money the army can’t match.
Stuart Wavell hears their tales of divided loyalty
February 20, 2005 Sunday Times
It has been called the biggest military reunion of all time. Former members of the special forces have flocked to join the 40,000-strong army of private security guards in Iraq, lured by salaries of $1,000 (£529) a day.
The SAS is sufficiently worried by the drain to have implored serving members not to leave. A leaked letter from “the Kremlin” (its headquarters in Hereford) last week appealed to troopers’ loyalty and reminded them of the kudos of belonging to the unit, adding that “it would be in everyone’s best interests” if they remained.
The SAS may be the ultimate weapon in Britain’s armed forces, but its fearsome reputation is disproportionate to its minuscule size. The combined numbers of the so-called Regiment — the Special Air Service — and its sister force, the Special Boat Service, amount to 200-300 members. The normal fall-out rate is 12 a year and any extra drain is bound to affect not only its structure but its operations.
In Iraq, SAS veterans sit at the apex of a pyramid of private security “contractors” employed to protect lives and property. At the bottom is a motley collection of tattooed desperados and cowboys.
There is a large South African contingent. “No one likes the Afrikaners,” says one combatant. “They walk around completely gung-ho, bristling with four guns each, even beside the swimming pool. They point them at waiters, which is a really stupid thing to do. They go around in these large American vehicles and wear their own khaki uniform.”
Vainglorious American contractors do not inspire much affection either. A hotel shootout sparked by an American who blasted away at his own reflection in a mirror is still a source of mirth. By contrast, the watchword of former SAS members is discretion. The photographer Steve Bent, who spent a week with the British security firm Diligence, which employs ex-SAS and ex-SBS soldiers, tells me from Baghdad: “They use battered saloon cars with engines tuned up beyond belief. They wear local check shirts and keep their automatic weapons out of sight, so they’re not in anybody’s face. And they don’t brag.”
The only clue to their identity is their lexicon of euphemisms. They don’t shoot people but “slot” targets. They report to a “head shed” (headquarters), scout for “LUPs” (lying-up points), barely tolerate “Ruperts” (officers) and have nightmares about “blue-on-blues” (friendly fire).
In a typical Diligence convoy, the client sits in the back sandwiched between two special forces heavies, with a trained Iraqi driver lulling suspicions in front. The cars behind and in front are manned by expat and Iraqi guards.
In Bent’s experience, it’s the cowboys who get hit. “I was taken aback when I sat down with one group in a hotel. Between six of them, they had about 30 pints of beer and a bottle and a half of whisky. You just don’t do that here.”
Most British security firms impose a “two cans” rule on drink (“two jerry cans”, runs the gag). Diligence has a zero-tolerance policy. “Guns and alcohol don’t mix,” says Trefor Williams, a former Royal Marine and former SBS corporal who is boss of the firm’s Baghdad operation.
Surprisingly, British tolerance extends to former IRA members, according to Chris Ryan, who writes bestsellers drawn from his highly decorated 10 years with the SAS. “There’s some guys who left the IRA to join the Foreign Legion and are now working alongside former members of the Regiment. It all dates back to the fundamentalist threat in Algeria, when the petroleum industry needed protection from private security firms.”
The risks are high. “One of my friends left the Regiment and formed a security company. They’ve lost 10 men in the last year,” the writer says.
Williams reckons that ex-SAS troopers run a five-fold risk in Iraq, although his firm has had no fatalities so far. “You don’t have the whole of the British armed forces behind you, with a dedicated motor pool or a field hospital. When you need 16 people for a job, you may have only eight.”
Cowboys are two a penny. For every contractor who claims to have been in the special forces, only one in 10 is telling the truth, Williams believes. A typical example was a pub bouncer who claimed to be SAS-trained — he went on a two-week SAS course.
Soldiers of fortune can usually find a lucrative job among Baghdad’s 100 security firms, with names such as Kroll, Control Risk, Armour Group, Triple Canopy, AKE and Global.
Diligence sets the bar high, admitting “tier 2” applicants from the marines and the Parachute Regiment, but drawing the line at the regular army. It never recruits serving personnel. “I get as many CVs from policemen as I do from soldiers,” Williams says. “It’s quite scary.”
Motives vary. Bent met a Geordie who had left the SBS after 10 years and set up a restaurant chain. “He was married, he had children and he was a millionaire. So he couldn’t understand why he was getting bad bouts of depression. His doctor told him he was missing the buzz and advised him to find a war. He did, and he was really happy.”
The rewards seem fabulous. The average pay is £80,000 a year, including board and lodging, with every third month off. Off-duty conversation revolves around what to do with the spoils. Bent recalls one British expat who had already bought a Porsche Boxster and a house. Another was saving up for a taxi to serve Glasgow airport when he retired at 40.
Many Brits, preferring to keep these windfalls away from the taxman, have bought properties in Thailand, Spain, Florida and France, where they spend their R&R.
But such pay and conditions are offered to any development worker in Iraq: what makes the job seem attractive is the disparity with SAS salaries. “No one is there for the excitement. It’s all about the money,” says Andy McNab, the author and former SAS hero who commanded the Bravo Two Zero patrol in the Gulf war. He is now on the board of a private security firm and is familiar with the considerations weighed by serving SAS men. “We’ve had coffee mornings, which are like fishwives’ meetings, where they look at whether it’s worth coming out or not.”
The pluses and minuses are not as straightforward as they appear. Soldiers enter the SAS quite late in their military career, with an average joining age of 29.
For an SAS veteran of six years, it would seem to make sense to stay the course until his early forties, when he can walk into a lucrative security job in a non-combat area. “Generally, the people leaving the armed forces now are further down the food chain,” Williams says. “They’ve done three years and they decide to leave because they’re blinded by the money and see the short-term gain.”
The SAS is unlikely to emulate the Pentagon’s £80,000 bonus to entice experienced US special forces to stay on. But the Regiment is believed to grant sabbaticals that allow serving men to boost their pay as freelances.
Hereford’s appeal to loyalty is not as lame as it seems. Ryan says: “You don’t join the Regiment for money but for the long haul. But you can only call on someone’s loyalty so far. Sometimes people don’t like the politics in the SAS and that loyalty gets eroded.”
In McNab’s opinion, money is the key to everything. “There’s a view that it’s all about Queen and country, but that doesn’t exist. People think, ‘I’ve got school fees, the mortgage and all those things’.”
He gives the example of an SAS corporal serving in Iraq, taking home less than £2,000 a month. “He sees the Filipino guys who are getting £3,000 a month to drive a minibus. He says, ‘Right, I’ve had enough of this. I’ll come back here and get paid properly for it.’ It’s as simple as that.”
Britain’s top troops are quitting for the kind of money the army can’t match.
Stuart Wavell hears their tales of divided loyalty
February 20, 2005 Sunday Times
It has been called the biggest military reunion of all time. Former members of the special forces have flocked to join the 40,000-strong army of private security guards in Iraq, lured by salaries of $1,000 (£529) a day.
The SAS is sufficiently worried by the drain to have implored serving members not to leave. A leaked letter from “the Kremlin” (its headquarters in Hereford) last week appealed to troopers’ loyalty and reminded them of the kudos of belonging to the unit, adding that “it would be in everyone’s best interests” if they remained.
The SAS may be the ultimate weapon in Britain’s armed forces, but its fearsome reputation is disproportionate to its minuscule size. The combined numbers of the so-called Regiment — the Special Air Service — and its sister force, the Special Boat Service, amount to 200-300 members. The normal fall-out rate is 12 a year and any extra drain is bound to affect not only its structure but its operations.
In Iraq, SAS veterans sit at the apex of a pyramid of private security “contractors” employed to protect lives and property. At the bottom is a motley collection of tattooed desperados and cowboys.
There is a large South African contingent. “No one likes the Afrikaners,” says one combatant. “They walk around completely gung-ho, bristling with four guns each, even beside the swimming pool. They point them at waiters, which is a really stupid thing to do. They go around in these large American vehicles and wear their own khaki uniform.”
Vainglorious American contractors do not inspire much affection either. A hotel shootout sparked by an American who blasted away at his own reflection in a mirror is still a source of mirth. By contrast, the watchword of former SAS members is discretion. The photographer Steve Bent, who spent a week with the British security firm Diligence, which employs ex-SAS and ex-SBS soldiers, tells me from Baghdad: “They use battered saloon cars with engines tuned up beyond belief. They wear local check shirts and keep their automatic weapons out of sight, so they’re not in anybody’s face. And they don’t brag.”
The only clue to their identity is their lexicon of euphemisms. They don’t shoot people but “slot” targets. They report to a “head shed” (headquarters), scout for “LUPs” (lying-up points), barely tolerate “Ruperts” (officers) and have nightmares about “blue-on-blues” (friendly fire).
In a typical Diligence convoy, the client sits in the back sandwiched between two special forces heavies, with a trained Iraqi driver lulling suspicions in front. The cars behind and in front are manned by expat and Iraqi guards.
In Bent’s experience, it’s the cowboys who get hit. “I was taken aback when I sat down with one group in a hotel. Between six of them, they had about 30 pints of beer and a bottle and a half of whisky. You just don’t do that here.”
Most British security firms impose a “two cans” rule on drink (“two jerry cans”, runs the gag). Diligence has a zero-tolerance policy. “Guns and alcohol don’t mix,” says Trefor Williams, a former Royal Marine and former SBS corporal who is boss of the firm’s Baghdad operation.
Surprisingly, British tolerance extends to former IRA members, according to Chris Ryan, who writes bestsellers drawn from his highly decorated 10 years with the SAS. “There’s some guys who left the IRA to join the Foreign Legion and are now working alongside former members of the Regiment. It all dates back to the fundamentalist threat in Algeria, when the petroleum industry needed protection from private security firms.”
The risks are high. “One of my friends left the Regiment and formed a security company. They’ve lost 10 men in the last year,” the writer says.
Williams reckons that ex-SAS troopers run a five-fold risk in Iraq, although his firm has had no fatalities so far. “You don’t have the whole of the British armed forces behind you, with a dedicated motor pool or a field hospital. When you need 16 people for a job, you may have only eight.”
Cowboys are two a penny. For every contractor who claims to have been in the special forces, only one in 10 is telling the truth, Williams believes. A typical example was a pub bouncer who claimed to be SAS-trained — he went on a two-week SAS course.
Soldiers of fortune can usually find a lucrative job among Baghdad’s 100 security firms, with names such as Kroll, Control Risk, Armour Group, Triple Canopy, AKE and Global.
Diligence sets the bar high, admitting “tier 2” applicants from the marines and the Parachute Regiment, but drawing the line at the regular army. It never recruits serving personnel. “I get as many CVs from policemen as I do from soldiers,” Williams says. “It’s quite scary.”
Motives vary. Bent met a Geordie who had left the SBS after 10 years and set up a restaurant chain. “He was married, he had children and he was a millionaire. So he couldn’t understand why he was getting bad bouts of depression. His doctor told him he was missing the buzz and advised him to find a war. He did, and he was really happy.”
The rewards seem fabulous. The average pay is £80,000 a year, including board and lodging, with every third month off. Off-duty conversation revolves around what to do with the spoils. Bent recalls one British expat who had already bought a Porsche Boxster and a house. Another was saving up for a taxi to serve Glasgow airport when he retired at 40.
Many Brits, preferring to keep these windfalls away from the taxman, have bought properties in Thailand, Spain, Florida and France, where they spend their R&R.
But such pay and conditions are offered to any development worker in Iraq: what makes the job seem attractive is the disparity with SAS salaries. “No one is there for the excitement. It’s all about the money,” says Andy McNab, the author and former SAS hero who commanded the Bravo Two Zero patrol in the Gulf war. He is now on the board of a private security firm and is familiar with the considerations weighed by serving SAS men. “We’ve had coffee mornings, which are like fishwives’ meetings, where they look at whether it’s worth coming out or not.”
The pluses and minuses are not as straightforward as they appear. Soldiers enter the SAS quite late in their military career, with an average joining age of 29.
For an SAS veteran of six years, it would seem to make sense to stay the course until his early forties, when he can walk into a lucrative security job in a non-combat area. “Generally, the people leaving the armed forces now are further down the food chain,” Williams says. “They’ve done three years and they decide to leave because they’re blinded by the money and see the short-term gain.”
The SAS is unlikely to emulate the Pentagon’s £80,000 bonus to entice experienced US special forces to stay on. But the Regiment is believed to grant sabbaticals that allow serving men to boost their pay as freelances.
Hereford’s appeal to loyalty is not as lame as it seems. Ryan says: “You don’t join the Regiment for money but for the long haul. But you can only call on someone’s loyalty so far. Sometimes people don’t like the politics in the SAS and that loyalty gets eroded.”
In McNab’s opinion, money is the key to everything. “There’s a view that it’s all about Queen and country, but that doesn’t exist. People think, ‘I’ve got school fees, the mortgage and all those things’.”
He gives the example of an SAS corporal serving in Iraq, taking home less than £2,000 a month. “He sees the Filipino guys who are getting £3,000 a month to drive a minibus. He says, ‘Right, I’ve had enough of this. I’ll come back here and get paid properly for it.’ It’s as simple as that.”