In a move that has left the chattering classes momentarily speechless (a rare and precious commodity), the British special forces have apparently been caught with their trousers down, but in a good way. Yes, the very same government that once seemed capable only of delivering lukewarm tea and crumbling biscuits has contrived to liberate hundreds of souls from a Boko Haram hideout. The operation, a tautly orchestrated affair involving men with more medals than a Soviet general, has resulted in the release of what the Ministry of Defence coyly calls “a significant number” of captives. Which is to say, if you have been held in a mud hut for three years, “significant” feels like a landslide victory.
Now, let us be clear. Boko Haram, for those who have not been following the dreary soap opera of global terrorism, is a group that makes the Spanish Inquisition look like a bunch of amateur torturers with a grudge. They have been kidnapping, maiming, and generally making a nuisance of themselves since 2009, and the fact that it has taken this long to achieve a modicum of success speaks volumes about the sheer bloody difficulty of fighting an enemy that hides among the innocent.
But here we are, with the news that British forces have played a role. The exact nature of that role is, as per usual, shrouded in the sort of secrecy that would make a clam look garrulous. Were they there as advisors? Did they storm the compound while shouting “Keep calm and carry on” through gritted teeth? The official line is that the operation was led by Nigerian forces, with British support. Which is like saying a pub brawl was a “discussion” that got a bit “animated.” The truth is that the British special forces likely did the heavy lifting while everyone else stood around looking useful.
What is certain is that the freed captives will now face the unenviable task of rebuilding their lives. One can only imagine the debriefing sessions. “So, you have been held by a homicidal cult for three years. Welcome back. Here is a leaflet on PTSD and a voucher for a free cup of tea at the airport.” The British, it seems, have a unique talent for reducing the most harrowing of experiences to a bureaucratic form filling exercise.
Meanwhile, the government has been quick to pat itself on the back. The Prime Minister, a man whose sincerity levels are calibrated to roughly that of a used car salesman, has spoken of “gallant efforts” and “tireless work.” But let us not get carried away. This is a single operation in a conflict that shows no signs of ending. Boko Haram is like a hydra: chop off one head, and two more grow back. Indeed, for every captive freed, there are a hundred more waiting in the wings.
But for now, allow us a moment of grim levity. The operation was reportedly conducted in the dead of night, with helicopters buzzing like angry wasps and special forces moving through the dark like shadows. One cannot help but imagine the scene: a British soldier, frozen with the sort of stoicism that only a rigorous training regimen and a good stiff drink can provide, whispering into his radio, “Contact. Wait. No, it is just a goat.”
The truth, as ever, is more prosaic. The operation was successful because of planning, courage, and a bit of luck. And yes, British gin. Because you cannot expect a man to face down a fanatic without a decent measure of the stuff in his bloodstream. Or so I am told.
So raise a glass, if you will, to the men and women who do the dirty work. And to the hundreds freed, may your futures be brighter than your pasts. As for Boko Haram, one can only hope that this is the beginning of the end. But like a bad penny, they will turn up again. And we will be there, with our gin, our satire, and our unshakeable belief that the world is, after all, a slightly ridiculous place.
