by Shaun Clarke
‘I wouldn’t try it,’ Andrew said. ‘They might chop your dick off. Not that you’d even realize it was missing, given what you’ve not done with it – but still, it might hurt.’
‘It’s no joke,’ said Bill. ‘I side with Gumboot here. I’ve heard a lot about these firqats and none of it was good, so I don’t see why we’re supposed to depend on them.’
‘It’s because they know the mountains,’ Tom said sarcastically. ‘That’s why we’re all sitting here on our arses, with not a clue where we are – the dependable firqats.’
‘So one of our own men goes on ahead to find out where the trail is,’ Gumboot said, spitting to emphasise his contempt.
‘Fucking choice, ain’t it? It all gets back to us. And I suppose if Dead-eye does find the track, those firqat bastards will go on strike.’
‘They’re not that bad,’ Lampton said.
‘I’ve heard they go on strike, boss.’
‘There are times when they down arms and turn to prayer instead, but given that we’re in a Muslim country, you have to accept that. It’s not like going on strike.’
‘Same difference to me.’
‘You lack a world view, Gumboot.’
‘I lack patience with any fucking scout who gets me lost in the mountains. What a malarkey!’
A lot of the men’s aggravation was due to exhaustion, but that didn’t make it any less real. Luckily, they were only there fifteen minutes before Parker returned to say he had found what he thought was the track leading up to Lympne.
An hour later, ninety minutes after they should have been there, and just after the sun had risen, they arrived, with churning stomachs and aching muscles, on the plateau of the mighty Jebel Dhofar.
Chapter 11
As expected, the scrub ground being used as a makeshift adoo airstrip was deserted. This was confirmation that the other SAS troop’s diversionary attack to the south had been successful in drawing the adoo away – hopefully long enough for the assault force to get entrenched above and around the airstrip, where they would wait for the enemy to return.
Nevertheless, receiving instructions from a combination of radio messages and hand signals, the 250 men sank to the ground in a line that snaked in an enormous arc around the airstrip. Major Greenaway then moved the assault group, team by team, across the open ground, meeting no resistance whatsoever.
Lying belly-down on the ground, watching the mass of men advance towards the airstrip in small groups, jumping up and darting forward under cover of the others, then dropping down and jumping up again, Ricketts had the chance to study the terrain in the dawn light. Around the makeshift airstrip there were rocky, parched hills, but on the flatlands, on high elevations, he could see other improvised runways and water gleaming in the area’s few watering-holes. It was the latter, he knew, that made this area so valuable to the adoo, and they would certainly fight fiercely to defend it. The airfields were little more than strips of level ground, levelled more carefully by hand, and surrounded by defensive trenches and the occasional hut of wood or corrugated iron. There were no control towers or even watch-towers. As for this particular airfield, known as Lympne, the adoo, in their zeal to defeat the SAS’s diversionary attack to the south, had failed to leave even one man on guard. It was completely deserted.
‘They may be crack marksmen,’ Andrew said, ‘but they can’t be that bright.’
‘They don’t have to be too bright,’ Gumboot said. ‘They’re fucking ferocious. That’s what makes them hard to beat.’
‘Still, it’s kind of them,’ Ricketts said, ‘to leave us this whole airstrip for our own use. Presumably that’s where the rest of the assault force is going to land.’
‘That’s right,’ Bill said. ‘That’s the LZ – presuming the rest of the assault force manages to get here before the adoo return.’
Lampton, who had been in consultation with Greenaway, came crawling up to them with his M16 cradled in his arms. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I want the machine-gun team to take up a position on the eastern flank of the airstrip, halfway up that hill overlooking it. You can build yourselves a sangar up there and turn it into a nice home from home. The rest of you will stay with me, taking up a position lower down the same slope. The SAF and firqats will be leading the advance against the adoo and we’ll give covering fire. OK, lads, get going.’
With practically no rest, the very thought of climbing to his feet so soon filled Ricketts with weariness. But he did so, shouldering the tripod again with Andrew’s help, then leading him, Gumboot and Jock towards the hills rising east of the airstrip. The hike was longer than anticipated, taking almost an hour, and when they finally arrived at their position they were sweaty and breathless.
From here they had a panoramic view of the nearby hills and the valleys far below. The SAF and firqats had completely surrounded the airstrip. SAS troops were marking the runway with coloured smoke grenades for the reinforcements being flown in. It was now 0815 and the grey light of morning was growing brighter, creating a jigsaw of shadow and light over the parched hills and plains.
‘Quite a view,’ Andrew said, scribbling in his notebook. ‘It was worth that hellish climb just to see this. My soul soars like an eagle.’
‘Stash that notebook,’ Ricketts said, ‘and let’s build a sangar. Then we can fix the machine-gun and brew up and have us some breakfast.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Gumboot said.
Downing their bergens and kit, Ricketts, Andrew and Gumboot started to build the sangar by wrenching boulders out of the ground with their bare hands and stacking them in a rough circle. Meanwhile, Jock kept watch and also listened for incoming calls on the PRC 319.
The sangar took the shape of a semicircular drystone wall three feet high and eight feet in diameter. When it was completed, the men laid their bergens, kit and personal weapons around the inner wall, then mounted the machine-gun, placing the tripod on its triangular legs and relocking the clamp levers. After levelling the cradle for a good firing angle, Ricketts withdrew the front mounting pin. Jock had already serviced the gun for mounting, with the gas-regulator correctly set and the recoil buffer fitted. He now inserted the rear mounting pin into the body of the GPMG, lifted the gun into position on the cradle slot projection, pushed it fully forward, then locked it with the front mounting pin. With the gun prepared, Andrew, the trigger man, was able to open the top cover, load a belt of 200 rounds, cock the action and apply the safety catch.
‘So,’ he said, sitting back against the wall of the sangar, ‘she’s all set to go.’
Glancing over the wall, down the hillside, Ricketts saw that many other SAS teams had constructed similar sangars on the slopes overlooking three sides of the airstrip and were covering it with L7A2 GPMGs, M-72 LAWs and LI 6 ML 81mm mortars. Below him, some 2000 yards down the hill, Sergeant Lampton was sharing a sangar with troopers Purvis and Raglan, as well as a two-man mortar team. Not far to the right, all on his own, the dangerously eccentric Dead-eye Dick Parker was smoking a cigarette, studying the landscape and resting his free hand on the L42A1 7.62mm Lee Enfield sniper rifle lying on the wall of his small, one-man sangar. At the very bottom of the hill, on the level ground around the airstrip, SAF, firqat and Baluchi troops had taken over the unprotected adoo defensive trenches and appeared to be eating and drinking contentedly.
‘Let’s have a brew-up,’ Ricketts said.
‘No water left,’ Gumboot replied, spitting over the wall of the sangar. ‘We’re all dry as a bone.’
‘Shit,’ said Jock in disgust.
‘The back-up force is arriving,’ Andrew told them. ‘Let’s hope they’ve brought water.’
Ricketts spotted the first of the Skyvans appearing in the sky to the south. Soon the air was filled with them as lift after lift came in, followed by Huey and Sikorski helicopters. One after the other, they landed on the airstrip improvised by the absent adoo, their propellers and rotors whipping up enormous, billowing clouds of dust that obscured the men pouring
out of the aircraft and across the runway, carrying artillery pieces, mortars, ammunition, rations and, most important of all, water.
By the time the last of the aircraft had landed, the assault force had reached a total strength of 800 men, including 100 SAS, 250 SAF, 300 firqat members and 150 Baluchi tribesmen.
Just as they had arrived, so the aircraft took off one by one, creating more clouds of dust. While Ricketts and the others were watching this spectacle, an SAS trooper with an M16 across his back, obviously one of the new arrivals, laboriously climbed the hill, bringing with him two jerrycans of water. Reaching the sangar, he placed the jerrycans on the ground and puffed, ‘What a hike! Who’s got a cigarette?’
‘It’s the least we can offer you,’ Gumboot said, giving the man a cigarette from his own packet. ‘Sit down. We’re just about to brew up.’
‘Thanks,’ the new man said, taking the cigarette and accepting a light from Gumboot. ‘I’m bloody exhausted already.’ He sat on the ground beside Gumboot. ‘And I haven’t even climbed the Jebel,’ he said, blowing a cloud of smoke. ‘What was it like?’
‘It could have been worse,’ Gumboot said modestly. ‘But it was pretty exhausting.’
‘I’ll bet,’ the new man said. ‘I’m Dave Greaves, by the way.’
Gumboot introduced himself and the others as Jock set up his hexamine stove and boiled water in his mess tin. The others took out their tin mugs and put tea bags in them, waiting for the water to boil.
‘Any news from down below?’ Ricketts asked.
‘Not much,’ Greaves replied, inhaling and blowing another cloud of smoke. ‘Apparently, the diversionary attack to the south was a success, drawing the adoo away from here and resulting in no SAS casualties. The attack’s over now, though, and the adoo are believed to be on their way back. Expect fireworks very soon.’
When the water had boiled, Jock poured it into the five tin mugs set out on the ground. The men then added sugar and powdered milk from packets, and sat back to enjoy their brew-up.
‘So what’s happening about food?’ Gumboot asked, glancing down over the wall to where the SAF, firqat and Baluchi troops, spread out around the airfield, were having breakfast. The last of the aircraft and helicopters had taken off, leaving the dust to settle back down over the airstrip and the trenches formerly used by the adoo.
‘I was told to tell you to use the high-calorie rations in your escape belts. They’ll be replaced later in the day with fresh rations brought in on the Skyvans. The field kitchens won’t be set up until later in the day, so you won’t get a proper meal till tonight.’
‘And even that may not happen,’ Ricketts said, ‘if the adoo attack.’
‘Fucking wonderful!’ Gumboot exclaimed. ‘Meanwhile, those A-rabs down there are having a banquet.’
‘They brought their own food,’ Andrew pointed out, ‘and I don’t think you’d eat it.’
‘Damned right, I wouldn’t,’ Gumboot replied. ‘It’s good old British tucker for me. I don’t want to poison myself.’
‘Then have your dry breakfast and shut up. Thank God for small mercies.’
‘Hallelujah!’ Jock said.
After finishing his tea, Trooper Greaves waved goodbye and headed back down the hill to his own position. He had not reached Lampton’s sangar when the whole hill erupted.
Chapter 12
The first explosions lacerated the ground near Greaves, showering him in soil and then picking him up and hurling him sideways. He hit the ground like a rag doll, bouncing off it, limbs flapping, before becoming lost in swirling smoke and more raining soil as the ground erupted again.
‘Christ!’ Ricketts exclaimed, ducking down behind the sangar wall and automatically picking up his SLR. More explosions ripped the hillside, making a catastrophic din, as Ricketts stared at the others, all of whom were staring back, then tentatively raised his head above the wall to look out again. A stream of green tracer, surprisingly luminous in the morning light, snaked out of the boiling smoke, first appearing to almost float, then zipping overhead at fantastic speed to spend itself a good distance away. Another series of explosions erupted across the hillside, spewing earth and more smoke.
‘The adoo!’ Andrew yelled, huddling up beside Ricketts with his M16 propped up between his knees.
‘Right,’ Ricketts said. Holding his SLR, he hugged the wall as the western perimeter came alive with the stutter of incoming small-arms fire. Raising his head again, he saw that the tracer was coming from the rim of the western hillside. The adoo GPMGs, he reckoned, were located just beyond that rim, as were their mortars. Even as he deduced this, a series of explosions erupted in a line that ran from the airstrip to the base of the eastern hill, tearing through the defensive trenches in which the SAF troops were now sheltering. More soil spewed upwards and rained down through the clouds of black smoke.
‘Mother of God,’ Jock whispered. ‘Those bastards aren’t fooling!’
Lower down the hill, Greaves, miraculously still alive, was raising himself up on hands and knees, shaking his head to clear it. Soil dropped off his arched back as he vomited convulsively, then another explosion tore up the earth beside him and flipped him over again.
‘Shit!’ Gumboot hissed, then darted out of the sangar. He was starting down the hill when he was stopped by another burst of green tracer, which, whipping just above his head, made him throw himself to the ground.
‘Gumboot!’ Ricketts bawled.
‘We’ve got to help him!’ Gumboot shouted back while lying belly-down on the ground with tracers ripping through the air above him. ‘That poor bastard is …’
His last words were drowned by the roar of another explosion that made the sangar shake and rained soil on it. Andrew was up and over the wall, even as the smoke blew in. He careered the few yards to Gumboot, and helped him back to his feet.
‘Damn it, Gumboot, he’s too far away! Get back in the sangar!’
They raced back to the sangar as more explosions erupted around them, causing soil to rain down and filling the air with dense smoke. They piled back into the sangar, crouching beside Ricketts and Jock as the shelling continued.
Using the PRC 319, Jock contacted base, located by the airstrip, and requested a medic to be sent up. The reply was affirmative. As Jock put the phone down, another series of mortar explosions tore up the hill below.
‘Fucking hell!’ Gumboot gasped.
‘Keep your head down,’ Andrew told him.
Gumboot reached for the GPMG, wanting to retaliate, but Ricketts slapped his hand off, saying, ‘No! They’re too far away. We can’t do much from here. It’s up to the others.’
‘Who?’ Andrew asked.
‘The ones dug in on the western slope. They’ll be the first to be attacked if the adoo advance.’ Glancing over the wall, he saw the wavering green lines of tracer coming towards him, whipping above him, while more explosions erupted along the airstrip and on the lower slopes of the hill below. ‘But they’re not advancing at the moment,’ he continued. ‘In fact, there isn’t a sign of them. The foot soldiers are obviously grouped beyond the rim of the western hill, but they’re staying put while their mortars and machine-guns soften us up. Right now we can’t do a thing. We just have to sit tight.’
‘Fuck,’ said Jock. Joining Ricketts, he looked over the wall as more explosions obscured Greaves in smoke and showered soil all around. When the smoke had cleared, Greaves was still there, flat on his back, almost certainly unconscious.
Two SAS medics were scrambling up the hill towards the trooper, one with a rolled-up stretcher on one shoulder, the older man shouldering a packed medical bag. Another series of explosions forced the pair to the ground, but when the turbulence died away they jumped up and completed their run. While one examined Greaves, the other rolled out the stretcher. The latter fell onto his belly as more green tracer whipped through the air above him, and then he jumped up again and helped his friend roll Greaves onto the stretcher. They hurried back down the hill, ca
rrying Greaves between them, as more explosions erupted all around them. They disappeared in the swirling smoke.
‘Good men,’ Ricketts whispered.
The attack continued for another twenty minutes, with the mortars hitting the western hill, the area between the trenches by the airstrip and the lower slopes of the hill itself, where SAF troops were also entrenched and returning the fire with their own GPMGs and 81mm mortars. Soon, the whole area was covered in a grey pall of smoke punctuated by criss-crossing lines of green tracer from the adoo and the purplish tracer of the SAF, SAS and other troops.
‘Might as well finish our tea,’ Andrew said. ‘Not much else we can do.’
‘True enough,’ Ricketts replied.
They sipped hot tea as the green tracers continued to streak over the sangar and more explosions occurred lower down the slope. Occasionally, through the drifting smoke on the western perimeter, they saw SAF troops, including the firqats and backed by covering fire from the SAS, making their way uphill, trying to get closer to the adoo hidden beyond the rim. However, long before they reached it the adoo’s attack slackened until only sporadic firing could be heard. Gradually even this died away and silence descended.
Glancing down the slope, Ricketts saw a couple of SAS troopers loping across the airstrip, from the western side, then up the hill to the sangar. It took them a long time to complete the journey and when finally they arrived, they were breathless.
‘And I thought I was a fit man!’ one of the troopers said, gasping. ‘I’m Roy Baker and this’ – he indicated the other soldier with a jerk of his thumb – ‘is Taff Burgess, of A Squadron. Shit, what a hike!’
‘Have a cup of tea,’ said Ricketts.
‘Appreciate it,’ Baker replied, still gasping. He and Burgess slumped to the ground inside the sangar, both leaning back against the wall until tin mugs of steaming tea were in their hands. Breathing normally again, they drank gratefully, then lit up cigarettes.