by Shaun Clarke
They had to wait a long time, with the smoke still drifting around them, listening to the continuing barrage of the big guns. Eventually, the shelling stopped, the gun crews having been alerted to the plight of the assault force, and the sand and dust gradually settled down. The smoke started thinning, too, letting Ricketts see farther ahead. Just as it cleared enough to let him glimpse the front of the column, which was on the move again, the men directly in front of him started moving too.
When Lampton raised and lowered his right hand, indicating ‘Forward march’, Ricketts and the others fell in behind him, but in single file, as ordered. Lampton moved very slowly, as if barefoot on broken glass, and Ricketts was careful to follow precisely in the footprints left in the sand.
Eventually, after ten minutes that seemed more like ten hours, the smoke cleared, and Ricketts saw the hundreds of men, advancing slowly, carefully in numerous long lines. Each man was following the footsteps of the man ahead, all tailing back from the men with the mine detectors, spread out across the front of the column over a distance of about a quarter mile.
It was a tortuous advance that would leave them sitting ducks for the adoo when they got within range. For that very reason the column was stopped again and instructions sent down the lines via the PRC 319s.
Lampton had been listening to his call from Major Greenaway and now he handed the phone back to Jock, in charge of the radio.
‘The CO says we can’t advance this way, at this speed, once we’re within range of the adoo guns – we’d just become sitting ducks. So he’s asked for the Skyvans to come over and clear the area with Burmail bombs. In the meantime, we wait.’
‘Can we sit down?’ Gumboot asked.
‘I think that’s safe enough,’ Lampton said. ‘Your arse is probably no wider than your big feet. Just don’t move left or right.’
‘Ha, ha,’ Gumboot said.
Desperate for a rest, the men sat on the ground and saw many of the other soldiers doing the same, though some felt it more prudent to stay standing.
By now the sun was up, blazing out of a clear blue sky, and with the dispersal of the smoke, sand and dust, it felt hotter than ever. Even more irksome, the flies and mosquitoes returned, materializing out of the ether, buzzing, whining and dive-bombing in a feeding frenzy brought on by sweat and blood. A lot of the men put on dark glasses and covered their mouths with shemaghs, but the swarm just flew or crawled under them to get at their eyes and mouths.
The men baked in the sun, became nauseous in the heat, swatted and slapped to no avail, cursed and groaned while they waited. It was not a long wait, but it seemed like an eternity. Eventually, to their relief, the Skyvans were heard flying over the hill dividing the plain from Jibjat. When the three aircraft came into view, many of the men cheered.
In the brilliant sunlight, Ricketts could clearly see the rocky amphitheatre surrounding three sides of the watering-hole presently being held by the adoo. He judged it to be approximately 15,000 metres away, which was too far for him to pick out individual details, but left only 4000 metres between the column and the firing range of the adoo’s Katushka rocket launchers.
That danger was yet to come. For the moment, Ricketts took a great deal of pleasure from watching the Skyvans fly directly above him and on to the mined desert plain just ahead of the column. They were flying very low. Once they had passed overhead he saw that the rear cargo holds were open, with men standing in them, dangerously close to the edge, but behind the stacked Burmails. They simply pushed the oil drums out, probably sliding them off rollers. Ricketts saw the drums clearly, falling down through the sky, one after the other, with the Schermuly flares burning like firelighters on each side of them. They appeared to fall slowly, almost gliding, but that was an illusion.
When the first drum hit the ground, it bounced like a football, then exploded with a thunderous clap and became a boiling mass of brilliant flame spewing over the plain. The other Burmails did likewise, one after the other, some bouncing crazily before exploding, others seeming to burst open at once, and many catching fire from the great waves of flame that were boiling and leaping into one another to form an immense wall of fire capped by black, oily smoke.
As intended, the explosions set off the landmines in another series of explosions covering most of the area between the stalled assault force and the entrance to the rocky amphitheatre surrounding the watering-hole. Mines not touched directly by the Burmails were set off by exploding mines in a domino effect that created a fantastic, awesome spectacle of boiling flame, billowing smoke and widly swirling columns of sand, dust and loose gravel. It went on and on, a constant roaring and burning so intense that the watching troopers felt relatively cool when the flames finally died away.
‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Andrew, too stunned to get out his notebook.
‘Fucking A!’ Gumboot added.
A few minutes later the desert floor was smouldering, with isolated flames – the results of gaseous burning created by the oil – spiralling a few feet above the ground before sailing away like yellow threads and finally becoming mere wisps of smoke that also gradually disappeared. When nothing but the thinning smoke remained, the column moved on.
The adoo opened fire with their Katushka rocket launchers the instant the column had advanced another 5000 metres. As this placed most of the men within range of the rockets, the explosions erupted in their midst, causing devastation and death, with some soldiers being thrown up and smashed back to the ground in turbulent clouds of flame-filled smoke.
Instead of trying to take cover, since there was none available, the men started running, determined to get to the watering-hole before they were slaughtered. When the first of them reached the natural entrance, the adoo opened fire with a combination of Kalashnikovs, FN sniper rifles and GPMGs, cutting down even more troopers. This forced them to scatter north and south, to both sides of the amphitheatre, from where they could continue their advance by alternately hiding behind, and scrambling over, the rocks.
Three members of a four-man SAS GPMG team, trailing the SAF troops during the advance into the minefield, had been killed by the first mine explosion. The fourth man, now squatting on the ground beside his GPMG, was clearly in shock.
‘Arrange to have that man sent back,’ Lampton said to the medic on the scene. Then he turned to Ricketts and said, ‘You lot are back on your original job. Pick up that GPMG and find a spot on those rocks.’
‘Right, boss,’ Ricketts said.
Andrew picked up the GPMG, using a sling to support it in a position conducive to firing from the hip. When Ricketts had slung the tripod onto his shoulders, helped by Gumboot, they all hiked it up to the rocky south wall of the opening, into the horseshoe-shaped area surrounding the watering-hole. They were soon joined by Major Greenaway, RSM Worthington and the redoubtable Sergeant Parker.
While Greenaway immersed himself in a briefing huddle with his RSM and two sergeants, the mortar and GPMG teams set up their weapons, aiming them across the watering-hole at the high ground opposite, which was hidden by thick thorn bushes and therefore ideal for a waiting enemy. The watering-hole itself was about 650 yards away, at the far end of the U-shape formed by the legs of the horseshoe, which opened up towards the SAF forces, including the SAS.
Lampton left the briefing huddle and returned to tell his men what was happening.
‘The mortar teams and SAF will jointly hold this position,’ he said, ‘giving fire support to three SAF action groups and the Firqat Khalid bin Waalid. Those four groups, plus an SAS platoon coming up on the right flank, will advance tactically into the bowl and secure the watering-hole.’
Nodding his understanding, Ricketts opened the steel tripod and placed it firmly in the dusty ground. He then levelled the cradle and locked it. After centralizing the deflection and elevation drums, he fitted the GPMG, pushing the front mounting pin home until the locking stud clicked into position. Gumboot then flicked up the rear sight-leaf and set it on the 300-metre
graduation, laying the sight on to a rocky outcrop on the tree line by use of the deflection and elevation drums. Finally, they sandbagged the legs and rechecked the sight. The gun was ready for firing.
The men then realized that they were in an excellently concealed firing position, with panoramic views of the whole area.
‘Fucking perfect,’ Gumboot said. ‘We can see the whole show from here.’
‘And it looks like it’s just starting,’ Andrew replied, pointing with his forefinger to where the firqats, about to move down the rocky gradient into the horseshoe, had stopped to have what appeared to be an excited argument with the SAF officers.
‘Oh, oh!’ Bill murmured, spitting on the rock between his knees.
‘They’ve gone on strike,’ Tom said drily.
Parker and Lampton hurried up to the group of firqats and SAF, listened to both sides of the argument, offered their suggestions, then nodded at each other, as if in agreement. Parker then went back to give his situation report, or sit rep, to Greenaway, while Lampton returned to his men to do the same.
‘Having an argument, were they?’ Gumboot asked sceptically.
‘A Chinese parliament,’ Lampton replied diplomatically. ‘The firqats wanted us to mortar the high ground and fry the tree line with a mixed-fruit pudding before the action groups moved off.’
‘A what?’ Tom asked.
‘A mixed-fruit pudding,’ Lampton repeated impatiently, before remembering that his men were probationers. Two high-explosive shells to one white phosphorus, fired by mortar/
‘Ah!’ Tom said. ‘Right!’
‘However,’ Lampton continued, ‘the actual action groups, the SAF, insisted that time is running out and that every adoo in the area will be homing in on the water-hole if they, the SAF action groups, don’t make an immediate move to secure it.’
‘Even before the mortars have time to get their bearings,’ Gumboot said.
‘Correct.’
‘So what’s the result?’ Tom asked impatiently.
‘We’ve vetoed the mixed-fruit pudding, but the firqats and action groups are moving off immediately on the basis that the mortar crew have already monitored the high ground and have possible adoo firing points on their plotter board.’
The men glanced over Lampton’s shoulder to observe that the firqats were indeed already heading down into the horseshoe, followed by the SAF troops.
‘Fucking terrific logic,’ Gumboot said, as if he couldn’t believe his own ears.
Lampton grinned, ‘It’s their logic, Gumboot. Now get ready to cover them.’
Ricketts closed the top cover of the GPMG on a belt of 200 rounds. Andrew then cocked the action and put the safety catch on ‘Fire’. Gumboot scanned the area with binoculars while Jock, his jaws working on chewing gum, kept his ear to the radio.
The area around the watering-hole seemed unnaturally quiet. Dust was blowing across the wet sand surrounding the pool. The sun was blazing down on the white rocks and erasing the shadows. Flies clustered like bunches of black grapes over mounds of old excrement. The heat was fierce and oppressive.
The heavily armed firqats advanced in an extended line, holding their rifles out from their bodies, preparing to fire from the hip.
Suddenly, about halfway to the watering-hole, they fell one after the other belly-down on the ground, from where they frantically waved the action groups forward.
‘What the hell …’ Lampton looked confused. That’s not what they’re supposed to do. They’re supposed to go all the way, because it’s their watering-hole and tribal area. The SAF were letting them take that position to boost their morale. What the …?’
‘They’re on strike,’ Gumboot said, sounding satisfied.
The SAF action groups were advancing through the lines of prone firqats when the high-velocity rounds of the adoo suddenly shattered the silence.
The ground erupted around the SAS with fire from Kalashnikov AK-47s, RPD light machine-guns, and at least one Shpagin heavy machine-gun. A stream of green tracer floated towards the SAS mortar and GPMG positions, then whipped above their heads at incredible speed, only to expend itself harmlessly at the burn-out point of 1100 metres, well behind them.
‘There!’ Gumboot shouted, lowering his binoculars and pointing towards a cloud of blue smoke rising from the top of some thorn bushes on the high ground beyond the watering-hole. ‘That’s the heavy machine-gun! Range – 400 metres. A hundred metres right to take it out – behind those rocks, over there. Rapid fire! Now!’
Andrew obliged, firing off a lengthy burst, his ears ringing from the clamour, and saw his purplish tracer blending with the green tracer of the adoo.
‘Too high,’ Gumboot said. ‘Reduce the elevation.’
Ricketts did this by unlocking the elevation drum and giving it a quick tweak downwards. This time, when Andrew fired, the tracer penetrated the thorn bushes where the smoke was rising, tearing them apart and making pieces of dust and stone fly off the rocks right beneath them. When the debris of the hit had settled down, the Shpagin machine-gun was silent.
The SAS mortars now began firing as well, with phosphorus rounds adding to the noisy spectacle and more silvery flashes exploding in the thorn bushes. Between the SAS mortars and GPMG, the thorn bushes along the high ground were blown apart and most of the adoo’s heavy guns were silenced.
Just then, however, as the SAS platoon was advancing on the exposed right flank, expecting cover from the advancing firqats, the latter stopped dead and started screaming in unison at the SAF troops just behind them. Incredibly, as adoo tracers whipped past them and bullets stitched the ground around them, the firqats engaged in a heated argument with the SAF troops, thus preventing the advance of the latter and allowing a group of adoo to come down off the high ground, take up positions behind rock outcrops and ambush the SAS troops advancing on the right flank.
‘Christ!’ Lampton exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe it!’
‘That’s the second group to go on strike,’ Gumboot said as Lampton snatched the phone from Jock and got in touch with Sergeant Parker, who was crouched low beside a trooper with a PRC 319, near the arguing firqats. ‘Lampton here! What the hell’s going on?’ Before Parker could answer, Lampton lowered the phone and bawled over his shoulder: ‘Give them covering fire!’
Even as Lampton returned his attention to the radio, Andrew fired into the high ground on the right flank where the adoo were advancing on the SAS troops, some of whom were already wounded or dead.
‘Randall’s hit!’ the radio crackled. ‘McGuffin also hit! We’re …’
The urgent voice was cut off when an exploding fragmentation grenade, thrown by one of the advancing adoo, blew the radio apart and flipped the operator onto his back. The assailant was then thrown onto his back when Parker took him out with a single shot from his 7.62mm Lee Enfield. Parker then jumped up and ran to help the platoon on the right flank, firing from the hip as he advanced, only stopping long enough to hurl a grenade into the midst of the adoo moving towards them. The explosion blew the group apart, flipping some of the men over, leaving others to stagger blindly to and fro, most soaked in blood, some blinded by shrapnel, all of them easy marks for the SAF riflemen, who soon picked them off.
The SAS platoon, almost lost in the ambush, then rushed forward, up to the high ground, joined by Parker. As they did so, Ricketts and the other probationers supported Andrew’s noisy, murderous GPMG fire with their SLRs and M16s, followed by Tom and Bill’s mortar. In doing so, they killed many adoo and forced the others back up the hill. The SAS action group then took control of the lower slopes and the SAF, having settled their argument with the firqats, continued their steady advance on the watering-hole.
‘Day’s work done,’ Andrew said, releasing the trigger of the GPMG and waving the others into silence. ‘I think we’re home and dry, man.’
Even as he spoke, one of the SAS troopers threw a smoke grenade into the area chosen as a casevac point, marking it for the incoming chopper
with a cloud of green smoke. Called in via a PRC 319, the casevac Huey soon arrived to land in a cloud of dust. Mere minutes later it was taking off with the casualties, some wounded, others dead. It headed back to the field surgical theatre of RAF Salalah without interference from the adoo, who had melted away.
‘They’ve gone into the Wadi Dharbat,’ Lampton said, ‘adjacent to here. That’s where we’ll be going next.’
While the adoo were out of sight, the SAS action groups, now followed by the firqats instead of being led by them, secured the watering-hole. Lampton then led Ricketts and the rest of the probationers in, saying, ‘I’m really proud of you men. You’ve all done a great job.’
The whole area was littered with the evidence of battle – piles of 7.62mm shells and empty cases, bloodstained bandoliers and blood trails, pieces of flesh and torn clothing – but no bodies. The adoo had dragged them away. The air stank of burnt flesh, phosphorus and cordite. It also stank with human excrement over which bloated flies were relentlessly, frantically hovering, oblivious to the battle that had raged about them.
After a short break, Lampton made Ricketts and the other probationers take up new positions on the high ground above the watering-hole. Even up this high, they could smell the phosphorus and cordite from below, but after building another sangar, they broke out their hexamine blocks, lit the lightweight stove, boiled water from their water bottles and had a well earned brew-up.
‘Why did the firqats stop advancing?’ Bill asked when Sergeant Lampton dropped in for a chat.
‘The firqats and the SAF soldiers despise each other,’ Lampton explained, ‘and when one of the latter accused the former of advancing too slowly, all hell broke loose. Thereafter, the firqats refused to lead the way into the watering-hole. It was as simple as that.’
‘Well, fuck me with a bargepole,’ Gumboot said, ‘if that doesn’t take the cake.’
‘I wouldn’t want to do that,’ Andrew said, ‘because you just might enjoy it. Pass the brew, Gumboot.’