by Shaun Clarke
Already the Skyvans were coming in with the resups, dropping such luxuries as mail from home, cigarettes, water, ammunition and fresh rations. The men drank their tea, swatting the flies away, ducking the mosquitoes and waiting patiently on the high ground, beneath the blazing sun, for the next phase of the bloody operation. When another Skyvan flew overhead, their friend, Corporal Whistler, stripped to the waist, waved at them from the rear cargo hold. He was pretty safe up there.
Chapter 16
During a night and day spent in their sangars on the high ground, the men learnt that it was still not safe to wander about freely, as the adoo, though located mainly in the nearby Wadi Dharbat, were sending snipers back to do as much damage as possible. Therefore, though Lampton’s blooded probationers spent most of that time in their sangar, other troopers were patrolling the high ground, flushing out the snipers, checking for land-mines, and generally securing the area. While this was largely successful, the snipers were persistent and no matter how many were caught or killed, others came in to replace them. Sporadic firing therefore continued unabated, with the odd soldier being wounded and no one able to properly rest up.
‘Fucking bastards,’ Bill said. ‘They’re just doing it to keep us awake and get us exhausted, the miserable shits.’
‘Clever shits,’ Andrew corrected him. ‘They don’t have our fire-power – they’re particularly lacking in heavy, long-range guns – so they fight us the only way they know how: with guerrilla tactics. You have to admire them.’
‘Admire them! Are you fucking joking? They’re just a bunch of miserable A-rabs, costing us sleep. They’re murderous, mindless bastards, is all.’
‘They’re tenacious,’ Ricketts said. ‘Great marksmen. Courageous, as well. I agree with Andrew.’
‘They’re not courageous,’ Gumboot said. ‘They’re just a bunch of fanatics. Brainwashed by the fucking commies in Aden and sent back here like zombies. They don’t have the sense to think of dying; it means nothing to ’em. I don’t call that courage.’
‘You’re just a racist,’ Tom said.
‘That’s right, I’m a racist. I hate you bastards from the Midlands. I figure you’re as mad as the adoo and should be put down at birth.’
Ricketts glanced down the hill at the sandy area around the watering-hole. It was now filled with back-up troops from Jibjat – SAF, Baluchi, firqats and SAS – with tents, sangars and hedgehogs springing up rapidly. Braying donkeys were being unloaded from a couple of Bedfords and passed on to the gathering firqats, who would use them for carrying heavy supplies up into the high hills. When Ricketts looked to the west, through the entrance to the amphitheatre, he saw Land Rovers and Saladin armoured cars creating billowing clouds of dust as they drove down the eastern hill, then across the sun-whitened plain pock-marked with black shell holes.
‘The adoo aren’t mad,’ Andrew insisted, resting his notebook on his lap and tapping his teeth with his ball-pen, and pursing his lips, trying to think of something to write. They just think different from us. Born and bred in the desert, in a merciless environment, they view matters of life and death in a way we can’t possibly imagine.’
‘What he means,’ Gumboot said, ‘when you get past the fancy words, is that they’d slit your throat as soon as look at you. They don’t think about death, you see.’
‘We think about death in the West Midlands,’ Tom said. ‘The weather’s so merciless, you don’t want to get out of bed – you want to stay in the womb. You think of death a lot, then.’
Gumboot rolled his eyes. ‘You hear that?’ he said to Andrew. ‘We have our home-brewed A-rabs in England and they’re all from the Midlands. Mad as fucking hatters, and even think they’re white men. What do you do up there,’ he asked Tom, ‘when you’re not thinking about dying?’
‘Lots of nice pubs where I live, ten-pin bowling, darts. I’ve never missed a West Bromwich Albion game. Plus social evenings with old mates from the glassworks. Quite a nice life, really.’
‘I’m breathless just thinking about it,’ Gumboot said. ‘What about you?’
Bill shrugged. ‘Pretty varied life, really. The Four Furnaces, the Commercial, the Albion, the High Oak, the Elephant and Castle, the Fish, the Rose and Crown, and the Miners’ Welfare Club on Commonside. Course on Wednesdays I’d play dominoes and on Tuesdays cribbage. Like Tom says, quite a nice life.’
‘You hear that?’ Gumboot said, addressing the distracted Andrew. ‘The only time these bastards get out of the pubs is when they’re called back to Hereford.’
‘Wrong,’ Andrew replied, jotting words down in his notebook. ‘They play dominoes, cribbage and ten-pin bowling. They go to football matches. They check the weather and crawl into bed and think of death as they throw up. How they can look down on the Arabs, I just can’t imagine!’
‘Go fuck yourselves,’ Bill said.
Flashing his teeth in a big smile, Andrew lowered his pen and glanced over the sangar wall at the watering-hole. The sun was blazing down, reflecting off the water, as the Land Rovers and Saladin armoured cars drove into the clearing, the first of them braking to a halt near the braying donkeys, which were being herded away by the firqats.
‘Donkeys and armoured cars,’ Andrew said dreamily. ‘The past and the future, the old and the new. We are straddling both worlds here.’
‘The donkeys and the firqats are perfectly matched,’ Gumboot said. ‘I don’t have to tell you why.’
Glancing down the hill, Ricketts saw Sergeant Lampton disengaging himself from a group of SAS men, including Major Greenaway, RSM Worthington and Sergeant Parker, who were grouped near the arriving Land Rovers and Saladin armoured cars.
‘The Land Rovers and Saladins are coming in,’ Ricketts said, ‘to lend their support to the planned advance on the Wadi Dharbat.’
‘I wish I was in a Saladin,’ Andrew said, ‘well protected by all that armour and those 76mm QF cannons, instead of having to do all this hiking, being shot at by snipers.’
‘I’m not too sure I’d agree,’ Ricketts answered thoughtfully, ‘I like being in the open. I don’t fancy the idea of being cooped up in an armoured car. They aren’t all that easy to get out of. If they catch fire, you’ve had it. If a shell penetrates them, the shrapnel flies like crazy around the interior, slashing and burning everything inside. Even the turrets are a kind of trap. I keep remembering those poor bastards in the Saladin outside Um al Gwarif. They were probably killed because they couldn’t get out in time. So, you know, there’s certain advantages in being a foot soldier, out in the open. At least you can cut and run.’
‘True enough,’ Andrew said.
Glancing down again, Ricketts saw that Lampton was making his way laboriously up the hill, obviously heading for the sangar to impart the latest sit rep. Below him, on the level ground between the watering-hole and the parked Land Rovers and Saladins, Greenaway and Worthington were still in deep discussion with the granite-faced Parker.
‘What do we know about Dead-eye Dick?’ Ricketts asked, directing his question at the whole group.
‘That he’s fucking mad,’ Gumboot said.
‘A good soldier,’ Bill added.
‘A born killer if ever I saw one,’ Jock said as he distractedly fiddled with the dials on his PRC 319. That bastard slits throats for breakfast.’
‘He’s pretty bloody frightening,’ Tom said, glancing automatically down the hill to where Parker was. ‘I mean, he doesn’t seem normal.’
‘He isn’t normal,’ Andrew said. ‘He used to be, but he isn’t any more. He was in the Telok Anson swamp and that changed him for all time.’
Everyone stared intently at Andrew. ‘The Telok Anson swamp?’ Ricketts asked eventually.
Andrew nodded. ‘Malaya, 1958,’ he said, ‘I got this from Sergeant Lampton. Parker was only twenty at the time, a probationer like us, and he was sent with D Squadron to Malaya. It was pretty hairy out there, always living in the jungle, but Parker proved to be a natural soldier and even better track
er. For that reason, in the spring of 1958, he was parachuted with two troops from D Squadron into the Telok Anson swamp, to go up against a bunch of CTs, or communist terrorists, led by the notorious Ah Hoi, nicknamed “Baby Killer”. That swamp was a nightmare, the terrorists were even worse, and Parker was there for ten days, practically living in the water with the leeches and snakes. When he came out, he was changed for all time. Whatever happened in there, it obviously wasn’t pleasant, and it certainly did something drastic to Parker. When he emerged, so Lampton said, he was no longer a baby-faced probationer – in fact, quite the opposite. He was …’ Andrew shrugged, unable to find the correct words. ‘The man we all know and revere. The one who makes us shit bricks.’
‘And piss our pants,’ Gumboot said.
‘Right on, brother. Right on!’
Lampton, breathing heavily, had finally reached the sangar and gratefully sat on the wall, trying to get his breath back.
‘Some climb,’ he said.
‘Piece of piss,’ Gumboot replied. ‘We run up and down it every five minutes without missing a breath. Of course, we’re just probationers.’
Lampton grinned. ‘I must be past it, Gumboot. I’m glad to know, however, that you’re all fit enough to take what’s coming.’
‘What’s that?’ Jock asked, looking suspicious.
‘The CO’s decided that we’ve been here long enough, so he’s going to deploy our forces on the plateau. We, the SAS, will be divided into two separate groups, each one being accompanied by firqats …’
‘Oh, no!’ Gumboot exclaimed.
‘… with orders to advance down the western and eastern sides of the Wadi Dharbat, taking out the adoo. How does that grab you, gentlemen?’
‘I’d rather let an adoo cut my throat,’ Gumboot said, ‘than depend on them fucking firqats. Come to think of it, if we’re going to depend on them, we might as well cut our own throats and be done with it.’
Lampton grinned again. ‘You exaggerate, Gumboot. I’m sure that now, with the differences between the firqats and the SAF troops resolved, you’ll have no trouble at all with the former.’
‘Very nicely put, boss. It shows you’re educated. It also shows you’re more optimistic than I am. Thanks, but no, thanks.’
‘Orders are orders, Gumboot.’
‘Please don’t remind me, boss.’
‘You have thirty minutes to break up the sangar and get down to the watering-hole.’
‘Hear you loud and clear, boss.’ When Lampton had slithered back down the hill, Gumboot raised his hands imploringly and looked to the heavens. ‘What have we done to deserve this? What sin can be that bad?’
Andrew laughed, stood up, and placed his large hand on Gumboot’s shoulder. ‘It was the sin of being born, Gumboot. Now let’s break up this sangar.’
They destroyed the sangar in no time, now expert at it, then moved carefully down the hill, spread well apart, keeping their eyes and ears alert for adoo snipers. Reaching the bottom without mishap, they joined the large group of other troops, including the firqats, gathered around Major Greenaway, who was standing up in the front of a Land Rover as if on a stage.
‘As you doubtless know,’ he said, ‘the adoo are now entrenched in the Wadi Dharbat, eight kilometres’ march from here. However, the high ground between here and that wadi is crawling with snipers. Your task will be to advance down the eastern and western sides of the wadi, taking out the adoo you encounter en route and, when you reach the wadi, clearing the remaining adoo off the plateau for good. For this purpose, you’ll be divided into two groups – the Eastern Group and the Western Group – with each taking the side designated by its title. Both groups will be supported by members of the Firqat Khalid bin Waalid, who know the terrain and should be invaluable as scouts, trackers and support fighters. Your respective platoon leaders will now tell you what group you’re in. We move out in thirty minutes, at noon precisely. Good luck, men.’
‘Nice to know that the firqats are going to be our scouts,’ Gumboot whispered sardonically to Ricketts. ‘That means we’ll be back in Um al Gwarif for supper – by accident, naturally.’
Nevertheless, despite Gumboot’s doubts, they were assigned to the Eastern Group and moved out at noon on the dot, accompanied by a large contingent of firqats, who were at least, so Ricketts noted with relief, under the supervision of Dead-eye Dick Parker.
Spreading well apart, they clambered up the high ground, moving at the crouch, as Parker had taught them, and darting from one outcrop to another, leaving themselves exposed as little as possible. For this particular march, Andrew had discarded the GPMG tripod and was supporting it with the aid of a sling, intending to fire it from the hip. Tom and Bill were still struggling with the mortar components. Jock had the PRC 319 as well as his standard-issue weapons. Gumboot only had his standard-issue weapons, including an M16 semi-automatic rifle, and a pair of binoculars. Ricketts, relieved of the heavy, awkward GPMG tripod, was feeling as free as a bird with only his normal kit and weapons, including the SLR.
He was actually humming to himself when the first shot rang out and Tom jerked like a puppet on a string, dropping his M16, his left leg buckling, the weight of the mortar barrel pulling him back as the pain struck and he cried out. The men were falling low even as he hit the ground in a cloud of dust.
‘Sniper 45 degrees east!’ Lampton bawled from out front as Tom let out a piercing, long drawn-out scream and hammered the ground beside him with his clenched fist. Ricketts fired his SLR. Gumboot and Lampton let rip with their M16s, making the rocks above spit chipped stone and dust. ‘I’m hit!’ Tom yelled, getting his breath back after the scream. ‘Oh, Jesus! The bastard!’ Jock was speaking into the radio, calling for a medic, even as the sniper readjusted his aim and put a bullet through Tom’s forehead, splitting his skull in two and turning it into a pomegranate with pieces of bone washed out on the blood that splashed over the sand.
‘Purvis hit!’ Jock screamed into his mike as the others kept firing and Parker appeared out of nowhere, higher up than the sniper. He rose up from behind a rock, taking aim with his Lee Enfield, fired a shot and then waved his right hand to send one of the firqats down. The latter ran down at the crouch, forcing the others to stop shooting, and stopped at the outcrop from which the adoo sniper had been firing. Having examined Parker’s quarry, who must have been shot through the back, the firqat straightened up and waved his hand, indicating that the sniper was dead. Parker waved back, then turned away and hurried on up the hill, followed by the firqat.
‘Tom is dead,’ Andrew said.
‘I can’t bear to look,’ Jock told him.
‘Christ, what a mess,’ Gumboot whispered. ‘What the fuck do we do with him?’
Lampton slithered back down the hill, his feet kicking up clouds of dust. After glancing at Tom’s bloody, shattered head, he asked, ‘Did you call a medic, Jock?’
‘Yes, boss. He’s on his way up.’
‘Then there’s nothing more we can do here, so let’s get moving, lads.’ Lampton started turning away, then noticed Bill. He was staring at his friend, too shocked to speak, trying to reconcile that dreadful image of smashed bone and blood with the man he had shared a lot of good times with. Though trying, he failed.
‘Get the fuck up,’ Lampton snapped, grabbing Bill by the shoulder and tugging him to his feet. ‘We haven’t time to sit here brooding. Now get up that hill, Trooper.’ Bill just stared at him. ‘Go! Lampton screamed. Bill twitched as if slapped, blinked, glanced about him, said, ‘Sorry, boss,’ and turned away. He crouched low, his M16 at the ready, and hurried on up the slope.
‘Gumboot!’ Lampton snapped.
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Take that mortar tube off Purvis and then stick close to Raglan.’
‘Shit, boss, he’s all covered in …’
‘Do it, Gumboot. Don’t argue.’
‘Right, boss. Will do.’ Taking a deep breath and trying not to look, Gumboot rolled Tom over to get at his web
bing and unstrap the mortar tube. When he had done so, which he only managed with great difficulty, avoiding the sight of the dead man’s head, he strapped the tube to his own bergen, took another deep breath, then hurried to catch up with the others, falling in close to Bill. Though the latter’s eyes were wet with tears, he was looking determined.
‘He’ll survive,’ Gumboot whispered as he crouched behind a rock. Then he jumped up and zigzagged, crouching low, to another position.
The others were doing the same, zigzagging uphill, hiding behind rocks and leaping out and then dropping low again. They heard sporadic gunshots all around them – other snipers, more victims – but they managed to reach the crest of the hill without further incident.
It was only when they were starting down the other side that the adoo appeared. They might even have heard the gunshots first, but no one could be sure of that. It was a whole group of adoo, on a ridge just up ahead, about twenty yards away, some firing from behind the rocks, others advancing down the left flank. One of them jumped up in full view to swing his arm and hurl something.
‘Hand grenade!’ Lampton bellowed.
Ricketts turned away, pressing his back to a rock, lowering his head between his raised knees and covering his face with his hands. Nevertheless, he heard the explosion, felt the heat of the blast, choked as sand and dust rained on him, and felt gravel pepper him.
He turned around before it subsided, raising his SLR, letting the barrel rest on the rock as he took aim and fired through the swirling, dust-filled smoke. Gumboot and Jock were doing the same, both covered in sand and dust, while Parker and Lampton covered the left flank with a hail of withering fire.
The adoo advance was stopped, some scattering, others falling, a few looking indecisive, the bullets turning the rocks and ground around them into a maelstrom of spitting dust and flying stones. The indecisive ones died in that turmoil, but one of them, having broken away from the others, suddenly bore down on Bill. His left hand had been shot off and was pumping blood like a fountain, but his right hand was holding a kunjias, which he was raising on high. Concentrating on the front, Bill failed to see his attacker. Ricketts saw him and fired a lengthy burst that made him dance like a demented doll, falling backwards and flipping over a rock and hitting the ground in a cloud of dust, his kunjias clanging noisily on the stones near his sandalled feet.