The Exit Club: Book 2: Bad Boys

by Shaun Clarke

  ‘Still up there, is he?’ Tone asked. ‘Doing a spot of fishing?’

  Kearney chuckled at the thought. ‘Not likely. Though feeling deprived of his beloved SAS, he still wanted new adventures. He’d moved by the end of that year to Salisbury in Rhodesia, as the managerdirector of a London-based financial development company. His job was to check out the business potential of the mineral deposits and agriculture of the country, but once he got over there he soon met a lot of old friends from the SAS and the LRDG – Mike Sadler and other Rhodesians – and, as is his way, became more involved than he’d originally planned. First thing he did was resign from the company that had hired him and set up on his own to invest in mining, road construction and agriculture. He’s dead set against apartheid, and he’s now the head of something called the Capricorn Africa Society. Reportedly it’s dedicated to the creation of a true multi-racial society, based on the notion that a policy for Africa must come from within Africa and be acceptable to all races on the continent. Quite the idealist, really.’

  ‘I’m not at all sure that I’d want all them Sambos running themselves,’ Tone said. ‘I’m not at all sure that they could.’

  ‘That’s a racist attitude,’ Kearney told him without rancour.

  ‘It’s not racist,’ Tone said. ‘It’s plain to see. Those blackies are so busy fighting among themselves, they can hardly light their own bloody camp fires.’

  ‘Not true,’ Kearney responded. ‘Also, as former SAS men, you should have learned to judge other men only as individuals, not as racial stereotypes.’

  ‘What’s a stereotype?’ Tone asked him.

  ‘Never mind,’ Marty said, flashing his friend a quick grin before turning back to Kearney. ‘Do you ever see Stirling?’

  ‘Yes, occasionally. He comes to England three or four times a year, not only to visit his family home in Scotland, but also to spread the gospel of his Capricorn Africa Society and attract investments for his companies. I think he does cross-over business with his brother, William, who’s involved in road- building, quarrying and ore concessions. Certainly, Stirling tends to use the offices of the family company in Upper Grosvenor Street as his London HQ, so I see him there occasionally. Naturally he also keeps in touch as much as possible with his old SAS chums, the Originals, through informal gatherings and, of course, the Regimental Association. So, yes, I’ve kept in touch. He’s as feisty as ever.’

  ‘But not officially involved with the SAS anymore,’ Marty said.

  ‘Alas, no. You sound almost regretful, Mr Butler.’

  Marty knew that there was little point in denying what he felt. Just talking about the SAS had filled him with a real feeling of loss, reminding him of all that he, too, had done before returning to Civvy Street and becoming just like most other ‘ordinary’ men. Now, despite being successful, a husband and father, he was bored, merely living out his life, yearning for the thrills that had made him feel keenly alive.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ he admitted, ‘I do feel regretful. I miss the life a lot. What do men who had the experiences we shared do when it’s all over?’

  Kearney shrugged, a secret smile on his lips. ‘They do everything from becoming Members of Parliament to teaching school or labouring in the docks. Some compensate for the lack of thrills by becoming policemen, mercenaries, military advisors to foreign powers, even poachers and, possibly, bank-robbers. Others, like you and Williams here, join the TA; yet others simply can’t live without it and return to the regular army.’

  ‘But not to the SAS,’ Tone pointed out. ‘And there isa big difference.’

  ‘Right,’ Marty said. ‘A hell of a difference. I enjoy the TA, but I’m not sure I’d like to rejoin the regular army– not if it wasn’t some kind of special forces. Tone and me, we’ve both been tempted to enlist again, but we still have our doubts.’

  Kearney was still wearing that slight, secret smile. ‘And have you been keeping in touch with your old mates from the regiment?’

  ‘We did for a year or two,’ Marty said, ‘but gradually we all scattered in different directions – just like the old regiments.’

  ‘So you aren’t aware of what’s been happening with regard to the SAS?’

  ‘No,’ Tone said. ‘What do you mean? What’s been happening to it? It’s still disbanded, isn’t it?’

  Kearney’s secret smile broke into a wide grin. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it isn’t. And I’m scouting for new recruits.’

  Marty and Tone glanced at each other in astonishment, then, with a quickening heartbeat, Marty returned his gaze to the still-grinning Lieutenant Kearney.

  ‘Just what are you talking about, boss?’

  Kearney stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and then waved at the barman to fetch them another round of drinks. Then he turned back to Marty and Tone, this time looking more serious.

  ‘Mad Mike Calvert and Lieutenant-Colonel Franks didn’t give up the idea of a special force. In fact, in 1946, with other senior officers who’d served with the regiment, they persuaded the War Office to set up an inquiry by the Technical Investigation Committee, to look into possible roles for the SAS, or a similar unit, in the future. The committee’s conclusion was that there was a place for a similar unit; but at that time, when the War Office was actually reducing its military forces, it was politically impossible to raise a new regiment. To get around this, a TA unit of reservists was formed by amalgamating the SAS with the Artists’ Rifles.’

  ‘The what?’ Tone asked.

  ‘The Artists’ Rifles,’ Kearney repeated. ‘It’s a volunteer regiment first raised in 1860 and always headed by a CO who was a professional artist, painter or sculptor. It had a distinguished fighting record in the First World War and served as an officer-training unit in World War Two. It was deactivated briefly after the war, but then made part of the Territorial Army and affiliated to the Rifle Brigade.’

  ‘Right,’ Tone said. ‘I’m with you… I think.’

  ‘So,’ Marty said impatiently, ‘what happened then?’

  ‘As I said, in September, 1947, a TA unit of reservists was formed by amalgamating the SAS with the Artists’ Rifles. The new unit was called 21 (Artists) – the word “Artists” in parenthesis – SAS. A total of one hundred and eighty former SAS officers and men joined as reservists. Because the Artists’ Rifles had always been officered by men who’d first served in the ranks, many of the officers enlisting in 21 (Artists) SAS joined in the ranks – and this stood for all of the officers who’ve since gained commissions in the regiment.’

  ‘I like the idea of that,’ Tone commented.

  Kearney flashed him a grin. ‘Anyway, 21 (Artists) SAS was placed under the command of LieutenantColonel Franks, the former commander of 2 SAS during the liberation of Europe, and the selection and training of its recruits was as rigorous as it had been for L Detachment in the early days in North Africa. Incidentally, one of those who enlisted was your old friend, Bulldog Bellamy. Remember him?’

  ‘God, yes!’ Marty said, elated to know that his old tormentor, then friend, had survived the war and was serving with the new regiment.

  ‘RTU’d to the Dorset Regiment after the war and was bounced back to buck private when he volunteered for the new unit. Of course, he’s already made it back up to corporal and still bawls like a sergeant, which he will be quite soon.’

  Marty grinned at the thought of it. ‘So what’s this new unit up to?’

  ‘Earlier this year, the regiment was about to fly off to Korea– at the specific request of General McArthur

  – but instead it was diverted to Malaya, where it’s been operating against the twelve hundred communist Chinese who fled into the jungle in 1948 and only emerged to murder the Malayan villagers, local politicians and, of course, white rubber plantationers. While 21 (Artists) SAS was operating along with the so-called Ferret Force in Malaya – a paramilitary group composed of army volunteers, former members of the Special Operations Executive Force 136, and other civilians – General Sir John
Harding, the C-in-C of Far East Land forces, ordered Mad Mike to fly to Malaya and study the situation. When he’d done so – after having toured the country for six months and personally joined infantry patrols to make lengthy hikes into enemy territory, as befits his adventurous nature– he returned to harass the communists in their jungle hides. He named his new unit the Malayan Scouts, SAS. Apart from 21 (Artists) SAS, it’s composed of volunteers who served with the SOE in Malaya in 1945, in the Ferret Force, and, of course, in the SAS during the war.’

  ‘And you’re involved?’ Marty asked, becoming excited.

  ‘Yes. I’m being transferred to the Malayan Scouts next week and I’m already looking for suitable new recruits. As former SAS men and still-serving members of the TA, you pair could enlist if you wished. You’ll be trained for eight weeks in Jahore in southern Malaya and operate out of Ipoh, in the north. What do you say?’

  As the busy barman set fresh drinks on the counter, Marty and Tone glanced at one another, both clearly thinking along the same lines. Certainly, Marty was thinking that he wanted to do it. He was also thinking that Lesley, who had been reduced willy-nilly to a mere shadow in his life and was becoming ever more irate about his increasing absences from home, would positively explode if he told her that he was reenlisting in the SAS. On the other hand, the thought of missing this golden opportunity just because of her anger was something he simply couldn’t wear. Nor could be bear the thought of spending the rest of his life in his present circumstances, merely passing the time, constantly tormented by recollections of his thrilling days in North Africa and unable to drag himself out of bed with enthusiasm except on the days when he was going to the TA. Knowing this, he picked up his pint knowing what he would do.

  ‘I’m in,’ he said.

  Also picking up his pint, Tone said,‘So am I.’

  Kearney grinned and picked up his glass of whiskey. The three men touched glasses.

  ‘To the Malayan Scouts, SAS,’ Kearney said.

  They all drank to that.

  Chapter Three

  Sitting in a draughty, freezing hall in the Malayan Scouts (SAS) base, located in the Airborne Forces HQ and Parachute Regiment’s Depot in Aldershot, Hampshire, waiting to begin his training and selection course, surrounded by forty other candidates, all still in their civilian clothes, Marty found it hard to believe that his marriage was over. But that seemed to be the case.

  When he had told her that he was re-enlisting, Lesley, normally reticent, had exploded with rage, before collapsing into shocked disbelief and tearful entreaty. Eventually managing to regain control of herself, she had said, ‘If you do this, if you walk out that door, you’ll be choosing the army over me and I won’t forgive that. So you’d better think about it carefully, before making your choice.’ Marty had made his choice. Though he didn’t find it easy, though his pain was real enough, he had packed his suitcase, kissed his kids goodbye, then resolutely turned away from his wife to walk out of the house.

  ‘Don’t come back,’ Lesley said to him. Now, sitting in this bleak, draughty hall, waiting for his new CO’s introductory briefing, he finally faced up to the fact that although he still loved Lesley in his fashion, and certainly adored the kids, he had increasingly, selfishly, neglected them in order to pursue his own interests. In truth, his married life had made him feel trapped in a world that was too commonplace to maintain his interest. He needed the thrill of fresh adventures to keep him alive. He now had to accept this harsh truth and learn to live with it.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Tone, seated beside him, exclaimed in disgust. ‘A twelve-week training and selection course! We’ve been through the bloody war, we’ve done our TA training, and we’re still not getting in automatically. Bloody cheek, if you ask me.’

  Marty was amused. ‘You can bet that Paddy Kearneyknew this all along and didn’t mention it in case we said, “No, thanks.” Clever bastard, he is.’

  ‘I hear it’s a tough one,’ Trooper Roy Weatherby said from where he was seated at Marty’s other side. Though a former Royal Signals sergeant, like the others present he had accepted a reduction in rank in order to get into the Malayan Scouts. ‘Even tougher than selection for the Commandos. There’s even a test so bad it’s called a “Sickener”, which I’m told really cuts down the numbers. It’s supposed to be bloody murderous. I’ve heard that they only expect about a quarter of us to make it through to the end. The RTU rate’s pretty high.’

  The CO, Lieutenant-Colonel Phillip Mackie, entered the hall, flanked by Paddy Kearney and a regimental sergeant major. As the three men stepped up to the blackboard, Marty was reminded by the new insignia on Kearney’s uniform that he had automatically dropped back in rank to lieutenant when enlisting in this new unit.

  ‘Attention!’ the RSM bawled. Every man in the hall jumped out of his chair, snapped to attention and saluted the CO. The latter returned the salute, then indicated that the men could sit down again.

  ‘Welcome to the Malayan Scouts,’ he said when they were seated. ‘You men have volunteered for a regiment that’s like no other in the British Army. As some of you have previously served with us during the war, you’ll know the principles upon which we operate. For the benefit of the rest of you, our philosophy is that small groups of exceptionally welltrained, self-reliant and highly motivated men can perform certain tasks much better than large groups or regiments. Given this, we’re not looking for undisciplined cowboys, but for men who can work alone or in small groups, rather than as part of big battalions. Such men have to be superbly fit, capable of enduring isolation and other forms of stress for long periods of time, and always ready at a moment’s notice to take over the duties of any other man in their team. For this reason, the training and selection you’re about to undergo will be both psychologically and physically demanding – indeed, rigorous in the extreme – and little mercy will be shown to those who fail at any point along the way. Be prepared for what will undoubtedly turn out to be the most brutal experience of your life.’

  Satisfied that he had put the fear of God into them, the CO nodded at the burly regimental sergeant major standing beside him, holding a clipboard. ‘RSM Neil Farrell will now take you to your accommodations, then on to the quartermaster’s store to be kitted out. Once that’s done, you’ll have an hour to make up your beds, then you’ll line up outside your barracks to immediately commence training and selection. Good luck. Dismissed.’

  When the CO and Lieutenant Kearney had left the hall, the latter throwing Marty a grin, the RSM bawled that the candidates were to gather outside. There, after being lined up in order of size, they were marched across the wet, windswept quadrangle, around administration buildings, hangars, NAAFI canteen and other corrugated-iron hangars until they arrived at the bleak wooden barracks designated for them. There they each claimed a steel-framed bed by placing suitcases and other personal baggage on it. Then they hurried back outside and lined up as before, in order of size and still wearing their civvies, to be marched by the RSM to the quartermaster’s store, where they were each kitted out with the olive-green uniform known as OGs, boots, beret, underclothes, a Bergen rucksack, sleeping bag, wet-weather poncho, webbed belts, water bottles, brew kit, three twenty-four-hour ration packs, a heavy prismatic compass and, more ominously, Ordnance Survey maps of the Brecon Beacons and Elan Valley, both in Wales.

  ‘At least we know those bloody mountains,’ Tone muttered to Marty.

  ‘We sure do,’ Marty said. ‘If that’s where they intend making us hike, at least we’ll have a head start.’

  ‘Good. We could do with it.’

  After being marched from the quartermaster’s store to the armoury, where each man was equipped with a .303 Lee-Enfield rifle, they were practically run from the armoury back to the barracks. There they were given the promised hour to make up their beds, put on their OGs, berets and boots, sling their empty Bergen rucksacks over their shoulders, pick up their rifles and again assemble outside the barracks where, while they waite
d for the arrival of RSM Farrell, they were whipped by a freezing November wind that gave hints of the snow to come.

  In fact, RSM Farrell did not return. Instead, the new candidates were faced with an even more stonyfaced sergeant, a barrel-chested six-footer with sandyred hair, piercing blue eyes and a face flushed by fresh air and sunshine.

  ‘The name is Sergeant Doyle. I’m a member of the Directing Staff, or DS, and your main drill instructor, in charge of your training and selection from this moment on. If you have any complaints about our methods of training, I don’t want to hear them. If, at any time, you think you can’t go on, you either try to go on despite yourself or you drop out and get RTU’d with your tail between your legs. You can also be RTU’d at any stage in the training and selection process at the recommendation of myself or any other member of the DS. There are no means of redress or complaint. Before you think to whinge, please be reminded that you won’t be ordered to do anything that your DS and officers haven’t already done themselves. If we can do it, so can you. If you can’t, you’ll be RTU’d. I really don’t want to hear any questions, but I’m obliged to ask: Are there any questions?’