Soldier I

by Kennedy, Michael

  I thought again of David Shepherd's painting of the twenty-fivepounder, and then I remembered the plaque on the wall at home next to it. The plaque was inscribed with words from Henry V:

  Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,

  But he'll remember with advantages

  What feats he did that day.

  I remembered all right. I remembered what feats we did that day.

  The Battle of Mirbat

  After a while I closed my eyes and started to descend into a fitful sleep. I remember thinking that I would only need to survive a few more days of this routine, the creeping listlessness that came with the drawn-out activity, the sudden threat that came with the odd unexpected attack, and then it would be back home, back to what I knew, back to get on with the rest of my life. Monotony was making a fierce assault, but strong willpower reinforced by endless hours of rigorous training was putting up determined defences. Whatever happened, I would give a good account of myself. I wasn't going to let my mates down at any cost. That was the single most important thought I held fast in my mind. Like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to driftwood, I knew that, come calm or storm, I would pull through if I could just hold onto the one thing I knew was solid.

  The darkness got deeper and I slid into the realms beyond dreams.

  * * *

  In the dark of that night, the lingering Khareef monsoon wrapped the Jebel Massif in mournful clouds of mist and drizzle. Before first light, 300 hand-picked Adoo warriors crouched motionless behind the tumble of ragged boulders strewn at the foot of the Jebel ramparts, watching and waiting. Droplets of rain ran down their stony, weatherbeaten features as they stared out impassively over the shadowy pre-dawn scene that lay before them: the mud-walled dwellings of the garrison town of Mirbat huddled up against the shore, and the slow, leaden swell of the sea to the south.

  Their commanders surveyed the town's defences: just to the north of the town, a shallow wadi ran from east to west; 500 metres beyond and parallel to it stretched the barbed-wire perimeter fence; and in the gap between the two lay their main obstacles – the Wali's fort and the British Army Training Team headquarters (the 'Batt House') down by the wadi, and to the north-east, nestling close to the perimeter wire, the Dhofar Gendarmerie fort, with the twenty-five-pounder located at the base of its walls.

  The Adoo were certainly not risking anything. They were armed to the teeth with the choice of the latest Soviet weapons: AKM and AK-47 rifles; heavy, medium and light machine guns; two 75mm RCLs; 81mm, 82mm and 60mm mortars; grenades and rocketlaunchers; and one 84mm Carl Gustav. And each man had been issued with a large reserve of ammunition. This was the battle they had to win. This was the one upon whose outcome the political and economic fate of the whole of Western Europe could depend. Muscat and Oman with the Straits of Hormuz were a glittering prize to capture, and Mirbat was the jewel in the crown. This was to be a day they hoped would live for ever in their folklore, a day whose exploits would be retold over and over by tribesmen elders with greying beards, sucking pensively on rough pipes as they sat cross-legged by the camp-fires, watched in awe by young boys eager to grow up to be warriors themselves. This was a day to restore morale with a resounding victory.

  The Adoo were taking no chances. These were the Communists' elite shock troops, three hundred well-trained, well-armed men against a pitiful opposition: twenty-five DG in the perimeter fort, one Omani gunner manning the twenty-five-pounder, thirty Askars in the Wali's fort, a scattering of Firqats embedded with their wives in Mirbat itself and nine SAS in the Batt House.

  * * *

  Forty miles away, at Um al Gwarif, Lofty Wiseman stirred from a listless sleep, levered himself upright on his bare metal bed, rubbed the sticky secretions from his eyes and glanced at the luminous dial on his G10 watch. It was just before 0500 hours, the start of another day at SAS base camp. He looked outside. Beyond the barred windows and whitewashed walls of the armoury, he could just make out through the drizzle the vague shapes of the first of the lines of bivouac tents housing G Squadron, who had come to relieve B Squadron now that the latter's tour of duty on the Jebel and the coastal plain was coming to an end. It would be just another routine day for Lofty. Ammunition would be counted, checked, listed and issued to G Squadron for the predeployment shake-out. They would move to Arzat ranges, where weapons would be checked, double-checked and meticulously zeroed. In this way they could keep themselves in a state of constant alertness just in case anything should happen. The day's work for Lofty had been reduced significantly with the deployment of advance parties from G Squadron into strategic locations throughout the sultanate to facilitate a smooth handover. The only forces remaining in Um al Gwarif were a handful of NCOs and around forty troopers.

  * * *

  At a signal from their leader, the Adoo crept forward without a sound, as noiseless as fish gliding through water, to occupy their predetermined assault positions. One group established a line of 81mm and 82mm mortars 2,000 metres north of the town. Two groups went further south, fanning out on either side of the town, to attack from the seaward side. Before dawn, the still-sleeping inhabitants of Mirbat garrison were completely surrounded.

  * * *

  'I don't drink on ops, you know that, Fuzz.'

  It was 5.00am in a top-floor room in the Batt House. The final few bars of the last song on side two of Easy Rider were quietly playing out on the battered cassette-player in the corner, as Fuzz made one last attempt to persuade Tak to have a swig from the illicit half-bottle of rum that had kept them company through the long night. The other Fijian, Laba, had had no such reservations. The three of them were slumped on their beds, still fully dressed, in Jesus sandals, shorts and shirts. While the other lads slept the monotony away, Laba, Tak and Fuzz – now designated an honorary Fijian – had drunk, talked and sung right through the night. What did it matter anyway? They would not be doing much the next day. They never did. They only went out now and again on patrols, and they were mostly uneventful. Just the occasional threat from a minor skirmish. The most difficult part was finding the discipline to stay alert. Nothing ever really happened at Mirbat. It was one long rest period.

  Meanwhile, the Adoo sent a scouting party to probe further forward towards the first obstacle in their way – the Jebel Ali hill, which rose 1,000 metres due north of Mirbat, dominating the coast and plain. They suspected this could conceal an enemy outpost. Their suspicions were well founded; it was manned by a section of the Dhofar Gendarmerie. The Adoo lead scouts surrounded the hill and sealed off all escape routes. The unbelieving DG woke up staring death in the face. They only managed to loose off a few shots before the outpost was overwhelmed with ruthless efficiency in a matter of seconds, its occupants put to the knife and silenced forever. Fearing that the sounds of the shots must have alerted the BATT, the Adoo mortar line opened fire.

  * * *

  Lofty was beginning to have that end-of-tour feeling. He cheered himself up with the thought that in a few days' time, B Squadron would be all packed up and winging their way back to the UK, the married pads returning to their families, the young thrusters to a bit of sex and athletics in the Redhill Sports and Social. No more monsoon, no more heat, no more dust, no more flies. Just cool beer and hot women. He turned slowly on his back and stared up at the fan whirling in the gloom above his bed. This always enabled him to think better. The hypnotic movement and faint vibrating beat of the fan helped him to dispose of all irrelevant thoughts so that he could concentrate solely on the task in hand. He allowed the gentle breeze from the revolving blades to waft over him to clear his mind as he began to make a mental checklist of his responsibilities for the day.

  * * *

  Crump. Crump. Crump. Fuzz propped himself up on his bed on a crooked elbow and squinted at the bulky Fijian figure still lying down in the shadows. 'Laba, they're throwing a few in.'

  'No problem, Fuzz, it's the dawn chorus. Regular as clockwork once they start. You don't need a watch round here!'

 
'Yeah, it's just the Adoo coughing themselves awake,' said Tak laconically. 'Another tedious day in Dhofar.'

  Crump. Crump. Crump.

  'That was closer. They're getting a bit brave this morning,' said Fuzz, his voice tightening slightly.

  'Don't worry,' soothed Laba reassuringly, 'there's no small-arms fire. They're just stonking us.'

  Crump. Crump. Crump. Fuzz was now on his feet. 'I don't like the sound of this. That was too close for comfort. We'd better go and see what they're up to.'

  The first ranging rounds from the Adoo mortars were already impacting just outside the perimeter wire as I leapt out of bed, pushed past Fuzz, Laba and Tak and scrambled up the half-pyramid of ammunition boxes that served as a ladder up to the roof. When I reached the top I threw myself behind the .50-calibre Browning, my stand-to position in the command-post sangar built on the flat roof of the Batt House. One moment fast asleep, the next under attack, I drew a sharp breath and cursed softly, my left hand closing instinctively on the first incendiary round protruding from the ammunition box. I snapped open the top cover of the .50-calibre and positioned the ammunition belt on the feed tray. The belt held a mixture of incendiary and tracer rounds in a ratio of four to one, the incendiary rounds designed to explode on impact. With the links uppermost I manoeuvred the belt into position with my left hand. With my right hand I closed the hinged cover and cocked the action with a single practised twist of the wrist, feeding an incendiary round into the breech. The cold metal of the trigger felt comforting to the touch as I took up the first pressure, released the safety-catch and stared in disbelief at the scene unfolding before me.

  * * *

  Confident he had everything organized for the relieving squadron, Lofty swung off his bed, slipped into his well-worn shorts and desert boots and creaked open the wooden door. He screwed his face up into a grimace as the cool drizzle of the interminable monsoon washed over his early-morning pallor, making him blink away the last grains of sleep. He ambled past the radio-and-ops room and headed for the armoury. G Squadron transport, two armour-plated Bedfords, stood parked ready on the volleyball court. Several figures clad in OGs were milling around talking in low tones. One character caught Lofty's eye. Slowly and meticulously he was lacing his boots on the ammunition-store steps. Lofty brushed past him, undid the padlock and pushed open the heavy metal armoury door. He stood still for a moment peering into the store, getting his eyes used to the gloom inside, then set to work issuing the ten GPMGs and 2,000 rounds of ammunition for the day's zeroing detail on Arzat ranges. Working with quick mechanical precision he didn't take long. As the last 200-round liner of GPMG link rattled its way onto the back of the Bedford, he began securing the ammunitionstore door. 'Time for breakfast and a quiet cup of tea,' he said to himself.

  * * *

  Two thousand metres away, in the dark foothills of the Jebel Massif, I could clearly see the vivid flashes of six mortar tubes leaping into the night, dramatically illuminating their concealed baseplate positions. Nearer, from the Jebel Ali, the muzzle flashes of incoming machinegun and rifle fire sparked white-hot gloom. What the hell's going on, I thought, where's the DG night picket? Green tracer from an RPD light machine gun rioted furiously against the walls of the DG fort on the northern edge of the town. A frenzied salvo of mortar bombs suddenly impacted, blowing away part of the perimeter wire. The fire mission crept slowly forward until the last round exploded on the edge of the town, sending pieces of shrapnel each the size of a fist screeching over the Batt House.

  Since arriving in Dhofar in 1971, during the months spent skirmishing with the Adoo on Operation Jaguar, I had developed a sort of sixth sense, a feel for contacts with the enemy. I had a bad feeling about this one; it looked like high drama. Over the last three months there had been several stand-off attacks on Mirbat, with the Adoo bugging out after scattering four or five mortar bombs inside the barbed-wire perimeter fence. The Adoo had just been letting us know they were there, trying to prove their virility, maintain their morale. But this time it was different. The intensity of this deployment had all the tell-tale signs of a determined attack.

  With my heart beating furiously against my rib-cage, threatening to burst through at any moment, and with a sickening surge of gut fear hardening like cement in my stomach, I squinted through the dark at the defensive layout of the Batt House. It seemed totally inadequate against the firepower of the attacking Adoo, a shanty-town hut against a nuclear bomb. Over to my left, on the north-west corner of the flatroofed building, a GPMG in the sustained-fire role had been mounted in a sandbagged sangar. Behind the gun, awaiting the order to open fire, their eyes aching intensely with concentration, crouched Roger and Geoff. From my sandbagged sangar on the north-east corner of the roof I looked down to a pit ten metres away from the house. I could just make out the wiry figure of Fuzz hunched over the illuminated dial sight of the 81mm BATT mortar. At his elbow knelt Tak, almost invisible in the gloom, cradling a high-explosive mortar bomb in his hands as though it were a rugby ball. To the rear of the mortar position, Tommy worked frantically preparing the mortar bombs for firing, unscrewing the plastic tops of the containers, withdrawing the bombs and checking that the charge cartridges were securely in position, withdrawing the safety-pins, replacing the prepared bombs in their containers – fins protruding from the openings to facilitate easy withdrawal – and stacking the containers in a tier system so there would be as many as four dozen bombs ready to hand at any one time.

  I glanced over my shoulder to the far side of the command-post sangar. I looked at Bob, the CPO. Calm, cunning and totally professional, he stood balancing the mortar plotter board on the edge of the sangar wall as if he was about to conduct an orchestra. In his right hand, held close to his ear, was a Tokia walkie-talkie. He was staring intently in the direction of the Adoo mortar line. His sunburnt brow became as furrowed as a seventy-year-old Sherpa's as his mind wrestled with the problems of estimating bearing and elevation for the BATT mortar site.

  That, then, was the sum total of our defences. All in all, with our Second World War twenty-five-pounder, .50-calibre Browning and 81mm mortar, compared to the firepower of the Adoo, it was as if we had brush-handle battering rams against a reinforced steel door. If we had known also that we were outnumbered by nearly thirty to one, we would have already been mentally composing a plea of mitigation for an imminent confrontation with our Creator.

  My appraisal of the Batt House defences was suddenly interrupted by a noise on the pyramid of ammunition boxes that led up to the sangar. I looked round to see the grim face of Mike Kealy, the commander of our eight-man civil-aid team, appearing over the sangar wall. His morphine syrettes, watch and ID disc on the para-cord swinging around his neck rattled noisily when the cord became briefly entangled with his SLR as he pulled himself over the sangar wall. On his feet he wore only a pair of flip-flops.

  He crouched and moved quickly across the floor of the sangar, carefully avoiding the open ammunition boxes, and took up a position just by my right elbow. His face spoke a thousand words. He was trying to inject some interpretation of the situation into his logical Sandhurst mind. He looked me square in the eyes and, holding my stare, said in a quiet, steady voice, 'Go down to the radio room and establish communications with Um al Gwarif.' As I applied the safety-catch to the .50-calibre, I heard the throaty swish of an artillery round. We both ducked as a blinding flash followed by the crump of detonation sent a large plume of smoke spiralling crazily skywards from the centre of the town. Christ, that was no mortar, I thought, with a shiver of trepidation.

  I ran down the sangar steps, crossed the small open area leading to the radio room, pushed in through the door and seated myself at the folding six-foot table. On the table, amidst a pile of message pads, codebooks and well-thumbed Penthouse magazines, stood the PRC 316 patrol radio set. The set was already tuned in, so it was just a matter of turning it on, adjusting the fine tuner slightly, then hitting the morse key. With the set switched on, the mush in the
earpiece of the headset sounded like hailstones on a skylight. I gripped the morse key between index finger and thumb and tapped out the net call sign: 'OA. OA. This is 82. Radio check. Over.'

  A bead of sweat broke out on my brow, rolled down the side of my face and splashed a dark stain onto the dusty cover of the codebook. As I waited for the reply, my finger quivered nervously on the morse key. Suddenly the base signaller at Um al Gwarif sparked into life and keyed back the answering code: '82. 82. This is OA. QRK 5.'

  I unclenched my jaw and let out a low sigh. Relief swept though me as I heard the morse signal boom through the earpiece at full strength. I was just reaching for the codebook when a sharp explosion rocked the Batt House. The building shuddered violently from wall to wall as bits of plaster fell from the ceiling, and for an instant the room was filled with choking dust. Things outside were getting extremely serious. Looking down at the cover of the codebook, I realized it was going to take too long to code messages before keying them back to base. It was at this point that I took the first major decision of the battle that was developing all around us: I would ignore the complicated coding procedure and send all messages to Um al Gwarif in plain-language morse. This was a major deviation from regulations, a serious breach of security, as all radio messages in Dhofar required coding before transmission. Fuck the rulebook, I thought, as I gripped the morse key and tapped out my message, the Adoo know we're here anyway! 'OA. OA. This is 82. Contact. Under heavy fire. Wait. Out.'