by Pete Scholey
Ginge always said that he never saw this as a real problem because they had become real survivors during the austere period of the war years. In fact, during the war he reckoned they had been better off than a lot of others who suffered badly with food shortages. Living in the countryside in the Weald of Kent, they knew how to live off the land and rarely lacked for fresh food. They could find rabbits, moorhen’s eggs, duck eggs (and ducks) as well as plenty of fruit that they foraged from the hedgerows and vegetables either grown by themselves, found wild or ‘acquired’ from a field. This was all experience that would be put to good use by Ginge in later years. Surviving off the land is a skill that some struggle to master. To Ginge it was second nature.
When Ginge’s brothers all disappeared off to the army, he was left behind with his mum, leaving school at the age of 14 to work on farms. Lifting 2cwt (224lb/102kg) bags of corn certainly helped to build up his physique and as soon as he was 15 he enlisted as a boy soldier at the Canterbury Recruiting Office. Joining the Royal Artillery, he was actually stationed at Bradbury Lines in Hereford long before it became the home of the SAS. Strong and athletic, he won the half-mile race at Aldershot Stadium in 1956 as well as running and throwing the javelin for the county of Hereford. He was quickly promoted to boy sergeant in charge of Ironside Troop before he moved on to an Advanced Training Camp at Oswestry in 1957.
In 1958 he progressed from the boys’ service to the regular army and passed his parachute course to join the 33rd Para Light Regiment, Royal Artillery. He was soon off to Cyprus on active service during the EOKA emergency and was subsequently posted to Jordan, where Egyptian Arab nationalist Gamal Abdel Nasser was threatening King Hussein’s regime. After a spell camping out in the Jordanian desert to deter the rampant Nasser, Ginge was posted to the 29th Field Regiment, Royal Artillery, at the Citadel in Plymouth, but scarcely had time to get his feet under the table before he was shipped back out to the desert, this time to Kuwait where, surprise, surprise, the Iraqis were threatening to invade.
While he was out in Kuwait he took the opportunity to impress everyone, probably even the Iraqis, by running up and down huge sand dunes in the desert heat while carrying a Bergen (rucksack) weighed down with kit and sand. They must all have thought he’d gone nuts, except, perhaps, for those who knew that he had applied for SAS Selection. He was in the process of being transferred to a commando gunnery unit, and had even been flown out to Aden to work with the commandos on the Yemeni border, when his papers came through for the SAS. He went through Selection in the winter of 1962, the year before I did, and was one of only seven out of 150 who passed. On the route marches across the Brecon Beacons, Ginge was first to arrive at every RV throughout the whole course.
By the time he was enjoying a bacon sandwich at Hereford station waiting for me to show up, Ginge had completed a year’s Continuation and Skills training to become a fully-fledged member of D Squadron’s Mountain Troop and, while I was just about to begin my training, Ginge was off to Borneo and Aden.
Ginge had some strange experiences in Borneo. He was a trained medic and a vital part of the ‘hearts and minds’ operation. He spent a great deal of time with the Dayak people, stitching machete cuts, curing fevers and treating skin rashes. In return, they showed him some of their jungle survival skills: the right type of vines to cut for fresh water; where to find the sorts of insects and generally unpalatable small creatures and grubs that passed for fast food in those parts. They were headhunters, of course, but as far as I know that’s not a habit they passed on to Ginge. Gathered around a river bank one day, Ginge and the Dayak crouched in the cover of the thickest tree trunks they could find. A few beams of sunlight penetrated the jungle canopy to play on the surface in the middle of the narrow river and the sound of moving water accompanied the usual rustling, buzzing, screeching cacophony that so often formed the background music to life in the jungle. For Ginge it was the perfect ambush set-up. He hefted the weight of the grenade in his hand – less than 2lb (0.9kg) but it had all the destructive power he needed. He slipped a finger through the ring of the safety pin and yanked it out then released his grip to allow the spring-loaded lever to pop free. With only a four-second fuse, there was no point in hanging on to it.
He bowled the grenade underarm the few short yards into the river. There was a splosh as it hit the water then a muted bang as the grenade detonated below the surface. A fountain of water shot skywards and birds shrieked in alarm, taking to the safety of the skies. Ginge popped his head out from behind the tree and grinned at his Dayak companions. Floating on the water were enough fish, killed stone dead by the blast wave from the grenade, to feed the whole village. Tonight there would be a feast.
But it wasn’t all fun and games with the Dayak. During one patrol with a pal named Spence, whom Ginge had known since he went through his Selection course, they were moving through the kampong of Padawan in Sabah, where Ginge had worked as a medic with the Dayak. He had come to know the tribespeople so well that their children played with him as though he were some kind of strange, pale-skinned uncle. He had learned a little of the language when working in the region and that was about to come in handy.
Being able to talk to some of the locals, Ginge learned that they were being bullied by a band of insurgents who were crossing the border and terrorizing the villagers. Intelligence came back that the men were probably couriers of some sort, rogue bandits who lived off the land and members of the Clandestine Communist Organization (CCO). The SAS was ordered to bring in a prisoner, so an ambush was organized, with a detachment of Scots Guards as back-up. Guided by locals who knew where the terrorists came from, the four-man SAS patrol was to move out to where a river lay across the border. They would then cross the river and the border, and approach the terrorist settlement. At their first opportunity, they would snatch a prisoner and quickly retreat back across the border and through the Guards’ ambush position, the Guards taking care of anyone who was following on behind them.
Leaving the Guards in position, Ginge and the patrol trekked through the jungle to the border river crossing, led by their guides, and waded through the water into enemy territory. Once they had crossed the river, with the light fading, they smeared themselves with mud to cover their white skin and settled down to wait until first light. They came under constant assault from sand flies during the long night, lying still as corpses and making not a sound. Then, when the darkness finally gave way to a watery dawn, the guides led them forward to a point where they could clearly identify the hut used by the terrorists. Ginge now motioned the locals to stay well clear and the men melted away into the jungle.
A track ran out of the denser part of the forest through the lesser vegetation at the edge of the village clearing, leading straight to the terrorists’ billet. A clumsy booby trap constructed from a large stone, a mortar bomb and a piece of string lay across the path. Carefully Ginge and Spence dismantled it while the other two members of the patrol circled round the back of the hut. There was now some movement at the hut itself. Two men were in view, but more could be heard inside. One of the men sat on the veranda with a Bren gun close at hand. They exchanged a few words and the younger of the two moved off in Ginge’s direction. It seemed clear that he was intending to disable the booby trap that Ginge and Spence had just taken apart. The man took a few paces and then could not help but see Ginge and Spence lying near the track. With eyes like saucers, he uttered a strangled cry and scurried into the bush. Ginge sent a few shots after him, firing blind through the foliage. The man on the veranda jumped to his feet and reached for the Bren. It was the last move he ever made. He was cut down by the two SAS men, as were all of the others who emerged from the hut, weapons at the ready. Caught in a murderous crossfire from both sides of their hut, they didn’t stand a chance. There were no prisoners to take back, but the patrol did recover a substantial quantity of weapons and a mound of documents that was to provide further useful intelligence.
I caught up with Ginge eventually
when I was posted to D Squadron and we ended up in Borneo together. Usually, a tour on ops in Borneo involved being away for about five months; working in groups of four, we would carry out cross-border patrols lasting about 14 days or so, depending on the task. Then we would be back at base for three to four days before re-entering the jungle. The first day out would be spent on a debrief and cleaning weapons and kit; then a good sleep, a good feed and a day and night on the beer! The third day was weapon testing and preparing to go back in the following day.
Our base was in the city of Kuching. Due to the lack of availability of military accommodation, we were billeted wherever space could be found. If we were lucky we could end up in the Palm Grove Hotel. It was nothing very special but it had air-conditioning and a nightclub. We let off a lot of steam there. Having worked not only with the Dayak headhunters but also with the Iban tribe, Ginge had a unique party piece. The Ibans were a very kind, gentle people who greatly appreciated all that Ginge did for them. They had nothing to give him, no gift that they felt would amount to an adequate reward for all his skill and hard work. Instead, they taught him one of their ceremonial dances. This dance later became Ginge’s ‘party piece’ on the dancefloor in the Palm Grove Nightclub. He would bounce around all over the place with incredible energy and agility. The dance would go on for ages with Ginge’s moves getting wilder and wilder. I was never entirely sure that the crazy gyrations were exactly the same every time, but Ginge swore that was the way he been taught by the Iban. I could never hope to keep up with Ginge’s Iban dance, but he always enjoyed watching me eating a glass or squeezing petrol into my mouth from a small rubber capsule of lighter fuel (don’t swallow!). This I would then blow back out again in a fine spray and light with a match, sending a ball of flame rolling across the room. We always went down well with the locals – I think they looked forward to D Squadron’s days off.
On one patrol into the jungle, Ginge was lead scout, picking his way through the vegetation as they left their drop-off point and foraging slightly ahead of the rest of the six-man column. He led them uphill towards the ridge that marked the border, where they rested, deciding to make this spot their emergency RV. The patrol commander and one other crossed over into Indonesian territory on a short reconnaissance. Not too far from the patrol’s position, they found what appeared to be a disused Indo camp. Noting its position, they returned to the RV and informed the others. They would rest at the border RV for the night and take a proper look at the camp again in the morning.
The next day, the entire patrol headed down from the ridge in the direction of the Indo camp. They were passing through thick vegetation and spread out so that each man could see only the man directly in front of him. Ginge was no longer acting as lead scout. The man the patrol commander had taken with him the previous afternoon knew where they were heading, so took over the job of leading them in. That was Jock Thomson, and the patrol commander following him down the hill was Geordie Lillico.
When the rest of the patrol heard the firefight from up ahead where Jock and Geordie had been bounced by the Indos, they followed standard procedure: fired into the air and made as much noise as they could to make it sound like there were far more than just four of them. Then they moved back to the RV. When Jock and Geordie did not join them there, the patrol set off to bring in reinforcements. They returned with a Gurkha detachment the next day and conducted a sweep of the area, searching for their missing friends. Ginge led one of the search parties, as he was roughly familiar with the ground they had covered. It was his party that found Jock Thomson. Ginge treated Jock’s wounds and had him loaded onto a makeshift stretcher to get him to a helicopter RV, detailing four of the Gurkhas to carry the injured Scotsman. He then tended to Jock’s wounds, keeping him going through the night with the help of Kevin Walsh, who lay beside his injured friend, keeping him warm and chatting to him. In the morning a chopper was guided in to evacuate Jock, and Ginge accompanied his patient all the way to the hospital in Kuching. Ginge had handled himself in a thoroughly professional manner throughout, belying the fact that the ambush had been his first contact with the enemy in the jungle.
Ginge and I became firm friends, which was just as well because we ended up spending a lot of our working time together, both on operations and on various training courses, escape and evasion exercises or hospital attachments all over the world. He was an easy chap to get along with, and had a great sense of humour. He and I, along with four others, once did a four-week stint at St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington. We took it very seriously and learned a huge amount in that short period. Working under the direction of the highly efficient senior sister of the casualty department, we were expected to assist with the vast variety of cases that passed through her department. We learned how to insert sutures, apply plaster casts and give injections. We even had to learn the rudiments of obstetrics and dentistry.
As well as training together as medics, Ginge and I also served at the same time in Aden. Unlike in the jungle, in Aden we would mount patrols that lasted only a week as we had to carry with us all of the water that we would need. We also moved at night to avoid being spotted, and the patrols would fall into a regular routine of observation and ambush. More often than not, when you set an ambush, you’d lie there for hours in your fire position waiting for an enemy that never turned up.
Ginge well remembers one patrol that set out from the Habilayn camp at the main forward base near the village of Thumier. The patrol moved out after dark and made its way up into the mountains, heading for a cliff ledge that had previously been identified as a suitable OP. The overhang gave them an excellent view of the entrance to a mountain village suspected to be a base for a well-armed band of terrorists. The SAS soldiers arrived in darkness and settled into their position, hunkered down behind rocks and boulders that would shield them from any prying eyes in the valley when the sun came up.
At first light, they saw a line of men marching along a valley trail in the direction of the village. They were in Arab dress and carrying weapons that identified them as a raiding force that had clearly been taking pot shots and lobbing a few mortars at the camp down at Thumier, which was a regular target for harassing fire from such guerrillas. The men were too far distant for the patrol to engage them effectively, so they called in an air strike. After a few terse radio messages, they finally persuaded the ‘head shed’, Major Roger Woodiwiss, D Squadron commander, at the other end that they had identified a valid target.
Two Hawker Hunters eventually came screaming up the valley in time to strafe the group with cannon fire before they reached the sanctuary of the village. Gravel and boulders around the men exploded in showers of flying rock fragments and ricochets. The men scurried for cover while the jets circled to line up for another attack. From the safety of their cliff-top eyrie, the patrol had what amounted to ringside seats – at a suitably safe distance – for the spectacle being played out below them. The jets swooped in again and blasted the rocks and gulleys where the insurgents cowered, desperately trying to find shelter from the aerial bombardment. When the Hunters finally soared off into the sky, heading back to base, the remnants of the terrorist band, shell-shocked and bedraggled, scurried on towards the village, leaving their dead behind while they carried or helped the wounded towards the relative safety of the village.
Ginge and the rest of the patrol decided not to let the terrorists off that easily. They had enjoyed the prelude to this show so much that they reckoned it was time to bring on the main act. They radioed back to base to let them know that the terrorists were now taking refuge in the motley scattering of tumble-down huts and, before long, an attack force was delivered by helicopter down on the valley floor, the men spilling out of the choppers and scattering to their defensive positions before executing a classic ‘advance-to-contact’ manoeuvre. The attack on the village continued all day, creating what Ginge described as looking like a cross between the set of an action film and a non-stop fireworks display. When the mopping-up ope
ration was complete, the patrol retired to their own predesignated LZ, where they were lifted out by helicopter before last light for an easy ride back to base.
Of course, not all ambush operations in Aden went quite so smoothly. Ginge and I were on one op that didn’t go at all as planned. We were ferried to our drop-off point in a convoy of Stalwart amphibious trucks. There wasn’t really much requirement for their swimming abilities in the mountain desert region, but their six-wheel-drive capability made them ideal transport over rough ground, although the 4.5 miles (7.2km) to the gallon they achieved made the journey to the operation area an expensive trip. Jumping down from the Stalwarts’ tailgates, we formed up and moved out, heading up a wadi to our ambush position. We trudged carefully up the wadi over the familiar terrain of gravel patches, scree, boulders and loose rocks which, when they rolled sideways underfoot, could easily bring you down. It wasn’t difficult to lose balance on a narrow track in the dark when we were so overloaded with kit.
The plan was to divide the force into two groups. The group I was with took up positions on higher ground, above a ridge, while Ginge and 19 Troop were down below on flatter ground, closer to the track through the wadi that was to be our killing zone. In pitch darkness, Ginge and the others settled down to wait, lying still and quiet. Suddenly, the sound of rifle fire cut through the silence, echoing round the mountains.
It was all over as suddenly as it began and it became clear that 19 Troop had a man down. It was Yogi Hollingsworth. One of the troop’s medics, Ray Hallam, reached him first but one look at the huge exit wounds on his torso was enough to make it abundantly clear that Yogi was not going to make it. He was barely conscious and in incredible pain. He was given two doses of morphine, even though morphine should not be used for wounds to the head or chest as it inhibits breathing. The morphine was administered to help ease Yogi’s passage and he died in Ray’s arms about 20 minutes later. Ginge helped carry him on a makeshift stretcher all the way to the emergency RV. From there, they were lifted out by helicopter at first light and flown back to the forward base.