The Exit Club: Book 3: The Professionals

by Shaun Clarke

  ‘I could drink my own piss easier,’ O’Connor said, ‘and my piss doesn’t burn like hell.’

  ‘You’ve tried it?’ Marty asked with a grin. ‘When you were desperate some bleak night?’

  ‘Piss off, Marty. Go drown in it.’

  Social life with the Dyaks was made no easier by the fact that many aboriginal families shared a single longhouse and the air was fetid, not only from heat and sweat, but because they used the floor as a communal toilet, pissing and shitting through the slatted floorboards onto the ground below. The fetid air was therefore filled at all times with swarms of flies and mosquitoes.

  ‘You’d smell less if you stuck your head down a toilet bowl,’ Marty told Bulldog. ‘Even I find the stench hard to take– and I’ve been to Malaya!’

  ‘Malaya was bloody civilized compared to this,’ Bulldog responded. ‘I’d rather spend a year in a swamp in Malaya than a day in this longhouse. There’s no comparison, Marty.’

  ‘Too true, boss. Too bloody true.’

  Luckily, the SAS troopers were also called upon to explore the surrounding territory and fill in the blank spaces on their maps, showing waterways suitable for boat navigation, tracks that could be classified as main or secondary, distances both in linear measurements and marching hours, contours and accessibility of specific areas, primary and secondary jungle (belukar), and swamps and clearings under cultivation (ladang). They also filled their logbooks with important details about the natives’ habits and customs, including the variety of their weapons and each man’s individual measure of importance within the community. Finally, they marked down potential ambush positions, border-crossing points and suitable locations for parachute drops and helicopter landings.

  While this invaluable work was conducted in the suffocating humidity of the jungle, it was,in Marty’s view, infinitely preferable to socializing in the stinking longhouses.

  ‘I’m beginning to likethis jungle,’ Marty said, ‘and that must mean I’m going mad.’

  ‘No argument,’ Bulldog said.

  By the end of the first two weeks, close relationships had been formed between the villagers and the SAS troopers, with the former willing to listen to the latter and do favours for them. Sensing by this that the time was right to step up the campaign, the squadron commander, Major Adam Parsons, in consultation with the more experienced Sergeant Pankhurst, decided to ask the village headman if they could bring in regular troops, a ‘step-up party’, and fortify the kampong. After lengthy negotiations, which included Major Parsons’ promise to let the SAS helicopters be used to transport the Iban’s livestock to local markets, the headman agreed. He also offered his villagers as labourers to help clear a part of the jungle for a landing zone.

  The following day, Iban tribesmen expertly felled a large number of trees with small axes, dragged them away with ropes, then flattened the cleared area to make a helicopter LZ. A couple of hours later, Army Air Corps Wessex helicopters appeared above the treetops, creating a tremendous din and a whirlwind of swirling foliage, before descending vertically into the cleared area and disgorging many small, brown-faced Gurkhas, all armed with sharpened kukris, or machetes, as well as modern weapons. When the next wave of helicopters arrived, they brought Royal Marine Commandos, the regular Army, or greens, and the remainder of D Squadron SAS, all of whom were armed to the teeth.

  With the arrival of this Security Forces step-up party, the fortification of the kampong was soon accomplished and it became, in effect, a forward operating base, an FOB, complete with landing pads for the resup helicopters, riverside sangars manned with Bren guns and Gurkhas armed with SLRs, and defensive pits, or ‘hedgehogs’, encircled by thatch-andbamboo-covered forty-gallon drums, bristling with machine guns and mortars.

  The bartering of portable radios, simple medical aid and other items beloved by the villagers rapidly ensured that the SF troops became a welcomed body of men within the community– so much so that eventually the natives were making endless requests for helicopter trips to outlying kampongs and help with the transportation, also by helicopter, of their rice and tapioca, timber, children, old people and even pigs and chickens to market. In short, they came to rely more on the soldiers and airmen than on their own civilian administration.

  By now the SAS team had its own quarters in a separate longhouse on the edge of the village, from there they broadcast daily reports to the SAS HQ, the Haunted House, in Brunei. By this time, also, most of the first batch of SAS men, including Marty, had lost a lot of weight from either living in the longhouse for weeks at a time or venturing into the jungle to watch, listen, patrol and report. In either environment they were constantly dripping sweat and gasping for air.

  Even when making the shortest hikes through the jungle, they often found themselves dragging their booted feet laboriously through mud as thick and clinging as quicksand, or wading chest-deep through swamp water in which heavy palm leaves and broken branches were floating. These physical demands were in no way eased by the constant strain of trying to look and listen for signs of the enemy, who was known to be able to blend with the jungle as well as the animals. Their first two months, then, living with the Dyaks, placed an enervating physical and mental strain on them, which led to an even greater loss of weight.

  ‘Now we all look as pale and emaciated as Will Pankhurst,’ Marty said to Bulldog as he was shaving with the aid of a small mirror pinned to a tree trunk.

  ‘My missus would kill for our diet,’ Bulldog responded, ‘so I think we should count our blessings, mate.’

  ‘I stand corrected, Staff Sergeant.’

  Once the Gurkhas, Royal Marine Commandos, British Army and other SAS personnel had moved into the kampong and completed its fortification, the smaller SAS patrols were able to move deeper into the jungle on reconnaissance missions, which never brought them into contacts with the enemy but enabled them to collect a great deal of intelligence about the environment and terrain– some of it in the form of photos taken by Marty. Eventually, however, when four Dyaks who were clearing another LZ for the SF helicopters were found dead– obviously shot by a passing Indonesian or CCO patrol – Major Parsons decided to send patrols even deeper into the jungle to seek out the enemy and, if necessary, engage with them.

  The hearts-and-minds campaign had ended. The real war was beginning.

  Chapter Five

  Operating through his new FOB in the jungle and with SF men dug in over a broad defensive arc around it, Major Parsons began sending out more ambitious patrols, trying to track down the infiltrators and put a stop to them. Because they knew each other and had worked well together before, Bulldog Bellamy, Marty, Taff Hughes and Pat O’Connor were put together in one patrol, along with an experienced newcomer, Trooper Tommy Taylor, and three Dyak trackers. The patrol was to hike into the high jungle hills of the Pueh Range and back down to the lowlands in the hope of locating a CCO forward base used by the terrorists somewhere in the region of Batu Hitam, or Black Rock.

  Before moving out, the men painted their weapons with quick-drying green camouflage paint, then wrapped them in the strips of cloth specially dyed to match the jungle background and disguise their distinctive shape. After wrapping masking tape around the butts, pistol grips and top-covers, they replaced the noisy sling swivels with para-cord, which made no sound at all. They also camouflaged themselves, applying ‘cam’ cream to the exposed areas of their skin, including the backs of their hands, wrists, ears and neck.

  The patrol was escorted by five Police Field Force scouts as far as the border. There the men moved out on their own, striking west from the border, heading into Indonesian jungle where they could as easily be ambushed as ambush an Indo patrol, which made it dangerous country.

  Within minutes of hiking into the dense jungle of the mountain range, Marty again had that oppressive awareness of vast silence, combined with a chilling absence of colour and light. The newly badged trooper, Tommy Taylor, medium-sized, slim and with the lean and hungry look of a po
or lad from the Midlands, was marching right behind him and Marty knew, from the expression on his face, that he had the same feeling. Mercifully, as they were already high in the hills, there were no swamps to brave, but almost as frightening, even to the experienced Marty, were the many aerial walkways that swayed in the wind high above the roaring rapids of the gorges, sometimes over thirty metres below.

  The first walkway they came to was a challenge for all concerned, as none of them had ever crossed one before. Even though they had all undergone parachute training and were therefore used to heights, the constant swaying and creaking of the walkways, their openness to the beating wind, the roaring of the rapids far below, and, worst of all, the illusion that there was really nothing below one’s feet – the walkway being no wider than the three lengths of bamboo laid down side by side

  – made for a stomach-churning, nerve-racking crossing that, even worse, had to be taken at a snail’s pace and seemed to take forever.

  The first time they came to a walkway, they spent a lot of time staring down at the roaring water in the gorge and then goaded each other, with a lot of bullshit, into volunteering to be the first to cross. As the patrol leader, Bulldog made a point of going first, insisting that Marty go last, directly following the inexperienced Tommy Taylor, who might suffer most. In the event, though Taylor was clearly nervous, he seemed no more so than the others and managed to reach the other side without Marty’s help.

  Marty, when it came to his turn, understood why the other men had been nervous, particularly when he was halfway across and the fragile, narrow walkway creaked dramatically and sank visibly in the middle, under his weight, while swaying even more widely from side to side, buffeted by the wind that rushed howling along the narrow gorge. Indeed, more than once he was convinced that his feet had missed the narrow walkway, or perhaps plunged between two of the bamboos, but this proved to be a mere illusion caused by glancing down and seeing only the boiling, roaring rapids. A final moment of gut-wrenching tension was then caused when he reached the end of the walkway and had to let go of the hand grips in order to leap back onto solid ground. When he did so, landing safely on the far edge of the gorge, Pat O’Connor and Taff grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him into the trees, away from the gorge. He was immensely relieved.

  ‘Nearly shit your pants, did you?’ Bulldog whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ Marty confessed.

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ Taff Hughes said, smiling beatifically. ‘It was pretty exciting, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ O’Connor exclaimed in disgust, then hurried into the forest.

  That, however, was only the first of many walkways they would have to cross as they made their way over the forest-covered, mountainous terrain. For all of them, except Taff, the walkways, no matter how many they crossed, were a constant source of nervous tension and few of them managed to get used to them. The aerial walkways were a nightmare.

  Nevertheless, though feeling immensely relieved each time they stepped off one, the men were then faced with yet another tough climb through the dense, often impenetrable undergrowth on the face of the steep, forested hills. Their aching, forward advance often involved hacking away the undergrowth with their parangs, a task rendered even more difficult and dangerous by the loose soil underfoot and the lack of something to cling to. Indeed, they often slipped back, even falling and rolling downhill, while desperately trying to keep the blade of the parang away from their face and hands as they grasped frantically for a hold on something.

  All of this was made even more frustrating by the almost suffocating humidity, the sweat dripping constantly into their eyes, and the usual swarms of fat flies, mosquitoes and midges. As it had been in Malaya, so here, too, they were faced with a disturbing number of snakes, some venomous, which slept coiled around branches or slithered across the forest paths. Also, spiders and stinging ants often fell upon them when the branches of trees were shaken accidentally.

  Even after the draining heat and humidity of the day, the high mountain ranges could be extremely cold at night. The patrol’s LUPs consisted mainly of uncovered shallow ‘scrapes’ in which they unrolled their hollow-fill sleeping bags, laid down on plastic sheeting. Above these simple bedding arrangements they raised a shelter consisting of a waterproof poncho draped over wiring stretched taut between two Y-shaped sticks, making a triangular tent with the apex pointing into the wind.

  For Marty, the nights were the hardest to take, and he suspected this was true for the others. Often too tired to sleep, tormented constantly by buzzing flies, whining mosquitoes and midges, unable to move freely or stretch cramped limbs in his narrow sleeping bag, he would drift in and out of consciousness, neither fully awake nor properly sleeping, and be tormented by thoughts of Ann Lim and by his unfulfilled sexual needs. With eyes closed, he would see her, imagine her naked, recall the sublime softness and warmth of her body and limbs, the sensual touch of her moist lips. The torment was exquisite, diabolical in its refinement, and engorged he would secretly touch himself and bring release by his own hand. He wasn’t proud of this and never would be, but it was all he could do.

  Before moving on the next morning, just before first light, he and the others meticulously removed all signs of their overnight bivvies. Even tree branches and leaves that had been disturbed were brushed back into their former positions – a tedious, but vitally necessary, routine.

  As they hiked farther west, cresting the summit of the mountain range, exploring along it, then circling back down to lower ground, the need to be alert to a chance meeting with the Land Dyaks became more pronounced. The Land Dyaks were not familiar with white men and tended to be suspicious of all strangers, including the Sea Dyaks from the coastal areas, such as the three travelling with the SAS patrol. As they were highly skilled at jungle warfare and still prone to headhunting, they were certainly a breed of native best avoided.

  At one point Bulldog helpfully informed the rest of the team that the Land Dyaks were likely to come out of the wilder forests heading toward the settlements along the Sempayang River, where there were many wet paddy-fields (as distinct from dry padis) for the growing of rice. The men saw these paddy-fields soon enough when they reached the lower slopes and began their sweaty hike along the river. The crops of seedlings, which would not be harvested until April, gave no cover, so the patrol kept mainly to the forestcovered spur, which kept them within view of the river.

  Heading upriver, sticking close to the riverbank, they made it to Batu Hitam in two hours. There, from where they were hiding at the edge of the forest, they saw a Land Dyak settlement, clearly filled with headhunters, judging by the number of shrunken heads strung over the doors of the thatched longhouses. However, they saw no trace of the Indonesians.

  Circling around the settlement, crouched low, weapons at the ready, taking note of the fact that the male Land Dyaks were armed with spears and blowpipes, they carefully checked every aspect of the village, but still saw no signs of either Indo soldiers or the CCO.

  Bitterly disappointed that they had not made contact with the enemy, let alone made a sighting of them, they had to turn around and make the same lengthy, exhausting hike all the way back to the FOB.

  Luckily, their frustration didn’t last long. A few days later, just as they were becoming bored, they were moved back to the unmapped mountain border of Sarawak, the socalled ‘Gap’, known officially as the Third Division. There they were to concentrate their efforts on the shorter frontiers between Indonesia and Brunei. Their task was to engage in aggressive raids into enemy territory.

  ‘The object,’ Major Parsons informed them, ‘is to pre-empt any likely Indonesian build-up or attack, to harass the Indos on patrol and in their camps, and to gradually compel them to move their forces away from the border.’

  Nevertheless, as this was still an unofficial war, the rules of engagement were strict. Because the major purpose of the SAS patrols was to deter or thwart aggression by the Indonesians, no attack would be moun
ted in retribution or with the sole aim of damaging the enemy. Indeed, the enemy was only to be engaged as a last defensive resort and, even when such was the case, minimum force was to be used, rather than largescale attacks, to avoid escalation.

  ‘How the fuck we use minimum force,’ the volatile Pat O’Connor complained, ‘I’d really like to know.’ ‘It means you fire only when fired upon,’ Marty

  explained.

  ‘By which time we’ll be dead and buried,’ Taff said

  mildly. ‘I don’t think I agree with this.’

  As if these restrictions were not enough, they were then informed that initial penetration distance into Indonesian territory would be a mere 4500 metres. The penetration would include the river routes used by the Indos as MSRs, or main supply routes, to move men and equipment up to the border. Where possible, the SAS were to count the boats and the men in them, and map suitable areas from which they could be ambushed from the riverbank. Then they were to locate the kampongs and bases from which the boats were coming and, if possible, enter them without alerting the sentries or dogs, reconnoitre them, then slip back into the jungle. Should it be necessary, they would engage in firefights to make their escape. The raids would be

  known as ‘Claret’ operations and classified top secret. Those first cross-border patrols were made by fiveman teams not accompanied by local guides. The teams

  carried exactly the same equipment and weapons they

  had used in Sarawak, with the main small arm being the

  Armalite assault rifle, which was now being viewed as

  the perfect jungle weapon, being both portable and

  powerful.

  ‘It’s also being used,’ Bulldog told his men,

  ‘because it’s not standard issue to the British Army, so

  if any of us are wounded or taken prisoner, we can

  claim that our presence in Indonesian territory was due

  to a map-reading error. HQ believes that this will, in the