by Shaun Clarke
Climbing down from the Bedford with his Bergen and kit belts, Marty stepped into fierce heat, drifting dust and clouds of buzzing flies and whining mosquitoes. He selected one of the large bivouac tents and entered with Taff and Tommy, finding only rows of camp beds covered in mosquito netting and resting on the hard desert floor.
‘Shit!’ Tommy exclaimed.
‘Home sweet home,’ Marty said, grinning.
After picking a basha, each man unrolled his sleeping bag and placed his kit belt down as a rough pillow. Already bitten repeatedly by mosquitoes, Marty was now also covered in a film of dust, which would prove to be permanent. When he looked at the others, he noted that they were the same.
‘Just like North Africa,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Tommy retorted. ‘That was before my time, boss, when I was just a nipper.’
‘You make me feel so old,’ Marty said. ‘Let’s go for a beer.’
Given the rest of the day to explore the camp, they headed straight for the large NAAFI tent, which had a front wall of polyurethane cartons, originally the packing for weapons. Inside were a lot of six-foot trestle tables and benches, at which some men were drinking beer, either straight from the bottle or from pint mugs. Surprisingly, a lot of frogs were jumping about on the dusty ground between the tables, completely ignored by the drinking men. The barman, young, shirtless, smoking a pipe and sitting beside a graffiti-covered refrigerator, told them to help themselves to whatever they wanted and then write their names and details of what they’d had on the piece of paper weighed down by a stone on top of the fridge.
‘The system works on trust,’ he explained, ‘and you’ll be billed at the end of each week, so help yourselves and enjoy.’
Sitting at one of the tables beside Taff and Tommy, relaxing with a couple of Tiger beers, Marty engaged the amiable barman, Private Paul Redfield, in conversation.
‘So what do you do here for fun in the evenings?’ he asked.
‘Not much,’ Redfield replied. ‘It’s hardly Piccadilly Circus and you don’t get much free time anyway. The evenings always begin with “prayers”, a meeting of personnel where the ops captain reads out the day’s news about Dhofar, followed by a summary of world news. If you don’t attend without good cause you get a fine. “Prayers” is followed by dinner in the mess tent, then the evening’s actually free. You either spend it right here, running up a tab, or at the outdoor cinema where you can see the latest English or Yank movies. Of course during the movies those fucking hedgehogs outside are picking up readings of ground movement on their Battlefield Surveillance radar and so they let rip with mortars and GPMGs. They make a hell of a noise, as you know. Naturally, the adoo on the jebel return the fire and all hell’s let loose. Not that it stops anyone watching the movies. Most of the men just sit on despite the noise. They just have to strain to hear the soundtrack and try to ignore all the gunfire. Afterwards, they usually come in here for another couple of beers.’
‘Anything else interesting?’ Tommy asked him.
Redfield grinned sardonically. ‘Oh, yeah. We call it “shaking out” and it’s a fucking nightly ritual. You have to shake out your bedclothes before getting into your basha– because apart from all the frogs, this camp’s a fucking haven for giant crickets and flying beetles. Then there’s fucking hornets, red and black ants, centipedes and camel spiders. Oh, and venomous scorpions. Those buggers are particularly fond of taking shelter in your boots, socks and clothes.’
‘We’ll shake out,’ Tommy said.
Finishing their beers, Marty and his two friends went exploring and soon saw that the only two solid buildings, apart from the Wali’s fort, were being used as an armoury and a radio operations room. They also saw that the camp contained an unusual mixture of Batmen (members of the British Army Training Teams, or BATT), spooks (intelligence officers, or green slime), Signals, Ordnance, REME (Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers), Catering Corps, the Royal Corps of Transport (RCT) and the four different regiments of the SAF: the Muscat Regiment, the Northern Frontier Regiment, the Desert Regiment, and the Jebel Regiment. The men of the different Omani regiments were distinguishable from one another by their different berets: red, green, grey and sandcoloured. However, when in the field, the berets would be traded for black-and-maroon-patterned shemaghs, which the SAS could also wear, as protection against the dust and sand, when the time came for them to tackle the plateau of the Jebel Dhofar. A few Arab SAF officers could be seen here and there, but most were British – either seconded officers on loan from the British Army or contract officers, whom Marty viewed cynically as mercenaries.
Periodically, the 25-pounder guns roared from inside their protective rings of forty-gallon drums, about a hundred metres from the camp’s wired perimeter. The noise was tremendous, with smoke and flame belching out of the long barrels and the backblast making dust billow up around the Omani gunners, who invariably covered their ears with their hands to block out the clamour. When Marty saw the shells exploding in spiralling columns of dust and smoke on the slopes of the Jebel Dhofar, he realized that the SAF gunners were firing on the mountain to deter the adoo hiding in the wadis from coming closer to the camp. The SAF guns fired with monotonous regularity throughout the day.
Early that evening, just before last light, the newcomers were called to a briefing that took place in a corner of the marquee tent known as the ‘Hotel’. There they found the CO, Lieutenant Phillip Barkwell, waiting for them with an officer, presumably green slime, though this could not be confirmed immediately because, like the CO, he was wearing only a plain shirt, shorts and sandals. After introducing himself and confirming that the other officer, Captain Mark Yarrow, was indeed green slime, the CO explained that while they were in this camp the SAS men would not wear identification discs, badges of rank, cap badges or formation signs because, though they were in the country at the Sultan’s invitation, there were those, both in Oman and in Great Britain, who would disapprove of their presence here.
Marty knew what he meant. Not everyone considered the SAS’s aims in Oman to be laudable. In fact, Britain had been accused of supporting a cruel, reactionary regime merely to protect its oil interests. Though Marty happened to believe this was true, he also believed it was justified. Britain could not survive without the oil, so it had to be protected. It was as simple as that.
‘The war is well engaged here,’ the CO informed them, ‘and is starting to turn in our favour. Between September 1970 and March the following year, two hundred adoo surrendered to the government. We then formed them into firqat units whose first action was the assault on Sudh, thirty kilometres east of Mirbat. When that ended successfully, we decided to launch an offensive on the Jebel Dhofar itself, and the following month, with the help of the firqats, we managed to take Eagle’s Nest, a position of caves and ridges on the edge of the plateau, despite heavy enemy attacks that lasted for a week. Now, in order to bring civil aid to the people and the hearts-and-minds campaign to full fruition, we have to establish firm bases on the jebel. For this purpose, we’re about to launch an assault on the mountain. Codenamed Operation Jaguar, it’ll be a force of one hundred SAS, two hundred and fifty SAF, a few British Askars and five firqat units, totalling three hundred men, making eight hundred men in all. Two positions, Jibjat and White City, will be secured in addition to the creation of the Leopard Line, a barrier consisting of barbed wire, booby traps, landmines and ground sensors designed to cut off guerrilla supplies coming into Dhofar. This assault will take place approximately two weeks from now, preferably during a night when there’s a full moon. In the meantime, please note – ’
He was cut short when the 25-pounders roared from the SAF emplacements near the camp’s perimeter. Waiting until the noise had died away, he continued: ‘Please note that in all matters relating to Oman, the SAF and firqats must be seen to be their own men and the SAS are officially engaged only in a support role. Please note, also, that the firqats are volatile by nature and also bound by Islamic restri
ctions, such as the holy month of Ramadan, when they require special dispensation to fight. When they fight, they can be ferocious, but they’ll stop at any time for the most trivial reasons – usually arguments over who does what or gets what, perhaps some imagined insult. This makes them highly unreliable and that’s something you’ll just have to learn to live with. As for the enemy, the adoo, they’re fierce, committed fighters and legendary marksmen who can pick a target at four hundred metres and virtually melt back into the mountainside or desert. As for the Jebel Dhofar itself, it’s approximately nine hundred metres high and scorched by the desert sun, so the climb, even apart from the problems of adoo snipers, will be considerable. Please don’t underestimate the difficulties and be prepared for anything.’
He was interrupted again by the growling of some Saladin armoured cars moving out of the camp. After waiting until the noise had faded away, he finalized with: ‘In the meantime, while you wait for the assault to begin, you’ll be given a thorough indoctrination and educational course. This will include a tour of the whole area with particular emphasis on the increasingly successful hearts-and-minds campaign. The SAS civil aid programme has been in full swing since February 1971, with the BATT teams establishing clinics for the people and their animals, as well as bringing in advanced drilling equipment to bore new wells or open up old ones that were sealed on the orders of the new deposed Sultan Sin bin Taimur. In order to familiarize you with this, you’ll be broken up into three-man teams, with each assigned an experienced Batman to act as a guide. Given the dangers extant outside this camp, you will, even if of greater rank, do exactly what your Batman says. You’ll now find your chosen Batman waiting for you outside this tent. Thank you, gentlemen. Dismissed.’
Marty, Taff and Tommy wangled themselves into the same team under the supervision of Batman John Crowley, a laconic, broad-shouldered sergeant, formerly 3rd Battalion, Queen’s Regiment. For the next two weeks they were drivenaround the area in Crowley’s dusty, battered Land Rover, taking turns at driving, with Crowley in the front passenger seat, pointing out the sights, and the other two men in the rear, all keeping their eyes peeled for adoo snipers. The heat was fierce, burning out of a sheer blue sky that often looked white, so to ensure that they didn’t dehydrate, they took along a plentiful supply of water bottles and chajugles– small canvas sacks, rather like goat skins, that could be filled with water and hung outside the vehicle to stay cool. Just as the RCT drivers had done on their day of arrival, Marty and his two mates always drove alongside the roads, rather than on them, to minimize the risk from landmines laid down by the adoo.
Sometimes, to escape the heat, Sergeant Crowley instructed them to drive along the beaches, covered with crabs, lined with windblown palm trees, running parallel to rushing surf and the white waves of a turquoise sea. Yet no matter where they went, inland or by the sea, the view was dominated by the towering gravel plateau of the Jebel Dhofar, reminding them that soon they would have to climb it and that they might die while doing so.
Marty, though thinking about this a lot, was looking forward to it. This might be his last tour of active service and he wanted to make the most of it.
As he drove through the main gates that first morning, with Crowley beside him and Taff and Tommy in the rear, the 25-pounders in the hedgehogs just outside the perimeter fired on the jebel, creating an almighty row, streams of smoke and billowing clouds of dust, reminding him that the adoo often mounted small raids against the camp, coming down from the mountain during the night to plant landmines around the base or dig themselves in for a bit of sniping during the day. He was also reminded of this when a Saladin armoured car moved out across the barren plain ahead, through clouds of windblown dust, to sweep the surrounding tracks, clear any mines left, and search for hidden adoo snipers.
After driving for three miles, following Crowley’s instructions, the Land Rover bouncing constantly over the rough gravel-and-sand terrain beside the dirt track, they arrived at the guarded perimeter of RAF Salalah, passed the main gate by the single-storey SOAF HQ, then kept going until they came to where the Strikemaster jets and Skyvan cargo planes were being serviced in dispersal bays encircled by empty fortygallon drums. There they were introduced to the seminaked, sweating Corporal Arthur ‘Art’ Wellman of 55 Air Despatch Squadron, Royal Corps of Transport, normally based on Thorney Island, recently on a threemonth tour of detachment to the army camp in Muharraq, Bahrain, but now here to supervise the resup support.
When the introductions had been completed, Wellman pointed inside the cargo hold, where other semi-naked men, all RCT loadmasters, were lashing semi-naked men, all RCT loadmasters, were lashing kilogram breaking cords.
‘This is what we drop to our lads in the FOBs at places like Simba, Akoot and Jibjat,’ he explained. ‘Mortar bombs, HE phosphorous and smoke grenades, 7.62mm ball and belt ammo, compo rations and water in jerry cans, four to a bundle. We also drop food resups to the firqats out in the field, since those mad bastards are quick to go on strikeif they think they’re being ignored. Fierce fighters, yes, but also a bunch of fucking children, always having tantrums.’ Moving to the other side of the cargo hold, he pointed to some bundles wrapped in plastic parachute bags for extra protection. ‘Scran for the firqats,’ he explained. ‘Tins of curried mutton or fish, rice, flour, spices, dates, and the oil they use for cooking. And those’ – he pointed at bundles of papers wrapped in string– ‘are propaganda leaflets to be dropped on the locals and the adoo as part of our hearts-andminds campaign. Give ’em something to read, right?’ Finally, he pointed at some forty-gallon drums lined up on the peri track by the runway. ‘Our homemade incendiary bombs,’ he explained. ‘We call ’em Burma bombs. The drums are filled with aviation oil, or Avtur, with polyurethane dissolved in it to thicken it. The drums are sealed, six Shemolly flares are fixed to each side of them, they’re fitted with cruciform harnesses, and then they’re rolled out the back of the Skyvan to cause fan-fucking-tastic explosions. Mostly, we use ’em for burning fields cultivated by the adoo for food, but we also use ’em as support for ground troops when the Strikemaster jets aren’t available.’
‘Why call them “Burmail bombs”?’ Taff asked.
Wellman shrugged. ‘I’d say it’s because “Burmail” is an Arabic word for oil drums, but others insist it’s a derivation from “Burmah Oil” or the Burmah Oil Company. Who the fuck cares? The buggers work a treat, believe me, and that’s all that matters.’
Leaving the SOAF camp, they drove back out into the sunscorched desert plain where they saw Jebelis taking care of small herds of goats or carrying their wares, mostly firewood, on camels en route to Salalah. Later, they were forced to wait for ages at the main gate of the old town while the Sultan’s armed guards, the Askouris, searched through the bundles of firewood on the camels of other traders to ensure that they weren’t smuggling arms for adoo supporters. Eventually, when the camels had passed through and their own papers had been checked by the same Askouris, the SAS men were allowed to drive on into the town, passing through a cluster of mud huts to an oasis of palm trees and lush green grass. Circling around the large jail building near the oasis, they arrived at the white-painted, fortified Sultan’s palace, guarded by gendarmes armed with .303 Short-Magazine Lee-Enfield, or SMLE, rifles.
Once he had shown them the palace, explaining that it was now used by Qaboos as an administrative centre, Crowley guided Marty back out through the walled town’s main gates and down to the shore, where he ordered him to head for Taqa, located halfway between Salalah and Mirbat. The drive took them along the shore, with the ravishing turquoise sea on one side and rows of palm-and-date trees on the other. As the surf of the sea carried a cool breeze towards them, the journey was quite pleasant, though Marty had to be careful of not getting stuck in the soft sand. Also, as he had seen before, there were a great many crabs, sometimes in their hundreds, scuttling in both directions across the beach like monstrous ants and being crushed noisily under the wheels of the boun
cing Land Rover.
On the approach to Taqa, Marty found himself driving into the shallow water of a small bay. Engaging the four-wheel drive, he got them across to dry land, then drove on past high cliffs and sand dunes until they arrived at a second beach. There, flocks of seagulls were winging hungrily over piles of rotting, stinking fish that were scattered between the fishing boats. Passing the boats and the Arab fishermen sitting in them, repairing their nets, they arrived at a modest village of mud huts. At the end of the single, dusty street were two buildings taller than the others, one with the Omani flag flying from it.
‘The building with the flag,’ Sergeant Crowley explained, ‘is the Wali’s house. The other’s the BATT house.’
On the first floor of the BATT house they found three of the Batmen, all stripped to the waist and pouring sweat, brewing tea. After shaking hands with Marty and the other newcomers, they offered steaming tea in tin mugs, sitting around a six-foot trestle table. As one of the Batmen explained what was happening in the general area, Marty glanced around the room and saw that the shelves were stacked with tins of compo rations and cooking utensils, indicating that this area was used as a combined kitchen and mess room. SLR and M16 rifles were stacked up in a corner, along with boxes of grenades, webbing, phosphorous flares and other ammunition.
‘You want to see what we do here?’ the Batman in charge, Sergeant Harry Smithers, asked.
‘That’s why we’re here,’ Crowley replied.
‘Then let’s go,’ Smithers said, leading them out of the BATT house. Once outside, back in the scorching heat, he took them around the dusty village and showed them the various enterprises of the Batmen, including new irrigation methods for the fields, improvements in animal husbandry, and a medical clinic consisting of a makeshift, corrugated-iron shed and a single trestle table where a lot of Omanis in shemaghs and djellabas were waiting excitedly to be treated.