by Shaun Clarke
‘You said any suitable target,’ Pete reminded him, ‘and these are suitable targets, boss.’
‘No, they’re not,’ Dead-eye insisted. ‘They’re mostly just locals. When we have seen Indo soldiers, they’ve been in boats too small to bother with. We need something bigger.’
‘How big, for Christ’s sake?’ Alf was close to the limit of his patience. ‘The Ark Royal won’t be coming along, so let’s settle for something less.’
‘We can’t hit anything less,’ Dead-eye told him. ‘We’ll only get one shot at it. Once we mount an attack, the word will go up and down the river and we’ll have to clear out of here. So the first one is the last one and it has to be worthwhile. That’s why we have to be patient and wait for the right one. Understood?’
Alf sighed. ‘Yes, boss.’
Nevertheless, his frustration was almost palpable, as was that of the others. The enthusiasm with which they had greeted the dawn began to disappear and was in no way improved when the rising heat brought back the flies and mosquitoes, the stench of sweat and piss, and the huge spiders that emerged from the mud to crawl relentlessly over them.
Nor did their mood lighten when the afternoon rain clouds darkened the sky and suddenly burst over them, the rain making a deafening drumming sound on the camouflaged ponchos and hitting the palm leaves so hard that they quivered rhythmically and, in some cases, were torn from their stems. So heavy was the rain that it flooded the ponchos and made them sag with the weight of water, which then poured off the edges of the ponchos and down into the OP. More water poured in from the surrounding earth and gradually flooded the ditch where Alf and Terry were lying belly-down, trying to watch the jungle.
‘It’s covering us!’ Alf complained. ‘We’ll soon have to sit up. We’ll probably have to get out of here.’
‘It’s already up to my nose and rising damned quickly,’ confirmed Terry.
Though Dead-eye and Pete were kneeling at the front of the OP, to get a good view through the windows, the water was rising there, too, and already washing around their boots.
‘The whole OP’s flooding. We’ll have to evacuate,’ Pete said to Dead-eye.
‘Damn!’ Dead-eye muttered.
At that precise moment, above the roar of thunder and the fearsome crack of lightning, he heard the distant chugging of what sounded like a large launch approaching through the downpour.
Wiping the rain from his eyes and looking up in disbelief, Dead-eye saw what was indeed a very large motor launch coming upriver around the western bend. When it had rounded the bend and was approaching him, he saw that it was crowded with enemy soldiers and piled high with supplies.
‘Perfect!’ he exclaimed, not bothering any longer to whisper, since no one other than those with him in the OP could hear him. ‘Just what I was waiting for.’
‘I’m drowning!’ Terry shouted, trying to keep his face out of the water rising rapidly in the ditch.
‘Get up, you stupid prat,’ Pete told him. ‘What the fuck are you doing down there? Playing with your toy submarine?’
Terry rolled onto his back, then quickly sat upright, shaking the water off him like a dog as Alf, also grateful to get out of the rising water, slithered up the muddy side of the ditch and stared over the river.
‘Wow!’ Alf exclaimed softly, seeing the boat for the first time. ‘What a fucking beauty!’
The big launch was now coming level with the OP, allowing them to get a good look at its cargo, as well as the men milling about on deck. The men were all fully uniformed soldiers and the cargo was mostly in large wooden crates, suggesting weapons and ammunition. The rain obscured other details.
‘I’ve got to get a picture of this,’ Alf said, removing the camera from his bergen, where he had stowed it to protect it from the rain. ‘If I can get one in this light.’
‘Then be quick about it,’ Dead-eye said. ‘It’ll pass any moment now.’ While Alf was frantically snapping away, not expecting good results, Dead-eye was squinting through the rain at the approaching boat. ‘Ok,’ he said as he checked his rifle, then uncocked it and switched to automatic fire. ‘It’s a shoot-and-scoot job. We wait until she’s passing the OP – right there in front of us – then we rake her from prow to stern. The intention is not only to finish off the troops, but also to smash the boat to hell. When she’s passed – or when what’s left of her has passed – we bug out and don’t look back. Now go to it, men.’
As the launch approached, the rain was lashing down so hard that the drops bounced off its cabin roof as well as off the river’s rushing surface, where it formed a dazzling silvery tapestry. The canvas side screens of the cabin were closed against the storm, but Dead-eye knew that there were more men behind them, most of them officers.
Them and their whores, he thought cynically. But that’s not my concern.
Having come up from the ditch, Alf and Terry spaced themselves about eight feet apart, one either side of Pete. Dead-eye then moved to direct the fire-fight from their left, on slightly lower ground that was covered by the water pouring noisily into the OP. From there, though ankle-deep in water and pounded by the rain, he had a clear view of the river as it swung downstream to the right, flowing to the south-east, past the Indonesians’ trading settlement at Seluas.
As the launch drew level with the OP and then passed it like a great whale strung with glowing oil lamps obscured by the heavy rain, the rest of the men checked their weapons, cocked them, switched to automatic fire, then braced themselves and took aim.
‘The rest of you fire when I do,’ Dead-eye told them, squinting along the sights of his SLR.
He saw the prow of the launch through his night-vision sight, with the enemy soldiers gathered near it, staring along the river, some shielding their eyes against the rain with cupped hands, others huddled under their ponchos, playfully punching one another and giggling. Other men, the heavily armed crack troops, were, like their officers, hidden by canvas screens over the open deck near the stern.
The prow slipped out of view and the main deck appeared, packed with soldiers huddled around the piles of crates, most leaning against the tarpaulins, with their ponchos wrapped tightly about them to keep out the rain. That picture also moved on, slipping out of sight, ghostlike in the eerie green glow of Dead-eye’s night-vision sight.
Then the bulwark came into view, in the dead centre of his sight, with more soldiers, obviously officers, standing near the steering wheel and pointing at the jungle, where the thunder was rumbling and the lightning was daggering through black clouds. They were obviously concerned more about the storm than anything else, which was fine by Dead-eye.
He got one officer dead in his sights, then pressed the trigger of his SLR, which roared in his right ear. The officer went into a convulsion, frantically throwing up his arms, then spun backwards, almost somersaulting, and fell out of sight.
Dead-eye kept firing as the bulwark moved on and was replaced with the stern. By this time Pete, Alf and Terry had also opened fire and the boat, while slipping past his line of vision, was turned into a hell of exploding wood, flying shards of smashed glass, running, ducking, falling, screaming men, and expanding, dazzling balls of fire from exploding oil lamps.
Within the space of thirty seconds Alf and Terry had each put their full twenty rounds into the launch, one magazine full, just as Dead-eye had ordered. Dead-eye had added fifteen rounds of his own and Pete had fired half a magazine before Dead-eye called ‘Stop!’
All four immediately reloaded with a full magazine, as was the standard drill. Though he had half a magazine left, Pete did the same because he did not want to be caught in another action with only ten rounds.
When Dead-eye opened fire again, the rest followed suit.
While Dead-eye continued taking out the soldiers still on deck, Alf and Terry hammered away at the launch’s waterline, hoping to either tear it to shreds or put enough bullets into it to flood it and sink it.
Meanwhile, Pete’s SLR jammed. Cursing,
he checked the weapon and cleared the stoppage in seconds. He began firing again as some of the soldiers, who had been laughing happily just a few seconds before, were set on fire by the burning oil from the exploded lamps and threw themselves screaming over the side of the boat, preferring to drown rather than burn to death.
By now the sustained fire aimed at the waterline had begun to have its desired effect and the launch had begun to list, with flames dancing up from the spilled oil blazing on the decks, black smoke billowing up and blowing backwards on the wind, and burning men pushing aside the canvas screens to jump over the side. Splashing into the river, which was now torrential because of the torrential rain, they were either swept downstream, fighting to stay afloat, or smashed into the high, muddy banks, where they were knocked unconscious and sank.
Smoke hung low in the heavy rain as it spread from beneath the canvas screens now flapping loose on the deck of the burning, listing, sinking launch.
Knowing that the boat’s signaller had almost certainly transmitted an alarm call as soon as he heard the firing, and not wanting to be around when enemy choppers arrived to rake the vicinity with their guns or deposit troops sent to find the SAS ambush party, Dead-eye stopped firing and waved at Alf and Terry to withdraw.
After locking their SLRs and slinging them over their shoulders, Alf and Terry picked up their bergens, strapped them to their backs, then made a dash for the rubber trees, covered by Dead-eye and Pete, who watched the river, blinking repeatedly and squinting into the rain to check that no enemy patrols were coming along the bank.
Once in the relative safety of the jungle, Alf and Terry adopted firing positions, ready to give covering fire if any Indonesians appeared, while Dead-eye and Pete clambered out of the flooded, muddy OP and ran for the trees.
Suddenly, Dead-eye darted back to the ditch.
‘What the fuck …?’ Imagining that Dead-eye had seen enemy riflemen in the plantations, Pete, as number two, followed him back to the OP. Dead-eye, however, had only gone back to retrieve the large communal water bottle.
‘We’ve a long way to go,’ he explained, ‘Besides, we don’t want to leave anything that might help the Indos identify us. That’s it, Pete. Let’s go.’
Glancing back at the river, they saw the Indonesian boat, now listing heavily and on fire from prow to stern, sinking into the river, while the soldiers still alive were either burnt to death in the blazing oil slicks spreading out from the sinking vessel or were swept away in the swift waters, now merely part of the debris.
Satisfied, Dead-eye led Pete back to Alf and Terry, then the four men fled into the jungle.
15
As they moved back into the ulu, Dead-eye and the others saw the light of an explosion through the mist and rain, flaring up over the river and the rubber plantation, indicating that the launch had rolled onto its side and was finally sinking.
‘We did it,’ Pete said. ‘The fucker’s gone down. We pulled it off, boys.’
‘Which is exactly why we have to keep moving,’ Dead-eye said. ‘That boat will have sent out an SOS the minute we opened fire on it. The Indos are going to be on our tail, so we’ve no time to waste. Let’s get the hell out of here.’
Burdened down with their bergens, they embarked on the short, difficult hike back over the maze of watery channels, dry banks and curtains of bamboo until they reached the southern tip of the swamp, bordered by a dense tangle of belukar. Forced to stoop down under the lower branches and palm leaves, they had an arduous trek for the next hour, their backs breaking and every muscle taut. It was therefore a relief when they could straighten up again and advance like human beings, even though each step took them deeper into the scum-covered water.
As Dead-eye led them along at a pace that showed no mercy, with each man distanced safely from the one ahead, a king cobra hidden in a branch about four feet above the water suddenly reared its large, plate-shaped hood and started hissing aggressively, ready to strike at Dead-eye’s chest.
Almost as quick and as deadly as the snake, Dead-eye aimed his SLR at its swaying head, then froze motionless, holding the barrel absolutely steady, practically touching the snake’s open, salivating jaws and darting forked tongue.
The rest of the men, spaced well apart behind Dead-eye, froze as well, not knowing why he had stopped.
Still standing there frozen, with the barrel of his SLR practically down the great snake’s throat, Dead-eye did not know quite what to do. Certainly, he knew that to fire the rifle might give away his patrol’s position.
Pete, standing a few yards behind him, knew this also, which explains why, though having seen the snake, he was aiming at it, but not actually firing. In fact, Pete was not only worried about a shot alerting the enemy. He was concerned that, since his two friends behind him could not see what was happening, they might think the shot was from an Indonesian patrol and therefore take the required evasive action, breaking away from the single-file formation and melting into the ulu, possibly to never be seen again.
So for those two reasons, though seeing the snake spitting and hissing only inches from Dead-eye’s face, Pete could not bring himself to press the trigger.
As for Alf and Terry, neither knew why Dead-eye had stopped, so they prepared for any eventuality and were ready to fire.
Dead-eye did not move a muscle. He out-stared the hissing creature. Eventually, the snake, having no cause to strike the rock-still sergeant, retracted its hood, slid away and disappeared behind a log in the muddy ground.
Dead-eye heaved a sigh of relief. He hurried up to Pete, who shook his head in disbelief, then they both glanced back in the direction they had come from. Even here, a good half mile from the river, they could still smell the smoke and burning oil from the sinking launch.
‘Let’s go,’ Dead-eye whispered.
They waded deeper into the swamp, forced as usual to endure the swarms of flies, mosquitoes and midges, constantly alert for sea snakes, concentrating at all times on not breaking an ankle on one of the many large stones on the swamp bed, or losing balance by treading on an underwater log, or sinking or slipping in the clinging mud. Also forced as usual to carry their SLRs above their heads to keep them dry, they soon had badly aching muscles and sharp, stabbing pains between their shoulder blades.
This time, at least, Dead-eye was using a map annotated by himself from the previous journey, so he had only to retrace his own footsteps, as it were, to get them back to the RV on the other side of the border. The enemy, however, had other ideas.
The SAS men’s first indication that they were being followed was when an Indonesian Army helicopter flew low overhead, obviously searching the swamp. Seeing it, they froze where they where, hoping that their camouflaged clothes would make them merge into the swamp and that their lack of movement would leave no rippling wake on the water that could be seen from above.
When the helicopter disappeared, the men moved on again, but less than twenty minutes later a second helicopter appeared, this time suddenly roaring out of the southern sky and hovering right above where they were wading through a stretch of swamp covered with tangled, obstructing vegetation. Holding their rifles up with one hand and hacking at the dense foliage with a parang held in the other, they were taken by surprise and had no time to freeze before the pilot saw them and brought the chopper down to hover right over them.
An enemy soldier was kneeling behind a machine-gun fixed to the floor at the open side door of the helicopter. When he saw the men struggling through the swamp, he opened fire on them. With the helicopter hovering dangerously close to the trees and swaying slightly from side to side, the gunner had difficulty in keeping his aim steady. His first burst therefore went wide, making the water boil violently some yards from the men. This gave them time to wade behind the nearest tree trunks, from where they were able to fire back with their SLRs switched to automatic. Instead of ascending, the chopper actually dropped lower to give the gunner a better view of his target.
Now Pete
and Alf appreciated having the more powerful SLR, rather than the lighter Armalite, for they were able to put some bullets into the helicopter, stitching a line just above the door and hitting something inside that burst into flames.
Sucked out on the helicopter’s own slipstream, the flames roared through the open door to engulf the unfortunate gunner, whose screams were like nothing remotely human. As the helicopter ascended, still on fire and pouring smoke, a crewman inside, attempting to put out the flames, kicked out the blazing, screaming gunner. He fell like a blazing projectile, kicking and screaming, leaving a vertical stream of smoke to mark his downward course, and was only silenced when he plunged into the swamp a good distance away. The helicopter turned around and headed back the way it had come, still pouring smoke.
‘He’ll tell the others where we are,’ Dead-eye said. ‘Now they’ll start coming after us. We’d better make tracks.’
They continued wading through the swamp, passing the dead pilot, whose charred, smouldering body was sinking slowly, then heading deeper into an area covered with overhanging belukar. When another helicopter flew overhead, the belukar hid them from view, but half an hour later they saw another chopper behind them, this one a larger transport, hovering low enough to enable a good dozen troopers to climb down a rope ladder into the swamp where the first pilot had seen them.
‘Shit!’ Dead-eye softly exclaimed. ‘That’s what I feared. We’d better move faster.’
They continued their laborious, exhausting advance through the swamp, now desperate to get out of it and onto dry land, even if it was belukar, before the Indonesians caught up with them. Unfortunately, about fifteen minutes later, another transport helicopter flew overhead and deposited a second group of enemy troopers about a mile directly ahead of them.
‘They know where we are,’ Dead-eye said, ‘and what direction we’re heading in. They’re going to cordon off the whole swamp and move in on all sides.’
Now it was Pete’s turn to softly whisper, ‘Shit!’ He glanced about him, in every direction, as if expecting to see the enemy burst out of the undergrowth. ‘What the fuck do we do?’