by Shaun Clarke
Pete raised his right fist and shook it, grinning like a loon, then he and the others hurried away from the inferno before the smoke choked them.
Infuriated, the Indonesians redoubled their efforts to either destroy or capture the SAS patrol. Shortly after another helicopter had skimmed over the jungle canopy, staying well out of gunshot range and merely tracking those below, relaying their position to the soldiers on the ground, enemy mortars started firing repeatedly. The explosions erupted all around the fleeing SAS men, showering them with soil and vegetation, but not actually hitting them. While the explosions continued, the enemy troops advanced faster than ever, zigzagging from one tree to the other and gradually catching up.
Not willing to call for a helicopter lift while they were on the Indonesian side of the border and the enemy were so close, but determined to protect the radio at all costs, Dead-eye urged the patrol on while he took up the rear and picked off the soldiers as they appeared. One went down, then another, a third and a fourth. Temporarily foiled, the remainder stopped advancing and took cover behind the trees, only reappearing long enough to fire short bursts at Dead-eye, where he was kneeling behind a bamboo screen.
One of the Indonesians climbed up a tree to try and locate Dead-eye’s precise position. Dead-eye accounted for him with a single shot and the man spun off the branch and plunged screaming to the jungle floor, smashing through branches and kicking up a cloud of soil and mud when he thumped into the ground. Another started climbing and was also picked off, likewise crashing down through the trees.
Seeing the futility of what they were doing, the Indonesians remained in hiding, but unleashed a concentrated barrage of mortar shells on the general vicinity as determined by the sound of Dead-eye’s gunfire. They were not too far off. The forest around Dead-eye became a hell of exploding earth and foliage, with trees set on fire and the smoke gradually swirling around Dead-eye.
Choking, he jumped up and ran, following the rest of the patrol. Seeing him, the Indonesians released a fusillade of fire that had bullets whipping past his head and blowing lumps of bark off the trees. He dropped low, turned around, fired a short burst, then jumped up and ran again, repeating this time and again until he was within sight of the patrol.
As Dead-eye approached, Pete and Alf knelt facing him, shielding Terry and the radio, and laid down a fusillade of fire that forced the enemy to take cover again. When Dead-eye reached them, he saw Terry standing nervously at an aerial walkway that spanned a deep gorge. Looking down, momentarily dizzy, Dead-eye saw a river squeezing through a bottle-neck of large rocks and emerging at the other side, directly below the walkway, as a raging torrent.
‘Christ!’ he whispered involuntarily.
‘My knees are shaking, boss,’ Terry said, wiping sweat from his face. ‘I don’t think I can cross this.’
‘You have to. We all have to.’
‘It makes me dizzy just to look down.’
‘Don’t look down. Look straight ahead. Keep your eyes fixed on the jungle at the other side and pretend you’re on solid ground. Do it now, lad. Don’t hesitate.’
Terry wiped sweat from his face, took a deep breath, stepped forward and then stopped again.
‘I can’t!’
‘Yes, you can.’ Dead-eye pushed him gently, but Terry still would not move. Only when bullets started whipping around them did he step onto the walkway, taking one tentative step, then stopping again to grab the horizontal bamboo railing on his right, the other hand being engaged with his SLR.
This simple movement caused Terry to glance sideways, probably to check that he was really holding the railing; but then his gaze took in the wide spaces between the uprights, the fragile look of the bamboo walkway, and the raging torrent that wound between the rocky walls of the gorge a good 100 feet down.
Terry started sweating and shaking. Clearly, he was more frightened at being on the swaying walkway than he was of the bullets still whistling about him. Pete and Alf, meanwhile, were still facing the Indonesians, keeping them pinned down as much as possible with short bursts of fire.
‘Get moving, Terry,’ Dead-eye said.
‘This bridge is moving, boss!’
‘It moves, but it’s not about to break apart. It’s just the way they’re built, Terry. Start walking. Don’t look down.’
‘I can’t move, boss. I’m sorry.’
Dead-eye turned around and saw the enemy in the ulu, either lying in the tall grass and only jumping up to get off a quick shot or sticking their heads out from behind the trees for the same reason. Pete and Alf were still kneeling by the walkway, their SLRs roaring in turn as they kept the Indonesians pinned down.
‘I’m going to take Terry over the walkway,’ Dead-eye told them. ‘Try to keep those bastards back until we get to the other side. When we do, I’ll give you covering fire until you get across.’
‘Right, boss,’ Pete said.
Dead-eye stepped onto the walkway. As soon as he did so, it moved, swaying a little from left to right. It was being shaken constantly by the wind sweeping through the gorge, but it swayed more with each move Dead-eye took, which made it seem very dangerous.
Dead-eye grabbed the bamboo support on his right. Looking down, he felt dizzy. The walkway itself was only the width of its three lengths of thick bamboo, laid down side by side and strapped together with rattan. It was hardly much wider than two human feet placed close together. The uprights angled out and in again overhead, bending where they were strapped with rattan to the horizontal holds.
You could slide your hand along the holds only as far as the next upright. Once there, you had to remove your hand for a moment and lift it over the upright before grabbing the horizontal hold again.
That was what had done Terry in, Dead-eye realized. He had automatically looked down when he took hold of the upright and now he was afraid to let go and move further along.
Knowing this, Dead-eye carefully made his way forward, along the narrow, swaying, creaking walkway, until he was standing right behind Terry. He slung his SLR over his shoulder, then placed his free hand on Terry’s elbow, holding him steady.
‘Start walking,’ he said. When Terry did not move immediately, apart from visibly shaking, Dead-eye pushed him forward gently, but insistently, by the elbow and he took his first step. ‘That’s it,’ Dead-eye said in a soft, mesmeric tone of voice. ‘Easy does it. Don’t look down. Keep your eyes on the trees straight ahead. It’s not too far to walk.’
In fact, the walkway was about 150 feet in length, though being so narrow it looked a lot longer. Its swaying was visible, its creaking constant, and the wind blowing along the gorge had the force of a hammer blow.
Given the wide spaces between the uprights, Dead-eye realized, a man could be blown off the walkway with nothing to stop him falling to his doom. Terry must have been aware of this fact, also, but prompted by Dead-eye, he did at least keep going forward, only hesitating when he had to let go of the horizontal bamboo and stand unsupported for the second it took to lift his hand over the upright and take hold again.
Those moments always seemed like an eternity, but they had to be braved.
‘That’s it,’ Dead-eye said. ‘Good.’
They were about halfway across when the walkway, already swaying noisily, shook suddenly and swayed even more.
When Terry’s knuckles whitened over the bamboo, displaying his panic, Dead-eye glanced backwards and saw that Alf had jumped onto the walkway. Amazingly, Alf was moving backwards, holding the horizontal bamboo with one hand and firing short bursts from his SLR with the other, keeping the barrel steady by pressing the stock into his hip. Alf was giving covering fire to Pete as he, in turn, did the same for Terry and Dead-eye. Pete was still kneeling in the tall grass near the edge of the gorge, firing his SLR, reloading, firing again, and occasionally jumping up to hurl a hand-grenade. The explosions tore the shrubbery apart and obscured the advancing soldiers behind veils of white-phosphorus dust and smoke.
‘It�
�s only Alf,’ Dead-eye explained to reassure Terry. ‘He’s jumped onto the walkway. Keep going. You’re over halfway. You’ll soon be on the other side. Take it slow and steady.’
Understandably, Terry was feeling more tension because he was also humping the radio on top of his heavy bergen. This made his balance more precarious when the walkway swayed from side to side, as it was now doing more than ever as Alf backed across it.
At that moment, the enemy started firing their mortars at the walkway. The first explosion erupted near Pete, almost bowling him sideways and certainly covering him in showering soil and foliage. The second shell looped down past the walkway and exploded against the side of the gorge just below it, hurling rocks and soil into the rapids far below.
The walkway shook violently again. This time, when Dead-eye glanced back, he saw that Pete had also jumped onto it and was, like Alf, moving backwards while firing his SLR at the troops advancing out of the undergrowth.
‘Faster!’ Dead-eye snapped at Terry, wanting to leave the walkway free for the other two. ‘Damn it, Terry, get going!’
Impelled by the urgency in Dead-eye’s voice, Terry gathered his courage and practically ran the rest of the way across, jumping gratefully onto the solid ground at the far side. Even as Dead-eye followed him, Terry was turning around and unslinging his SLR to give covering fire to Alf and Pete. He had already opened fire as Dead-eye jumped onto the ground and also turned back to add to their fire.
Two more mortar shells exploded on the far bank, dangerously close to the pinions of the walkway. A third shell looped down over the walkway, narrowly missed the bamboo uprights, and continued down into the gorge, exploding in the rapids and creating a great mushroom of boiling water.
Alf was, by now, halfway across, still moving backwards and firing at the same time. Pete had just commenced his own, painfully slow, backwards crossing while firing short but effective bursts at the soldiers who were emerging from the ulu. Hit by Pete’s bullets, but only wounded, one of the Indonesians fell, rolled off the edge and plunged screaming down into the rapids. Others convulsed and fell along the grassy, irregular edge of the gorge. More emerged from the ulu and risked Pete’s bullets to try and reach the end of the walkway. Some finally made it.
Running out of time and now protected a little by the covering fire of Dead-eye and Terry, Alf turned around and hurried towards them. By the time he left the walkway, jumping onto the solid ground beside the other two, Pete was halfway across, though still walking backwards and firing at the same time.
Four enemy soldiers started onto the bridge, but were cut down by the combined fire-power of Dead-eye, Terry and Alf. The soldiers crumpled in a heap, one practically on top of the other, effectively blocking access to the walkway. Seeing this, the other soldiers retreated back behind the trees along the edge of the gorge and fired a sustained fusillade at Pete, who was now just over halfway across. The hail of bullets tore the bamboo uprights and horizontals apart, with pieces of bamboo sailing down into the rapids and sharp splinters showering over Pete.
‘Run!’ Dead-eye bawled.
Pete was turning around to do just that when he jerked epileptically, dropped his SLR, and fell chest-first against a horizontal length of bamboo. Hanging there for a second, he watched his rifle fall down into the rapids, then he straightened up again, holding his left arm, and staggered on across the bridge toward his comrades. His arm was a bloody mess, with blood spurting out of punctured veins and dropping like rain into the gorge.
‘Jesus!’ Alf whispered, then fired a savage burst across the gorge, hoping to hit one of the many soldiers hiding behind the trees at the other side. He did little good. More bullets were punching into Pete, making him jerk and quiver and almost fall over toward the spaces between the uprights.
A machine-gunner, also well hidden in the trees, started firing at the spot where the walkway was fixed to the side of the gorge. He was trying to blow it apart.
‘Faster!’ Dead-eye bawled at the now badly wounded, bloody and staggering Pete. ‘Faster, damn it! Faster!’
But Pete could go no faster. He was losing blood too rapidly. He managed to remain upright, holding onto the handrail, but he was swaying dangerously from side to side and jerking spasmodically as more bullets punched into him – even as the hail of bullets from the machine-gun was blowing asunder the supports at the side of the gorge.
‘Come on, Pete!’ Alf screamed, then fired another angry burst across the gorge.
But Pete fell on his hands and knees in the middle of the walkway, looking straight down that dizzying drop as his blood squirted out from the bullet holes in his body and shattered arm to rain down on the rapids.
Alf dropped his SLR and nearly jumped onto the walkway, intent on rescuing his friend, but Dead-eye grabbed him by the shoulders and jerked him back, practically slamming him face-down into the dirt. ‘No, Alf! It’s too late!’
As Alf sat up again, the supports savaged by the machine-gun finally came away from the gorge wall and the whole walkway started breaking up, with great lengths of bamboo sailing down into the gorge. The rest of the fragile construction soon followed, breaking up like the pieces of a gigantic jigsaw puzzle. The three lengths of bamboo that had formed the actual walkway were the last to break apart, with the separate pieces slipping out of their rattan ties and falling into the rapids far below.
Still fixed to the side of the gorge where Dead-eye, Terry and Alf were kneeling, the remaining half of the walkway started tilting down, tearing away from the rocks in which it had been embedded, then breaking up even as Pete, still on his hands and knees, slid backwards to the broken end, wrapped his arms around a crossbeam, then found himself hanging from it with his legs kicking frantically in mid-air.
He did not hang there long. The pain from his wounded arm made him scream and let go. A final burst from the machine-gun tore him away for good and he fell, screaming louder, tumbling like a wind-blown leaf, to the bottom of the gorge, where he splashed into the raging rapids, was smashed against the rocks, and then was swept away out of sight to a watery grave.
‘Bastards!’ Alf screamed. He stood up to fire his SLR at the soldiers over the gorge, but Dead-eye jerked him back down, pushed him towards the trees, and bawled, ‘Go! They can’t get at us now. Let’s get the hell out of here!’
The three men picked themselves up and hurried into the trees, away from a final, frustrated volley of fire from the other side of the gorge.
They had made it back.
Late that afternoon, when they had crossed the border and Dead-eye was certain that the Indonesians would not pursue them by helicopter, he told Terry to radio for one of their own choppers, asking the pilot to home in on the SARBE beacon and fix their position relative to the LZ. The message transmitted back was that the pilot was going to do more than that: he was going to save them from the long hike to the RV by picking them up.
While they waited for the chopper to arrive, the distraught Terry and, particularly, Alf, finished off the last of the high-calorie rations in their escape belts, then distracted themselves by cleaning and oiling their much-used weapons. Meanwhile, Dead-eye kept himself busy by making the last entries in his notebook, detailing everything about the mission for later analysis by the ‘green slime’, the officers of SAS intelligence.
Forty minutes later, a Wessex Mark 1 helicopter arrived overhead, making a lot of noise and whipping up the foliage when it hovered just above the treetops, about 90 feet up. Unable to land, the pilot had his crewman lower his winch wire with two harnesses attached. The harnesses fell down through the trees, bouncing off the branches, and finally dangled, bobbing up and down, a few inches above their heads.
The three men piled their bergens into one of the winches, Terry took the second, and the wires were then rapidly reeled in. Alf went up next. Finally, Dead-eye was pulled up and scrambled gratefully into the chopper, which was piloted by his old sparring partner Army Air Corps Lieutenant Ralph Ellis.
‘
Had a nice ten day’s jaunt in the countryside, did you?’ he asked.
‘Very nice, thanks,’ Dead-eye replied deadpan. ‘You should try it some time.’
The helicopter ascended towards the crimson sun, then turned north and flew above the jungle canopy, heading for Kuching. By nightfall the men were being debriefed in the Haunted House.
The mission was over.
17
Sergeant Richard Parker, Corporal Alf Laughton and Trooper Terry Malkin were returned with the rest of D Squadron to the SAS base in Hereford, but the war in Borneo did not end with their departure.
Following their successful patrol to the bend in the River Koemba, other patrols retraced their route and photographed the fire-track they had crossed. Further ‘Claret’ raids were mounted a few months later and, greatly aided by the intelligence brought back by Dead-eye’s team, were even more successful.
D Squadron was replaced by the returning A Squadron, led by Major Peter de la Billière, who would eventually become the commander of the SAS. Under his brilliant leadership, A Squadron forged a closer relationship with the border battalions, made great improvements in the organization for supplying patrols in the field, and worked closely with the 1st/2nd Gurkhas in a series of highly successful cross-border operations. These included intelligence-gathering forays west and south of Stass; tapping Indonesian telephone lines 10 miles inside enemy territory, which produced invaluable taped conversations between various high-ranking Indonesian Army officers; snatching top-secret documents from an Indonesian Army building; and laying minefields in Sabah’s formerly unexplored jungles.
Plans were being drawn up for even more ambitious ‘Claret’ raids when, in March 1966, a military government replaced the aggressive President Sukarno and the war eased a little. The war ceased completely when a treaty was concluded between Indonesia and Malaya the following August. This brought to a definite end the ‘undeclared’ war that had lasted nearly four years, killing 114 Commonwealth soldiers, including Corporal Pete Welsh and six other SAS men. The Indonesians suffered five times that number of casualties.