The Sixteen

by John Urwin

‘Intelligence informs us that they are a small group of about ten or twelve. You’ll have no backup from the rest of the team; there’ll only be the four of you.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope that Intelligence have got it right,’ Chalky muttered.

  ‘Oh, and keep a tight rein on Geordie, lads,’ Ken laughed, winking at them. ‘We don’t want him to get carried away and kill some local farmers, now do we?’ he added.

  We spent some time discussing the equipment, route and transport we would take and decided upon only the bare essentials – our MK1s, sashes, boot-knives and ropes.

  ‘The idea is to hit them hard, get in and out as quickly as possible, then?’ Dynamo confirmed.

  Ken nodded. ‘That’s right. This area is unknown to us, so it’s pointless making too many plans. Just look on it as an extra bit of training. OK, then guys, I’ll leave you to it. Catch you later.’ And with that, he left.

  Each of us had a locker in the building and from the variety of equipment we had stored, selected only those items we needed for this operation. We knew the type of terrain and didn’t want to be bogged down with unnecessary gear. We each took out ropes, harnesses, pistols, ammo, boot-knives, dog-clips and a new CTC, together with a canteen of fresh water and dry biscuits, which we called ‘dog biscuits’.

  As this was to be a totally clandestine, unofficial operation, there was to be absolutely no indication that any of us were British servicemen. Besides, if the unthinkable happened and we were caught, the British army would deny all knowledge of us anyway.

  I changed out of my army uniform of shorts and khaki shirt into clothes similar to those always worn by the others – a white shirt, jeans, an old army tunic and American-style lace-up boots, which we wore rather than standard army issue boots. These American-style combat boots had softer soles and were longer in the leg than the ones we were ordinarily issued, making them ideal for concealing boot-knives. Finally, around my waist I fastened the belt-like weapon we called ‘The Sash’, the most lethal piece of equipment we carried.

  As I was collecting my gear, I once again wondered about the organisation of all of this. How did all this stuff actually get here and who looked after it when we were gone? It seemed to me that the lockers were possibly removed from the building whenever we left it. They were always in a slightly different location each time I returned. Although the training area was in the middle of nowhere, there was always the possibility of some locals or even an army patrol stumbling across it. Removing our gear would certainly help to avoid detection.

  We each placed our equipment into identical canvas holdalls, which we put ready for when we left, together with a map of the area. As we would leave at 0100 hours, we rested up for the remainder of the day and evening.

  When it was time to go, we threw our bags into the back of the jeep and set off. There was a fine drizzling mist falling and it was freezing cold in the open vehicle. Ken had given us the coordinates of the area the terrorists were reported to be in, and as we travelled, the others chatted together and cracked jokes as they discussed the job and the route we needed to take. I said little during the journey. I wasn’t frightened or nervous, just a little anxious about what might happen, but I had every confidence in my colleagues, who had a lot more experience. I knew that I wouldn’t be here with them if they didn’t think I was totally ready for it.

  There was a 10.00 p.m. curfew on the island and we had to be careful to avoid army roadblocks or any form of confrontation with British troops, who would probably view us as terrorists. In order to do this we had to take little-used narrow, winding tracks but these could be just as hazardous as the main routes, as we had no way of knowing whether we might bump into a group of terrorists using them for the same reason we were.

  It was very dark on the steep mountain tracks and we had to drive relatively slowly as we couldn’t use the jeep’s headlights for fear of being spotted either by terrorists or troops. But every so often, the moon shone through a break in the heavy cloud and we caught glimpses of the sheer drop down the mountainside only inches away from the jeep’s wheels as we gradually climbed higher and higher.

  The brief spells of moonlight were very bright and it was just possible to make out the fresh tracks of a bigger vehicle where it had dislodged several large stones and part of the road on its way up the narrow, winding track. Dynamo began to travel a little faster along the tortuous track ahead of us. He seemed totally oblivious to the dangers of the narrow trail that was now partially obscured by a swirling patchy mist.

  Eventually, the fine drizzle that had begun just as we left the training area, turned into a heavier, steady downfall.

  ‘Oh, great!’ Chalky said. ‘That’s all we need – those tracks will be gone soon.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, this has to be them, no one else would be daft enough to come up here; the army certainly wouldn’t risk it!’ Dynamo pointed out, peering ahead of him.

  Spot was sitting in the rear next to me. ‘How do you feel, Geordie?’ he asked.

  I turned and grinned at him, water dripping off the end of my nose. He looked and sounded so calm and relaxed, in fact they all did. I was cold and soaked to the skin, but adrenalin was pumping through every inch of my body and I was trying very hard not to show just how ‘keyed up’ I was. I knew that my actions today would no doubt result in someone’s death, the first death I would be responsible for, but I was ready.

  ‘I’m okay, Spot,’ I replied. ‘Just fine!’

  I just wanted to get on with it to really prove to these guys that there were right to have chosen me, to show them that I really was one of them, part of the team, and ready for action.

  CHAPTER 8

  DEATH IN THE MARKET PLACE

  PART 1

  THE IDEA

  During the week before my nineteenth birthday, November 1958, I was training with Dynamo when Ken arrived. It was a couple of weeks after my first operation up in the Troodos Mountains and I hoped that his arrival meant there was another job for us. Dynamo and I broke off our training and followed him into the ‘office’ area.

  ‘Well, Geordie, it’s your birthday soon so we’ve decided to give you a few weeks off,’ he said, to my total surprise. ‘We’ll see you after Christmas, some time in the New Year, unless something happens in the meantime and you’re needed.’

  I tried not to show how bitterly disappointed I was. I’d thought that he’d come to brief us for our next operation but this was a bolt out of the blue. Six weeks without training, without seeing Dynamo, Chalky and Spot, six weeks to the New Year, six whole weeks of being stuck around the camp doing routine work! I was utterly deflated.

  Back at camp work mainly revolved around preparations for Christmas, when a panto and variety show were to be put on by the lads.

  As I crossed the parade ground one morning, I met Sergeant Lupton.

  ‘Well, Urwin, I’m certainly looking forward to seeing this act of yours,’ he said as he walked past.

  ‘Eh! Act, what act, Sir?’ I said, gawping at him. I hadn’t a clue what he was on about.

  ‘The one you’re doing for the Christmas concert, you’ve got your name down for it!’ he said, over his shoulder.

  Immediately I knew who’d dropped me in it, my so-called pal, Dave Buckfield. He and Bill were always volunteering me for something or other, putting my name down for all kinds of things: table tennis, darts etc. I’d been good at both but, unfortunately, couldn’t take it too far. In the army, if you were good at something like that, it always meant taking part in some kind of league against other camps and I couldn’t get involved in anything that would mean being tied up on certain dates with matches etc. I had to be available for The Sixteen whenever they needed me.

  God knows what I’d have to come up with now for this little caper Bill and Dave had involved me in!

  As the days passed, more and more people began to ask me what I was going to do. I’d had all kinds of ideas but none of them seemed right. Then one night I went to the pictu
res with a couple of the lads. Before the main film, they’d shown a newsreel where a bloke had lain on a bed of nails with a paving slab on his chest while another guy smashed it with a sledgehammer. My mates were impressed.

  ‘It’s a con,’ I told them. ‘There’s a knack to it, it’s not that difficult to do if you know how.’

  ‘If it’s so easy, why don’t you do it for your act, then?’ Bill said.

  ‘OK, then, I will,’ I replied, taking up his challenge, relieved to have something to do at last.

  It took some time to get enough six-inch nails to make my ‘bed’, and over the next few weeks, I scrounged around for as many as I could find. They weren’t easy to come by and I had all the guys searching about for me and bringing them back from other camps. I practised my act and press-ganged a reluctant Bill into being my ‘assistant’, although on the one occasion he attempted to lie on the ‘bed’, there weren’t enough nails in it and he ended up with a sore and bleeding backside.

  On Christmas Day, I got ready to perform my act in full for the first time. Bill and I hadn’t been able to practise the slab-breaking bit before as we’d only been able to get our hands on one paving stone, nicked from another camp, and obviously didn’t want to use it.

  We tied towels around our heads for a bit of an oriental feel. When it was our turn, I asked for two strong men from the audience to lift the slab on to a towel covering my chest as I lay on the bed of nails. As the two volunteers came forward, Bill pranced about the stage like a magician’s assistant, pointing to what I was doing until I grabbed him and shoved a large sledgehammer into his hands.

  ‘Here,’ I told him. ‘Get on with it.’ He suddenly became concerned that, not having done it before, he might injure me.

  ‘’Ow ’ard do I ’ave ter ’it it?’ he said, with a worried expression. ‘I might cave your bloody chest in!’

  By now, I was holding the large, heavy slab on top of me.

  ‘Just get on with it, hit it as hard as you can, right in the middle, and watch my flaming fingers,’ I told him as he stood with the hammer hovering above me amid loud shouts and jeers from the audience:

  ‘Just belt it!’

  ‘Go on, hit it!’

  ‘Bash the bloody thing!’

  ‘Smash his chest in!’

  Bill crashed the hammer down on to the paving slab, which instantly broke into four or five pieces, the audience roared their approval, and he began prancing around again holding the hammer above his head. We were a success and, more importantly, I came through it unscathed!

  In early January, much to my relief, my teammates started to pick me up for training again. For some reason, our training had now intensified and I was with them on a much more regular basis, every other week in fact. I asked Dynamo what it was all about.

  ‘Well, it’s a while since we last saw you, Geordie, we don’t want you to get rusty, now do we!’ he said and took a swipe at me. I countered his move and he went on: ‘Cyprus is off the map, now, Geordie. The government’s about to give them what they want so we can concentrate on doing the jobs we’re trained for. Not spending our time chasing these daft sods around the mountains.’

  I swivelled my body and countered another of his moves. ‘By the way, what you said to me about me signing on for three years, you did say I would get two weeks’ home leave, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘But you’d better discuss all of that with Ken.’

  For months I’d thought long and hard about this, ever since it had first been mentioned to me during my initiation. I was still torn and not really able to make a firm decision. During these last few weeks away from them, I’d realised just how much I wanted to remain a part of the group, to keep on training and carrying out operations. The simple fact was it was in my blood now. I couldn’t get away from it.

  And yet I desperately wanted to see my mother again, not just because I missed her but also to let her see that she had been right to encourage me to do my National Service. I wanted her to see how much I’d changed, how I’d grown up, gained confidence and lost my stammer, I wanted her to be proud of me. I wished with all my heart that I could tell her about the group, I knew just how proud she would be that I’d been so specially chosen; she’d always told me that I was special, that I would never end up like my father. But of course, most mothers think that about their kids. Obviously, I would never be able to tell her or indeed anyone about The Sixteen. I was also unsure how she’d react to me signing up for such a long period.

  But, on the other hand, for the first time in my life I felt that I’d met real men, not loud-mouthed boastful drunkards, but men who trusted in my judgement and who I trusted implicitly. For all I’d spent a lot of time with the lads back at camp since we’d come here, it was these guys who were the first real mates I’d ever had, who’d given me an unshakeable belief and faith in myself and my abilities. Who’d shown me how to achieve my full potential. As desperate as I was to see my mother again, I was equally desperate to carry on working with them.

  I just couldn’t decide what to do; I was almost halfway through my National Service and would be sent home and demobbed at the end of the year. I knew that I’d have to make my mind up soon and decided to speak to Ken about it as soon as the opportunity arose.

  For a couple of weeks nothing much happened. I trained one week and spent the next back at camp. The following Monday I assembled on the parade ground with everyone else and after roll call we reassigned our duties for the coming week. The sergeant called out half a dozen names including mine, for a works party, which meant I could be sent anywhere on the island. A corporal was assigned to our group, and when we were dismissed off the parade ground, I went over to him to find out where we were being sent.

  ‘We’re all going to a camp near to Famagusta, but you’ll be on your own at an Ordnance Depot at Dhekélia, Geordie,’ he said. ‘They want you to drive a forklift truck or something, some cushy number. We’ll drop you off as near to the depot as we can.’

  Bill was also in the group and we sat next to one another on the truck taking us off to the other camps.

  ‘How the ’ell did you get a cushy number like that, you jammy sod?’ he asked. ‘It’s alright for some, you must have pals in high places,’ he joked, totally unaware of how close to the truth he was.

  ‘Oh yeah, like last week you mean, stuck in that sweaty cookhouse. I must have lost half a stone in weight and peeled twenty in spuds. Call that cushy do you?’ I joked back.

  We drove along the main coastal route through Limassol and Larnaca, passing a couple of army checkpoints along the way. After about three-quarters of an hour the truck came to a halt near to a road junction. The corporal jumped out of the cab and shouted my name.

  ‘Urwin, out! This is where we leave you,’ he said, handing me some papers. ‘Here’s your orders. Report to the officer at that gatehouse.’ He pointed towards the nearby Royal Army Ordnance Depot then he climbed back in the truck. ‘And don’t forget, we’ll be here to pick you up at this spot 1700 hours on Friday,’ he yelled as it drove off.

  ‘I’ll try t’get round t’see you through t’week.’ Bill shouted at me from the back.

  ‘Righto,’ I yelled back with a wave, and then began to walk towards the camp.

  I could see a jeep parked nearby on my left and as I walked along it suddenly pulled up alongside me and there sat Chalky, grinning.

  ‘Hop in, Geordie.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ I sighed as I sat down beside him and we roared off in a cloud of dust.

  ‘What’s the matter, did you think we weren’t coming back for you?’ Chalky yelled above the noise of the engine.

  ‘Well, not so soon,’ I shouted back.

  ‘What’s up, have you had a hard time?’ He laughed.

  ‘You can laugh,’ I said. ‘But I’ve been stuck in the flaming cookhouse all last week cleaning pans!’

  ‘So what? You must have been getting the best of the grub, eh?’ />
  ‘What about these orders then? I’m supposed to be driving a forklift truck at that camp back there?’ I said, waving the sheaf of papers the corporal had given me.

  ‘They haven’t got any such orders and they aren’t expecting you, so forget about it, and don’t ask how, because even I don’t know that!’

  ‘But there’s a pal of mine coming to look for me during the week,’ I told him, remembering about Bill.

  ‘Well, he won’t find you will he! Anyway he won’t get in the camp if he doesn’t have a pass so stop worrying about it.’

  As usual we were flying along the road at breakneck speed, bouncing and jolting over every rock and stone. ‘You didn’t tell me what happened to those puppies. I bet they caused you some problems, didn’t they?’ Chalky shouted, changing the subject.

  ‘I gave them to one of the officers I’m a bit pally with, Lieutenant Stevens. He’s a bit of a dog lover and said he’d try to find them good homes. I had a job convincing him that I’d found them near the camp though, but I think he believed me in the end. Anyway, he’s taken them to other camps to be trained as mascots or something.’

  We were yelling at one another in order to be heard above the racket of the engine and it was difficult to have a proper conversation. As usual we were flying along narrow twisting tracks in order to avoid travelling on the main roads, and I was beginning to get the feeling that we were going around in circles but I knew that eventually we would end up at that old hangar. We came to a small river and Chalky slowed down only a fraction before driving straight across it and travelling on for about another half an hour.

  Each time I was taken to the training area I arrived by a different route. I always had the feeling that we were being observed, but I never saw anyone, and, although I wasn’t aware of Chalky giving any kind of signal, as I suspected he had done in the past, I was fairly certain that other members of The Sixteen were nearby, guarding the place until we left.

  My teammates always seemed to be very relaxed, but I knew that security around the training area had to be tight. Despite the fact that they smiled and cracked jokes a lot, I knew that this was something they were deadly serious about – they needed to be. We couldn’t afford to have anyone, terrorists or British troops, find us there.