The Sixteen
Page 25
In fact Dynamo had put some extra holes in his piece then tied it together with bows, and now he began to mince up and down in front of us like a model.
‘Ooh, ooh, I say, boys! What do you think of this, Geordie? Perfect rain gear, eh! When I get back I’ll be able to set off a new trend! The “New Look” by Dynamo.’
‘Ooh it’s luvverly!’ Chalky said and, taking hold of the bottom corners of his piece in either hand, he held it out as he turned and pirouetted around. ‘What do you think of mine, dear?’
Spot and I doubled up, and were laughing so hard at the pair of them that we couldn’t speak. My face and stomach ached.
Eventually wiping the tears from his eyes, Spot managed to talk. ‘Come on, you two prima donnas, stop prancing about, let’s get to the pick-up point!’
We took our bearings from the river and in good spirits set off in a NNW direction towards the marshy area where we’d landed, and must have walked for about eight or nine miles in the dark towards our pick-up point. But eventually, it became too dark to see and the ground was becoming wetter and softer.
‘Let’s find a dry spot and wait here for a while, we don’t want to go any further through this muck,’ Chalky said, his feet squelching on the marshy ground.
We looked around and found a clump of reeds where the going was firmer and dryer and settled down for the rest of the night. We’d have to wait until daylight to find out exactly where we were, but according to our bearings, we knew we couldn’t be more than half a mile away from our pick-up point.
Once we’d stopped walking, the cold began to penetrate and we were very glad of the canvas from the truck, which we pulled around us as we settled down to wait.
PART 4
THE RETURN
It was bitterly cold through the night and I lay awake for much of the time, gazing at the clear sky watching the stars, but at some point dozed off into a fitful sleep. A rustling sound in the reeds woke me and I opened my eyes to broad daylight. Glancing at my watch, I saw that that it was 0630, the sun was already high in the sky and the air was hot and humid. Nearby the others were still sleeping and I shook Chalky who was nearest to me by the shoulder. He woke and sat up rubbing his eyes.
‘Still here I see, Geordie? The crocs didn’t get you last night then?’ he said dryly.
‘You’re having me on, aren’t you?’
‘No, seriously, Geordie, there are salt water crocodiles all around this area.’
I wondered if that was what the rustling sound in the reeds that woke me had been and quickly looked around.
‘Why didn’t you say something last night?’
‘You wouldn’t have got any sleep if I had done, now would you?’
‘Yeah, but I might have been asleep “permanently”.’
Dynamo and Spot were awake now, too.
‘We’ve still got a little way to go to the pick-up point, we might as well head off there now before it gets any hotter,’ Spot said, checking our bearings.
As we trudged for a short while through the tall grasses and reeds, parting them before us, we disturbed thousands of flies and mosquitoes and they were becoming a real nuisance as they buzzed around our heads. I kept looking around for any signs of crocodiles but luckily saw nothing. Spot in the lead held up his hand and stopped us.
‘The ground’s too swampy to go any further.’
He was right. As we’d walked, the marshy ground had gradually become softer and wetter; my feet were now soaking and I was pleased I’d coated them in veg. grease before we’d left.
‘You’re right, the hack could get bogged down in this lot. We’d better stay back there where the ground’s a bit firmer,’ Chalky agreed.
We retraced our steps to the small spot where we’d spent the night. It was slightly firmer and drier than the surrounding area and, hidden from view by the tall reeds, we sat chatting, eating a few dry ‘dog biscuits’ washed down with lukewarm water from the canisters we’d brought with us.
‘Ken should be here any minute,’ Chalky said, scanning the horizon with his binoculars.
‘Shh, listen!’ Dynamo urged. I strained my ears and could just make out the sound of the hack although I still couldn’t see it. ‘There, there he is!’
Almost as he said the words, we saw the helicopter heading straight towards us from the west. It flew in right over our heads, its downdraught bending and parting the tall reeds and grasses, then abruptly turned and landed just a few yards away. We threw off our makeshift canvas coats and, picking up our bags, ran straight towards it and jumped in.
‘What the hell are you doing over here, you should have been half a mile west of this point?’ Ken said. ‘You’re lucky I found you straight away.’
Before we had time to reply or even sit down the hack was back in the air again and heading straight out towards the sea. Ken turned to look at us and gave us the ‘thumbs-up’ sign.
Chalky did the same back to him and shouted, ‘Mission accomplished!’
Ken headed 140 miles east from our pick-up point, back to the fuel dump, where we refuelled and set off again without a hitch. We then flew NNW again back towards Cyprus where about twenty miles south of the island there was to be a boat waiting to pick us up.
We flew, skimming the waves once more, for just over an hour when Ken pointed ahead. Spot and I immediately picked up our canvas holdalls and strapped them across our backs like rucksacks, putting our arms through the handles and securing them across our chests.
Then we fastened two ropes above the doors on either side of the helicopter to balance our weight and at the given signal from Ken, abseiled down. The hack sped towards a small boat nearby as Spot and I hung just feet above the sea.
The boat was a blue-and-green cabin cruiser, which raced along underneath the helicopter in a cloud of white spray and downdraught. Spot and I dropped onto its deck and seconds later the other two came down directly behind us. Immediately the hack turned away eastwards and disappeared.
I didn’t recognise the guy on the boat. It wasn’t Lynch, but it was obvious that the other three knew him well, although no one spoke much as we sped off towards Cyprus. About three-quarters of an hour later, they dropped me off at a quiet beach a few miles outside Dhekélia while they went off with the boat. I had no idea why they did this but obviously, they had their reasons – I didn’t ask and they didn’t offer an explanation.
‘Just walk along the narrow road leading off the beach towards a junction, and then keep out of sight until we arrive with the jeep, Geordie,’ Chalky told me.
When they collected me, I’d be taken back to the old hangar where I could leave the holdall and change back into my regular uniform.
Crossing the beach, I found the dusty track leading from it and made my way along it to the junction where Chalky had told me to wait. I sat by the side of the road. It was late morning now and scorchingly hot; I was parched and concerned about the effects of dehydration. Ken had given us some sandwiches in the helicopter, but the damn things had been dry and tasteless, leaving me hungry and, above all, thirsty.
The cream they’d put on my face and hair to darken them was now uncomfortably itchy, but I couldn’t risk scratching in case any of it came off. I was hot, tired and dirty and badly in need of a shave. Not too far from where I sat, I saw a gang of workmen, which seemed to be made up of soldiers and some locals. They appeared to be laying drains or mending the road and behind them stood a refreshment tent.
I suspected that some of the guys might be from 524 Company, but didn’t recognise any of them. Although I knew I’d been told to stay out of sight, I was so damned thirsty that I could barely swallow and was beginning to feel light-headed. I hoped that the tent would be empty, as they all seemed to be working on the road, and decided to risk going inside to get something to quench my thirst. Carefully hiding my holdall under a small bush near to the junction, I sneaked around the back of the tent keeping out of sight of the workmen, then pushed open the flaps and walked in.
I didn’t have any money on me and as there didn’t appear to be anyone about, I decided to pinch the bottle of clear liquid.
As I got near to the table, I looked to my left around the end of the partition and saw several British soldiers dressed in work fatigues standing drinking at a long table, which was covered with empty bottles and glasses, as were several other tables nearby. Unfortunately, they were inside taking a break and as soon as they became aware of me, the atmosphere instantly changed and became hostile. The general hum of conversation ceased and they all stared in my direction.
One tall, overweight soldier glanced over his shoulder at me then turned around and picked up a cola bottle from the table.
‘What the f***ing hell do you think you’re doing, you cheeky wog bastard? Why are you in here?’ he yelled at me aggressively, brandishing the bottle.
In my desperation to get a drink, I’d completely forgotten the way I was dressed and how I would look to them! Another two standing at a nearby table began to move towards me, one of them holding a crowbar in a threatening way. I knew these guys weren’t going to let me out of this tent without serious trouble! They obviously thought that I was a local and as such had no business in a British servicemen’s refreshment tent. The recent terrorists’ activities on the island that had caused the deaths of several British servicemen and civilians, and especially the bombing of a crowded NAAFI, had seriously soured relations between the armed forces and the locals.
Oh hell, I thought. I shouldn’t have come in here!
I couldn’t speak to them to let them know that I was actually British too, it would have simply drawn further attention to me and how could I explain the way I looked and the fact that I was dressed in ordinary trousers and a white shirt?
Suddenly, matters were taken out of my hands as the tall soldier rushed towards me, the now-broken cola bottle in his outstretched hand and I instantly reacted without thinking. I was still wearing my sash, my hand hit its quick-release and it shot into action, smashing the bottle in his hand and catching his leg on the back swing. He instantly dropped onto one knee groaning, as I spun around and broke every bottle and glass within range on the nearby tables. The guy with the crowbar and his pal immediately backed off with looks of horrified and shocked amazement on their faces. I let the belt recoil back around my waist and secured the safety catch with one touch.
The tall guy on the floor was screaming his head off in agony and I was furious with myself for reacting the way I had against British soldiers but I’d felt that I had no choice. If I’d spoken to them, I would have given the game away. I quickly turned around and left, grabbing the unbroken bottle of clear liquid from the table by the tent flap on my way out.
On reflection, I realised that none of them would have realised exactly what had happened because it had all been over in a flash. The time between my releasing the sash and replacing it had been so brief, I knew that they’d only be aware of a swishing noise followed by bottles and glasses exploding all around them as if by magic, just as I had been when I’d first seen it used on the turnips. Besides, as most of them had instinctively ducked to shield themselves from flying glass, they wouldn’t have a clue how I’d done it, but it would certainly give them something to talk about later!
As I swiftly left the tent, I took a large swig from the bottle I’d grabbed. But instead of quenching my thirst, to my horror the clear liquid immediately burned my throat and took my breath away. Ahead of me, I saw the jeep standing waiting at the junction and I ran towards it, collecting my bag from under the bush before I jumped in. When I looked back, no one had followed me out of the tent.
‘Jeesus, what was in that bloody bottle?’ I gasped, spluttering and grabbing at my mouth and throat, which both felt as though they were on fire.
‘What the hell’s the matter with you, Geordie? What’s this?’ Spot said, snatching the bottle from me.
‘You daft sod, you’ve just had a swig of one hundred per cent proof vodka!’ he spluttered and then burst out laughing. ‘Now you know what it’s like to drink liquid paraffin! How the hell did you get this anyway? You were supposed to stay out of sight, young man!’ he said, still laughing as he threw the bottle away.
‘I was parched and didn’t have any money, there wasn’t anyone around so I just grabbed the first thing I saw from that tent over there,’ I explained.
I couldn’t tell them what had really happened, I was too embarrassed. I’d never touched alcohol before and I was now more determined than ever that I would never touch the disgusting, foul stuff again!
The jeep bounced off down the rough track and I began to feel ill. My stomach was burning and I felt very sick. The three of them fell about when I explained that I’d thought I was drinking lemonade.
When we arrived back at the hangar, I couldn’t get to the water quickly enough!
We put our equipment away and I changed back into my regular tropical uniform after first taking care that I’d got rid of all of the make-up I was wearing. Four hours later, after some lunch, I was taken back to where my lorry was parked. Once again, all the paperwork was in order to confirm where I was due to be picked up by the working party’s truck.
I’d been away for less than two days and, apart from the usual banter, no one on the truck took the slightest notice of me, let alone suspected that I’d just been all the way to Cairo and back!
CHAPTER 10
A LOW PROFILE
After the tension and excitement of our operations, camp life was difficult to take. As in all army camps such as this, soldiers generally endure long periods of relentless boredom, broken only by routine daily tasks. This largely depended on what you were consigned to do. Outside working parties for instance, mainly consisted of digging latrines, putting up marquees or building roads for other regiments. While those who remained back at camp were generally assigned to tidying the place up or work in the cookhouse, which meant endlessly peeling potatoes or cleaning dixies, the only exceptions being those assigned to guard duty.
Outside working parties would usually have a corporal in charge of them and those who remained in the camp would be under the command of a sergeant. As a result, it wasn’t easy to ‘disappear’ without someone noticing unless you were sent out of our camp on detachment to another. Due to the nature of our regiment, this often happened, sometimes for a couple of days but often for weeks at a time. Other than being off-duty, the hours spent travelling between the camps was the only time when a regular soldier would possibly have a period without someone of rank being there, until they arrived at their assigned camp, where once again someone would be in charge of them.
On the occasions when I was sent on detachment, I presumed that this had to be arranged by someone of seniority who could fix it so that the camp I was supposedly assigned to would not be expecting me, thereby making it possible for me to ‘disappear’. I believed that these orders would have to come from somewhere to my CO specifically asking for me to be assigned to these detachments, otherwise my camp would naturally send whoever was available, not me specifically. And I often wondered what the reaction to this by the officers and NCOs at 524 Company must have been. Having said this, I’ve seen better-organised building sites than the British Army, so it possibly wasn’t so difficult to arrange after all!
I constantly wondered about the logistics of this and felt that there had to be someone at my platoon who ensured my name was regularly put onto the list of off-site workers. It could have been the CO or perhaps he knew nothing about it, maybe a junior officer or even a sergeant compiled the working party rosters. I hadn’t a clue whose job it was to org
anise these lists but I knew that someone had to be given orders regarding my whereabouts. It was the only explanation I could come up with but, obviously, I couldn’t ask anyone about this.
And I would often look at some guy or other, an officer or NCO, and wonder whether they had something to do with it, if perhaps they were the one who organised it. Two officers in particular were quite pally with me, Captain Myers and Lieutenant Stevens, and they, for some reason, always seemed to take a keen interest in what I was doing, but then they were also fairly friendly with most of the men, so whether they had any knowledge of what I did or not, I never really knew. Then there was this sergeant called Lupton, who had a peculiar way of walking as if he had springs in his heels. He always seemed to be near the gate whenever I arrived back at camp and always made a point of speaking to me.
‘Enjoy yourself, Geordie?’ he would ask me. ‘Had a good holiday?’
He always seemed to single me out but I think that was just his way of being reasonably friendly towards me; again he never really gave me any reason to suspect that he knew anything about my whereabouts out of the camp.
Ken had warned me at my initiation into ‘The Sixteen’ that from that point onwards I shouldn’t think too much about the organisation of things, or ask too many questions. He knew that I would be curious and want to find out more but advised me that it would not be in my best interests to try, that I should just accept the ways things were.
At first, I couldn’t fathom out why ‘The Sixteen’ would recruit someone from a general working regiment such as mine rather than from an ‘active’ regiment, but all I was ever told was that it would have been virtually impossible to organise if I’d been in any other. In time, of course, I realised that the way in which my regiment operated totally suited their purposes but I never found out whether I would have still been recruited if I’d been in another outfit or whether they’d only looked for likely candidates in regiments like mine.