by Shaun Clarke
At a nod from Dead-eye, Larry hurried up to the grieving corporal, knelt beside him, whispered to him and gave him some tablets. Ken swallowed them without protest, then stretched out on his back and closed his wet eyes. He covered his face with his hands and took deep, even breaths.
There was an uneasy silence for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually rejoining the men after checking that the Arabs were dead, Jimbo glanced at Ken, then said to his fellow sergeant: ‘It’s two in the morning. We’ve been awake for 30 hours. We’ve been under pressure for most of that time and I think it’s enough. We need a break, Dead-eye.’
‘A break won’t help Brooke.’
‘It won’t do him any harm. And the fitter we are tomorrow, the more chance we have of getting back. He can’t be helped properly until we get back, so that’s our priority.’
‘What’s your suggestion?’
‘We’re now far enough away from Shi’b Taym to drop back down towards the main Wadi Rabwa. From there to the camp is only a mile or so.’
‘I don’t think those guerrillas are from Shi’b Taym. I think they came from the ridge above.’
‘So?’
‘It doesn’t matter that it’s only a mile or so to the camp. If the guerrillas have moved along that ridge above us, we’re gonna have a rough ride. They’ll keep sending men down throughout the night and, if that fails, they’ll start sniping at us in the morning as we make our way back.’
Jimbo shrugged. ‘What the fuck? We’ve no choice. Assuming you’re wrong and those guerrillas were from Shi’b Taym, I suggest that we march on for another hour, but set an ambush every fifteen minutes to see if anyone catches up. If, after an hour, it’s clear that I’m wrong and you’re right – that the guerrillas are up on the ridge – then we simply basha down for the night, get the rest we badly need, and take our chances on making it through at first light. At least then we’ll feel a lot less tired and be more in control. What do you think?’
‘Chinese parliament,’ Dead-eye said. Turning to the others, he asked: ‘So, what do you think? Those of you who agree, put up your hands.’
With the exception of Ken, still covering his face with his hands where he lay on his back, they all raised a hand.
Dead-eye nodded. ‘All right, let’s do it.’ He glanced down at Ken. ‘Corporal Brooke?’ Ken removed his hands from his face and looked up with wet, red-rimmed eyes. ‘Feel better now?’ Ken just nodded. ‘Can you march for another hour?’ Ken nodded again. ‘OK,’ Dead-eye said, trying to sound as normal as possible. ‘Climb to your feet and take your SLR off Moody.’
‘Yes, Sarge,’ Ken said. He pushed himself to his feet, dusted himself down, glanced uneasily at the two dead Arabs on the track, then took his SLR from Les. ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said.
‘No problem,’ Les replied.
‘For everything,’ Ken emphasized.
‘Still no problem,’ said Les.
Seeing that Ken, though obviously in a dreadful physical condition, had been pacified by the drugs given to him by Larry and was now more in control of himself, Dead-eye nodded at Jimbo, then, without a word, raised his right hand and waved the patrol forward. Falling instinctively into the same file formation as before – Dead-eye and Jimbo sharing point out front, followed by Ben and Taff, with Larry between them, and the two wounded men bringing up the rear as back markers – the men set off again, marching along the desert track that ran parallel to the main Wadi Rabwa.
Every fifteen minutes they stopped and divided into two firing groups, one to each side of the track. There they waited for ten minutes, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. In the end, after half a dozen such stops in two and a half hours, during which time they covered no more than a mile, no guerrillas materialized and Dead-eye accepted that if they were still in danger, it would not come from the road behind them, but from the ridges above.
‘So let’s keep going,’ he said, ‘and get this over and done with.’
‘No,’ Jimbo said firmly. ‘I don’t think that’s wise. Apart from the fact that we still need to get some rest, regaining our alertness, we have to consider the possibility that if we approach the base camp in darkness we’ll be fired upon by the FRA sentries at Thumier before we get the chance to identify ourselves. On both counts, then, I’d recommend bedding down now and moving on in daylight.’
Aware that Jimbo was a veteran of the SAS’s earliest days with the LRDG in North Africa, and therefore bowing down respectfully to his greater experience, Dead-eye asked of the rest of the men: ‘Is that all right with you?’
They all nodded.
‘All right,’ Dead-eye continued. ‘Given what Jimbo’s just said, I think the best way to avoid the FRA sentries tomorrow is to approach the camp by way of the wadi. The wadi will also offer us some protection from any guerrillas lurking up there on the ridges. So although I know you’re exhausted, I’m asking you to take a deep breath and force yourselves to make that final hike back down into the wadi. Once there, we’ll basha down for the night, then move out at first light. All agreed?’
There was no opposition to the plan. Dead-eye led the patrol in the same formation off the track, across a short stretch of desert, and back down the steep, rocky slope to the wide, dried-up wadi at the bottom. The descent was, as usual, hazardous, the men repeatedly slipping and sliding on loose gravel, tripping over stones, and becoming entangled in parched thorn bushes. But eventually, dazed with fatigue, they all made it down. Miraculously, they found a thin, babbling stream at the bottom of the hill.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Dead-eye said.
‘Wonders never cease,’ Jimbo added.
Larry dipped his hand in the stream, then held it up high, letting the water drip off his fingers. ‘It’s real enough,’ he announced.
‘We were told not to drink from unpurified water,’ Taff said, though he was licking his lips.
‘He’s right,’ Ben said, wiping his lips with his hand.
Larry held his water bottle up high, shaking it to show that it was empty. Then he rapped his medical box with the knuckles of his free hand, saying, with a broad grin: ‘I’ve got a bag full of sterilization tablets if there are any takers.’
‘I’m in,’ Jimbo said, and the rest all signalled their agreement with nods or raised hands.
‘That’s it, then,’ Dead-eye said. ‘We basha down here for the night and move out in the morning. Let’s get organized, men.’
As they were all close to dehydration, the first thing the men did was accept their quota of sterilization tablets from Larry. They dropped them into their empty water bottles, which they filled with water from the river, and then, when the tablets had dissolved, quenched their raging thirst. Slightly rejuvenated, they ate the last of the high-calorie rations from their escape and survival belts – chocolate, dry biscuits and cheese – then made themselves as comfortable as possible on the rough, sandy ground near the tinkling stream, in the shelter of overhanging rocks.
Seriously weakened by loss of blood, Ken sank into unconsciousness. The rest of the men, having slaked their thirst and filled their bellies, soon sank into a desperately needed sleep. Only Les, tormented by his inflamed leg, had trouble dropping off to sleep; though eventually he, too, received this simplest of blessings.
So exhausted were they that all of them slept through first light. Their communal peace was shattered soon after by gunfire.
16
Dead-eye was the first to get back on his feet, in the kneeling position behind his rock, as .303 bullets thudded into the ground between the other men, covering it with spouting, hissing sand. Looking up, he saw that they were being fired at by snipers who had taken up positions high on the eastern ridge and were silhouetted by the rising sun.
‘Shit!’ Dead-eye muttered, looking sideways to see that the other men were now taking up firing positions behind the rocks they had slept against. The guerrillas’ bullets were still kicking up choking dust, dancing noisily off the rocks and hurling j
agged pieces of stone at the SAS men. More bullets were hitting the tiny stream, creating small, crazily swirling fountains of water. ‘Don’t fire back!’ Dead-eye bawled, aware that they would now need every last bullet.
Hiding behind a rock about ten feet away, Jimbo suddenly burst out from behind it and ran at the zigzag to Dead-eye, where he threw himself down, then scrambled into the kneeling position. After wiping sand from his face and glancing up at the ridge, where about forty silhouetted figures, all still firing, could clearly be seen, Jimbo spat at the ground.
‘Fuck! We can’t move!’ he hissed.
‘We’ve got to,’ Dead-eye said.
‘They’ll chop us to pieces if we try. There’s a lot of them up there.’
Dead-eye glanced at the other men and saw that they were all crouched behind separate rocks: Ben and Taff, both alert; Larry on his own, also alert; and Les whispering something to Ken, who, having regained consciousness during the night, was now squatting on the ground, looking dazed.
‘Right,’ Jimbo said, following Dead-eye’s gaze, ‘I can see what you see. Corporal Brooke’s going to make the problem worse. We can’t move fast with him.’
‘Moody’s looking after him.’
‘Then Moody’s going to get shot to pieces. It’s goodbye and Amen.’
The shooting suddenly stopped, letting silence descend. Looking up at the ridge, Dead-eye saw that the guerrillas were moving back and forth, taking up better firing positions, now given the benefit of daylight. Most of them were spreading farther along the summit of the ridge, which offered them a broader arc of fire along the wadi, but some were slithering down the slope to get closer to their quarry.
‘Hey, Sarge!’ Ben called out as he watched the Arabs slithering downhill. ‘Those bastards are sitting ducks up there. Let’s pick a few off!’
‘No!’ Dead-eye shouted back. ‘We’re running short of ammo. We must save what we have until we really need it.’
‘When’s that?’
‘I’ll let you know, Trooper.’
The silence was eerie, broken only by the sound of running water and the occasional shout of one Arab calling out to the other.
‘They’re waiting for us to move out from behind these rocks,’ Jimbo said. ‘That’s why they’ve stopped firing. The second we step out from cover, they’ll start up again.’
Dead-eye studied the wadi that ran towards the Dhala Road and then on to Thumier. It was very wide, perhaps half a mile, and littered with boulders. Checking his map, he estimated that the Dhala Road was less than two miles away. The guerrillas would either have to come off the ridge and then engage in Close Quarters Battle or go back the way they had come.
‘The question,’ he said to Jimbo, ‘is how far can we get in one piece if we move carefully from one rock to another. Can we get clear of the wadi?’
Jimbo checked the terrain, then scratched his nose and pursed his naturally twisted lips. ‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘Not guaranteed, but possible. Given Corporal Brooke’s condition, we’re going to have to move anyway, so taking our time going from one rock to another won’t make that much difference.’
They both studied the wadi again, mentally mapping out the best route to take.
‘So what if we reach the end of the wadi?’ Jimbo asked. ‘Even if they retreat, we might still have the problem of being shot at by our own troops in Thumier.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Dead-eye said. ‘In fact, if the guerrillas follow us that far they might do us a favour. At the end of the wadi, we’ll be close enough to Thumier for the FRA sentries to hear the sounds of battle. When they do, they’ll know it’s a fire-fight between us and the guerrillas and come out to support us. I think it’s worth trying.’
‘You’ve won my heart, darlin’.’
Dead-eye relayed the plan to the others by shouting at the top of his lungs. Everyone but Ken roared their agreement. Glancing across to where Ken was still squatting on the ground, he saw that he was slipping away, his head bowed, his chin resting on his chest.
‘Is he unconscious?’ Dead-eye shouted at Les.
When Les deliberately took hold of Ken’s shoulder and shook him, the latter raised his head and glanced dazedly around him, blinking wildly.
‘Can you get him along the wadi?’ Jimbo asked.
‘I can try,’ Les shouted back. ‘At least I’ll stick with him all the way.’
‘Good.’ Dead-eye turned slightly aside to give instructions to the others. ‘All right,’ he bawled. ‘Boulder to boulder, rock to rock. At the crouch, zigzagging. Don’t try to get too far on any single run; make each run as short and as quick as possible. Conserve your ammunition. Only fire when giving cover to the men running ahead or when otherwise absolutely necessary – which means if a guerrilla comes down the hill. Any questions before we start?’
‘Yes,’ Taff called out. ‘What happens if one of us is wounded and can’t move on?’
‘He stays where he lies. We can’t afford to go back for him.’
‘Charming!’ Ben exclaimed.
‘The priority is for some of us to get out and, if necessary, bring back support to get the guerrillas off the ridge and rescue those left behind.’
‘Nice one,’ Taff said sceptically.
‘We don’t have a choice,’ Jimbo said. ‘We have to keep going. If you fall, you remain where you are and that’s all there is to it. Any more questions?’
The silence signified that there were no further questions, so Dead-eye said: ‘All right. We leave in strict file formation. First me and Jimbo. Then Ben and Taff. Then Larry. Les and Ken leave last. Everyone agree?’
Again, everyone except Ken called out that they agreed.
‘So let’s do it,’ Dead-eye whispered to Jimbo.
Both of them raised themselves slightly from the crouch, preparing to make the first run. Glancing up at the ridge, they saw that the guerrillas had spread out right along it, for what looked like at least half a mile, and were pointing their rifles at the wadi basin.
Aware that they were about to run a potentially lethal gauntlet, Dead-eye and Jimbo glanced at one another, held their breath, nodded and burst out from behind their cover, bolting for the nearest large rock.
Instantly, a storm of gunfire shattered the silence and filled the wadi around the running men with ricocheting bullets and geysering sand and dust. As Dead-eye and Jimbo ran forward, crouched low, zigzagging, the men behind them fired their SLRs at the guerrillas up on the ridge, not expecting to hit many but hoping to keep as many as possible pinned down. Dead-eye and Jimbo practically hurled themselves the last few feet, falling belly down, supporting themselves on one hand, then rolling over into shelter as bullets thudded into the ground just behind them and zipped off the rock at all angles.
‘Made it!’ Jimbo said breathlessly.
When both of them had scrambled up into the kneeling position, Dead-eye saw that some of the guerrillas, frustrated at hitting no one, were making their way down the hill. Taking aim, he waited until Ben and Taff had started on their own run before squeezing the trigger on single shot. The two troopers were halfway across when one of the Arabs on the hill threw his arms up, dropped his weapon, flopped backwards, then tumbled noisily in a slide of stones and gravel down the steep, rocky hill. By the time he had crashed lifeless into a boulder, the pair had made it behind their own rock and were preparing to give covering fire to those behind them.
‘Next!’ Jimbo bawled.
Larry was up and running like a bolt of lightning, zigzagging through spitting sand and small explosions of dust until he could fling himself behind another rock. The moment he was safe, he prepared to give covering fire to Ken and Les. The latter tugged his mate to his feet, said something to him, firmly took hold of his elbow, then shouted: ‘Run!’ Surprisingly, Ken obeyed, crouched low and zigzagging, missed by whistling bullets and flying stones, until they were practically at their chosen refuge.
It was then that Ken’s leg gave out and he fell to
his knees, cursed loudly, jerked free of Les, and turned around to aim his SLR at the ridge and fire a short burst on automatic. Two guerrillas who had been darting nimbly down the hill were hurled back by the rapid burst, dropped their weapons, then rolled a good way until they, too, were stopped by boulders.
Les darted back, grabbed his dazed comrade by the arm, and jerked him down behind a rock just as the ground where he had been kneeling was turned into a storm of spewing sand and boiling dust.
‘Christ!’ Jimbo muttered.
They started again, first Dead-eye and Jimbo, then the others, the running men covered by the others until it was their turn. On the second run, Ken was completely in control, albeit tugged along by Les, but on the third he jerked free again to fire another burst up the hill, this time hitting no one, but again continuing to fire in a crazed frenzy until dragged on by his friend.
Miraculously, neither was hit, though Les, whose own leg was still inflamed, practically collapsed behind the rock, almost sobbing with pain.
‘They won’t make it,’ Jimbo said to Dead-eye.
‘Then we leave them,’ Dead-eye said.
They jumped up and ran again, weaving through the hail of bullets and making it to the safety of another rock. The three behind them did the same, all reaching safety, but Ken’s leg gave way again, causing him to fall and curse in frustration. As Les dropped to his knees beside him, giving him covering fire and yelling at him to get up and run, the ground just in front of them erupted in spitting sand and boiling dust from a fresh hail of .303 bullets.
Ken stood up in full view, aimed his SLR at the guerrillas trying to drop down to the lower slopes, and fired a lengthy burst at those nearest him. Once more, he hit a couple, who fell, tumbling down the slope like rag dolls.
A bullet smashed into Ken’s shoulder, making him spin to the side, drop his rifle and fall to his knees, crying out with the pain of this fresh wound. Les also dived sideways as a line of spitting sand snaked towards him, then between him and Ken. The latter hurled himself towards Les and they crashed together in a cloud of boiling sand behind another rock.