Down Among the Weeds

by Harry Beaves

  We continued the celebrations in the afternoon with the ‘Jebel Olympics’ which, because we had no proper sports equipment, featured events like the standing long jump, blindfolded high jump, throwing the DMS boot backwards over the shoulder, heaving a huge boulder as far as you could throw it and press ups with an ammunition box balanced on the shoulders. We kept the score in chalk on a water drum and finished with a formal ceremony when each winner was awarded a bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut chocolate from our compo, with laughter and loud cries of ‘Merry Cree-stmas’, a phrase we had added to the Omanis’ vocabulary. It should be noted that all events in the ‘Jebel Olympics’ were completed on time, on budget and without the help and advice of Sebastian Coe or Boris Johnson. Silly events like this amused everyone, broke the boredom and established a priceless rapport with the Omani platoon.

  We continued to moan about the cancelled resupply flights until, eventually, our Christmas treats arrived on 27th December. When we got off the jebel and back to Salalah we were told why. One of the last major SAF offensives to clear Adoo positions in the Shershitti Caves, several hundred miles west of us, was begun just before Christmas. There had been many casualties and every available helicopter had been tasked to evacuate them to the British Field Surgical Team at RAF Salalah. The numbers threatened to overcome the medical staff so all off-duty personnel were used to carry stretchers and help the wounded. The Laughing Camel (the NAAFI Club) was closed for Christmas and the space was used as a makeshift hospital ward. And while all this was going on we were out on the Dianas bleating about our Christmas resupply being late!

  Peeling spuds on Diana 2.

  Life down in RAF Salalah was very comfortable, but dull. On my first weekend between Dianas a couple of friends were hiring a motorised dhow to go fishing off the coast. Having no knowledge or interest in the sport, I decided that it was a good opportunity to get out of camp, so tagged along. Dress for the day was beach shirts with SMG as, although the surrounding area was ‘safe’, there was still a need for caution. Six of us jumped in a Land Rover and headed off for the port of Raysut.

  As we approached the wire fence that marked the Salalah town boundary a man stood in the road wearing a dishdash and waving a rifle above his head. We slowed to a stop, keeping our weapons visible, though there was little chance of ambush on the open plain. The man was old and weather-beaten and his weapon was antique.

  ‘Raysut?’ he said to the driver.

  ‘Yes,’ was the reply and, without another word, he jumped in the back alongside us, much to our surprise.

  Our armed guest left us in Raysut, we quickly found our dhow and loaded the cool boxes of food and beer together with a box of hand grenades that we had brought. The captain then put to sea and steamed in gentle circles off the coast while we lay on the deck and cracked open the beers. From time to time, someone would lob a hand grenade off the stern and all manner of marine life would float to the surface. That was fishing Oman style!

  As usual on an operational tour we were entitled to a period of R and R leave. The package for Oman was meagre: there were no free flights home and I think we had to spend our time within Oman so, for most, it was just an extended period at RAF Salalah. During our pre-deployment training at Larkhill we had been visited by Lt Col ‘Bugs’ Hughes, a former Gunner Commando, who was about to command the Sultan’s Artillery. At the time, I was in the hot seat, conducting an artillery shoot and had just made the classic mistake of ordering the fire to move ‘left’ when I meant ‘right’. For this, the instructor had written ‘L’ and ‘R’ in large letters with felt tip on the backs of my hands to remind me. When Colonel Bugs saw a green beret with ‘L’ and ‘R’ written on his hands I think it struck a chord and we had a long chat after I had finished the practice.

  Out on the jebel, I got a note one day saying that Bugs Hughes could fix a flight for me to Northern Oman for my R and R if I wanted it, so I accepted gratefully.

  I was waiting to board the flight when he found me and said, ‘Right, there’s a little job that I would like you to do in return for your ticket. I’d like you to recce an area somewhere in the north that we can use for live artillery fire. You know, something about the size of Larkhill. Peter Hunt will help you.’ With that he turned away, leaving me making goldfish faces as I boarded the plane.

  In Muscat I was met off the plane by Peter Hunt, an old (needless to say, rugby-playing) friend from my days in Germany. Peter was on secondment to The Sultan of Oman’s Artillery for two years and he drove me to their camp, on the north side of Jebel Akhdar. One of the first things I asked him was. ‘What’s this artillery range that Bugs Hughes has asked me find?’ ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve got it worked out. That’s just an excuse for us to take a trip round Jebel Akhdar.’

  We stayed that night at Oman Artillery’s barracks near the ancient town of Rustaq. RAF Salalah was safe and hadn’t been attacked for some time, but with folk constantly coming and going from operational tasks there was always an air of tension. By contrast, the north was quiet, peaceful and cooler so we sat on the veranda and watched the glorious colours of an Oman sunset, reminiscing about the ‘lard asses’ that we had known in BAOR and drinking beer long into the night. By the following morning the markets reported a significant rise in the value of Carlsberg shares!

  We threw overnight bags into a Land Rover and shot off for the coast road that would eventually lead us to the south side of the Jebel Akhdar range. At Izki we stopped to look at the impressive new barracks that was being built for Oman Artillery. This was where we had to find a new range so Peter pulled out his map. On it he had drawn round a group of grid squares in red chinagraph. ‘That’s all we need. We just have to go out there and make sure there is no habitation or water sources or anything that could be damaged.’

  And that’s what we did for the rest of the day – drove around this barren area looking for people or things of any value. With Peter’s report, the Oman Government could issue the necessary notifications and authority, then RSA Larkhill could be invited out to write the appropriate orders and safety instructions. I believe that was the origins of what is Oman Artillery’s training area today.

  We spent the night with the Muscat Regiment in their barracks at Nizwa and the following day went into town. The improvements in the country’s infrastructure that were planned by Qaboos were just beginning to be implemented, new metalled roads being the most obvious. Even so, conditions for the Omanis living beyond the coastal strip had changed little and the people of Nizwa lived in the same way as they had for hundreds of years.

  We visited the magnificent fort from which the area was governed by the ‘Wali’, who among other things was the local magistrate with the power to imprison people. The miserable offenders were allowed out for a short period each day and sat forlornly against a wall, blinking against the bright sunshine, their ankles shackled, an example for all to see. Wali Nizwa’s generosity knew no bounds.

  The hustle and bustle of Nizwa’s souk was utterly fascinating with stalls selling all manner of local fruits and spices, meat and fish, with few of the health and hygiene concerns of the west. Nizwa is famous for its silversmiths who produce the most exquisite pieces in their open workshops. Ancient Martini-Henry rifles decorated with silver wire were there for sale, as were ornate khanjars (the traditional Omani ‘J’ shaped daggers).

  Me on Diana Two. Everyone has to have a picture like this.

  From Nizwa we returned to Rustaq and the following day I flew back to Salalah, counting myself very fortunate to have had a glimpse of the old Oman.

  The Dhofar War was the only conventional war in which British troops were involved during that period, but it was politically sensitive as Britain was then under a Labour government. Our presence there was known, but little appeared in the press. Most significantly, no British medals were awarded, despite the fact that British servicemen were involved in many bloody actions. When we left we were given the Sultan’s ‘chocolate’ General
Service medal to recognise our contribution, but, as it was a foreign decoration, we were not actually permitted to wear it on our British uniforms. About a year later, when the war was officially over, a bar for ‘Salalah’ was authorised for the British General Service Medal and, with the active service officially recognised, a flurry of well-deserved bravery awards followed.

  I had intended to keep a diary of my time in Oman which I hoped would become a scrapbook similar to the one I had kept in Andersonstown, but nothing worthwhile seemed to happen. We would get up, check the position, observe the jebel in front of us, maintain and repair our kit, improve the sangar and facilities and fire live artillery practices. The entries in the book became very repetitive. We were bumped a few times by the Adoo, but there was never any serious intent, merely a dozen or so rounds of small arms fire. The operational deployment to Salalah was nothing like as intense as the Andersonstown tour and we returned to Poole, each with a deep suntan and a big fat duty-free Seiko watch from the NAAFI Shop.

  But I only bounced in Poole as almost immediately I was sent to Abingdon to complete my parachute training.

  Chapter 26

  Down Among the Weeds

  Parachuting on to Salisbury Plain, eyes tight closed. Picture RM Poole

  My dislike of parachuting had not changed, so I completed the military parachute course with my eyes tight shut before I could take my place as a fully-fledged member of 148 Battery. Despite jumping regularly throughout my service, parachuting was something with which I never became comfortable.

  I quickly settled into the high octane life in 148 Battery with never a spare moment. My first exercise was the last major NATO amphibious exercise to be held in Turkey. My five-man party was attached to 145 Battery who were part of 40 Commando Group. We reported to the Royal Citadel on Plymouth Hoe, from where we were helicoptered on board HMS Bulwark.

  A fleet consisting of Bulwark, HMS Hermes, HMS Fearless, HMS Intrepid, and HMS Ark Royal supported by several frigates and destroyers and auxiliaries then sailed for the Med. Learning to live on board with the Royal Navy was amusing and an eye-opener. After three days we put in to Gibraltar and were given six hours of shore leave. I walked to the top of the rock with a couple of mates, saw the apes and drank British beer in one of the many British pubs, after which we had probably seen most of Gibraltar so it was time to go back on board.

  Meanwhile ‘Royal’ had been packing in beers as if the end of the world was nigh and the scene on the quayside resembled Fred Karno’s retreat from the NAAFI. Groups of men staggered back in various states of drunken disarray and clambered aboard the boats ferrying us back to the ships. To be drunk on board is a very serious offence and the test for the matelot is to be able to walk (smartly?) up the gangway and to stand and salute as he crosses the quarterdeck. The successful make their way below to their quarters, those who falter are taken away by the ‘Crushers’ (ship’s security), so as the boats bobbed in the water below the gangway there were hilarious scenes of men bracing up their mates and encouraging them to walk unaided up to the quarterdeck.

  In Malta, 40 Commando Group planned to do a small shake-down exercise to practice amphibious drills. Getting 800 Marines through the tight corridors in the correct order to embark on helicopters is no easy task. Drills for this are laid down in various pamphlets. However, the Amphibious Operations Officer (AOO), a US Marine, who was responsible for getting the right men and equipment in the right place had ideas of his own. He reasoned that a helicopter with a full fuel tank should take a light load, one with a half full tank should take a medium load and one with a low fuel tank should take a heavy load, and arranged the ‘sticks’ of men and equipment accordingly. The predictable result was chaos and confusion. I listened in to 145 Battery’s radio net as the BC became more and more angry over the time it was taking to deploy the Battery. Eventually, when he demanded to know why, the equally exasperated Gun Position Officer replied. ‘I have six guns, a command Post and six Gunners!’ Thereafter the AOO followed the drills laid down in the pamphlet.

  Our fleet of ships put in to Malta for forty-eight hours so that 41 Commando Group, who were based in Malta, could be embarked on HMS Hermes. The night before we were due to sail I went to a folk club on the south side of the island where Lt Bernie Bruen, my old ‘Sheep Rescue’ friend from Tywyn (Chapter 23), was performing. Bernie was now one of Bulwark’s ship’s officers and had formed a folk group on board called the ‘Malawi International Airways String Quartet’.

  Bruen and the folk club were brilliant, as expected, but things were much different away on the other side of the island where 41 Commando were taking their temporary farewell of Malta. A dispute with a local in Paul’s Punchbowl (an appropriately named bar) escalated into a wholesale scrap between the Maltese and the Marines and a running battle developed through the streets of Paceville. The scenes on Bulwark when we got back were amazing. Sailors and Marines with bloodied faces and torn clothes were laughing and joking about what has become one of the most famous brawls in Royal Marine folk history. I was very relieved that we had been a long way off, as this was serious trouble. The following day the ranks of 41 Commando paraded on the square while an array of bandaged and limping locals identified those responsible. HMS Hermes sailed from Malta, minus a number of members of 41 Commando who were still ‘assisting with enquiries’.

  The UK Fleet continued east until we joined the mighty US 6th Fleet and other NATO forces, then sailed on to play boats in the bath or, as the Navy would term it, ‘conduct maritime exercises’ around the Greek Islands before heading up towards Turkey. My team was to be part of the advance force that would go ashore twenty-four hours ahead of the main landing ready to conduct ‘notional’ Naval Gunfire to support the landing troops. Together with the Recce Troop from 40 Commando, commanded by Lt Rod Boswell, we transferred by helicopter from Bulwark to the USS Hermitage which would carry the other members of the advance Force ahead of the fleet.

  USS Hermitage was a larger version of HMS Fearless and Intrepid, with a larger flight deck and far more sophisticated dock, from which small boats, landing craft and even hovercraft could be launched. On arrival Rod and I were met by Lt Paul Johnston of the US Marine Corps (USMC) who commanded the Force Reconnaissance Platoon. A US SEAL Team and an Italian Underwater Demolitions Team made up the remainder of the advance force elements on board.

  We quickly made friends with Lt Johnston and got on well with him and his men. He was a typical US Marine, broad in the shoulder, narrow in the hip, with a shaven ‘Marine’ haircut and a wide smile. He always stood square and never put his hands in his pockets. He was, however, a Vietnam vet and had two amusing habits. The first was a nervous blink that seemed to happen every few seconds, the second was a huge appetite for Pistachio nuts. The particular brand sold on Hermitage had some added ingredient that stained his fingers pink!

  The first day on board we arranged to meet the Force Recon guys, each one a Hollywood caricature of a US Marine, on the flight deck. Over the next few days we planned to show each other our weapons, radios, equipment, rations and the like and talk about how we operated. This gave plenty of opportunity to get to know the US Marines and, inevitably, to swap kit with each other.

  After four days of ‘boats in the bath’ American-style, we prepared for a dawn landing on the coast of Turkey. Before leaving Bulwark we had been told that the Americans would provide the means to get us ashore, but in the days preceding it was never discussed. The British would have done a rehearsal launch the day before, but this was obviously not the American way, so, long before ‘L’ Hour (launch hour) we reported to Hermitage’s dock and found a hive of activity with the troops busily loading inflatable craft and preparing to leave. But there was no sign of any boats for us. Eventually, from somewhere, boats and coxswains were found for the Brits and, with ‘L’ Hour approaching, panic level rising and Hermitage’s dock rapidly flooding in preparation for the launch, we piled into our boats with all of our kit.

 
; The dock opened and the SEALS and the UDT roared out Hollywood-style in huge inflatables with massive engines. The US Marines followed in more modest craft, a little more slowly. Then came the Brits, crammed into rubber boats with a seemingly tiny outboard that would have struggled to cross Poole Park on a fine day. The coastline seemed miles distant as we bobbed slowly away from the security of the US Navy. Even in the modest Mediterranean swell we were shipping water and to make matters worse the Americans had not offered us life jackets for the journey. I was beginning to have serious concerns when to our relief two of the SEALS’ boats, returning after their drop-off, came alongside, threw us a line and towed us ashore as dawn was breaking.

  Soaking wet, we scrambled up the beach with relief. The SEALS had dumped us some distance from our planned beach so we heaved our sodden bergans on to our backs and squelched off into the scrub behind. The area was possibly ‘hostile’ with ‘exercise enemy’ and we would not normally have moved in daylight but we had no option as we had a long march and needed to be ready for dawn the following day. Our route took us through waist-high prickly bushes along a series of short, sharp rises in the heat of the Turkish noonday sun.

  At around 1600 we reached the area overlooking the beaches where the landing would take place the following morning and chose the most suitable position in which to set up our Observation Post (OP). We then moved fifty yards away and crawled on our bellies into the heart of the thickest scrub and set up a lay-up point (LUP) where we would spend the night.