by Shaun Clarke
‘It’ll be easier up on the plateau,’ Andrew gasped, when finally they were allowed to sip some water. ‘Nothing on earth could be worse than this.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ Lampton said.
While in Arzat, they slept at night on the ground, shocked by how cold it was after the day’s scorching heat. Yet even in the cold they had to shake out their kit, invariably finding scorpions, centipedes or camel spiders in at least one or two of the canvas sheets. And, though it was cold, the night was still filled with whining mosquitoes, dive-bombing hornets, flying beetles, and bloated flies, none of which ever seemed to sleep, all ravenous for human sweat and blood. The nights were therefore filled with the sounds of muttered curses and hands slapping bare skin.
‘I’m amazed I’ve any blood left at all,’ Gumboot said, examining the ugly mosquito bites all over his arms and legs.
‘I sympathize,’ Andrew said. He had decided to be nice to Gumboot. ‘You look like a bloody pincushion and you never stop scratching. Maybe it’s syphilis.’
‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ Gumboot said, still scratching compulsively.
Though an experienced regular soldier, Ricketts also found himself unable to sleep, not only because of the constantly diving, whining hornets and mosquitoes, but also because of persistent thoughts of the attack on the armoured car and the savagery with which the RAF guards had been killed. He was particularly haunted by the recollection of the adoo soldier driving the long blade of his kunjias through the back of the neck of the burnt man crawling face-down on the ground. The man had made no sound, which suggested that the long blade had gone right through his neck to his throat and vocal cords, but his body had jumped and quivered hideously as the blood gushed out of his neck and splashed over the Arab. That recollection, more than anything else, seemed nightmarish to Ricketts.
Then there was the mountain, the Jebel Dhofar, looming over him even now, where he lay on the hard ground, using his bergen as a pillow, hoping that the cream smeared on his skin would keep the insects and creepy-crawlies away, particularly those with venomous stings, such as the scorpion and centipede. The Jebel was dark now, even darker than the night, and given shape only by the stars that appeared to fall all around it. It was dark, immense, very high, and unknown, probably mined and filled with the adoo, who were practically part of it.
Ricketts, though exhausted and full of aches and pains, wanting to sleep and unable to do so, looked to the mountain with an odd, unfamiliar mixture of fear and excitement. He wanted to brave the very thing that frightened him and thus blow it away. That’s what made him a trooper.
Returning to the base at Um al Gwarif, suntanned, covered in filth, badly bitten, sleepless, with eyes sore from constantly squinting into the sun, the men were only given time for a quick shower and meal, then ordered to the ‘hotel’ for a briefing about the assault on the Jebel, due to take place the next day.
Once in the big marquee, they were split into teams and sat around a couple of standard British Army six-foot tables with their individual maps of Dhofar spread out in front of them. The Intelligence Corps officer arrived shortly after, shook the hand of B Squadron’s commander, Major Greenaway, and was then introduced as Captain Butler. A larger map of Dhofar was pinned to a board behind the table with the words ‘OPERATION JAGUAR – SECRET’ stencilled across the top of it.
‘Tomorrow’s operation,’ Butler began, ‘code-named Jaguar, has been designed to secure us our first firm base on the enemy-held Jebel around the village of Jibjat. The starting point is a former Sultan’s Air Force base on the plain known as Lympne. The mixed assault force, consisting of SAS, SAF and firqats, will total 800 men. It will be split into two. The majority of B Squadron and G Squadron 22 SAS, the Firqat Al Asifat, the Firqat Salahadeen, and the Baluch Askars are tasked to assault the airfield at Lympne on foot. The remainder of the force will be choppered in after a firm base has been established.’
Using a pointer to show the various locations, Butler continued: ‘At first light we’ll leave the SAF staging post of Midway, located north of the Negd plain. From there, we’ll drive south-east until we reach the foothills of the Jebel and the entrance to this major wadi.’ He pointed to the beginning of the Jebel. ‘We’ll follow the wadi bottom until we run out of motorable track. We’ll then debus and move on foot to an area known as the Mahazair Pools, where already we have a small base camp. As the monsoon’s just finished, there should be plenty of water there, which is why we’re making it our rest area.’
As if to remind them all that the adoo were still up there on the Jebel, waiting for them, the 25-pounders boomed from just outside the perimeter. A lot of the men glanced at one another, some grinning nervously.
‘The actual operation against the airfield will be mounted the following night,’ Butler continued. ‘The climb into the hills will be exhausting. Almost certainly it will also involve a running battle with the adoo. We will, however, have resups from the Skyvans and air support from the Strikemasters. No matter how difficult, we must keep advancing until we reach the rough airstrips and the few watering-holes on the high plain. That’s where most of the adoo are entrenched. Our task is to get them out for good and take command of the area. If we succeed, we’ll deal a serious blow to their morale and gain the support of most of the local populace.’
Captain Butler put the pointer down and faced the men again. ‘Any questions?’
‘What kind of resistance is expected, boss?’ Tom Purvis asked.
‘Regarding the makeshift airfield at Lympne, we’re anticipating that a diversionary attack to the south will draw the adoo away long enough for our main assault force to encircle the area without resistance. Once the adoo return, a battle lasting weeks, or even months, is the least we expect. It won’t be an easy battle, as the adoo are heavily armed with state-of-the-art Soviet and Chinese automatic weapons, including Kalashnikov AK-47s, Simonev semi-automatics, RPG 7s, RPD light machine-guns, GPMGs and 82mm mortars. The battle, however, no matter how brutal and lengthy, will be followed by the surrender of the adoo before the next monsoon season, beginning in June. Nobody has ever stayed on the Jebel through the monsoon, so it should be over by then. Any more questions?’
‘Did you say months, boss?’ Bill Raglan asked.
‘You heard me, Trooper.’
‘No more questions, boss.’
The men left the ‘hotel’ to prepare their kit, a task which took up most of the remainder of the evening. This done, they shook out the sheets on their camp-beds, checking for scorpions and centipedes, then tried to catch the last remotely decent sleep they would have for a long time.
They were up again at the crack of dawn.
Chapter 8
The men did not set out at the crack of dawn. Instead, after they had dressed in their OGs and jungle hats, they had a long morning of personal kit and weapons inspection, conducted by Sergeant Lampton and RSM Worthington, both of whom displayed a ruthless talent for spotting even the slightest speck of dirt or sand in the weapons, a loose strap or damaged webbing. More than one man was sent on the double to the armoury or the Quartermaster’s stores to replace faulty parts or damaged items, returning shamefaced to his bivouac for another bollocking from the redoubtable RSM.
Nor did it end there. Once the kit inspections were over, the men were marched to the firing range, where every personal weapon was checked by actually being fired. Nevertheless, by lunch-time, the troop was ready to move and the men were allowed a last visit to the NAAF1 tent for a decent lunch.
‘Mutton curry!’ Bill groaned. ‘I don’t bloody believe it! We’re going to be on the march for days and they serve up compo curry!’
‘We’ll be shitting our pants as we climb the Jebel,’ Gumboot said. ‘I call that good planning.’
‘The planning’s in the rice pudding,’ Andrew informed them. ‘That stuff will stick like glue to your guts and keep the diarrhoea in. It’s kind of an antidote.’
‘Five minutes!’ the RSM baw
led from the open end of the tent. ‘Bolt it down and get out of there!’
‘Bolting your food down causes indigestion,’ Tom complained. ‘My dear mother swore to that.’
‘Diarrhoea, constipation and indigestion,’ Jock said dourly. ‘We’re in for a right mix.’
They nevertheless obeyed the RSM, bolting down their food and hurrying out of the mess tent to gather together by the Bedfords parked outside the armoury. There, though already heavily burdened with their standard-issue US 5.56mm M16 rifle, 9mm Browning high-power handgun, packed bergen, ammunition pouch, smoke and fragmentation grenades, escape/evasion survival kit and water bottles, they were burdened even more with the selective distribution of L42A1 7.62mm Lee Enfield sniper rifles; two different versions of the Heckler & Koch MP5 9mm sub-machine-gun; the L7A2 general-purpose machine-gun, or GPMG, also known as the ‘gimpy’; M-72 LAWs, or Light Anti-Tank Weapons; 51mm mortars with smoke bombs and LI6 ML 81mm mortars with base plate, tripod and shells; plus Clansman high-frequency and PRC 319 portable radio systems, with generators and rechargeable batteries.
It took a good half hour to hump the kit into the trucks, but eventually the job was done and the men, having already put in a full day’s work, were driven out of Um al Gwarif, across the road, then onto the rough ground beside it, where they shook, rattled and rolled the three miles to RAF Salalah.
After being waved through the main gates by an armed SAF soldier, under the watchful eyes of two RAF guards, the Bedfords parked by the dispersal bays for the Skyvan cargo planes. Corporal Harry Whistler of 55 Air Despatch Squadron, RCT, was there with other pilots and RAF loadmasters, most of them stripped to the waist, gleaming with sweat, and covered in the dust that billowed up from the ground every time they moved a crate of supplies to slide it into the cargo bay in the rear of a Skyvan.
‘Are these heaps ready to fly?’ Major Greenaway asked Whistler as the rest of the men piled off their individual Bedfords and started sorting out their gear.
‘No problem, boss,’ Whistler said. ‘These supplies will soon be back. The men can start boarding immediately. By the time they’re all on board, we’ll be ready for take-off.’
‘Very good, Corporal.’ Greenaway turned to RSM Worthington and told him to divvy the hundred SAS men up and get them on board the half-dozen Skyvans. Even with that number, the pilots would have to make quite a few trips to get the whole complement of men and equipment to the SAF staging post of Midway. Worthington therefore divided them into groups, allocated certain of the groups to individual Skyvans, and told the rest to wait in the minimal shade offered by the walls of oil drums. The latter men let out melodramatic groans of misery.
‘Stop whining,’ Worthington said. ‘To save the Skyvan pilots from having to make too many return trips, the CO’s roped in the RAF’s three Hueys and the Sikorski light chopper. You men will be going in those.’ The four helicopters in the dispersal bays 200 yards away roared into life even as he spoke. Glancing at them, then turning back to Greenaway, Worthington said: ‘They’re leaving sooner than I thought. What about you, boss?’
‘You and I are going in the Sikorski,’ Greenaway said. ‘So let’s get these men in the Hueys first.’
‘Right, boss.’ Worthington turned to the troopers who had been moaning and groaning. ‘OK, you men, come with us.’ The men fell in behind Greenaway and Worthington, following them towards the helicopters as overdone groans came from the men waiting to board the Skyvans.
‘OK, lads,’ Sergeant Lampton said to Ricketts and the other newcomers, ‘we’ve been lucky. Good old Whistler’s going to put us onto his personal Skyvan, so we’ll be one of the first groups to take off. Come on, let’s go.’
Having assumed that Lampton would be remaining with the BATT teams, Ricketts had been surprised, though pleased, to learn that he was in fact taking part in Operation Jaguar as their platoon leader. Now he was glad to follow him across to Whistler’s Skyvan. The RAF corporal was standing by the cargo hold, stripped to the waist as usual, his dark hair falling over his bloodshot eyes, shoulders and arms glistening with sweat, his face red from the sun.
‘Hello again!’ he said to Ricketts and the others. ‘How did your week go?’
‘Pretty good,’ Ricketts said.
‘I hear you had a little trouble at Um al Gwarif.’
‘First blood,’ Lampton said. ‘But they did okay.’
Whistler’s grin broadened. ‘A taste of what’s to come, lads. The adoo aren’t scared of man or beast – as you’ll find out soon enough.’ He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. ‘OK, we’ll soon be finished here, so get in the plane and take a seat. We’ll be taking off in no time.’
‘Just don’t leave us to fry in there,’ Gumboot said, ‘with a long wait in this heat.’
‘I won’t,’ Whistler said.
Some of the Skyvans had already roared into life and even as Whistler spoke were taxiing out of the dispersal bays, heading for the runway. At the same time, first one, then two of the American-built Hueys also roared into life, adding their din to that of the aircraft. Suddenly, the whole area had become a hive of activity, with restraining blocks being pulled away from wheels, Skyvan cargo-hold doors being closed, spinning helicopter rotors creating clouds of swirling dust, the Bedfords whining noisily as they reversed and turned away, empty, and line men, or marshallers, with ear defenders driving out in jeeps to the runway to guide the aircraft with hand signals to the holding point on the runway.
Meanwhile, Lampton led his team of probationers into the passenger cabin of the Skyvan, where they strapped themselves into the cramped seats, three to a row, with no aisle down the middle. Ricketts was sitting between Lampton and Andrew.
‘Christ,’ Andrew complained, ‘it’s like a furnace in here.’
‘Not much space, it’s true,’ Lampton said, ‘but at least the flight will be brief.’
‘How far is the LZ?’ Ricketts asked.
‘About fifty-fives miles north of the Jebel.’
‘Get me out of this plane and I’ll run the fifty-five miles,’ Andrew said.
Lampton grinned. ‘Don’t you like planes, Trooper?’
‘I hate the bloody things – particularly bathtubs like this. The old Hercules transport isn’t so bad, but this …’ Andrew shrugged. ‘Do we flap our arms or what?’
‘You just twist the rubber bands and let them go,’ Ricketts replied. ‘The propellers should spin then.’
‘If this thing takes off and lands in one piece, I’ll start believing in God.’
‘Don’t let Whistler hear you saying things like that,’ Lampton warned him. ‘He’s in love with this plane and he’d throw you out without thinking twice.’
‘My lips are sealed from this moment on.’
The Skyvan did at least have windows, through which Ricketts could see the first of the Hueys taking off, rising vertically, heavily, like the bloated flies he had seen so often since coming to Oman. A metallic grinding noise, followed by loud banging, came from behind him as the rear cargo-hold door was wound down and locked. Less than a minute later, Whistler entered the aircraft by the front door and disappeared behind the wall dividing the pilot’s cabin from the rest of the plane. The loadmasters, Ricketts knew, would be sitting in the rear loading bay, communicating with Whistler through their headphones and mikes. Glancing out the window, he saw the Sikorski taking off, whipping up immense clouds of dust, rising towards the last of the three Hueys, all heading for Midway. At that moment, the Skyvan’s STOL twin engines roared into life, making the rotors spin, and the aircraft shuddered violently, then moved forward, taxiing out of its dispersal bay and heading for the runway. Within minutes it was racing along the runway and lifting off, following the other aircraft and choppers into the brilliant, blue-white sky above the Salalah plain.
The journey took no time at all, which was a small mercy, as the interior of the Skyvan was suffocatingly hot, and they landed at the SAP staging post of Midway. The disused oil exploration ca
mp consisted of no more than a number of Twynam huts scattered around an old airstrip in the desolate wasteland of the Negd plain and guarded by SAF troops wearing shemaghs and carrying 7.62mm FN rifles. A lot of Bedfords had been already brought in and were lined up along the runway near the huts, where the troops just lifted in by the helicopters were milling about, stretching their legs, smoking, drinking water and making wry jokes.
‘Heaven on earth,’ Gumboot said sourly, glancing around him, then spitting on the dusty ground at his feet. ‘A real home from home.’
‘It could be worse,’ Andrew replied, mopping the sweat from his face with a handkerchief as the helicopters took off again. ‘Just think – you could be back home in Devon, ankle-deep in cow crap and being nagged by your missus. Thank God for small mercies.’
‘Well,’ Whistler said when his men had unloaded everything from the rear cargo hold and were drawing the door down, ‘I’m on my way again, though I guess I’ll be coming back with the firqats. Best of luck up there, lads.’
‘We’ll call you if we need you,’ Ricketts said, ‘so have some Burmail bombs ready.’
Whistler grinned and stuck his thumb up. ‘Will do,’ he said, then turned away and got back in the Skyvan. As the aircraft was taking off, creating a hell of swirling dust and sand, the men picked up what kit they did not have on them and hurried away from the slipstream. They stopped by the Bedfords at the edge of the runway. The CO and Worthington were near the old huts, shaking hands with the SAF commander, who, like the rest of his men, was wearing a dark-green shemagh. Looking in the other direction, Ricketts watched one Skyvan after another take off and disappear into the darkening late-afternoon sky.
‘All right, you men, gather round!’ Worthington suddenly bawled. ‘The CO wants to speak to you.’
