The Exit Club: Book 2: Bad Boys

by Shaun Clarke

  Broken, another candidate was escorted back to the waiting Bedfords, shuddering with physical fatigue and muttering to himself in a state of shock. Yet another candidate got himself lost, probably because of being dazed, and a third simply dropped out in despair, finally accepting that he simply couldn’t endure it.

  During the second day, the teams were split up and each man was tested alone, with the hikes becoming longer, the time permitted shorter, the mountain routes steeper, and the Bergens packed more heavily. By this time, the ‘beasting’ by the DS had become more frequent and ruthless, including last-minute changes of plans and awakenings at unexpected times, by day and by night.

  Determined not to let it beat him, Marty just rode with it, though he often felt himself tugged between rage and despair.

  The climax of Sickener 2 came at the end of the week with a ‘cross-graining’ of the peaks of Pen-yFan, the highest mountain in the Brecon Beacons: nearly nine hundred metres high. ‘Cross-graining’ means going from one summit, or trig point, to another by hiking up and down the steep, sometimes sheer, hills instead of taking the easy route around them. As part of Sickener 2, it was deliberately planned at the last moment for the worst possible weather– in this case, sleet and snow – thereby doubling the difficulties for the few remaining candidates.

  The DS were in hiding all along the route, ready to jump out from behind rocks, either to bawl abuse at the candidates or to cajole them into taking the easy way out by going back down to the Bedford trucks. Given the state of disorientation and spiritual anguish of some of the candidates, this final trick by the DS was the feather that made more candidates collapse and be dropped from the course. The DS even materialized on the very highest, snow-covered peaks, where they had been waiting for the hardiest, to hurl a volley of tactical questions at them. When the candidate was too dazed or weak to give a coherent answer, he, too, was sent back down to the waiting Bedfords and the inevitable RTU.

  On the final day of the last week, Marty, Tone and the remaining few men– a total of only nine out of the original forty– were made to do what the DS referred to as the ‘fan dance’: an especially cruel, lonely, forty- mile solo cross-graining of the Pen-y-Fan. Following a course deliberately mapped to turn the hike into hell on earth, Marty found himself crossing icy rivers, peak bogs, pools of stagnant water, fields of dense fern and overgrown grass. He also found himself scrambling up loose gravel paths and climbing sheer, almost vertical, ridges, hanging on by his fingers. Last but not least, he found himself doing all of this in blinding fog, freezing wind, driving rain and gusts of snow, carrying the usual heavy Bergen packed with twenty-five kilos of bricks, as well as his heavy personal kit and weapons.

  Even for him, who had been through so much already, this final hike nearly broke his spirit and he found himself, when eventually on the summit of Peny-Fan, shivering with cold, ravenous, in a state of complete exhaustion, slipping in and out of consciousness. He endured his long dark night of the soul in the snow-swept afternoon, feeling more alone, more confused and indecisive, than he had ever felt in his life, fighting the urge to scream out in protest, give up and go back down to the waiting Bedford trucks. It was a singular moment – one he would never forget – but in the end he recovered, shook himself out of his gloomy reverie, and shakily moved himself on to the next trig point, then the next… and the next. It seemed to take him forever.

  Early that winter’s evening, but just after last light, he staggered down to the final RV, nodded dumbly at the waiting DS, including RSM Farrell and Sergeant Doyle, and was surprised to see them all grinning at him and breaking out in applause.

  ‘You’ve just won your badge,’ the RSM told him. ‘Congratulations, Trooper.’

  Chapter Four

  At the end of January, 1952, Marty, Tone and the other newly badged troopers were on their way to RAF Butterworth in Malaya as part of ‘A’ Squadron 21 SAS (Malayan Scouts). As he sat beside Tone in the Hadley Page transport, in the shadow of piled-up, dangerously shaking crates of supplies, he realized that he was glad to be going overseas, certainly for the adventure, but also to be well away from Lesley, who was, as she had recently informed him, proceeding as planned with the divorce. He wanted a distraction from all that and was glad to be gone.

  ‘Feels like we’re going down,’ Tone said. ‘That’s why she’s shuddering so much.’

  Twisting around to glance through the window, Marty was thrilled to see the dense canopy of the Malayan jungle, known to the natives as the ulu. Silvery rivers and streams snaked through that vast, undulating green sea, glittering in brilliant sunlight, pouring down the sides of mountains, curving around rocky promontories, disappearing temporarily into dark secondary forest before reappearing. Here and there were streaks of brown – the thatched roofs of kampong (village) shacks – and he also saw roads and tracks winding through lowland forest.

  The transport was indeed descending, roaring and shuddering as its flaps were lowered, then Marty saw the densely-packed brick buildings of George Town, Penang Island, followed instantly by the sampancluttered waters of the Malacca Straits, then the paddy-fields, forests and kampongs of the mainland as the aircraft descended over RAF Butterworth and raced towards the airstrip. The trees suddenly rushed at him, the paddy-fields broadened out, and then he saw the aircraft hangars and brick buildings of the camp as the Halifax bounced heavily on the runway, shuddering and shrieking as its brakes were applied and it gradually slowed down. It seemed to take a long time, but eventually the plane trundled noisily, shakily, to a halt. The doors were soon opened, shafts of sunlight poured in, and then Marty followed the other SAS troopers out. He stepped into dazzling brightness, fierce heat and a suffocating humidity.

  After blinking repeatedly, letting his eyes adjust to the brilliant sunlight, he gazed across the airstrip, past the hangars and the paddy-fields beyond, to see a green line of jungle, a tangle of rain trees and banyans, cutting through a vast, silver-streaked azure sky. When he looked in the other direction he saw the thatched shacks of a nearby kampong, smoke billowing up from a couple of open fires to coil around shivering papaya trees. He then accepted that he was in another world and that he was thrilled to be here. It almost made up for his lost marriage.

  RAF Butterworth, run jointly by the Royal Air Force (RAF) and Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF), was merely a transit stop on the journey to Jahore in the south, where, as the recently badged SAS troopers were informed, they would be undergoing special jungle training. Nevertheless, once ensconced in one of the plain brick buildings of Minden Barracks, surrounded by grassy fields lined with papaya trees, they were given the rest of the day off and decided to enjoy it in George Town, Penang Island. Lieutenant Kearney, industrious as always, went off to check on the arrangements for the trip to Jahore, though not before telling them that he might catch up with them later in George Town.

  Recalling the great time he’d had in Cairo, Marty, freshly showered and wearing civilian clothing of shirt, shorts and sandals, led Tone to the main gate of the sprawling base, where they commandeered one of the waiting taxis, telling the Malay driver to take them to the Butterworth-Penang ferry. Pleased to oblige in return for Malay dollars, the driver shot off like a maniac along the Butterworth Road, weaving through a chaos of trishaws, bicycles, motor-scooters and cars, passing broad, flat paddy-fields lined with rain trees, papaya and banyans; dilapidated shacks on stilts, many with thatched roofs; shops constructed from old floorboards, pieces of corrugated-iron, lumps of cardboard and newspapers, but visually enhanced with gaudily painted signs; open-air markets with steaming makan stalls and crowded bars; ancient temples draped in overhanging foliage; and kampongs filled with smoking fires, barking dogs, squawking chickens and happily shrieking children. Wearing bright sarongs, the women carried baskets of food and live chickens on their heads; the men squatted in the dirt, smoking hashish pipes and talking the day away– all under a darkening sky smudged with distant rain clouds.

  The drive ended
at the Butterworth-Penang ferry, where Marty enjoyed haggling with the wily driver before queuing up with Tone and the jostling locals – Malay, Indian, Chinese, Tamil and European – at the turnstile leading to the ferry platforms. Out on the water, sampans and other boats were silhouetted by the sinking sun; overhead, in a blue sky turning pink, some silvery Sabre jet fighters were performing spectacular aerial manoeuvres. Even now, in the descending darkness of twilight, the air remained hot and clammy.

  ‘This is just like a movie,’ Marty said. ‘If this is Malaya, I love it. I’m going to stay here forever.’ ‘I’m losing pounds in this heat,’ Tone complained,

  ‘and it’s almost dark already.’

  ‘We’ll lose a lot more when we get to the jungle,’

  Marty reminded him, ‘so let’s enjoy this one night.’ ‘I’m game for anything,’ Tone said.

  Once through the gate, they lit up cigarettes and

  watched the ferry crossing the dark surface of the

  water, approaching from Penang, packed with as many

  vehicles and passengers as were waiting to board it.

  When eventually Marty and Tone boarded the docked

  ferry with the many other passengers, they went down

  the steps to the lower deck. Ten minutes later, leaning

  on the railing as the ferry headed for the dark breast of

  Penang Hill, trying not to ogle the beautifully-shaped

  Eurasian girls in their brightly-coloured, figurehugging cheongsams and saris and sarongs, they

  watched the sun go down, casting pink light on the

  sluggish water, silhouetting the sampans and small

  boats against the hump-backed island. The lights of

  the other boats were winking on one by one, as were

  the lights of the island, gradually turning the bubbling

  white of the ferry’s wake into darting, faintly

  phosphorescent green lines. The lights of George

  Town formed a glittering necklace in the gathering

  darkness.

  ‘There she blows,’ Marty whispered.

  When the ferry docked at the far side, he led Tone

  to a taxi and asked the Chinese driver to take them to

  the Eastern and Oriental Hotel, which had been

  recommended by Paddy Kearney as a good place to

  pick up decent women who would not have VD.

  Grateful that his Squadron Commander was still

  looking after him, even in absentia, Marty lit another

  cigarette and sat up straight in the back seat of the taxi,

  all the better to see the sights en route. The taxi took

  them along the docks, now surrendering to crimson

  twilight, past travel and shipping offices, a post office

  and bank, more steaming makan carts, old men

  playing majong on the cracked, packed pavements, a temple with many candles burning inside, fitfully illuminating its relative darkness. Marty heard the distant wailing of the imam calling the faithful to

  prayer.

  Arriving at the imposing entrance to the Eastern

  and Oriental Hotel, he paid the driver in Malay dollars,

  then hurried inside with Tone hot on his heels. Still

  following Paddy Kearney’s recommendation, he

  crossed a lobby crowded with white rubber

  plantationers and their elegantly dressed wives, as well

  as Eurasian women of quite stunning beauty. He

  entered the Board Room Bar with Tone close behind

  him. The bar had cushioned seats along the walls, dim

  lighting, paintings of London Bridge and Regent Street

  on the walls, and a clientele consisting of RAF and

  RAAF officers from Butterworth, mostly pilots, and

  ravishing ladies wearing glittering cheongsams, split

  up the side to expose golden thighs, figure-hugging

  saris or sarongs, or the breast-hugging short coats

  known as bajus, all worn with leg-enhancing high

  heels. Most of the ladies looked delectable and

  friendly, sipping cocktails through straws.

  ‘I’ve got a hard-on already,’ Tone boasted. ‘It’s

  almost bursting my pants.’

  ‘Cool it down with a drink, mate.’

  They began with Haig Dimple whisky, chased it

  with a Carlsberg beer, then decided to try the local

  beers, Tiger and Anchor. Marty was on his fourth

  drink, the Anchor beer, when he saw one of the Asian

  beauties on the stools studying him in the mirror above

  the bar, a slight smile on her delicate, heart-shaped

  face, framed by jet-black hair that fell down her

  shimmering dark green cheongsam to her delectable

  rump. Aware of the fact that, apart from his ‘bad boy’ days in Cairo, he had not betrayed Lesley, he realized that he wanted to do so now, because he no longer felt guilty. He had Lesley’s divorce proceedings to thank

  for this new, free attitude.

  Again glancing in the mirror and catching the

  smile of the lovely Asian woman, clearly a Malay, he

  was briefly embarrassed and turned his eyes in the

  opposite direction. When he did so, he caught another

  smile, which certainly surprised him, because this one

  was being offered by Paddy Kearney, who had

  obviously left the base shortly after they did and came

  straight to the hotel. Having just entered the lounge

  and ordered himself a drink, he was taking his first sip

  when he saw his two hard-drinking troopers. Casually

  sophisticated in a light tropical suit with shirt and tie,

  he sauntered up to join them.

  ‘Cheers, gentlemen,’ he said, grinning while

  raising his glass of whisky in a mock toast. After

  sipping again at his drink, he lowered the glass and

  glanced over Marty’s shoulder at the women seated

  farther along the bar. ‘I see you took my advice and

  came to the best place in town. For that reason I’m

  glad to note that it’s not empty and that the ladies on

  all sides are mouthwatering.’

  ‘It sure is,’ Marty responded. ‘But if I may say so,

  boss, these ladies look a bit on the expensive side for

  the underpaid other ranks.’

  ‘A good point well taken.’ Kearney was amused.

  ‘However, I should make it clear to you that most of

  these lovely ladies aren’t professional prostitutes.

  Indeed, they’re more likely to be the highly

  respectable, well educated daughters of well-off Asian

  families, here to find themselves a decent white man

  and potential husband because their parents are in awe of the Brits. So a lot of these girls, though Asian, have been given English Christian names and told that marrying an Englishman is a step in the right

  direction.’

  ‘So do they…?’ Tone asked. ‘Would they…?’ Kearney chuckled. ‘Some do and some don’t,

  though mostly they need a good reason. A declaration

  of love might do it; an offer of marriage certainly

  would. Occasionally a scarlet lady manages to slip in,

  but usually they’re frowned upon by the management.’ Marty glanced in the mirror and caught a glimpse

  of the beauty farther along the bar, that particular,

  slight smile, before becoming embarrassed again and

  lowering his eyes. ‘A bit classy for the likes of us,

  boss. I think we’re out of our depth here.’

  Kearney feigned dismay. ‘What’s this I hear? I

  thought you were SAS men, full of initiative and

  courage. I’m disappointed in you, I tru
ly am. I should

  slap an RTU on the pair of you for letting the side

  down.’

  Marty shrugged and Tone puffed on his cigarette,

  obviously trying to hide his discomfort behind the veil

  of dense smoke.

  ‘Thing is,’ Tone said, trying to come up with an

  excuse for his perceived lack of nerve, ‘we haven’t

  even explored the town yet, so we’ll be heading off

  soon.’

  ‘You’d best be careful with the girls you meet in

  George Town,’ Kearney warned him. ‘VD is rife in

  this place and we don’t want that, do we?’

  ‘God, no!’ Tone exclaimed.

  Grinning Kearney returned his gaze to Marty. ‘Are

  you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here with these

  more respectable ladies?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Marty finished his beer. ‘I think we

  should explore the rest of the town. But you have my

  word, boss, that we’ll be extra careful. No hanky-

  panky, like.’

  Kearney shook his head from side to side, as if

  sorry for them. ‘Pity,’ he murmured. Then he glanced

  up again, over Marty’s shoulder, and waved at

  someone he knew. ‘Mas!’ he called out, offering a

  warm smile, his gaze obviously focused on the

  gorgeous Malay woman whom Marty had thought was

  smiling at him. ‘I didn’t see you there, in this dim

  light. Dolet me join you, Mas!’ He returned his gaze

  to Marty and Tone. ‘See you tomorrow, lads.’

  Grinning again, with both amusement and sly

  mockery, he made his way along the bar to join the

  beautiful Mas.

  Looking over his shoulder, Marty saw his dashing