by Shaun Clarke
Looking up at the officer he most admired, Marty, while certainly trying to concentrate on the briefing, found himself wondering if Kearney had spent a profitable night with the delicious Malay woman whose cheek he had kissed so intimately in the bar of the Eastern and Oriental Hotel. This in turn made him recall the equally beautiful Ann Lim, the welleducated Chinese girl who spoke only English (though presently learning French) and now haunted his thoughts. Feeling a rush of desire for her, he had to force himself to return his attention to the briefing.
‘The basic situation,’ Kearney continued, ‘is that when we British set up the Federation of Malaya in 1948, the Chinese minority resented the dominance of the Malays within the Federation. That same year, certain Chinese communists expressed their resentment by fleeing into the ulu, forming the socalled Malayan Races Liberation Army, or MRLA, and then emerged to attack, and often murder, estate owners and rubber plantationers, be they white or Asian. The British then proclaimed a state of emergency and organized an immediate military response.
‘The communist terrorists, hereafter to be referred to as the CT, then retreated into the jungle interior where they grew their own food, rice and maize in the clearings. Pursued by British Army and Commonwealth forces, assisted by Iban trackers brought in from Borneo, they retreated even deeper into the ulu. As British Army thinking had it that three weeks was the maximum time possible for regular troops to remain in the jungle, it was decided to create a deep-penetration unit that could remain there for much longer than that. This is where the SAS enters the picture.’
At this point, Kearney stopped talking, as if deep in thought, but actually pausing deliberately to let his words sink in. After a decent interval, he looked up and said, ‘Since 1950, when the SAS first came here as part of the Malayan Scouts, Lieutenant “Mad Mike” Calvert evolved and acted upon the theory that victory in this war will not come about by military action alone, but by winning over the hearts and minds of the jungle aborigines – the Sakai. In order to do this, he developed the concept of the three-or four-man patrol and sent them into the ulu not only to ambush the CT, but to give medical and other aid to the aborigines, thus winning them over to our side – in other words, winning their hearts and minds. At the same time, he was testing the absolute limits of those patrols, asking them to remain in the ulu for periods of much longer than three weeks. That one patrol actually managed to remain there for a hundred and three days without a break was confirmation that the SAS could do what other soldiers could not.
‘Your special training, therefore, will be in jungle survival: how to contend with enemy ambushes, booby traps, an exceptionally hostile environment, including swamps and dangerous rivers; and, of course, the equally hostile wildlife, including wild boar, water buffalo, elephants, tigers, snakes, hornets, mosquitoes, and even blood-sucking leeches. You will also learn how to communicate and, in many instances, actually live with, the ulu’s indigenous, still relatively primitive, population.
‘Last but not least, you’ll be the first to rehearse and then put into practice a new method of insertion known as “tree-jumping”, which means parachuting into the jungle canopy and then descending by rope to the jungle floor, which is sometimes a hundred and fifty feet below the canopy. Though this is clearly dangerous, we think it might work and you men will help us find out if it does or not.’
Kearney smiled when he saw the newcomers glancing nervously at one another. ‘The CT live by Mao Tsetung’s philosophy of moving through the indigenous population like fish in a sea and then using them as a source of food, shelter and potential recruits. What we have to do, therefore, is dry up the sea and leave the CT without adequate supplies or men. To this end, we’re engaged in relocating as many aborigines as possible to kampongs and forts defended by British and Federation of Malaya forces. In this way, we often win the hearts and minds of the aborigines while simultaneously depriving the CT of food, other supplies and new recruits. Your job, then, apart from reconnaissance patrols and setting up ambushes, will be to live for long periods of time in the ulu, often in aboriginal hamlets and kampongs, in order to win them over to our side by giving them free food, medical aid and protection. The ambushes will be a combination of jungle-edge patrols and deeppenetration raids, depending upon the circumstances and terrain.
‘As part of the so-called “hearts-andminds” campaign, you’ll construct primitive medical clinics and personally administer basic treatment, aided by RAMC NCOs attached to the regiment. As you’ll be in the jungle or kampongs a long time, you’ll be resupplied by river patrols in inflatable craft supplied by US Special Forces or by fixedwing aircraft. We’re also hopingthat eventually we’ll be able to arrange resup flights using our own choppers.’
Kearney stopped talking while a helicopter outside roared into life and then took off, heading, by the diminishing sound of it, back to RAF Butterworth. When the roaring had faded away in the distance, he looked up again.
‘I know you’re all feeling frustrated that you’ve just completed your training and selection back in Blighty and now have to start all over again. However, your special jungle training is vitally necessary for this particular kind of conflict, so please try to give it everything you have. It includes a daily two-hour lesson in the native language. If you fail to complete any part of the training, you will of course be RTU’d.’
That comment encouraged a lot of shocked eye contact and some muffled grumblings, which were blandly ignored by Lieutenant Kearney.
‘The training will commence immediately with the first of your lessons in the native language. After that, you’ll be marched to the quartermaster’s store to be kitted out. This will be taken care of by Corporal Bellamy here, whom some of you will have met before when he was a sergeant with L Detachment in North Africa. He has, as a matter of interest, been promoted again and will be back to sergeant by tomorrow morning. I now place you in his expert hands and wish you the best of luck. Corporal Bellamy?’
When Kearney nodded in Bulldog’s direction, the latter, looking as rock-solid and ferocious as ever, bawled for the men to stand at attention. Kearney then touched two of his fingers to his badged beret and walked out of the briefing room.
Bulldog immediately ordered the newcomers outside, met them there, and marched them across the clammily humid sports ground to another administration building, where he made them file into a large room containing a blackboard and school desks with notebooks and pencils on them. Once they were seated at the desks, pouring sweat, suffocated by the humidity, still tormented by the buzzing and whining insects, Bellamy left them and a British Army lieutenant entered. He introduced himself as their language teacher, Lieutenant Alan Bourne, and proceeded with their first lesson in the native language.
It was not an easy lesson. Explaining to the class that their time was limited and that he would have to cram a fiveday week’s lessons into each two hours, Bourne proceeded to do just that. By the end of the two hours, the first lesson, Marty was feeling braindead and could hardly wait to get back out into the fresh air.
Alas, Bulldog Bellamy was waiting for them outside. He instantly bellowed for them to line up in formation, then marched them, practically running, to the quartermaster’s store, where they had to queue up in the rising heat to be kitted out, all the while trying unsuccessfully, with a lot of angry swearing, to swat away the relentless flies, mosquitoes and midges that hovered in dark clouds about them and repeatedly dived at them.
‘Bloody ’ell!’ Trooper Roy Weatherby, Royal Signals, complained, frantically swatting flies and mosquitoes away from his morbid brown eyes. ‘These bastard insects could give a man malaria before he has his first lesson.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind them,’ said the blond -haired, mildmanner Trooper Dennis ‘Taff’ Hughes, Welsh Guards, not even blinking. ‘They never seem to come near me.’
This was true, as the others noticed, thinking it miraculous.
‘Lucky bastard,’ said the quick-tempered Trooper Patrick ‘P
at’ O’Connor, Irish Guards, swatting flies and mosquitoes away from his darkly flashing eyes. ‘Sure some bastards are born with that kind of blood – the kind that insects can’t smell. That wee Welsh shite is lucky.’
‘They don’t bother me neither,’ said the unconcerned Trooper ‘Rob Roy’ Burns, Royal Highland Fusiliers, his flaming red hair blowing in the wind when he briefly removed his badged beret to wipe sweat from his forehead. ‘It’s just the heat that gets to me. It’s always cold in Glasgow, so I’m not used to this effin’ heat. Makes m’blood boil, it does.’
As the moans and groans continued and the queue inched forward, Bulldog Bellamy, standing in the doorway of the store, ticked off the name of each individual as he entered to collect his kit. Marty and Tone, the latter behind the former, had not yet reached him, but when they were second in line from the door, Bulldog lowered his clipboard and stared at them with a mocking grin on his sunburnt, deeply lined face.
‘I never respected the Germans much,’ he said by way of greeting, ‘and when I heard they’d let you two survive, I understood why.’
‘Gee, thanks, Sarge,’ Marty replied automatically, then instantly corrected himself. ‘Sorry, Corporal.’
‘That still makes me senior to you, trooper, and don’t you forget it.’
‘Good to see you, CorporalBellamy,’ Tone said tartly. ‘We were pleased to hear you’d survived the POW camp and got back into the regiment.’
‘Were you, indeed?’
‘Absolutely, Corp.’
‘You won’t be so bloody pleased, Trooper, when I get my sergeant’s stripes back and start running you layabouts ragged.’
‘You’ll just be doing your job, Sarge – I mean, Corporal!’
Bulldog shook his head from side to side, as if weary already. ‘How you two managed to get back into the regiment, I’ll never know. Though we were desperately short of men for a while, so I suppose that explains it. So desperate we’d take even you pair.’ He ticked off their names on the clipboard, then jerked his head towards the store behind him. ‘Okay, Butler, get in there. You too, Williams.’
Once inside the quartermaster’s store, Marty and Tone were kitted out with a set of rubber-and-canvas boots, soft green bush hat to be worn instead of the badged beret, and a new kind of OG shirt and trousers, the former with long sleeves manufactured from cellular-weave cotton.
‘The full-length tails of the shirt and high waist of the trousers havebeen designed,’ the quartermaster sergeant (QMS) explained rather portentiously when queried by Marty about the change, ‘specially to protect you dumb bastards from the ulu’s many disease-carrying insects and leeches. Also from the sharp spikes and edges of rattan, bamboo and palms, which can cut to the bone and leave festering wounds. Nice place, the ulu.’
In addition to the standard kit, they were also supplied with special waterproof jungle Bergens, cosmetic camouflage, or ‘cam’ cream, dulling paint and strips of ‘cam’ cloth, lengths of paracord to replace their personal weapons’ standard-issue sling swivels, a plentiful supply of Paludrine, salt tablets, sterilization tablets and a Millbank bag. The latter was a canvas container used to filter collected water, which was then sterilized with the tablets.
‘We’re in for a healthy time,’ Marty said sardonically. ‘I can tell that by the number of different tablets piled up on the counter there.’
‘I should take those sterilization tablets,’ the broad-shouldered QMS said wearily. ‘I’ve got seven kids.’
‘You won’t have any more kids if you take those tablets you’re giving to us,’ Tone told him. ‘I hear those bloody things have bromide in ’em – not to stop the shits or to sterilize water, but to keep us from getting hard-ons and being distracted. A diabolical liberty, that is. A man could be ruined for life.’
‘You’ve been a ruin since the day you were born,’ Marty told him while humping his kit up between his arms and turning towards the doorway. ‘Come on, mate, let’s move it.’
Outside again, burdened with their kit, they grinned at Corporal (soon to be sergeant) Bellamy and were told to take their kit to the barracks, leave it on their beds, and then join the others back here. When they had done so, they were marched the few metres to the armour, where they were given a selection of weapons, including those fired on the range at Minden Barracks. They were also given a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife and a parang, or Malay jungle knife, which looked rather like a curved machete.
‘From now on,’ Bulldog Bellamy told them when they were kneeling on the sports ground in the midday sun, sweating, burning and furiously swatting away the usual insects, ‘you’ll keep your weapons with you at all times, either on your person or in your lockers. If any man loses a weapon or ammunition, he’ll be RTU’d instantly. Although you’ll all be training together, you’ll be split into four-man teams that will sometimes operate alone, but sometimes with the other teams. This system, we believe, combines minimum manpower with maximum surprise. We also believe it to be the most effective because team members can pair up and look after each other, both tactically and domestically, sharing tasks such as brewing up, cooking meals, erecting shelters, or camouflaging their location. Finally, each four-man team can divide into pairs to tackle most of those tasks.’
‘Man and wife,’ Marty whispered to Tone. ‘Pass me my apron.’
‘Whatwas that, Trooper?’ Bulldog bawled.
‘Nothing, Corp!’ Marty bawled back. ‘Didn’t say a word, Corp!’
Bulldog stared grimly at him, sucked in his breath, letting his chest expand, then continued: ‘All of you men have been trained in signals, demolitions and medicine, and you’ve now started your lessons in the local lingo. However, although you have this crossover training, within each four-man group each individual will have his speciality. Those of you who’ve been trained to Regimental Signaller standard in Morse code and ciphers – Trooper Weatherby, for instance – will be used as your team’s specialist signaller and be responsible for calling in aerial resup missions, casualty evacuations and keeping contact with the base camp. Likewise, though you’ve all been trained in demolitions, those with advanced skills in this area will be made supervising, or carrying responsible for either out, major sabotage operations. Those who pick up the local lingo quickest will specialize in conversing with the Sakai for two distinct purposes: to gain their trust as part of the hearts-and-minds campaign and to gather any information that can be gleaned from them. Last but not least, the specialist in medicine won’t only look after the other members of his team, but will also attempt to win the hearts and minds of the natives by treating them for any illnesses, real or imagined, that they might complain of.’
‘I feel ill myself,’ Roy Weatherby whispered to the mild-mannered, seemingly distracted, Taff Hughes, who was smiling beatifically as he squinted up at the high jungle canopy and languidly scratched his blond hair. ‘If we have to stand here much longer in this heat, I’m going to throw up.’
‘The heat’s never affected me much,’ Taff responded mildly, still looking distracted, his babyblue eyes brightened by sunlight. ‘Not the cold either. I justadjust automatically.’
‘Sure the Welsh git must have ice in his veins,’ Pat O’Connor whispered out of the corner of his mouth, his dark eyes flashing with disgust. ‘He doesn’t feel the heat, he doesn’t feel the cold, and even the flies and mosquitoes ignore him. That wee fucker’s from outer space.’
‘What was that, Trooper O’Connor?’ Bulldog bawled.
‘Nothing, Corp!’ O’Connor bawled back.
‘Any more of that bloody whispering,’ Bulldog said, ‘and the perpetrator will be circling this sports ground, in full kit and with his rifle held above his head, for the rest of the day. Is that understood?’
He glanced left and right, along kneeling troopers, then, not really response, he went on with his lecture.
‘Though the basic unit will be the four-man team, we have three different kinds of patrol here. First is the reconnaissance patrol. This
is tasked with observation and intelligence gathering, including topographical info: the selecting of sites for RVs, helicopter landings and good ambush positions; location of the enemy and the checking of friendly defences, such as minefields. Second is the standing patrol, which can be anything from a four-man team to a whole troop or more. The standing patrol provides a warning of enemy advance and details of its composition, prevents enemy infiltration, and directs artillery fire or ground-attack aircraft onto enemy positions. Finally, we have the fighting patrol, composed of either two four-man teams or an entire troop, depending on the nature of the mission. The job of the fighting patrol is to harass the enemy, conduct raids to gain intelligence or capture prisoners; carry out attacks against specific targets; and prevent the enemy from obtaining info about friendly forces in a given area.
‘Sooner or later, you’ll take part in all three types of patrol. Right now, however, you’re going to undergo a weapons training programme more rigorous than anything you’ve imagined in your worst nightmares. Now stand up and let’s shake out.’
Already exhausted just from being down on one knee on the unshaded ground in the draining heat of noon, the troopers stood up and fell in behind Bulldog, who marched them off for a couple of hours of practice on the firing range before they even had lunch.
the rows of expecting a The heat continued to rise.
Sergeant Bellamy (for he did, indeed, have his new sergeant’s stripes sewn on by the following morning) had not been exaggerating. While the training that the new arrivals had recently gone in order to get badged was already the most demanding they had so far experienced, even that hadn’t prepared them for the relentless demands that were placed upon their physical stamina and skills, from dawn to dusk over the next two weeks. Every day was a non-stop routine of early Reveille, hurried breakfast, the two-hour language lesson, ten-minute tea break, two hours on the firing range, a one-hour lunch break, two hours of battle tactics, both theoretical and physical, a second tea break, another two hours of close-quarter battle (CQB) and hand-to-hand combat, an hour for dinner, then an evening filled with map-reading, medical training, signals training and demolitions. Second best wasn’t good enough. They had to be perfect at everything and were pushed remorselessly hard until they were.
