The thump of the Hercules landing gear hitting the tarmac at RAF Salalah brought me back to the present. I looked out of the window. The first thing that caught my attention were the Strikemaster jets, secured in their own individual sandbagged emplacements, covered by camouflage nets. It was a reassuring sight. Air support was going to be at a premium. This was a prophetic thought; I little realized that the intervention of the Strikemasters would later save my life.
As the Hercules swung round into the taxi bay I caught my first view of the Jebel.
'There she is lads, there's the monster!' Geordie's words at the first sight of Pen-y-fan in the Brecon Beacons all those months ago came echoing back as if it had been yesterday. If I hadn't realized it at the time, the rigours of selection, the painful point-to-point over Pen-y-fan and the ruthless red-lining certainly made sense now as I gazed out of the window at this new challenge that awaited us. More bergenhumping, more blister-cursing – but this time it would be for real. Tim's endeavours to forge a chain with no weak links would soon be put to the test. Our mettle was about to be put under severe stress in the pitiless furnace of the Arabian sun.
Compared to the awesome ramparts of the Jebel Massif, Pen-y-fan was like a nipple on a 42-inch bust. The sight before us was stunning. Out of the totally flat area known as the Salalah plain suddenly rose the sheer sides of this huge great plateau. It reminded me of pictures I'd seen of Ayers Rock in Australia. But it was far vaster, an Ayers Rock spreading out in all directions. Once on the summit of this high ground in a few days' time, we would be heading into the unknown – that was, if we were able to get to the top in the first place.
As the four powerful Allison turboprop engines of the C-130 shut down and the tailgate lowered with a slow mechanical whine, a shockwave of heat rolled down the inside of the plane's fuselage, passing through and hitting us before we had even eased ourselves out of our cramped sitting positions. We stumbled down the tailgate into the full glare of the sun. It felt like walking into the middle of a nuclear explosion, so fierce was the heat, so intense the glare. Christ, I thought, as my eyes began to water, I hope we don't have long to wait. We didn't. A convoy of armour-plated Bedfords suddenly swung onto the tarmac and came to a halt just short of the tailgate. 'Get those Firkins working, hey,' shouted the squadron quartermaster sergeant, a flamboyant Irishman called Paddy, flailing his arms around like an out-of-control puppet as he swung down from the cab of the first Bedford. He set to work organizing the unloading and sorting of all the squadron kit.
At long last all the gear was packed into every available bit of space on the Bedfords. We then clambered on top of our huge pile of bergens, ammunition boxes and equipment and tried to find a comfortable spot.
'Best place to sit, this,' said Fuzz, smiling serenely from the top of the biggest bergen.
'Why's that?' I asked, shifting my position uncomfortably.
'Because if we go up on a mine we've got insulation from the blast,' he answered, adjusting his hands cupped between his legs.
This was no idle joke. What few roads there were in Dhofar were all known to be mined, so uncomfortable travel over rough terrain parallel to the roads was the only option. But even this was not foolproof. The Adoo were known to seek out the regularly used diversions and lay mines on them, too. They would cunningly conceal the presence of a mine by rolling an old tyre over the area to make the existing tyre-tracks look continuous. We set off with a last flourish of 'Move your loins, hey!' from Paddy. He finished all his orders with 'hey', and when he was really excited, 'hey, hey!'
The first leg of our journey took us to the SAS base at Um al Gwarif, a sandblown dump in the middle of nowhere. Next to it stood the hutted camp of the Sultan's Armed Forces, a base camp for the resident battalion serving in the area. As the convoy of armoured Bedfords swung through the camp perimeter, the first thing that caught my eye was an old whitewashed fort complete with ramparts and slitted windows. A triangular red and green flag flew stiffly from a pole attached to the topmost turret. I felt as though I was back in the Crusades. Indeed, one of the Firqats had even taken the name of Saladin, that great Muslim warrior who clashed with Richard the Lionheart. From Saracen swords to guerrilla grenades; from Jerusalem to the Jebel Massif; from Saladin to the Salalah plain.
The lead Bedford swung round and came to a halt at midday on what looked like a volleyball court. A layer of fine sand settled on everything. I tried to dust myself down but didn't make much impact on the light-brown film which covered me. I jumped down from the Bedford and looked around. There were only two buildings – an armoury and a radio-operations room. Everything else was tented. Over to my left was a large British Army marquee, and off to the side a number of bivouac tents. There's the hotel, I thought.
'Let's get moving, hey, hey!' shouted Paddy, standing on one leg like a Masai warrior, and thrashing his arms about like a combine harvester to emphasize the urgency. We began the task of unloading the Bedfords.
It was late afternoon by the time the kit and equipment were sorted out. With the radio equipment finally stored away in the signals shack, we picked up our bergens and belt kits and headed towards the hotel. I grabbed the first empty bivouac tent and looked inside. Nothing, just the hard desert floor. I opened my bergen and removed my sleeping bag. I pushed the bergen to the far end of the bivouac and placed my belt kit in front. This would make a good pillow. Then I unrolled my sleeping bag and laid it out the full length of the tent. After a final attempt at dusting down my OGs – in shit order by this time – and already bitten by mosquitoes, I laid my head on the belt kit and fell into an exhausted sleep.
Grey metal, black tape. I stared through sleep-filled eyes at the airborne tin mug floating before me. Thick black masking tape overlapped the rim. I reached forward and took the mug – Christ, it was hot! Without the masking tape I would have needed asbestos lips.
'Stand by your boots with your beds in your hands.' It was Roger, with a feeble attempt at an early-morning joke. He was standing at the entrance to the tent, holding the flap back. The sun glinted on his ribs so that they looked even more prominent than usual.
I was in no laughing mood. The mosquitoes had been zapping into me all night and I was covered in bites. I grunted and took a swig of tea.
'Get your shit together, we've got a briefing from the green slime in the marquee in thirty minutes. Oh, and don't forget to take your Paludrin.' With that, Roger disappeared and I was left to nurse my insect bites.
Paludrin, the anti-malaria tablet. Over the next few months I would grow to hate this morning ritual. I peeled back the tin foil containing the pill and placed the white tablet on my tongue. The bitter taste made me retch. I took another swig of tea and swallowed hard, but the sour taste remained. What a breakfast, I thought.
The atmosphere inside the marquee was one of excitement mixed with anticipation. There was a low hum of conversation as we awaited the arrival of the 'green slime' to give us the big-picture brief. We had split into our teams, and each team sat around a standard British Army six-foot table, our maps of Dhofar spread out in front of us. I glanced at the personalities around my table. They were all studying their maps intently. I said nothing and did the same.
The hum of conversation died down as the Intelligence Corps officer entered. The Duke, who was sitting at the front, rose to greet him. They shook hands and the Duke launched into his introduction. 'Gentlemen, this is Captain Jackson. He will give you an update on the situation on the Jebel.'
Jackson withdrew a pointer from its container and turned to the Dhofar map, which was pinned to the briefing board with the words 'Operation Jaguar' emblazoned in black across its top. 'Gentlemen, we have done a feasibility study of the eastern area.' The pointer drew circles on the map. 'We have identified a start line for the operation against the airfield at Lympne. On 30 September we will leave Midway, an SAF staging post north of the Negd plain, and drive by convoy south-east until we hit the foothills of the Jebel and the entrance to this ma
jor wadi here.' The pointer traced a line on the map and came to a halt at the beginning of the Jebel.
The speech was rolling off his tongue like a lizard down a windowpane.
'From here we will follow the wadi bottom until we run out of motorable track. We will then debus and move on foot to an area known as Mahazair Pools. The monsoon has just finished, so there should be plenty of water here. This will be our rest area. It is from this location that we will mount the operation on the night of 1 October.'
His voice droned on; he wasn't telling me much I didn't already know. We had gone over the plan at Otterburn with the Duke. All that had been missing was the timeframe. Right now I was more worried about the immediate problem of humping the GPMG tripod to the top of the Jebel.
'We expect a running fight for a few months. Then we anticipate a surrender from the Adoo before the next monsoon begins in June. Nobody has yet stayed on the Jebel during the monsoon, so we don't want operations to be prolonged into this period of time. It should be all over by the next monsoon.'
He continued on about logistics, but I was thinking of this last gem – 'all over by the next monsoon'. That didn't say much for the Adoo's expected resistance. I was puzzled. The SAS's own intelligence unit in the Kremlin had drawn an altogether more complimentary picture of the Adoo's capabilities. But I pushed this thought to the back of my mind. As far as I was concerned, a short, sharp campaign would suit me fine. A few months and then back to the Sports and Social in Hereford, and with a bit of luck a go at Geordie's bird. After nine months in the desert she wouldn't know what was in store for her, lucky woman!
My thoughts of the hostel dance hall in Redhill next to the camp were suddenly interrupted. 'Any questions?' Jackson's voice barked.
'Yeah, why don't we do a parachute drop?' a voice from the Seven Troop table shouted.
Captain Jackson looked surprised, as if he'd been asked what the Adoo had eaten for breakfast that morning. 'How do you mean?' he replied.
'Well, we can't see the point of humping all that kit and equipment to the top of the Jebel, risking ambush, injury and heat exhaustion, when we could parachute straight onto Lympne and be fit enough to go into action immediately. After all, we do have air superiority.'
This caused a buzz amongst the Head Shed. Their brains, heavy with complicated tactical theory, had possibly missed the obvious. They chewed the option around for a while, then vetoed it on the grounds that the amount of enemy activity in the area was unknown. Shame, I thought, that could have been the answer to the tripod problem.
* * *
The five-round burst hit the Figure 11 target nine inches above the four-inch-square white patch. Sean slid forward from the firing position and slipped the hinge-clip off the foresight of the GPMG barrel. He then took the foresight blade between his thumb and forefinger and screwed it up with confident precision into the error. Having replaced the hinge-clip, he once more took up his firing position, the second pad only of the index finger on the trigger and only the thumb behind the pistol grip, so as not to influence the movement of the gun by the natural side-pull of closing fingers.
We were now on the 100-metre firing point of Arzat ranges, zeroing the second spare barrel of the GPMG. As Sean rotated the elevation drum to lay the sights, I checked over in my mind the list of equipment we would have to carry into battle in a few days' time: the tripod weighing 30lb, two spare barrels weighing 6lb each, spare return spring, dial sight, marker pegs, two aiming posts, aiming lamp, recoil buffer, tripod sight bracket, spare-parts wallet and the gun itself weighing 24lb. Then there was the ammunition: 1,000 rounds of 7.62mm GPMG link weighing 60lb. The equipment would be split between the members of the team, and I calculated that I would end up carrying over 100lb of hardware – and that didn't include water, rations and personal kit.
My mental arithmetic was interrupted as the gun hammered out another five-round burst.
'Check targets,' shouted Jimmy.
Sean and I walked forwards to the butts and squinted at the Figure
11 target pasted on the screen. 'Spot on!' shouted Sean with satisfaction. The mean point of impact of the group was three inches above the white patch – the correct zero position. 'Come on,' said Sean, 'we'll fire a check group into the other Figure 11, then wrap this up.'
* * *
Midway was a disused oil-exploration camp about fifty-five miles north of the Jebel, now consisting of a number of Twynam huts scattered around an old airstrip. We had arrived by Skyvan from RAF Salalah the previous afternoon, and it was now first light on 30 September. We were on our way. The operational equipment had been packed into every spare bit of space on the armoured Bedfords, and now, with personal weapons and belt kits to hand, we sat on the mounds of kit in quiet anticipation. I looked back down the convoy. There were about
250 of us. The assault force had been split into two. The majority of B Squadron and G Squadron 22 SAS, the Firqat Al Asifat, the Firqat Salahadeen and the Baluch Askars were tasked to assault the airfield at Lympne on foot. The remainder of the force would be choppered in after a firm base had been established.
The Head Shed suddenly appeared from the makeshift operations room in one of the Twynam huts. This is it then, I thought, we're going for it. After a final check down the convoy, the Duke jumped confidently into the first truck. The Bedfords spluttered into life and a Saladin armoured car took up the lead position to offer some protection against mines. We moved off towards the camp perimeter. Once clear of the camp we immediately swung off the road and started driving cross-country, parallel to the road, so as to avoid the mines, and I settled down to what would prove to be one of the most uncomfortable journeys I had ever been on.
For fifty-odd miles, the arid moonscape terrain of the Negd leading to the Jebel was interlaced by dozens of dried-up stream beds. Each one would cause the truck to lurch wildly like a roller-coaster out of control, alternately twisting my spine with a vicious slewing motion and then smashing my coccyx on the metal equipment box I was sitting on, like a hammer on the anvil. The day wore on. The Arabian sun beat down savagely on men and equipment. My loosely flapping sleeve was worn dark from constantly mopping my brow. A thick layer of fine sand soon covered hands, face, clothing, weapons and kit. It floated everywhere, rising silently between the floorboards, sucked into the rear of the vortex of turbulence swirling behind the charging Bedford, propelled through the canvas sides in thick plumes by the sudden manoeuvres of the wildly bucking vehicle.
Speed was of the essence. No allowance could be made for personal comfort. Some of the lads held sweat-rags over their mouths and noses; others had given up bothering. The dusty sand mixed with the moisture of perspiration to produce a grimy, gritty mess that stuck uncomfortably to the skin. By mid-afternoon I was feeling dog-rough. The heat was getting to me, and the sight of a lad in one of the other trucks vomiting over the side did nothing to improve my morale. I looked longingly at the graded road over to our right; then the mental image of a mine injury to the human body jolted me back to reality. After another age, I glanced into the distance – and at last I could see the mouth of the wadi which signalled the final leg of the journey.
The sun suddenly seemed to lose its fierce, molten-metal incandescence and cool to a mellow golden glow. The desert landscape became sharper, its outlines more pronounced in the change of light. It took on the depth and perspective of an oil painting, rather than the hazy wash of a watercolour with which the noon glare had painted it. It seemed to relax and sigh out the heat of the day and await with a hush of expectancy the magnificent display of the setting sun.
By late afternoon we had hit the wadi and left the boulder-strewn, sand-filled stream beds of the Negd far behind. The going in the wadi bottom was much easier, as the floor consisted of a smooth layer of tightly packed pebbles and small boulders. Ahead of us in the distance the plateau towered formidably. I gazed upwards at the sides of the wadi, the sheer rock faces casting huge shadows across the convoy. It was an immense rel
ief to get away from the oppressive heat of the Negd. With the sun sinking in the west it was getting cooler every minute. I was beginning to feel better. I looked around the truck. Everything was in shit order, sand everywhere. I removed the magazine from my SLR and worked the cocking handle. There was a horrible grating sound of sand on metal. I looked at the round that had been ejected; that too had a fine film of sand on it.
I had just torn off a piece of four-by-two cleaning flannelette to pull through my rifle barrel when the convoy came to a sudden halt. I looked up ahead and saw that the wadi had narrowed to such an extent that it was no longer motorable. 'That's it, lads,' said Jimmy. 'We'll have to hoof it from here.' Shit, I thought, the cleaning will have to wait. I placed the round back in the magazine, placed the magazine on the weapon and cocked the action. Then I took my rifle-oil bottle out of my map pocket and squeezed oil onto the side of the breechblock. That would have to do until we got to the night basha spot.
Word passed down the convoy that the Duke wanted all team leaders for an O group, and the remainder of us were to unload the operational kit. Jimmy grabbed his SLR and belt kit and disappeared over the side of the Bedford. By the time the O group had finished and Jimmy had returned, we had sorted the heavy loads out. Most of it was ammunition. I had 400 rounds of GPMG link ammunition wrapped around my body and getting on for 600 rounds in my bergen. Then there were four SLR magazines with twenty rounds in each on my belt, and with the three water bottles as well it must have weighed around 30lb. 'When it comes to slaughter, all you need is bullets and water.' Where had I heard that before?
Soldier I Page 6
