0400 hours. The column began to suffer the first symptoms of heat exhaustion. This was far worse than any march I'd done on selection. I realized now why the training-wing staff had tested us to destruction. This was no place for the weak. The surfaces of my lips, tongue, mouth and throat were dehydrated and cracked like the baked mud of an old stream bed. I wished, illogically, that the Khareef monsoon would return – even though this would have made our progress impossible. I thought of all the stories I'd heard or read of people suffering from extremes of thirst, and what they'd resorted to: castaways on boats drinking fish blood, or their own urine, or even, as a last resort, the seawater itself – although they must have known that this was a completely irrational thing to do and that their thirst would return with redoubled intensity. I thought of all the stories I'd heard from Korea of thirst-parched soldiers drinking water straight from the paddy-fields – even though the fields were liberally sprinkled with human faeces, the only available fertilizer – or slashing open truck radiators and drinking the filthy orange liquid – rust, antifreeze and all.
As we pressed on up the ever-steepening slope, the pace up front unexpectedly slackened. I noticed something metallic glinting on the track – it was a ration-can. Then there was another. Then a block of hexamine, complete with cooker. Gradually the whole track became littered with rations and hexamine blocks. Who could be doing this? Suddenly my foot went down on something soft. It was a large tube of condensed milk. I was puzzled. Only the Firqats were issued with this type of milk. That must be it then. I realized the Firqats were unloading their supplies, that they were on the point of jacking. Well, I though, I'm fucked if I'm jacking. I pushed on with increased determination, stirred to greater effort by signs of weakness in others – just as I had been on selection.
0500 hours. I looked ahead. I could just pick out the great crocodile lumbering up the steep incline. We can't be far now, I thought. It will be first light in thirty minutes. I watched as the heavily laden figures ahead disappeared over the skyline. This must be the top of the plateau. With great relief I struggled on to the crest. But when I looked over the top, my heart sank with a thump. It was a false crest, and the column was now descending into a wadi. I took a deep breath and pressed on. As I made my descent, the weight bore down even more cruelly on my knee and ankle joints. All I could think of were the Duke's words at the briefing – we must be on Lympne before first light. I prayed that we would be in a defensive position before the Adoo guns opened up.
0530 hours. As we hit the wadi bottom, the first light of dawn shimmered in the east. I looked around me. We were surrounded by high ground. This was turning into an almighty cock-up. So much for the plans of the green slime. The column was now strung out in the wadi bottom in all-round defence, eyes nervously scanning the high ground, weapons ready for immediate action. The minutes slipped by; the wadi grew visibly lighter. I felt the anxiety gripping my guts. Suddenly a voice mimicking John Wayne broke the silence. 'We should be on the high ground,' it drawled. It was Pete from the mortar team, stating the obvious. He carried on up the line, breaking the tension with his performance. When he got to the Firqats, they couldn't see the joke and thought he was the majnoon.
Jimmy had received a message to the effect that the Firqat guides were not sure of the track up to Lympne. So two members of the mountain troop, Mel and Cappie, had gone ahead to do a recce. We spent fifteen agonizing minutes in the wadi bottom before the breakthrough came: they'd found a small track leading up out of the wadi and onto the top. 'Saddle up,' shouted Jimmy, 'we're going for it.' The column was now mobile again, and we started the final steep climb up to Lympne.
0630 hours. At last, with daylight streaking across the landscape, we struggled cautiously onto the edge of the scrub ground that passed for the airstrip. As we proceeded to move tactically, by teams, across the open space, every last muscle was gorged with adrenaline, ready to react at a split-second's notice. I braced myself for the crack-thump of incoming rifle fire, or the dull thud of a mortar being fired and the swishing noise of the shell falling from high above. To my amazement there was nothing, not a sound.
Inexplicably, we were going to take the position unopposed. It was only later that we discovered the reason: Sean Branson had been detailed to lead a diversionary attack to the south and his decoy had been successful in drawing the Adoo away for just long enough for us to establish ourselves on Lympne. We moved quickly into all-round defence to build our sangar from the loose rocks that littered the ground.
Jimmy had just made a decision on where to build the sangar when two figures suddenly appeared on our left. It was the Duke and Colonel John. I was surprised; I hadn't seen Colonel John since he had addressed us at the beginning of selection. The two had their heads together for a moment, then the Duke turned and said to Jimmy, 'I want your team on the high ground over there.' I looked where his finger was pointing. It was way over on the left flank, possibly an hour's tab away. Extreme exhaustion and intolerable thirst swept over me once again as I dragged my heavy load back onto my shoulders.
'Why do they call Major Perry the Duke?' I whispered to Lou as we trudged off.
'Because he keeps marching us up these fucking big hills and marching us back down again!' came Lou's caustic reply.
We toiled onwards in sullen silence, with Jimmy leading us past the other members of the assault force – some of whom were well on their way to completing their sangars, which made me feel even worse.
It took us nearly an hour to reach the high ground. By the time we had completed the short steep march to the top, and thankfully lowered the bergens and equipment to the ground, it was just 0815 hours. The death march had lasted over twelve hours. Each man in his own way had come as close to expiring as Ginge had; each man's thread of life had been frayed through until all that remained were the flimsiest of fibres, held together by the extremes of endurance.
And still there was no time to rest. When we had a job to do, everything else, even bodily needs, took second priority.
We started building a sangar, wrenching the boulders out of the ground with our bare hands, stacking the rocks in a rough circle until we'd built a dry-stone wall three feet high and eight feet in diameter. Next we had to mount the gun. The tripod already formed a triangle with its legs. All I had to do was unlock the leg-clamp levers, lower the whole tripod until the cradle was just clear of the sangar top, then relock the clamp levers. The cradle was then levelled and the front mounting pin withdrawn. Sean had already serviced the gun for mounting, with the gas-regulator correctly set and the recoil buffer fitted. He now inserted the rear mounting pin into the body of the GPMG, lifted the gun into position on the cradle slot projection and pushed it fully forward, locking it with the front mounting pin. All that remained was to open the top cover, load a belt of 200 rounds, cock the action and apply the safety-catch.
As the top cover closed with a metallic click we heard the first helicopters arriving with the back-up force. It was a marvellous sight from our dominant position: lift after lift of helicopters and Skyvans bringing in more companies of SAF, artillery pieces, mortars, ammunition, rations, the remainder of the Firqat Khalid bin Waalid and – last, and most importantly – water!
Amidst all the hustle and bustle of the airlift, I didn't notice the figure approaching in the distance. Then a movement caught my eye, and I turned to see a giant shape bounding up the rear slope of our position. As it approached nearer I could see it was Laba. He must have had 500 rounds of GPMG link wrapped around his muscular frame, and in his right hand, supported by a sling, he carried a GPMG as though it was a green-slime pointer. In his left hand and on his shoulder I saw salvation: two five-gallon plastic jerrycans of water. We encouraged him over the last few hundred yards with shouts of, 'Come on, Laba, we're pissing fresh air here' and, 'Hurry up, Laba, my mouth's like the bottom of a parrot's cage.' When he finally appeared at my side, perspiring profusely, I could have hugged his sweaty bear-like frame. More of a master of u
nderstatement even than the Brits, he said only four words before disappearing again down the slope to return to his own position. 'Here's your water, lads.' It was like giving caviar to pigs. We filled our mugs again and again and greedily gulped down the tepid liquid. Iced champagne never tasted so good.
For the rest of the day we consolidated our position, improved the sangar and brewed tea. Where were the Adoo? So far not a shot had been fired. The opinion of the rest of the team was that the Adoo, angry at having been fooled by the decoy, would by now have moved back up from the south and would be lying low, playing a waiting game, before probing our defences for any sign of weakness. I looked around the sangar and saw that the gun was laid on possible Adoo approaches. It was a reassuring sight. A belt of 200 rounds hung down from the top cover and coiled in the sangar bottom. The weapon was cocked and ready to go. The team rested against the sangar walls, Sean and I in easy reach of the GPMG while Jimmy and Lou lounged at the back by the radio. Although we were all shattered out of our minds, we were still switched on. We fought back the temptation to close our eyes as the day slipped by, as the torpid dullness of mid-afternoon gave way to the changing light of late afternoon.
Suddenly, after a brief conversation on the radio, Jimmy announced that he and Lou were going to the Duke's O group. They grabbed their weapons and belt kit and disappeared down the slope of the position. Sean lit a hexamine block and placed it on a small metal cooker. He filled his mess tin from the jerrycan and placed it on the flame. Then, reaching into the side-pocket of his bergen, he withdrew his brew kit. I watched his movements and relaxed in anticipation. I could murder another brew.
Without warning the world erupted. A stream of green tracer, made more luminous in the paling light, raced out and over our position. It was like watching cat's-eyes on a motorway at night – floating gently in the distance, then cracking past at crazy speed close by. The Adoo had arrived. I grabbed my rifle and hugged the sangar wall, the adrenaline coursing through my body. The whole of the western perimeter exploded with the stuttered popping of incoming small-arms fire. I looked round at Sean. He was low-profile, but continued stirring the brew. From where we were there was little we could do. We were on the eastern flank, and all the fire was coming from several hundred yards away in the west.
'Don't worry,' said Sean, 'they're only overs. Have a mug of tea.' He knew from experience that there was no danger. This was nothing to him. He'd been with the Paras in Aden getting shot to shit every day. I reached for my mug as another stream of tracer arced over the position. Sean looked unconcerned as he poured his brew. I glanced over the lip of the sangar and could see the puffs of smoke from the return fire on the western perimeter. I could just make out the distinctive long-drawnout bursts of fire from the other sustained-fire gun. Were they in the thick of it too? My anxiety heightened, along with my frustration. There was absolutely nothing I could do to help Fuzz and the lads. We could not abandon our own position. All we could do was sit and wait and hope. I sipped my tea, my mind in overdrive, imagining all sorts of horrors happening down below.
After about twenty minutes, the Adoo's attack slackened until only sporadic firing could be heard on the western perimeter. Gradually this died away, and silence descended again on the position. I looked down the slope and to my intense relief could just see the two figures of Jimmy and Lou running across the makeshift airstrip. They arrived at the sangar, blowing like whales and sweating copiously, jumped in, removed their belt kit and sat down.
'Make us a brew,' said Jimmy. 'I'll put you in the picture.' Over a mug of tea he then filled us in on the situation. 'As far as we can make out,' he said quietly, 'a force of between twenty and thirty Adoo hit the positions over on the west. They used AK-47 Kalashnikovs and RPD light machine guns as back-up. We took no casualties. The other SF team are claiming two hits. As anticipated, all they were doing was testing our strength, then they bugged out, possibly to their tribal stronghold at Jibjat.'
I sank back with relief, smiling to myself at my recent wild imaginings.
'As for the O group,' continued Jimmy between gulps of tea, 'the Duke and Colonel John are not happy with the airstrip. Apparently it's breaking up under the sheer weight of today's airlifts. So tomorrow we're going to move lock, stock and barrel the 7,500 yards to Jibjat to build a new one. So make sure you're ready to go at first light tomorrow morning. That's all I've got for you.'
He went quiet and put the mug of tea to his lips. As for me, I quietly mused on the choice of location for the new airstrip, coinciding as it did with the Adoo stronghold.
Now came the job of securing the position for the night routine. A guard list was drawn up, and the timings were pulled out of a hat. It was decided that because there was plenty of manpower on the eastern perimeter, each man would do a one-hour stag, the first stag starting at
1800 hours and the last stag finishing at 0600 hours. The SF sangar was cloaked in darkness as Lou sat alert by the gun, having drawn first stag. I lay back against the sangar wall, my rifle within easy reach, now feeling quite the veteran. Even though I had not fired a shot in anger myself, I'd had my first exposure to enemy fire. I closed my eyes, and for the first time in over twenty-four hours I sank into a welcome sleep.
Dawn found us busily packing our bergens and servicing the tripod and GPMG for carriage. We had a Chinese parliament before first light to discuss the move across to Jibjat in detail. Every man knew exactly what to do and where to go. Around 0700 hours we carefully destroyed the sangar we'd so painstakingly built only the night before, dragged on our heavy loads and took up our position in the formation that was preparing to advance. It was a marvellous sight. We were drawn up into dozens of extended lines, nearly 800 fighting men in all; camouflaged figures as far as the eye could see. It looked as if we'd just come up out of the trenches and were marching across no man's land. It was curious to reflect that no matter how far modern technology and weaponry had advanced, the basics of soldiering were often still the same as ever. I just hoped we were going to be luckier than those poor bastards at the Somme.
By about 1100 hours on 4 October, after a brisk firefight, we had established a defensive position on Jibjat. All that remained was to consolidate our position and clear the airstrip. By mid-afternoon the work was well underway. I sat in the SF sangar on my bergen, idly squinting through a pair of binoculars at two demolition guys from Six Troop who were putting the finishing touches to the tree-stump still blocking the airstrip.
A raucous voice suddenly drifted over the location: 'Chin in, shoulders back, thumbs in line with the seams of your trousers!' I swung the binocs to a spot of dead ground just below the Firqats' position. The owner of the voice was Laba. He was standing ramrod-straight, with a mortar aiming post tucked under his arm like a guardsman's pace-stick. In front of him, drawn up in two ranks, were about a dozen young Firks. Laba was taking them on a mock drill parade. I stared in amazement as he went through the range of drill movements, a wicked smile on his face.
'Squad shun, stand at ease, open order, march!'
He was using the textbook method, straight from the Guards drill depot at Pirbright, namely EDIP – explanation, demonstration, imitation, practice. The Firqats were perfect mimics. By the look of them they were enjoying every minute of it. Their brown faces cracked into broad grins beneath their chequered shamags. After an ambitious attempt at a general salute/present arms, Laba dismissed the squad amid wild applause from the Firqat sangars.
It had been a brief moment of relief in a tension-filled day, a crazy interlude – but not altogether unexpected from a man who, when walking over zebra crossings, would often exclaim, 'Now you see me, now you don't!' and whose party piece was eating cigarette sandwiches – literally consuming half a dozen cigarettes between two slices of bread. This impressive demonstration of a cast-iron Fijian digestive system gave rise to the rumour with which the lads used to tease Laba, namely that his great-grandfather had eaten Captain Cook! They were closer to the truth than t
hey realized. During one particular drunken binge, when the alcohol had well and truly loosened our tongues, Laba claimed he was a blood-brother to the British missionary fraternity. When challenged on this rather startling claim, Laba revealed that his greatgreat-grandfather had roasted John Wesley during a hangi and then eaten him. Not satisfied with the main course, he had gone on to eat Wesley's leather boots, marinated in coconut juice, as a sweet.
Over the next seventy-two hours we continued to consolidate on the Jibjat position. Skyvans, helicopters and Caribou transport planes airlifted in defence stores, ordnance, water and rations. It was then decided that the whole force would be split into two fire groups. The first fire team, which became known as the East group, would probe deeper into the eastern area.
It didn't take long for them to attract trouble. It was a fierce, determined attack. As late afternoon slipped into early evening, from our position we could see the eerie display of gracefully arcing tracer standing out sharply in the failing light, a son et lumière of life and death. It was the beginning of six days of desperate fighting. The combined strength of two half-squadrons was unable to prevent the Adoo from getting to within grenade-throwing distance, and the East group suffered the consequences accordingly. Steve Moors became the first SAS man to be killed in action by direct gunfire during operations in Dhofar.
Soldier I Page 8
