23892771 Sergeant
T. Labalaba BEM
The Royal Irish Rangers
22 SAS Regiment
19 July 1972 Aged 30 years
19 July 1972! The battle of Mirbat. It seemed like another lifetime. And yet, I could see Laba again, as clearly as the cathedral tower. The soundless scenes flitted through my mind. Operation Jaguar: a mortar aiming post under his arm, taking the young Firqats on a mock drill parade to roars of applause from the onlookers; appearing over the rise after the death march, 500 rounds of GPMG link wrapped around his shoulders, two precious jerrycans of water splashing in his hands. The siege of Mirbat: sweat pouring off him, feeding the twenty-five-pounder for all he was worth, the enemy just yards away. Then the bullet cut him down and he breathed his last. I read the words at the base of the headstone with a mixture of pride, gratitude and sadness:
Greater love hath no man than this,
that a man lay down his life for his friend.
There must have been two or three hundred civilian graves in the main cemetery, but I hardly noticed them as I walked across to the Regimental plot, twenty yards to one side and semi-enclosed by a low wall. A neat line of white headstones stretched down the centre of the plot – a linear ambush of graves! Walking down the line I was suddenly overcome by a deep sense of awe that I had been spared where so many had fallen. Death roams eagerly during battles. A split second, a microsecond, that's all it takes to die in combat, that's all it takes to blast the spirit from the body, to destroy years of loving work building family, friends and future.
The line of headstones was so straight, so disciplined, it was as if the men were still on parade, backs rigid, eyes front, forever waiting to be dismissed. An equally ordered row of urns stretched out in front of the headstones, each engraved with a single name: 'Tony', 'Steve', 'Frank', 'Dave', 'Ginge'. The effect was powerful, they were so heartrendingly simple. I sensed an aura of grief, of shock, immediate, still beating. There was some essence of the men that was still alive, still whispering through the trees. A spirit of restlessness, of startled disorientation roamed around the headstones. I glanced across at the civilian graves. Over there was a sense of peace. Those people had lived their lives, they'd run their course, they'd seen out their allotted span of winters and summers. Around the linear ambush lives had been too abruptly snatched away, souls too suddenly ripped from wounded bodies. The psychic shockwaves still lingered, still rippled through the air.
The last grave in the line was a new one. I stooped down. The man's camouflaged webbing belt had been folded in four and laid carefully between two urns of flowers across the freshly dug soil. I picked up the belt and felt the solid, reassuring weight of the canvas weave. For a moment, the distant roar of the traffic penetrated my awareness again. Then just as quickly it faded away. I folded the belt into four again and placed it gently back on the mound.
I stood up and walked back towards the stone wall at the end of the plot. A large winged-dagger plaque was set into the wall, and on either side a row of ten smaller plaques. As I drew nearer, I could see a crop of tiny white balsa wood crosses planted in the grass just in front of the wall. Silent Valley! The sight of the crosses sparked a flash of recollection of that sombre graveyard scene in Aden all those years before when I was a regular soldier with the Royal Engineers. I'd come a long way since then. I was lucky. The sand was still trickling through my hourglass.
To the left of the winged dagger and lower down, a quote from the Regimental clock had been reproduced, a quote I'd glimpsed as I scrambled out of the training-wing theatre after the Colonel's opening address on the first day of selection. I now read the words slowly and deliberately, letting the meaning sink deeply within:
We are the pilgrims, master; we shall go
Always a little further: it may be
Beyond that last blue mountain barr'd with snow
Across that angry or that glimmering sea.
I'd been across that angry sea, I'd been beyond that mountain barred with snow. The pilgrimage continued. But for these lads the journey was at an end. They would go no further. Back at camp, their names were inscribed in white lettering on the bronze panels at the base of the clock: it was a mark of utter finality. In Regimental terminology, they had been unable to beat the clock.
I looked at the moving messages inscribed on the urns.
To the world you were a soldier;
But to me you were the world.
The fresh flowers in the urns swayed slightly as I read the words. Each inscription was like a thump in the chest.
Your love lies within my heart.
Until our spirits touch.
A breeze sprang up as if from nowhere. The skin across my cheekbones was drawing tight with the cold and my hands were going numb.
Loving husband and Daddy.
I thought of my own son, now eight years old. What would he have been feeling now if I'd gone down with them, if I'd not come back?
The inscriptions on the small plaques were uniform, stark in their simplicity: number, rank, name, date of birth, date of death. A relentless sense of tragedy gripped me as my eyes read from left to right and saw, repeated again and again, the same date of death: 19.5.1982. The Falklands helicopter crash.
The sadness was welling up. It tightened my throat. I kept on swallowing unconsciously, trying to get rid of it, as if it were a piece of food stuck in my gullet – but it refused to go away. I knew there was only one way to relieve the feeling. I needed a drink and a chat with the lads to get things back in perspective.
* * *
The warm, bustling, smoky, beery atmosphere of the pub was a great comfort as I carried drinks to the table and sat down with Paddy and Iain Thomson – the strangest variation you could imagine on the theme of the Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman! The beer quickly took effect and the stories started to flow. This was what I enjoyed the most. A couple of pints to release the tensions, and the world suddenly seemed a better place to be. With the stories came the glow of reminiscence; with the recollections came the warmth of camaraderie.
'Iain, you never did tell me the full story on those thirteen morphine syrettes in Borneo. How come you took so many?'
'Ah yes. The Borneo ambush. I remember it as if it were yesterday. Mind you, it's thirsty work telling stories. It'll cost you a double Grouse.'
'Yer on,' I said without hesitation.
Iain took a sip of beer and settled back. 'It was at Gunong Rawan, Sarawak. We were on patrol against the Indonesian KKP, myself and seven other lads from D Squadron. I was lead scout. I'd been in Malaya on a trackers' course with the Maori SAS. Being a non-smoker, I could smell scents in the jungle very easily. It was seven o'clock in the morning and we'd just come across a track leading to a clearing. I had a bad feeling about it, a premonition.
'The next moment the world erupted. Rounds were hitting the ground at my feet and ricocheting off the rocks into the trees. Bits of branches were falling on my head. I felt a terrific thump in my thigh and went flying backwards through the air. As I hit the ground, an Indonesian KKP popped up. I was lucky – I hadn't dropped my Armalite when I got hit. I swung it round and blew him away. As I crouched back down, a spurt of blood hit me in the face. My femoral artery was severed and I was already feeling very weak. I whisked off my face veil, wrapped it around my leg as far into my crotch as I could get it, pulled it tight and tied it off. I whipped out my commando dagger, twisted it around the veil, then stuck it through the leg of my OGs. The bleeding stopped!
'The firing continued, pushing the rest of the patrol down the valley, leaving me stranded. By this time, I'd already banged in my second syrette. I was lucky. I'd spotted a pile of morphine just as I was leaving the Gurkha base at Kuching before the patrol. Being a canny Jock, I'd stuck it into my breast pocket.
'I started to crawl in the direction of the emergency RV. I wasn't going to stay there and rot if I could help it. I could feel the femur crunching together. There was no pain; the
morphine had started to take effect. By nightfall, and four morphines later, I crawled into a pighole under a tree to hide from the Indos. I covered myself with mud and pig shit as camouflage. I couldn't smell anything, I was too high on the morphine.
'I crawled throughout the next day. My thirst was terrible. Every time I tried to drink water, I spewed it up again. My system just couldn't accept it. About 1630 hours, I reached a stream. I was hugely relieved. It was the watershed of the border. I rolled about in the water to get rid of the maggots which covered me from knee to waist. The fish must have had a field day! I started to fire shots in the air, three at a time, the emergency signal. Suddenly I spotted a movement above me. I rolled behind a rock and somehow managed to get my Armalite pointing in the right direction. Someone ran behind a tree. Indo bastards, they've found me! I made my mind up to have a go as much as I could, then banjo myself. I remembered what had happened to Paddy Condon when they caught him.
'It was then I saw the red hat and the Bren gun. The Gurkhas! Salvation! Then I saw Kevin, the airborne wart, as large as life and twice as ugly! I cried my eyes out against his broad Yorkshire shoulder. Never was I so glad to see a fellow Para.
'That night, Kevin slept cuddled around me to keep me warm. As I fell into a deep sleep, I worked out that in thirty hours of crawling I had taken twelve syrettes of quarter-grain morphine. Plus one the next day, waiting for the casevac. That makes thirteen!'
'I don't understand it, Iain,' I said. 'Thirteen syrettes! You should have been dead! A medic stood up in training wing and told us that the human body can only take three syrettes of morphine. One more, and you would be dead!'
'What a way to go though! Quite a pleasant death really – beautiful surroundings, no pain, mind floating, lying back and thinking of Scotland, all of that lovely McEwan's Export I would never taste again, wondering if anyone would ever find my body!'
The night wore on and Iain left for home. I got up and headed for the bar to get Paddy and myself a last drink. I brushed against Jim Mackay – the mayor of Hereford and a prominent local businessman – who was propping up the bar. This man was rather unusual in that, while taking full advantage of the benefits of free enterprise, he retained staunch socialist views. He saw no contradiction – he was practising the revolution from within, a subversive hearts-and-minds campaign, death by a thousand cuts to the capitalist culture. He never lost an opportunity to spread the gospel. As I placed my order, he picked up a collection tin from the bar and rattled it under my face. 'Are you not going to make a contribution to the miners' strike fund?' He began to bait me right away.
In a flash the glow of camaraderie and humour was gone. I was back into the cold reality of my career, the daily confrontation with danger that the last few hours had reminded me of only too vividly. 'Not on your frigging life. Do you think I've been fighting the Queen's enemies for the last twenty years, watching my mates get wounded and killed, risking my neck daily to make Britain a safe place to live in, just so that the Arthur Scargills of this world can hold the country to ransom!? I was biting like a hungry salmon – a dangerous mistake.
'Risking your neck! Your lot didn't do anything in the Falklands!'
'Didn't do anything! We played a crucial part in the whole thing, and what's more, we lost twenty lads down there!' I was now on the hook.
'You shouldn't have been there in the first place. It was just a bluff, a political manoeuvre by Maggie Thatcher.' He was beginning to reel me in.
'I suppose your crowd would have let the Argies run riot in the Falklands like yer darling Harold sold us down the river in Aden and let the Commies take over.'
Just as I was nearing the net, he lost his nerve, ran out of brain and began to resort to brawn. 'Come on outside, we'll settle this on the lawn.'
Paddy was now at the bar and tried to intervene. 'Don't be stupid, fella. If I were you, I wouldn't go outside, even in a tank, with my mate here.'
'He doesn't scare me,' sneered the businessman.
'You're too old,' I said sarcastically as I paid for the drinks.
'Who's too old? I'll bloody well show you who's too old,' roared the businessman, taking his jacket off.
At this point, thoughts of the Red Mill Inn and all the drama in Hong Kong flashed across my mind. More importantly, so did the more recent events that had taken place at the B Squadron OC's wedding a few months earlier. The OC was marrying one of the daughters of David Shepherd, the famous artist who had done two fine paintings of Mirbat and the Embassy siege. All of B Squadron had been invited. It was a very smart occasion – everyone in ceremonial uniform and finery. The reception was in full swing when I spotted Carl, on whom I'd been looking for an opportunity to exact retribution for some time. Carl had been on the piss one night, staggered into the basha and for no reason whatever decided to set about Malcolm, the clerk, nearly veteran of the Embassy siege. He just beat him up while he was sleeping in his bed! If there's one thing I can't stand, it's bullies. So at the wedding reception I decided to take Carl unawares, just as he'd done to Malcolm.
I went over to him and challenged him to a friendly arm-wrestling contest. We sat down, rolled up our sleeves, locked our hands and started to grapple. After a while I let Carl think he was getting the better of me. I allowed my arm to be pushed nearly onto the table. Just as he was eagerly scenting victory, I brought up my free hand from under the table and punched him square in the face. 'That one's for Malcolm,' I said. Carl crashed over backwards. A big punch-up ensued. Tables and chairs were sent crashing and women screamed as we rolled over the floor and out through the marquee entrance into the garden. I taught Carl a lesson he wouldn't forget in a hurry.
To commemorate the occasion, I later thought of suggesting to David Shepherd that he might like to do a wedding portrait of the OC and his new bride holding hands, standing at the marquee entrance gazing romantically into each other's eyes, with Carl and me in the background slogging it out in the rhododendrons. I don't think David Shepherd would have been amused. The OC certainly wasn't. He had me up on Colonel's orders for the second time. I was given a severe warning and put on probation.
Since I was on probation, the scenario now developing with the businessman did not look at all healthy. I've been in this situation before, I thought to myself, I've got to get out of here. I pushed the businessman's shaking fist abruptly to one side and, like a bull going for a red cloak, I started for the door. As I stormed blindly past Paddy, I knocked his shoulder. Paddy lost his balance, crashed into a partition and ended up on the floor with blood streaming from his nose. By this time, I was out of the door, into my Capri and away into the night.
The next morning, I was on Colonel's orders for the third time! If looks could kill, the Colonel would have been convicted of mass murder. He was incandescent with rage. He stabbed his forefinger angrily on his desk to emphasize his outrage. A note of incredulity sounded in his voice. 'You assaulted and verbally abused a respected member of Hereford society. You struck one of your colleagues a blow to the face…'
It was no use protesting. On paper, my case looked hopeless: RTU'd for Hong Kong, put on probation for the OC's wedding fracas and now this. Surely I was finished? I interjected a sharp 'sir' at appropriate moments to show a reaction, to show acceptance of the point being made, and a softer 'sir' to intone a note of query or a request for further classification.
'…and before you even try a plea of mitigation, you can forget it. I don't want to hear any feeble excuses. I don't want to hear any litany of extenuating arguments. What I expect from the men in this regiment is nothing short of the best – at all times, in all places, in all circumstances. Anything less that that and we fail. And if we fail, we call attention to ourselves, and in our book, that's the worst possible crime…'
He leaned forward across his desk. 'You are irredeemable. Your behaviour makes Neanderthal Man look like the epitome of sophistication…'
He leaned back in this chair again, arms folded, decisive, his voice lower now. '
You are a time bomb, trooper, a time bomb just waiting to explode. I'm taking a risk, a huge risk, I know that. You seem determined to ruin yourself. But I'm sending you down to Woolwich Hospital to see if the medics can make any sense of you, to see if they can take your brain apart bit by bit until they find the fuse.'
He let out a deep, weary sigh and reached for a pen. His voice now took on a more threatening tone. 'I'm warning you. One false step at Woolwich and you are finished – finished for good this time.'
16
Frustration
Finished for good? Not if I could help it. I was lying in my bed in Ward 11, going over the game plan in my mind. Tomorrow was the big one, the chief psychiatrist. It all depended on one man, a civilian at that – a civilian in charge of the mental health of the British Army! I was determined not to give in, not to let go of the values and ideals I'd lived for all this time, my identity, my self-respect, forged in the flames of the battlefield. I owed it to my fallen comrades to pull through.
Soldier I Page 30
