by Pete Scholey
Just over five hours after the first shot of the conflict had been fired, Paddy Baker, another member of the troop, huddled in the same sangar as Alfie, was hit twice in the left leg. A moment later another of the patrol had a bullet crease his back. Alfie kept watch as Paddy did his best to dress the wounds, then another bullet grazed Paddy’s right leg. Perhaps sensing that they had caught the men in this sangar off guard, two of the enemy broke cover and dashed forwards. They threw themselves at the sangar wall, in an attempt to push the loose stone barricade over on top of those inside. Alfie and Paddy popped up above the parapet, Alfie with the Bren and Paddy with his SLR. Alfie dispatched the attackers before Paddy had time to squeeze his trigger.
The Hunters had been working in relays all afternoon, maintaining an almost constant presence over the battlefield. Now, as Alfie watched them wheeling round over the peaks, he could see that the rocks were turning pink. The undersides of the Hunters, too, glowed pink as they caught the last rays of the setting sun. The shadows among the rocks on the ground were growing longer, making it far more difficult for the pilots to pick out targets. As darkness approached, Alfie knew that the aircraft would, in any case, have to return to Khormaksar. Without air cover, the patrol would not be able to hold off the enemy who had grown in strength during the course of the day, with more and more men arriving from neighbouring villages. SAS reinforcements had attempted to fly in by helicopter, but the aircraft had been badly shot up on the way in and had to turn back. The patrol’s only hope now was that they could vacate the sangars under cover of darkness before the enemy had a chance to storm the positions.
They were to make a run for it carrying only their weapons, water and emergency rations. Everything else was destroyed in the sangars including, following a final message to base, the radio. Alfie and the four others in the larger sangar, who included Captain Edwards and Warburton, gave covering fire as the four from the other sangar made a break for the cover of some rocks. Then it was the turn of Alfie and his group. As the four in the rocks poured fire in the direction of the enemy, Alfie jumped to his feet and bounded downhill to the left, heading for cover. Firing the Bren from the hip as he ran, he blasted away at two boulders to his right, behind which he knew there were tribesmen sheltering. Collapsing behind the cover of a rocky outcrop, Alfie could see Warburton still in the sangar. He had been hit several times and was clearly dead. Captain Edwards had made it only a few yards before he too had been hit. The enemy snipers were now targeting his body, just to make sure. The other two were safe. The three of them were in positions 10–15 yards (9–14m) ahead of the first group, and Alfie called on the other four to get ready to move. The sangars were still the main focus of the enemy fire, the tribesmen having no idea how many more soldiers might still be lurking inside.
Alfie and the surviving six members of the patrol were able to use the cover on the mountainside and the gathering darkness to stay on high ground, heading back round the mountain to the slopes above the Wadi Rabwa and the route back to the Dhala Road. Confusion reigned around the sangars. Two groups of the enemy had closed on the positions from opposite directions and had started shooting at each other. The activity around the sangars ended when they were carpeted by a pre-arranged artillery barrage, called in by Captain Edwards and Warburton with their final radio message. By then, however, the tribesmen had also vacated the sangars, taking with them the bodies of Edwards and Warburton.
Alfie and the others were now in the unenviable position of traversing the high ground above the wadi in the dark. Inevitably, the two most badly wounded lagged behind the rest. This did give the others the advantage of having back markers, though. Twice the wounded men heard footsteps approaching and laid an ambush. Twice they eliminated the tribesmen stalking them. Alfie then sent a few bursts from the Bren back into the darkness along the trail to make anyone else think twice about creeping up behind them. The whole patrol made increasingly frequent stops to close ranks and for the medic to check the wounded. They were all running low on water. They were also utterly exhausted, having been out in the mountains for more than 24 hours, fighting for their lives for almost half that time. Some were further weakened from loss of blood, making the demanding climb down through the rocky gulleys to the main wadi even more treacherous. By the time they all slumped down by the muddy water of a stream on the bed of the Wadi Rabwa, Alfie knew that they were only a short march from safety. Nevertheless, the sensible thing to do was to stay put until morning. The last thing they wanted to do now was to run into a trigger-happy patrol of local federal troops who were likely to open fire on anything that came towards them out of the darkness. In daylight, they would be able to identify themselves and avoid being shot by their own side.
The next morning they began the last leg of their long journey. After only about 30 minutes, Alfie heard a familiar and comforting sound – the rumble of an armoured car engine. Out of the dust on the road loomed the unmistakable shape of a Saladin. The two worst wounded rode the rest of the way to Thumier in the Saladin. Alfie and the others made it under their own steam. They had survived but, for Alfie and the others, one of the worst shocks of the mission was yet to come. News filtered through that a Yemeni radio broadcast that claimed that the heads of two British soldiers had been put on display on stakes in the main square in the city of Taiz. A patrol would later find the decapitated bodies of Edwards and Warburton buried in shallow graves near the sangars.
Alfie went on to enjoy a long career with the Regiment. I served with him in D Squadron in Borneo and Aden as well as on exercises in Germany, Norway and Canada. In the late 1960s, Alfie served as an instructor with 23 SAS (TA) in Birmingham, which brought with it the advantage of allowing him to spend time with Margaret and their three sons. By 1970 he was back with 22 SAS again and in action in Oman.
On completing his 22 years’ service, most of which had been with the SAS, Alfie left the army to work as a security consultant in the Middle East, mainly in Saudi Arabia and Yemen. In 1983 he was in Angola, working for De Beers at one of its gold mine sites. It’s a big step from coal mining to gold mining, but in this job Alfie stayed firmly on the surface, although the job was not as straightforward as he expected. Angola was at war. The fighting that had begun as a war of independence in 1961 had descended into civil war by the mid-1970s, and would not come to an end until 2002. In 1984, the mine where Alfie worked was engulfed by the conflict when elements of the União Nacional para a Independência Total de Angola (UNITA; National Union for the Total Independence of Angola), which included many foreign mercenaries with at least 20 Britons among them, seized the facility. Along with most of the other mine workers, Alfie was taken prisoner and endured a five-week, 300-mile (483km) march to a prison camp. The prisoners had little food and were kept in appalling conditions. After three months in the camp in northern Angola, Alfie was released and repatriated to the UK. Alfie then spent 13 years working for the Brunei Royal Family, maintaining security on their UK properties until he finally retired in 1997.
Alfie died in September 2003 at the age of 73. I will always remember him as being the man you looked to whenever you felt your confidence waver. He was a master at maintaining morale, his vast experience and good humour always there to keep everyone buoyed up. He would have been just as much of a tower of strength on the long march in Angola as he was on the retreat into the Wadi Rabwa 20 years earlier. There aren’t many who command the sort of respect that everyone who worked with him had for Alfie Tasker.
WO1 REGIMENTAL SERGEANT-MAJOR REG TAYLER
The spinning blades of the Sultan of Oman’s Air Force (SOAF) Huey kicked up storms of dust that swirled around the helicopter landing pad, the rhythmic chopping of its 48ft (15m) rotor adding to the howl of the Lycoming engine. Waiting ready to board, the soldiers of the SAS patrol turned their heads away from the noise, shielding their faces from the dust and grit that sandblasted their kit. A nod from the pilot signalled that he was happy for them to embark and the patrol moved f
orward in line, crouched with heads bowed low to keep them well clear of the blades. The SAS is renowned for remaining cool under pressure, but there’s more than one way to lose your head!
Moments later, the engine note gathered to a screaming frenzy and the two huge blades adopted their characteristic chattering, the Huey lifting and turning to head out across the parched landscape towards the mountains. The men of A Squadron were used to the noise inside the machine and grateful for the stream of cool air that rushed in through the open doors, a welcome temporary respite from the baking heat of the Omani sun. To any independent observer, they would have looked quite relaxed, taking in the scenery or closing their eyes fully to savour the cold breeze. Another chopper ride to another LZ. They’d had their final briefing; they knew what they were doing; it was all pretty much routine. There was one, however, who did not appear to have quite the same air of casual confidence displayed by his mates. He wasn’t panicking, or showing any signs of losing his nerve, but he was definitely the only one who turned to the man next to him and yelled above the Huey’s din.
‘Bob!’ shouted Reg. ‘When we get there – when we land – what do I do?’
Reg Tayler could not have chosen a better man to ask. He was sitting next to Bob Podesta. Bob didn’t laugh or even crack a smile. He was calm and serious, giving Reg a look that restored his confidence and banished any nervousness.
‘Make sure your weapon is cocked and ready to fire,’ said Bob. ‘Get down on the ground as fast as you can. Keep your head down until we know it’s safe to move.’
Reg’s shoulders settled almost imperceptibly. That was all he had to do. Do what the others did. Do what Bob told him and he would be fine. A few minutes later, the nose of the Huey tilted into the air, robbing the aircraft of its forward velocity, and it sank to the ground, its skids barely touching the rocky desert surface before the patrol spilled out, raced clear of the chopper and hit the deck. Reg did as the others did, took up his position and backed up his mates.
While Reg’s group secured the LZ, hunkering down behind whatever cover they could find, scanning the surrounding rocks and thorny bushes for any signs of the enemy, their Huey rose out of its dust cloud, clearing the LZ in time to make way for the next chopper. Reg cast a glance at the next sand-coloured machine as it disgorged its troops, the pilot sitting calm and unperturbed as the men sprinted away and the rotors thrashed frantically above him. Reg knew that the pilot fully realized what a tempting target he was for any enemy sniper and marvelled at his cool demeanour. He snapped back to surveying the mountainside in front of him, the chopper dragging itself into the air just as the previous one had done, spending not an instant longer than necessary on the LZ to provide the fastest possible build-up of troops on the ground and the least opportunity for enemy marksmen.
Mobilized by a brief shouted command and a waved signal, Reg and Bob’s detachment set off uphill from the LZ. Their job was to take the high ground and provide covering fire for the main part of A Squadron that would sweep forward along the valley to make contact with the enemy that they knew was lying in wait. The object was to force them to withdraw from the area. By now, of course, with the choppers having announced their arrival, the enemy was fully aware of the SAS presence.
Moving quickly between the bone-dry scattering of boulders and scree on the hillside, Reg found himself easily keeping pace with the others, although it was tough going in the growing heat of another sweltering Omani morning. Hardly had the clatter of the chopper’s rotors faded into the distance before Reg spotted a spurt of dust erupt on the track followed by the crack of a rifle fired from a great distance, the round arriving before the sound of its discharge. Reg threw himself to the ground and rolled into cover. He raised his head enough to try to spot the sniper’s position, narrowing his eyes to squint in the glare of sunshine. He looked over to where Bob had taken cover and heard the others shouting to indicate the enemy location up ahead. Coordinating fire and movement, they moved forward to adopt more effective fire positions. Just as he had been trained to do, just as the others did, Reg hugged his SLR into his shoulder and the weapon bucked as he fired off a volley of shots before he broke cover, sprinting forward to his next position.
As they advanced, the firefight became more intense and the rest of A Squadron, making their way forward on the lower ground, were also trading rounds with the enemy. Having secured a firm base on the hillside, Reg’s group continued to engage targets in their own vicinity as well as in support of the squadron down below. Although he was there primarily as a medic, Reg felt no compunction about using his rifle to best effect. Tending to his friends’ wounds was one thing, but nailing the men who might cause those wounds was surely the most effective treatment of all.
The firefight continued in sporadic bursts for most of the day, the whine of ricochets and clattering of rock splinters interspersed with waves of fire from Reg’s squad. Eventually, with their position swathed in dust and gunsmoke, they decided that, as the rest of the squadron had manoeuvred rather further away than was desirable, they should withdraw to regroup. There was no point in becoming isolated and starting to run low on ammo. They executed a tactical withdrawal to reunite themselves with A Squadron. Reg knew that his fire party was leaving behind many enemy dead and wounded on the mountainside. On this occasion, his skill at arms had been of greater value than his talent as a medic. The squadron forced the guerrillas to abandon their mountain stronghold and the mission was deemed a success. This had been Reg’s first operation, but he handled it like an old pro. He was an integral part of the team.
That, of course, had been Reg’s problem. He knew he was part of a team. He knew that all of the guys disembarking from the Huey needed to be able to rely on each other. He wasn’t scared or, rather, he wasn’t any more scared than any sensible trooper about to be inserted into enemy-held territory should be. He was more worried about cocking things up and letting the team down. Reg cared, but that was no weakness. That was, in fact, one of his many great strengths.
The men who volunteer for SAS Selection come from all sorts of different backgrounds and a wide range of units. There are engineers and signallers, artillerymen, riflemen, guardsmen and quite a number, like me, who join from The Parachute Regiment. There are comparatively few, however, who come from the Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC). Given the nature of the Regiment’s business, though, having a skilled medic at your side can be a great comfort.
Each man in an SAS patrol has a specific skill, whether he be an expert signaller, demolitions man, linguist or medic. At one time a normal patrol would consist of four men, but nowadays they are expected to pack so much firepower and carry so much sophisticated equipment that a patrol is more likely to be six strong. At least one of the six will be a trained medic and that was my job, too. I thought I was pretty good at it, but I could never even have hoped to have the depth of knowledge or the medical understanding of Reg Tayler.
Reg arrived in Hereford in 1965 as a Medical Support and Training Advisor (MSTA) and apart from a short posting to Brecon, he served with 22 SAS until he left the army in 1977. He was a fully qualified State Registered Nurse (SRN), so was, of course, referred to by one and all as ‘Sister Reg’. Reg’s brief was to ensure that all SAS patrol medics were trained in the latest techniques of administering first aid, had the most modern and effective equipment available and were properly trained to use it. In fact, ‘first aid’ is something of a misnomer, as the patrol medics were trained to carry out many procedures that went far beyond the conventional understanding of first aid. Treating bullet wounds or dealing with the blast and shrapnel damage inflicted by a grenade or mortar round is more than an average civilian first-aider would be expected to do. We were also schooled in the treatment of tropical diseases and all manner of ailments that could afflict a member of the patrol in a hostile environment – from frostbite to snakebite.
SAS medics are not, however, as well schooled as professional paramedics – their training stretche
s over three years while ours is only three months. Reg, in fact, had a hand in developing the standard advanced training given to paramedics and the contacts he maintained outside the Regiment ensured that part of our training, and the refresher courses, took place in a civilian hospital. Before he let any of us loose on the medical fraternity, Reg first spent some time at the hospital himself, in order to identify key personnel and ensure that our training stints ran as smoothly as possible. This form of ‘work experience’ was invaluable in providing us medics with an opportunity to carry out a variety of procedures in a most realistic environment; Saturday nights in a large city hospital often resembled a war zone.
Reg had arranged for Taff Springles, another D Squadron member, and I to be sent on attachment to the John Radcliffe Infirmary in Oxford where one of our patients in the casualty department was a man who had fallen off a ladder while cleaning his windows. He’d landed on his greenhouse and picked up some nasty cuts along with the rest of his injuries. We were dressed in white coats and the poor guy obviously thought we were doctors until he heard Taff asking the Ward Sister what type of thread he should use to stitch one of the cuts. He stormed off to look for a real doctor, warning everyone waiting to watch out for the ‘bloody amateurs’. It took a great deal of gentle persuasion to calm him down. We saw him in the pub that night, so he was none the worse for his experience, unlike one poor bloke when I was at St Mary’s in Paddington. He had a bad cut on his top lip and, in repairing it, one of my fellow ‘professionals’ managed to stitch his mouth shut. Needless to say, Reg expected far higher standards from us.
In the classroom, Reg was a great teacher. He had immense enthusiasm for his subject and ensured that his students’ learning was informed, interesting and fun. He devised ways of making certain things simple to remember. It’s easy to panic when you are faced with a real casualty and forget everything you are supposed to be doing. If that happens, you’re about as much use as a chocolate teapot. To help us remember the priorities of life-saving, the initial treatment, he taught us to think of ‘ABC’ – Airway, Breathing, Circulation. This simple aide-memoire has been universally adopted and is now used all over the world.
