by Shaun Clarke
‘I don’t vote on behalf of my neighbours, Marty. I vote for myself. And how you can support the Tories beats me. You usedto vote Labour!’
‘That was when they were more liberal. I stopped supporting those clowns the day they sang “The Red Flag” in the House of Commons. Socialism’s one thing; communism’s another. The Tories represent certain values that I happen to share, including the defence of the realm. I’m not sure that I approve of Leftie groups like the CND; I think this country needs defending and nuclear weapons are a deterrent, just like the armed forces are. Of course an awful lot these days sneer at the armed forces, saying they’re just a bunch of sanctioned killers. That’s the kind of liberal, woolly- headed thinking that probably drives the ranks of the CND. Thanks, but no thanks, luv.’
‘You haven’t lost your fighting spirit, I see.’
He glancedup and saw that she was smiling. ‘No, Lesley, I haven’t.’
‘Still in love with your precious Army?’
‘The SAS,’ he corrected her.
‘Same thing,’ she said.
‘No, it’s not,’ he insisted. ‘We’re a separate entity altogether. We have our own rules and regulations, our own methods of training, our own way of doing things, our own base. We’re exceptionally well trained and highly motivated, and we have a lot of pride in what we do. We’re not just an offshoot of the greens. We’re very much our own men.’
‘Greens?’ Lesley asked, puzzled.
‘Regular army,’ Marty explained. ‘We’re not like the regular army, believe me. We’re something very different.’
‘You’re still soldiers, Marty.’
‘I’m not ashamed of that. I’ve never been a pacifist. Pacifism wouldn’t have stopped Hitler; only soldiers could do that. Some wars are worth fighting.’
Lesley sighed. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Anyway, why the hell are we talking about this? You never did like me being in the army. Not even the territorials.’
‘That’s because you were never at home,’ she reminded him.
He shrugged. ‘True enough.’
‘How does your present wife take it?’
‘A lot better than you did,’ he said.
‘Is she a devoted little creature? Are Chinese women like that? Is that why you married her? For total obedience and devotion?’
‘No, Lesley, I didn’t marry her for that and she isn’t like that, though being an Anglified Chinese-Malay certainly gives her a different attitude to the army. The Chinese-Malays suffered a lot under the Japs, then later, when the war was over, they suffered under the CT.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Communist terrorists. They caused bloody mayhem over there. Because of them and the Japs, people of Ann Lim’s age, men and women, know at first hand what it’s like to be abused and terrorized. So they believe in the need for national defence. They want soldiers who’ll go out there and fight for them. They don’t believe in your bloody pacifism. They’ve suffered too much for that.’
‘This is England, Marty. It isn’t Malaya.’
‘Now Malaysia.’
‘Noted.’
‘If we hadn’t fought Hitler, we’d all be in concentration camps right now – or maybe in our graves. Now we have the USSR to worry about and don’t you forget it. A free country will only stay free if it’s ready, willing and able to defend itself. My wife knows that. I know it, too. Ann Lim’s proud of me being a soldier and that makes me feel good.’
Lesley smiled again and nodded. ‘You and your principles. Even when we first met, when you were just a wild teenager, you always had your principles. Your dad was the same. He was quieter about it, but he had his principles and would argue his case. You’re a chip off the old block.’
‘Dad was a good man.’
‘You’re not bad yourself, Marty. If Johnny grows up to be like you, I won’t complain much.’
‘Thanks, Lesley. I mean that.’
She smiled again, then glanced along the increasingly crowded kitchen at Marty’s mother. ‘She was pretty broken up,’ she told Marty, ‘but she’s handling it well.’
‘She won’t handle it so well when we all leave, but no one can help with that.’
‘And you? Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. I have to confess, I’ve felt better, but I’ll manage okay. I’ll be okay when I get back to Hereford. It’s being here that hurts most. Old memories and so on.’
Lesley sighed and placed her hand on his right shoulder to squeeze him affectionately. ‘Well, I think I’d better be off. Get back to the kids. I’ll pass on your love.’
‘You do that,’ Marty said.
She kissed him on the cheek, turned away and walked off. It had been the longest conversation he’d had with her since they had split up. Usually it was just a brief phone call to tell her when he would be visiting the kids. He watched her as she stopped to kneel beside his mother, smiling at her, stroking her cheek, offering words of comfort. His mother responded with a smile, then Lesley stood up and left the kitchen, turning back to give him a wave before disappearing around the door frame.
Marty gazed at that empty space for some time, as if Lesley was imprinted upon it. Suddenly, he swelled up with emotion – for his dead father, his grieving mother, for the pain that all failed marriages leave in their wake
– then he poured himself a whisky chaser and lit up another cigarette.
Seeing the people now crowding the kitchen and living room, his relatives and old friends, he realized that they, too, belonged to his past and that now he was a fatherless child with a world of his own. That world was the SAS base, Bradbury Lines, Hereford, and the wife and child who lived near the base and waited for his return. That world was all he required now.
He stayed for another couple of days in his childhood home in Crouch End, helping his mother with the complex paperwork that invariably follows a death. It was an extremely painful time, both for him and for her, and though he was pleased to help out, loving her as muchas he’d loved his father, he was secretly relieved when it was over and he could return to his own home.
Sitting on the train that was taking him back to Hereford, he felt that he had left London behind him for good and could no longer cling to old memories. The passing away of his father had lobotomized him from his past, aged him overnight, mentally if not physically, and made him feel even more protective of those who were left: his grieving mother, Ann Lim and Ian, his other two children, Johnny and Kay, even Lesley. He also felt that the values he had lived by were now more important than ever; and that the regiment, as it was presently evolving, upheld those values. He was proud to be part of it.
Ann Lim was waiting for him at the station in Hereford in her red Mini Minor, in the gathering gloom of the early evening, with Ian, two years old, gurgling contentedly in his baby-chair. After placing his overnight bag on the rear seat, Marty kissed the baby on his cheek, then sat beside Ann Lim.
‘Hi,’ she said, smiling, leaning sideways to kiss him. ‘How did it go?’
Giving birth to Ian had not changed her much, and now, in a loose white sweater and grey slacks, she looked as slim and perfectly formed as she had always been. With her jet-black hair hanging all the way down her spine, also framing her oval-shaped face and big brown eyes, she looked like a dream.
‘As good as you could expect,’ he replied. ‘Are thing okay here?’
‘Oh, nothing’s changed since you left.’ She started the Mini and drove away from the station. ‘Are you feeling okay?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m over the worst of it.’
‘How did your mother take it?’
‘I think worse than she’s showing. She was okay during the funeral and at the wake; not so good when all the guests had left and we were alone together. She was trying to be philosophical about it, but I think she’s finding it tough. She’s not young herself and I don’t know how she’ll take being alone. When I think of what it might be like for her, it makes me apprecia
te what I’ve got, meaning you and Ian. These are the best days we’ll have.’
‘Not necessarily the best, Marty. We have lots of good days left. We have a son to look after and maybe more to come, so we should have a fairly full life before we grow old. But it’s too early to think about that. Let it come in its own time.’
‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’
The drive home took only a matter of minutes and soon they were inside their modest bungalow-styled house, which was all they could afford on Marty’s income. It was, however, very pleasant, with fine gardens front and rear and a grand view of the gently rolling hills of Herefordshire, now succumbing to evening light. Once inside, Ann Lim placed Ian, still in his baby-chair, on the floor by her feet. Then she embraced Marty, clinging warmly to him, kissing his neck and lips. Eventually, stepping back, she said, ‘Let me feed Ian and put him to bed, then we’ll have something to eat.’
‘Great. I’ll have a quick bath while you’re doing it. That should freshen me up.’
‘Good idea.’
He soaked himself in the hot bath for about twenty minutes, listening with pleasure to Ann Lim’s loving babytalk and Ian’s excited gibberish downstairs. He was out of the bath and putting on fresh clothing when Ann Lim entered the bedroom to prepare Ian for his cot. Slapping her affectionately on the rump as he passed by, he went back down the stairs, entered the living room and settled down in front of the TV with a glass of whisky.
According to the news on TV, a nuclear war had been narrowly averted when Mr Krushchev promised to dismantle Russian missiles based in Cuba and ship them back to the Soviet Union. In return, President Kennedy had promised that the United States would not invade Cuba and would lift the blockade it had imposed on it. Marty was cynically entertained by the news that the British Foreign Secretary had warmly welcomed Mr Krushchev’s decision, the Chinese were furious about it, Fidel Castro was displeased because he had not been consulted, and the CND was embarrassed because some of its leaders, believing that nuclear war was imminent, had fled from the demonstrations outside the American Embassy in London and gone to Ireland, where they thought they would be safe.
Maybe Lesley’s boyfriend is one of them, Marty thought with sour amusement. Lesley’s possibly blushing with shame right now.
Turning off the TV, he poured himself another whisky, then put on his favourite Frank Sinatra LP, Songs for Swinging Lovers, which he now had in stereo. He sipped his whisky and hummed along with Frank, warming his feet on the gas fire, while Ann Lim stayed in the kitchen, making dinner. It was a Chinese meal, which Marty relished, and eventually they had it on the table in the living room with the lights dimmed, a candle burning between them, and a bottle of red wine to enhance the food and complete the romantic ambience.
‘You’re so nice to come home to,’ he told Ann Lim, paraphrasing from one of his favourite Sinatra songs.
‘That’s nice to hear.’
‘This food’s terrific. Like the cook, it’s something worth savouring.’
‘I’m savouring the compliments.’
‘You look beautiful in candlelight.’
‘Keep it coming.’
‘That’s all I have to say.’
‘That’s more than enough for now, darling husband. I’m a satisfied woman.’
They ate in silence for a moment, then Marty sat back in his chair and sipped some more wine. ‘Are you really happy here in England?’ he asked her.
‘Yes, Marty, you know I am. You must feel it, even if I don’t say it. I miss Malaysia, as you know, but so do you. It doesn’t mean I’m not happy here. We have a nice house, nice friends, a nice life in general. A woman can’t ask for more than that.’
‘Does it bother you that I go away a lot?’
‘Like it bothered Lesley?’
Marty nodded. ‘I suppose that’s what I mean.’
‘It bothers me, of course – I feel lonely when you’re gone– but I knew you were a soldier when I married you, so I can’t complain now.’ She reached across the table to take hold of his hand and squeeze it tenderly. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked. ‘I mean, after the…’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Even better now that I’m back in my own cosy world.’
‘But you’re hurting, aren’t you?’
‘That won’t go away too quickly.’
‘I can see it in your eyes. You can’t disguise it. You’re thinking of your father right now and it hurts you a lot.’
‘When someone close to you dies, you start thinking about the living,’ he said, ‘and right now I’m also thinking about my mum. She’s completely alone now. It’s all over for her.’
‘It’s never over until you’re dead,’ Ann Lim said, perhaps thinking about the tragedy of her own mother in Malaya, knowing what it was like. ‘Your mother may be more resilient than you think.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ he said.
Ann Lim wiped her lips with a napkin, then stood up and came around the table to slip her hands behind his head and press his face to her stomach. ‘You know what I’m going to do for you?’ she asked rhetorically, neither expecting nor waiting for a reply. ‘I’m going to make love to you like I’ve never done before. I’m going to do it all myself. I’m going to make you stretch out naked, just lying there, my victim, and I’m going to do exactly what I want to you, which will be just what you need. You’ll forget yourself, Marty. I promise, you’ll lose yourself. For a while you’ll be aware of only me and what I’m making you feel. For this one night – at least for this night – you’ll forget grief and pain. You’ll come back to the land of the living and want to remain there. Now let’s go to bed, Marty.’
It was a night to remember.
The following morning, feeling like a new man, he put on his SAS uniform and drove to Bradbury Lines in his second car, a rattling 1953 Ford Popular. As he drove into the base, feeling secure again, he realized that he had now been here for two years as a member of the Directing Staff, the DS, conducting selection-andtraining courses instead of being overseas on active service, which he would have preferred.
The new, much tougher selection-and-training course, as initially suggested by Bulldog Bellamy, had been put into practice by Lieutenant-Colonel Mackie and was progressing healthily. Now, only men who had served at least two years with another regiment would be considered for possible transfer to the SAS. Having applied, they were put through a three-week basic selection-and-training course much more rigorous than any so far devised. That period, if survived, was followed by a week of particularly demanding mental and physical testing that invariably led to an even greater number of failures, or crap-hats. Those who got through that went on to a few months of continuation training, consisting of patrol tactics for every conceivable situation and environment, including jungle, desert, mountain and sea. The few that were left then went on to special jungle training, most of it based on the lessons learned by the old hands in Malaya. Finally, if they managed to get through that, they were sent to the RAF’s prestigious parachute-training school at RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire for a static-line parachute course, followed by a number of actual jumps. The few who managed to complete that course were finally allowed to wear the beige beret and Winged Dagger badge of the SAS.
After parking his car, Marty walked to the training wing, thinking Bulldog were accomplished. Though the special jungle training still took place in densely forested areas of England, it was hoped that eventually it would take place in a real jungle environment. Also, a cross-training programme had been implemented to include escape-and-evasion (E and E) and resistance-to-interrogation (R and I) exercises; high altitude, low opening (HALO) insertion techniques; special boat skills for amphibious warfare; extensive training in mountain-climbing; and lessons in the driving and maintenance of every kind of military vehicle, including motorbikes.
Though most of this still took place at Bradbury Lines, RAF Brize Norton, or on the mountains of Wales, it was not ideal and the commander of the r
egiment was still exploring the possibility of extending the cross-training to overseas, with particular regard to mountain-climbing in genuine arctic conditions, hopefully Norway. Last but not least, while the need for close-quarter (CQB) skills was becoming more urgent, the socalled “Killing House” envisaged by Bulldog was still under construction and until it was completed the outdoor simulation of counter-terrorist operations was unsatisfactory.
On the other hand, Marty thought as he entered the training wing and saw his fellow NCOs gathered together outside the briefing room, much progress had of how frustrated he and men like because so much was yet to be been made in other areas. The Sabre Squadrons of the regiment had been split up into four sixteen-man troops, each with its specialist role. Now, there was indeed a Mobility Troop, specializing in fast-strike vehicles, a Boat Troop, specializing in amphibious warfare; a Mountain Troop, specializing in mountain-climbing and operations in arctic environments; and an Air Troop to be used for freefall parachuting, tree-jumping and HALO insertions. The training for all four troops was still extremely demanding, but what was needed was more training overseas in proper hostile environments. Hopefully that would come soon.
Having been called back to base specifically for this briefing, Marty joined the other men where they were milling about in front of the briefing room, having tea and a smoke. Seeing that they were unusually excited, he approached the eternally youthful Sergeant Taff Hughes to ask what was happening.
‘Borneo,’ Taff told him.
Chapter Four
Marty was still depressed by the death of his father when he arrived in Borneo with the rest of D Squadron early in 1963. After settling into his basha in the Chinese merchant’s house taken over by the SAS as their spider and located near the converted warehouses being used by the Army, Marine Commandos and Gurkhas, he joined the other men in the ‘Haunted House’, the SAS HQ, for their introductory briefing about the area.
Actually a large building lent to the SAS by the
Sultan of Brunei, the Haunted House was so-called because during the days of the Japanese occupation it had been used as a Tokyo Gestapo interrogation centre and the ghost of a young British woman tortured to death there was said to haunt the property. Given that many times since his father’s death Marty had imagined seeing him– usually when he saw another man of roughly the same age – he was not thrilled to be entering a building so named. He did, however, feel a lot better when he actually explored it and found that it contained a communications centre (COMMCEN), sleeping quarters, showers, thunder boxes, recreation room and admin offices, including the briefing room. The Haunted House seemed marginally less haunted when he saw what was in it.
