by Shaun Clarke
present circumstances, sound reasonably plausible.’ ‘HQ doesn’t know shite from shinola,’ O’Connor
said bluntly. ‘If those fucking Indos find us on their
territory, they’ll just slit our throats.’
‘True enough,’ Bulldog replied, since this was a so-
called ‘Chinese parliament’ with all opinions
welcomed. ‘Therefore let it be known that word’s come
down from the Head Sheds that if an individual trooper
gets lost or is captured, no rescue will be attempted by the other men in his patrol. Also, nothing’s to be left in
enemy territory that could betray our presence here.’ ‘Just what does that mean, Staff-Sergeant?’ the
newcomer, Tommy Taylor, asked, nervously scratching
the acne spots on his pale, increasingly gaunt, face. ‘What it means, Trooper, is that no casualties, dead
or wounded, are to be left behind. No identity discs,
photos or letters from home. No ciggie stubs. No spent
cartridge cases. Not even the prints of our fucking
boots. In fact, we’re being given special footwear, with
sacking or hessian placed outside the boots to blur any
marks indicating their origin. Also, when yomping
through the ulu, we’re going to check every leaf and
spider’s web, leaving absolutely no trace of our
movements. In short, we try to become invisible. That’s
what it means.’
Under Bulldog’s command, Marty and the others
were given the specific task of reaching the headwaters
of the Koemba River to cause as much disruption as
possible. Their main problem, as they had been warned
by Major Parsons, was that previous SAS patrols to that
area, though managing to reach the edge of the Sentimo
marshes, had been unable to penetrate the marshes
north of the river.
‘You might have the same problem,’ Parsons
warned them.
Navigating by a wide variety of means, they spent
over a week trying to reach the upper part of the river
and the mountain plateau separating it from Sentimo.
This involved hiking through dense belukar, where the
jungle had been cleared and was growing back again,
thicker than ever, to form an often impenetrable tangle
of palms, seedling trees, rattans and other sharp thorns.
Also, the moss-covered tree trunks often soared over
thirty metres high, wrapped in another tangle of huge leaves, thick creepers and liana, forming an almost solid canopy above, blotting out the sunlight. Because of this, the ground was wet and often slippery with mud, making progress slow and dirty; it also reminded the already struggling men that the feared swamps could
not be far away.
This turned out to be true. Finally emerging from an
epic struggle through a stretch of belukar, they found
themselves faced with primary jungle filled with
expansive swamps. These were hell to cross. The water
often came up to the waist – sometimes the chest. It was
covered with drifting debris, including large, razorsharp leaves, thorny brambles, broken branches,
seedlings and spiders’ webs surrendering to mud-slime.
This debris was in turn covered with dark swarms of
flies and mosquitoes that buzzed and whined frantically
around the men, covering their unprotected eyes, lips
and nose. The men were further tormented by this
because they could do nothing to prevent it, being
forced to hold their weapons above their heads while
trying to feel their way with booted feet over an
underwater bed rendered treacherous by shifting mud,
tangled weeds, sharp or rolling stones that moved when
stepped upon, and unexpected holes that could trap their
feet. Nor could they prevent themselves from being
covered by the slimy, wormlike leeches that crawled
onto them from wet vegetation and sucked their blood
as they waded through the swamp.
Even more tormenting was the fact that in many
areas of the swamps, the lower branches of the trees
stretched out across the water, often practically
touching it, forcing the men either to work their way
around them, which could double the distance travelled,
or to duck under them. This latter course of action
presented the risk of being cut by thorns and sharp palm leaves or, even worse, could cause them to shake more leeches, snakes or venomous spiders off the wet leaves,
branches or glistening webs filled with trapped insects. In fact, one of the main dangers of wading through
the water was the possibility of an encounter with
venomous sea snakes, which had flattened, paddleshaped tails and, being the same brownish colour as the
broken branches, could easily be mistaken for them
until it was too late.
Luckily, no one was attacked. Nevertheless, it took a
few more days to make it through the swamps and
marshes, which meant that they had to sleep there as
well. Sometimes, if they were lucky, they could sling
hammocks between tree trunks; but when this was not
possible they were forced to sleep standing upright,
often waist deep in water, usually tying themselves to a
tree trunk to prevent themselves falling over. While
acutely uncomfortable, this afforded a little sleep,
though it was rarely deep or for very long.
Marty knew damned well why he couldn’t sleep.
Normally he would have slept even when tied upright to
a tree, but in this particular swamp, which was
oppressively silent during the day, the night was filled
with an eerie cacophony of croaking, hissing, flapping,
snapping, rustling, squawking, buzzing and whining
that penetrated the senses and repeatedly jerked him out
of whatever restless sleep he was having. To this kind
of disruption he could add his helpless fear of slipping
out of his ropes and sinking into the water, too tired to
realize what was happening before he drowned; or of
being bitten by venomous snakes or eels while his body
sagged in the water. The fact that the leeches fed off his
blood all night no longer even concerned him. There
were worse things than leeches.
Finally, after five days of such horrors, already exhausted and only halfway through the patrol, they reached the upper part of the river – only to find that the sheer cliffs of the plateau separating it from Sentimo offered no possible route to the jungle 250 metres
below, on the other side of the mountain range. They had to turn back again.
Frustrated by the failure of his men to get beyond the Sentimo marshes and still constrained by not being permitted to use them for overtly aggressive actions, Major Parsons revised mounted cross-border battalions with the SAS acting as scouts. Though small in stature and cheerful, the brown-faced Gurkhas were fearless fighters for whom no task was too dangerous. Marty was not alone among the SAS in having great admiration for them, but he was as frustrated as the others by the fact that the SAS were only permitted to act as scouts for the Gurkhas and then had to let them mount the actual attack, while the SAS could only give covering fire.
Surrounded by thick undergrowth, the Indo camps usually consisted of no more than a few thatched huts on stilts, some open latrines covered with clouds of flies, and a protective ring of sunken gun emplacements and defens
ive trenches. Invariably, when the Gurkhas arrived and spread out in a great circle around the camp, remaining well hidden in the forest, the Indo soldiers would be seated in large groups around open fires, breakfasting on roast pig and fried rice. In that same thick undergrowth, the Gurkhas and SAS would quietly bring British three-inch mortars, Soviet RPG-7 rocket launchers, M79 single-shot, breech-loading grenadelaunchers, general-purpose machine guns (GPMGs) and Bren light machine guns into position. The gun and his strategy and, instead,
operations by the Gurkha mortar teams would keep in touch with one another through their small, back-packed A41 tactical radio sets and, at the command from the Gurkha CO, would fire simultaneously, tearing the camp to shreds with mortar shells, missiles, fin-stabilized grenades and tracer bullets that flared across the clearing and disappeared into the daggering flames and boiling smoke from the mortar explosions.
Within seconds, the camp would be obscured in a grim pall of smoke through which shadowy figures and brighter flames could just about be discerned, with the screams of the wounded and dying rising dreadfully above the bedlam of the roaring guns and explosions. With the SAS continuing to give covering fire, the Gurkhas would then move in to clear the camp, advancing at the half-crouch, firing on the move, and not stopping to take prisoners or ask questions. When the smoke eventually cleared, the camp would be a mess of dead and wounded men, the smouldering or still-burning remains of thatched huts, black shell holes, spent shells, buckled weapons, shredded clothing, dismembered limbs and spreading pools of blood. It would not be a pretty sight.
Nevertheless, the SAS remained frustrated at their lack of more positive involvement – those raids were essentially Gurkha operations. They were therefore overjoyed when, a few weeks later, with the Indo incursions increasing, they finally received official approval to do more than ‘watch and count’ or act as scouts for the Gurkhas.
Immediately, Major Parsons broadened the scope of the ‘Claret’ raids to include attacks on enemy approach routes and MSRs, either by road or on water, ambushing tracks and rivers, and setting booby traps where it was known that the Indo or CCO raiders would pass. The range of penetration across the border was also greatly increased and the pre-emptive actions undertaken by the SAS increased in both frequency and ferocity.
Basing most of their attack methods on the ‘shoot - andscoot’ procedure developed by Paddy Kearney in Malaya, the SAS teams made the essence of their ambushes speed of movement and reaction: hitting the enemy from close range with a brief, savage fusillade of small-arms firepower, including hand grenades, then vanishing quickly, leaving the counter-attackers to find nothing but empty jungle. These tactics were highly successful, causing a lot of damage, and soon the SAS were getting tales back from the Dyaks and other aboriginals about how the Indonesians and CCO were whispering fearful stories about their ‘invisible’ attackers.
‘The Tiptoe Boys,’ Marty said exultantly afte r a particular, highly successful raid. ‘That’s us. That’s what we should call ourselves.’
‘Why not?’ Bulldog responded. ‘Sounds good to me.’
The title took on and soon most of the SAS in the ulu were calling themselves just that, both in jest and with a certain amount of pride. Perhaps emboldened by the name they had adopted for themselves, in the weeks that followed, the attacks of the Tiptoe Boys became lengthier, more sophisticated affairs, even using electrically detonated landmines to catch the enemy column’s front and rear while the automatic fire of the SAS weapons raked the centre.
Invariably, the landmine ambushes of the SAS followed the same routine. While Bulldog, Marty, Taff and Tommy Taylor, who was fast gaining confidence, knelt in the firing position in the shadow of the trees by the side of the road, spaced well apart to give a broad arc of fire, their demolitions expert, Pat O’Connor, would quickly and expertly lay his four landmines would quickly and expertly lay his four landmines metre stretch of road, placed so as to catch the front and rear of the Indo column, as well as the middle. The mines would be buried in the ground face up, resting on their spiked base, with soil and leaves thrown back over them to make them invisible. O’Connor would wire them to be detonated by remote control, then he would melt back into the trees at the side of the track, taking up a firing position beside some of the others.
Eventually, the first troops of the Indo patrol would approach around the bend in the path, emerging slowly from the trees, wearing jungle-green fatigues, softpeaked caps and jungle boots. Armed with bolt-action rifles and Soviet submachine guns, they also had hand grenades clipped to the belts around their waists and ammunition bandoliers criss-crossing their chests. O’Connor would wait until the first soldier in the column had passed over the rows of mines and the last soldier was just stepping onto the last mine, then he would detonate the mines by remote control. When the mines exploded, four deafening roarings as one, they would blow the soil upward and outward in great fan shapes that spewed smoke and fire. Also blown apart, the Indo troops would be picked up and slammed back down, or slashed to ribbons by the hundreds of razorsharp slugs that flew out with the speed of bullets in all directions.
That the SAS men would open fire simultaneously with their Armalites and SLRs was almost an act of mercy, since many of the Indonesians not instantly killed would be staggering about in the swirling smoke, or writhing on the dust-choked ground, their skin either scorched and blistered or slashed to the bone.
The hail of SAS bullets would stitch through these unfortunates, cutting off their agonized screams, then move left and right in a broad arc, taking in those who had escaped the blasts of the landmines and were now retreating into the forest, firing on the move. Then, before the remaining Indonesians could get their senses back together and retaliate, Bulldog would bawl for the SAS to ‘shake out’ and they would, as the Tiptoe Boys, beat a hasty retreat, melting back into the ulu and leaving no trace of themselves behind.
After many more such raids, the Indonesians became convinced that the SAS Tiptoe Boys were indeed invisible. When the Dyaks brought the news back to the SAS FOB, it made the whole bloody business seem worthwhile to Marty and his mates.
But the worse was yet to come.
Chapter Six
After three months in the ulu, with occasional short breaks back in the FOB, Marty and the other members of Bulldog’s raiding party were flown to Kuching, Brunei, for a well-earned leave. They had been back only four days, however, when they were called to a briefing in the Haunted House, where Major Parsons, also back temporarily from the FOB to receive his instructions from the Head Sheds, informed them that they were to return to the Koemba River, north-west of Poeri, where the Indonesians had a staging post for men and supplies going eastward to Seluas. The patrol’s task was to disrupt or completely stop the river traffic.
‘Why us?’ Bulldog asked.
‘Six other patrols have attempted to reach specific points on the river near Poeri, but they all failed because the marshes are too deep. You lot actually made it as far as the headwater. This time, when you get there, we want you to choose a good location for an OP– we need as much intelligence as you can gather – and also cause a little mayhem near the town. Just one decent assault on passing traffic could scare the Indos into avoiding the river.So what’s what you’re tasked with.’
‘Lucky us,’ Marty said.
They left the following morning. Inserted by helicopter to an LZ near the frontier with Kalimantan, due north of Achan, they melted into the ulu and headed roughly south, following Bulldog’s compass bearings, intending to turn due west seven days later. By noon of the second day, or the first full day of hiking, they had crossed the border north of Achan and started circling around it, heading through a combination of primary jungle and belukar for the swamps that lay between it and the River Koemba. By noon of the third day they had reached a broad track running north-west from Poeri and almost certainly used regularly by Indo soldiers going to Achan. Satisfied that the track was clear, they swiftly crossed it and
vanished again into the ulu, now heading on a direct line for the swamps that led east to the Koemba.
That afternoon they came to a recently cleared track running compass-true parallel to the river. Realizing that the track would make a good Indo ambush point, Bulldog silently indicated that Marty, the team’s cameraman, should photograph it from a few different angles. When Marty had done so, writing details of the location into his notebook, they crossed the track unnoticed. They were, however, uncomfortably aware of the fact that in such a clearing they might have been spotted by a hidden Indo OP. In the event, no enemy patrols materialized and soon they saw, just beyond some bamboo screens and a tangle of belukar, stretching away as far as the eye could see, the swamp they all dreaded.
‘Here we go,’ Pat O’Connor said with a despairing sigh while Tommy Taylor, staring at each of the others in turn, registered understandable trepidation.
‘Let’s go for it,’ Bulldog said.
Advancing into the swamp from north-east of the river bend, they soon found themselves knee deep in slimy, debris-covered water and assailed by madly buzzing and whining insects. Though the bed of the swamp was soft and yielding– a combination of mud and small stones, dangerously cluttered with larger stones, felled logs and other debris – they were able to push onward until, in the early afternoon, the water became too deep to cross and the mud too soft to walk on, made more so by the weight of the men’s weapons and packed Bergens.
In this area, gigantic bright-green palm leaves floated on the swamp and lay on small islands of firm ground, covered with seedlings. Surprisingly hard, they split if stepped upon, giving off a loud cracking sound. For this reason, the men tried to avoid them, but even when they were pushed gently aside in the water, they often split with what seemed in the stillness a noise like a pistol shot.
‘I keep thinking we’re being attacked,’ Marty whispered.
‘That should keep you on your toes,’ Bulldog retorted.
That night, making themselves as comfortable as possible on a small island in the swamp, the five men held a Chinese parliament to pool suggestions. Their shared decision was that they should continue southeast, following the line of the Sentimo River until they reached the Koemba River. They could then track the Koemba due east until it took them to Seluas.
