by Shaun Clarke
‘Christ!’ Terry hissed, breathing heavily, when something large and hairy fell on him and bounced off his shoulder. ‘That bastard was as big as my fist!’
‘It was only a tarantula,’ Pete replied. ‘Its bark is worse than its bite.’
‘It’s the bleedin’ ants that have the bite,’ Terry said, ‘and I’m black and blue.’
‘No more talking from this moment on,’ Dead-eye told them, ‘unless it’s absolutely necessary. This is a silent patrol.’
Terry shivered, remembering the enormous spider, then he filled up with gloom at the prospect of not being able to break the suffocating silence of the jungle with conversation. Nevertheless, he moved on with the others, his face, shirt and trousers soaked with sweat.
Their routine was to march for an hour before breakfast, which consisted of dried biscuits and tinned sardines, washed down with water. The water was usually drawn from a fast-flowing stream. If taken from a pool or slow-flowing stream, it would be purified with dissolving tablets before being used. Dead-eye would not even permit them to brew tea in case the smoke gave away their position.
For lunch they might have a few more biscuits and a tin of cheese, keeping the meatier items in their ration packs for supper just before nightfall.
Dead-eye permitted no cooking on this patrol. Though they might go cold and hungry, he explained, they were definitely a lot safer not attracting the attention of an Indonesian patrol, or even the region’s headhunting Land Dyaks, to the sight of camp-fire smoke or the smells of cooking.
Halting either for a short break on the march or for one of their three miserable meals of the day, the men sat on their bergens, resting their rifles across their laps or cradling them in their crooked arms, either way always alert. If they talked, it was only to exchange brief sentences in a whisper. Meanwhile, as scout Dead-eye scanned the jungle ahead, while the navigator, the more experienced Sanderson, rechecked his route with a combination of map, magnifying glass and compass. The rest periods were therefore not all that restful and by last light all the men were exhausted.
After the draining heat and humidity of the day, the high mountain range could be surprisingly cold at night. Their lying-up positions, or LUPs, consisted mainly of uncovered shallow ‘scrapes’ in which they unrolled their hollow-fill sleeping bags on plastic sheeting. Above these simple bedding arrangements they raised a shelter consisting of a waterproof poncho draped over wire stretched taut between two Y-shaped sticks, making a triangular tent with the apex pointing into the wind. Sometimes, if camping out beneath the trees, they would construct a fresh-leaf shelter consisting of a low framework with a sloping roof. After collecting the largest leaves available, they thatched them into the bamboo framework of the roof. The four sides were made from bamboo and thatch woven together and lashed firmly in place with rattan vines. They then made a huge pile of branches and leaves as a mattress, put on all their clothes, smeared themselves with mud, if available, to keep away the insects, and finally covered themselves with groundsheets. Though taking longer to make, the fresh-leaf shelter afforded more protection than one made from a poncho.
Before moving on the next morning, just before first light, they meticulously removed all signs of their overnight bivvies. Even branches and leaves that had been disturbed were pushed back into their natural positions. This was a tedious, but vitally necessary routine.
As they moved further west, cresting the summit of the mountain range, exploring along it, then circling back down to lower ground, the need to be alert to a chance meeting with a Land Dyak became more pronounced. The Land Dyaks were not familiar with white men and tended to be suspicious of all strangers, including the Ibans from the coastal areas, such as the three travelling with the SAS patrol. Given that they were skilled at jungle warfare and still practised headhunting, they were a breed of native best avoided.
As Sanderson helpfully informed the rest of the group, smiling only slightly, the Land Dyaks were likely to come out of the wilder jungle heading towards the settlements along the Sempayang River, where there were many paddy-fields (as distinct from dry padi fields) for the growing of rice in traditional watery beds. The men saw the paddy-fields soon enough when they reached the lower slopes and began their sweaty hike along the river. The crops of seedlings, which would not be harvested until April, gave no cover, so the patrol kept mainly to a jungle-covered spur from which there was a view of the river.
In the event, the only Land Dyak they met was one they saw ankle-deep in the river, fishing with a blowpipe and darts smeared with a substance that paralysed the fish without leaving poison in its system.
Leaving the rest of his group hiding in the shelter of the trees, Dead-eye sneaked up on the tribesman, aimed his Armalite at him, and called out in Malay for him to turn around. Startled, the man did so, then studied Dead-eye with a gaze more considered than afraid. He did not put his hands up – the gesture was probably unknown to him – but simply stood there, holding the blowpipe by his side, staring at Dead-eye as if studying some new breed of animal.
‘You are stranger,’ he said, speaking in Malay.
‘Yes,’ Dead-eye replied, still aiming his weapon at the long-haired, half-naked native and keeping his eye on the blowpipe. ‘I am a visitor here and wish you no harm. I look for the Indonesian soldiers. Have you seen any?’
The tribesman nodded and pointed along the river with his blowpipe. ‘Batu Hitam,’ he said.
‘Anywhere else?’ Dead-eye asked.
The Dyak shook his head from side to side, indicating no.
‘And Batu Hitam is straight along the river?’
This time the Dyak nodded, again without speaking. He then pointed upriver.
‘Thank you,’ Dead-eye said, then backed away to where the rest of his group were hidden, crouched low at the edge of the ulu. He did not remove his gaze from the Dyak’s blowpipe, but by the time he reached the shelter of trees, the native had already returned to his work, blowing his poisoned darts into the water, then reaching down to snatch up the immobilized fish.
‘Learn anything?’ Sanderson asked.
‘Only that the Indos are in Batu Hitam, further upriver. He says he hasn’t seen them anywhere else.’
‘Then let’s head upriver,’ Sanderson said, ‘and find their camp.’
‘Right, men,’ Dead-eye said, glancing at the others. ‘Let’s haul out.’
Heading upriver, sticking close to the bank, they reached Batu Hitam in two hours. There, from where they were hiding at the edge of the forest, they saw a Dyak settlement, clearly filled with headhunters, judging from the number of shrunken skulls strung over the doors of the thatched longhouses. But there was no trace of the Indonesians. Circling around the settlement, crouched low, weapons at the ready, taking note of the fact that the male Dyaks were armed with spears and blowpipes, they carefully checked every aspect of the village, but still saw no sign of either Indonesian soldiers or the CCO.
Just as they were about to turn back, however, one of the Iban trackers, Ejok, raised and lowered his clenched right fist repeatedly, indicating that the rest of the patrol should join him. When they did so, he showed them a lot of footprints in the swampy ground near the river, leading from the settlement to the river bank. All the footprints were of men who had been wearing Indonesian jungle boots.
‘They must have been here,’ Ejok said in Malay, nodding back in the direction of the settlement. ‘These bootprints are fresh, so they must have left only recently, maybe this morning, taking boats from here and heading upriver. As they have left no sign of their presence in the camp, they don’t intend coming back.’
‘Damn!’ Dead-eye said softly.
Sanderson sighed. ‘We’ve lost them. We’re not allowed to stay out longer than two weeks. We’ll have to go back empty-handed.’
Dead-eye was visibly frustrated. He ordered the patrol to turn around and go back downstream. They crossed the river two hours later, just before reaching the spot where the Dyak had b
een fishing, then they began the long hike to the forward operating base, three days’ ‘tab’ away.
During that sweaty, exhausting hike they lost even more weight when, wading chest-deep through the swamps of the humid lowland forests, they were covered in leeches that greedily fed off them. By the time they had reached dry land again, where they could burn them off, they had all lost a lot of blood, as well as more weight.
On reaching the FOB, still without having made contact with the enemy, let alone a sighting of them, they were even more frustrated to learn that another SAS-led patrol had successfully ambushed a Chinese party on the mountain six miles west of the Bemban where an Indonesian base was known to be located. A second patrol had found a deserted Indonesian fort with mortar pits and well-sited defences. A third patrol, waiting to ambush a CCO patrol, had themselves been attacked by a 100-strong Indonesian platoon on the Bemban track. The SAS men suffered no casualties and managed to kill at least eleven of them before making a quick withdrawal.
‘We’re the only ones who saw and did nothing,’ Dead-eye said bitterly. ‘What a waste of time!’
‘Everything comes to him who waits,’ Major Callaghan replied with a teasing grin. ‘Now go and get some sleep, Dead-eye.’
Dead-eye joined the others back in the spider, where he slept like a log.
5
‘In the words of our commanding officer,’ Major Callaghan said in the briefing room of the Haunted House, ‘this is the year that began with the end of a revolution and ended with the beginning of an undeclared war.’
Pausing to let those words sink in, he wiped sweat from his forehead and waved flies away from his face. A large fan whirred above his head.
‘That undeclared war has commenced along the frontier,’ he continued, ‘so you men will be moved back to the unmapped mountain border of Sarawak – the so-called ‘Gap’ – also known as the 3rd Division. You will concentrate your efforts on the shorter frontier between Indonesia and Brunei, which has chosen to remain a British Protectorate rather than join the new Federation. There you will engage in aggressive raids into enemy territory.’
The men sitting in rows of hard-backed wooden chairs under two more large rotating fans cheered and applauded. Callaghan waited for them to settle down before he continued.
‘The object of the raids is to pre-empt any likely Indonesian build-up or attack; to harass the Indonesians on patrol and in their camps; and to gradually compel them to move their forces away from the border. As the major purpose, then, is to deter or thwart aggression by the Indonesians, no attacks will be mounted in retribution or with the sole aim of damaging the enemy. The enemy is only to be engaged as a last defensive resort. Where this is the case, minimum force should be used, rather than large-scale attacks, to avoid escalation.’
Seeing the expression on the faces of his men, Callaghan felt a certain regret. It was obvious from their faces that they were delighted to be back in action; and Callaghan, who himself liked nothing better than action, wanted to go with them. Unfortunately, as Squadron Commander, he was going to be kept back at HQ, mapping out the campaign, analysing the intelligence, and controlling the various patrols by radio based on that information. It was an exciting job in its own way, but not quite what he wanted.
‘Collectively, the raids will be known as “Claret” operations and classified “Top Secret”,’ he told them. ‘Initial penetration distance into Indonesian territory will be 5000 yards, though this may be extended to 20,000.’
‘I could piss 5000 yards,’ Alf said. ‘It’s not worth considering.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Callaghan said firmly when the laughter had died down. ‘Your primary function will be deep penetration and the gathering of intelligence across enemy lines, engaging the enemy if necessary.’ The latter part of that remark raised a few more cheers. ‘This penetration will include the river routes used by the Indonesians as military supply routes, to move men and equipment up to the border. You will count the boats and the men on those MSRs, and map suitable areas from which they can be ambushed from the river bank. Last but not least, you’ll locate the kampongs and bases from which the boats are coming and, if at all possible, enter them without alerting the sentries or dogs, recce them, then slip back out into the jungle.’
‘Sounds better than suffering the horrors of jarit and tapai in order to win hearts and minds,’ Pete said tartly. ‘Count me in, boss.’
‘It’s because you drink tapai,’ Alf told him, ‘that you can fart from your mouth. Can we get on with the briefing, thanks?’
‘OK, men, let’s dampen it.’ Though smiling, Callaghan sounded serious, so the men quietened down again. ‘The first cross-border patrols,’ the major informed them, ‘will be made by two- to five-man teams not accompanied by local guides. You’ll carry exactly the same equipment and weapons as you’ve used in Sarawak, with the main small arm being the Armalite rifle.’
‘Why the Armalite?’
‘It’s presently viewed as the perfect jungle weapon, being portable and powerful. Also, though used widely around the world, it isn’t standard issue to the British Army. Therefore, if wounded or taken prisoner, you can attribute your presence in Indonesian territory to a map-reading error, which should sound, in the circumstances, reasonably plausible.’
‘It might if we’re caught on the river banks,’ Dead-eye pointed out. ‘But it certainly won’t if we’re caught near their kampongs or training bases.’
Callaghan sighed. ‘No, I’m afraid that in those circumstances you won’t have a leg to stand on and will be treated rather harshly by your captors.’
‘The understatement of the year,’ Alf said.
‘Fat chance of me being caught,’ Pete added.
‘Don’t treat the possibility lightly,’ Callaghan warned him. ‘Having already been out there, the 1st/2nd Gurkha Company has discovered that a lot of the approach tracks to the camps and kampongs are mined. Also, outlying machine-gun positions add considerably to the overall camp defences.’
‘I’ll piss on them from 5000 yards,’ Alf said, ‘and put out their fire.’
‘I wouldn’t call him a boastful man,’ Pete said, ‘but there are those who are humbler.’
‘How do we navigate?’ Dead-eye asked in a sombre tone when further ribald remarks had faded away.
Callaghan was prompt and precise in his response. ‘Through the scrutiny of air photographs; cultivation of a photographic memory of topographical features such as rivers and ridges, as well as their compass bearings; and a precise sense of distance walked to calculate a dead reckoning of mileage covered by reference to time-on-march. You will also use jungle tracking as a means of following the enemy to their kampongs or bases.’
‘How do we engage?’ Dead-eye asked, getting to the heart of the matter.
‘Mainly the shoot-and-scoot standard operating procedure.’ This meant breaking contact with the enemy as soon as possible, whenever contact occurred, and making themselves scarce again, disappearing like ghosts. Some of the men groaned aloud when they heard this approach proposed, voicing their disapproval, but Callaghan waved them into silence. ‘I know this particular SOP isn’t popular with many of you, but it’s our belief that it’ll keep casualties to a minimum, while simultaneously disorientating the enemy. I know you’d rather stay and fight it out, but shoot-and-scoot it will have to be.’
‘Whoever devised that SOP,’ Pete said, ‘should be hung, drawn and quartered.’
‘I devised it in Malaya,’ Callaghan responded, ‘with your old friend Sergeant Lorrimer.’ He waited for the embarrassed silence to grip the room, then moved in for the kill. ‘It’s already proved its effectiveness more than once, in circumstances similar to the ones you’ll soon find yourselves in, so while your moans and groans are acceptable, don’t try refusing.’
‘No, boss!’ Alf said, knowing when he was beaten.
Now confident that he had the upper hand, Callaghan smiled again – a merciless smile – as he gave them even w
orse news. ‘Please bear in mind, also, that if you get lost, or are captured, no rescue will be attempted by the other men in your patrol.’ When he felt that they had digested this harsh fact, he explained: ‘Nothing is to be left in enemy territory that will betray our presence there. No casualties, dead or wounded, to be left behind. No identity discs, photos or letters from home. No cigarette stubs. No spent cartridge cases. Not even the prints of your boots. Regarding the latter, you will be asked to wear irregular footwear, with sacking or hessian over your boots, shoes and sandals to blur all marks indicating their origin. You will check every leaf and spider’s web, leaving absolutely no trace of your movements. Any questions so far?’
Corporal Sanderson put up his hand. ‘How long will the individual raids last?’
‘Approximately three weeks each.’ Someone gave a low whistle of surprise. ‘Yes,’ Callaghan said, ‘it’s a long time. And as you’ll be obliged to live on dehydrated rations based on a relatively meagre 3500 calories per day instead of the recommended minimum of 5000, you can expect to lose a considerable amount of weight.’
‘We’ve already lost that,’ Terry informed him.
‘You’re going to lose even more,’ Callaghan responded bluntly. ‘On your return, if you return, you’ll have a one-day debriefing, followed by a two-day period of total rest, then a two-day briefing for the next patrol. You move out again after a total of five days back here, during which time you should have put your lost weight back on.’
‘Only to lose it again on the next patrol,’ Sergeant Hunt said sardonically from the back of the room.
‘Given your impressive paunch, Sergeant, I don’t think it will harm you.’
The men had a good laugh at that, but Hunt took it in good part. ‘What about air support?’ he asked when the laughter had died away.
‘It will only be given in cases of extreme emergency. Otherwise, forget it.’
