by Shaun Clarke
Callaghan sighed. ‘God, yes. What a hole! And those two came good in the end, which just goes to show.’ He continued to study the fan for a while, then lowered his gaze again, grinning at Dead-eye. ‘Still miss Lorrimer?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was a good man.’ Callaghan glanced down at the maps spread out on his desk, then ran his forefinger lightly, with barely concealed yearning, along the dotted line that indicated the River Koemba. ‘I wish I was going with you,’ he said. ‘I’m not keen on desk jobs.’
‘You’re good at it, boss.’
Callaghan nodded, but his face revealed his feeling of loss. ‘Yes, I’m good at it. I’m a wizard at intelligence. I’m even better at planning and strategy, which makes me invaluable … But I’d rather be out there in the field, doing what I was born to do.’
‘Maybe you’ll get back to it.’
‘We both know that’s not true. This will be my last tour with the regiment, then it’s back to 3 Commando and another promotion.’
‘What’s wrong with promotion?’
‘It leads to even more administration and a lot of rather boring socializing in the name of public relations. I’ll be a stuffed dummy for the Army, attending functions, shaking hands, signing the odd document – in fact, doing all the things I detest. That’s what’s wrong with promotion.’
‘Refuse.’
‘I can’t. It’s my age. It comes to us all.’
‘Me as well, boss.’
‘But you’re luckier, Dead-eye. You’re an NCO. That means you can stay with the SAS for as long as you like – at least until your retirement. Even when it gets to the stage where you can’t fight, you can stay with the Training Wing in Hereford, doing good work.’
‘To me, doing good work in the Training Wing is the same as you shaking hands. It’s just not my style.’
Callaghan grinned in that same sad way. ‘No, I suppose not. I just can’t imagine it.’ As if troubled by his own words, he glanced down at the maps, then looked up again and changed the subject, trying to sound lighter. ‘So Laughton’s your photographer.’
‘Yes,’ Dead-eye said.
‘Can he actually handle a camera?’
‘Yes.’
‘Make sure he takes a lot of pictures.’
‘I will, boss. Don’t worry. So when do we leave?’
‘First light.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘You’ve had your leave, Dead-eye. You hate leave. So it’s first light tomorrow.’
‘Right, boss, that’s fine. I’d better go and brief the men.’
‘Yes, Dead-eye, you do that.’
Dead-eye left Callaghan’s office and stepped onto the veranda outside, where he had to shade his eyes against the morning’s fierce light. Adjusting to the glare, he saw the trees of the jungle rising in a rich green tangle above the loose scattering of longhouses and warehouses along the dusty road leading into the town. While most of the regular Army, Marine Commandos and Gurkhas in the area were living in converted warehouses and even less comfortable accommodation, Callaghan had cleverly outflanked the billeting arrangements by murmuring about lack of space for his men, the possible requirement for unnecessarily expensive hotels, and so forth, with the result that his men now had their bashas in a large and comfortable Chinese merchant’s house.
Entering the building, which was not far from the Haunted House, Dead-eye made his way to the rear, where the men had turned the largest room into their spider. He found Pete Welsh, Alf Laughton and Terry Malkin in there, the first two sitting together on one bed, smoking, drinking beer and playing cards, the latter listening to the BBC World News Service while reading James Joyce’s Ulysses.
‘How can you do both?’ Dead-eye asked him.
Terry swung his legs off the edge of the bed and sat up, almost at attention. Although he had proved himself as a soldier, he was still in awe of Dead-eye.
‘Don’t know, boss. Just can.’
‘You understand that Ulysses, do you? I heard it was difficult.’
‘I don’t really understand it all, but I like the bits I do understand.’
‘That sounds logical, Trooper. We’re going back on patrol tomorrow morning, so come and hear what it’s all about.’
Dead-eye walked over to where Pete and Alf were playing cards in a haze of cigarette smoke, only breaking their concentration long enough to swig some more beer. However, they did look up when Dead-eye stopped beside the bed with Terry beside him.
‘Oh, oh,’ Pete said. ‘It’s Sergeant Parker.’
‘This can only mean trouble,’ Alf added.
‘It’s work,’ Dead-eye told them, then filled them in at length on the situation, ignoring the other men in the long room, most of whom were listening to the radio, playing cards, reading or writing letters home. When he was finished, he asked, ‘Any questions?’
‘Yes,’ Alf said. ‘How come we only got a weekend off after all that shit?’
‘We didn’t want to spoil you,’ Dead-eye said.
‘Spoil me?’ Alf replied. ‘I hardly had time to dip my wick before I had to pull it out again and hurry back to the base. Two days, meaning one night, in that town doesn’t do you much good, boss.’
‘I’m amazed you could get it in,’ Dead-eye said. ‘I think that calls for a Mention in Dispatches. Remind me to remind Major Callaghan when he’s nothing better to do.’
‘Terry got it in,’ Pete said, grinning slyly at Alf as the butt of their humour blushed deep crimson. ‘At least we saw him leave the bar with a whore who had her hand on his arse.’
Terry blushed even more. ‘Come on, fellas, knock it off! I didn’t tell them anything, Sarge. What I do is my business.’
‘Was this a whorehouse?’ Dead-eye asked.
‘You might call it that,’ Alf said. ‘It was a bar with a couple of rooms at the back and bedsprings that made too much noise. That’s how we know Terry dipped his wick: we could hear all the squeaking.’
‘From him,’ Pete said.
‘That’s a lie!’ Terry burst out.
‘I hope you used a rubber,’ Dead-eye said. ‘The whores here are diseased.’
‘She wasn’t a whore!’ Terry protested.
‘She was nice,’ Pete said. ‘She was so nice she let us share her around when Terry walked out the door.’
‘That’s not true!’ Terry exploded again.
‘He’s in love,’ Alf explained.
‘He’ll get her out of his system,’ Dead-eye said, ‘when we’re back on the border.’
‘When?’ Pete asked.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘What time?’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Alf said wearily, blowing smoke. ‘We move out at first light.’
‘What a bright boy you are,’ Dead-eye told him. ‘First light it is. In fact, I’m letting you sleep till then, just to prove I’m a nice guy. You can get out of your bashas at first light and have a quick shower and shave. Breakfast at six-thirty sharp, then a line-up at the quartermaster’s stores at seven, on the dot. You’ll have one hour to get kitted out, collect your weapons and get to the chopper. We lift off at eight. Any questions?’
‘Yes,’ Pete said. ‘Is Terry in love with his whore? Has he picked up gonorrhoea or syphilis? What do you think, Sarge?’
‘I think your two-day leave was two days too many and that bastards like you are safer up on the border, fighting the Indos. Tomorrow you’ll all be back where you belong and I think you should thank me.’
‘Thank you, Sarge,’ Pete said.
‘I kiss your feet,’ Alf added.
‘I think you’re all bloody disgusting,’ Terry said, then returned to his bed.
‘He’ll make a good trooper,’ Dead-eye told the other two, then he grinned, turned away and walked out of the barracks, back into the scorching sun of noon. He could hardly wait to get out of there.
10
Dead-eye’s patrol checked their weapons and drew ammunition. This was limited to the amount
they could comfortably carry when engaged in ‘shoot-and-scoot’ operations. Each man therefore packed in his bergen only the clothes he considered vitally essential for this patrol, as well as his basic rations: oatmeal blocks, sardines, Oxo cubes, small tins of cheese, biscuits, a little sugar, tea or coffee, milk in a tube, and twenty-four blocks of dehydrated meat – in all weighing less than llb for each day’s meals. Permitted by Dead-eye were the little extras personally preferred by each man to add taste to the basic rations, such as curry powder, cigarettes or sweets. All of them carried a piece of strong nylon cord, which could be used for many things, including rigging up hammocks in the swamps and making tourniquets. They also carried a parachute-silk sleeping bag with a poncho to keep out the worst of the tropical rainstorms.
Since streams are obvious camp-sites, always under surveillance, invariably a patrol makes its hides a good distance from water. For this reason, each man was given a large water bottle which he could fill up in a stream and then carry to the hide, where he would purify the water with tablets before drinking it or otherwise using it.
As photographer, Alf naturally had high-power binoculars and a camera, a robust 35mm SLR, with which he would take shots of men, boats, vehicles, military camps, longhouses and even areas likely to be of interest to the staff of military intelligence, who could study the photos later at their leisure.
‘If I get enough practice,’ he informed Pete, ‘I’ll be a pin-up photographer when we get home – all bare arse and tits.
‘I’m a knickers and bra man myself,’ Pete confessed as he manoeuvred some more kit into his packed bergen. ‘It’s my little perversion.’
‘I’ll be catering for all kinds,’ Alf assured him, ‘so you’ve no need to worry there. I’ll even photograph some whores for young Terry here to fall in love with.’
‘You pair are sick!’ Terry snapped.
In fact, it was Terry who had the heaviest load, because, besides the A41 radio set and spare battery, its aerials and the code-books, he also carried on his belt the SARBE radio beacon. To compensate for this, his rations were divided among the others, purely for the purpose of transportation.
‘The things we have to do for these newcomers,’ Pete complained melodramatically, trying to find some spare space in his already packed bergen for his share of Terry’s rations.
‘I didn’t ask you to,’ Terry said. ‘It was Dead-eye. He said …’
‘Sucking up to Sarge goes a long way,’ Alf interjected, holding a bar of Terry’s chocolate in front of his groin and pantomiming the act of masturbation over it. ‘If you’re willing to get down on your hands and knees, sweet things will come your way.’
‘I want my rations back,’ Terry said, outraged by the others’ attempts to humiliate him.
‘You’re not getting them,’ Dead-eye said. ‘I’ve weighed everyone’s kit and you’re overweight, so these lads have to share the weight.’
‘Then tell them to shut up.’
‘My lips are sealed,’ Pete said. ‘I try to be nice and I’m rejected and struck dumb by grief.’
‘If you don’t seal those lips,’ Dead-eye said, ‘I’ll do the job for you. So seal them and shut up.’
‘Yes, boss!’ Pete said briskly.
For this particular mission, each man was given a 7.62mm SLR instead of the 5.56mm Armalite assault rifle. This caused a lot of ‘honking’, or complaining.
‘Bloody useless,’ Alf grumbled.
‘A fucking toy,’ was Pete’s verdict.
‘You’re wrong,’ Dead-eye insisted. ‘Its hitting power is more likely to damage river craft than higher-velocity bullets from an Armalite. That’s why we’re switching.’
‘I still prefer the Armalite,’ Pete said. ‘It’s smaller and lighter and fully automatic. The SLR is only semi-automatic and an awful lot heavier.’
‘I agree,’ Alf said.
‘That doesn’t change the fact,’ Dead-eye informed them, ‘that the SLR has a more powerful cartridge and bullet, which makes it better for long-range firing and penetration. It’ll therefore be a lot more effective when attacking the river boats.’
‘Not so effective in a fire-fight,’ Pete persisted.
‘We shoot and scoot, Pete,’ Alf said.
‘I hate that,’ Pete objected. ‘I like to stand and fight.’
‘We’re not concerned with body counts,’ Dead-eye told him. ‘We want to stop their supplies. So stop whinging and get on with your packing. We haven’t got all day.’
Once equipped, they applied the usual camouflage to themselves and their weapons, checked each other’s camouflage and kit – ensuring in the latter case that nothing was loose – then strapped their bergens on their backs, picked up their weapons, and left the spider.
Once outside the Chinese merchant’s house, in the early-morning mist, they were driven in a Bedford RL 4×4 three-tonner along a road lined with belukar and soaring trees to Kuching airfield, where they boarded an RAF Twin Pioneer for the short flight to Lundu.
‘I seem to have spent half my life in fucking aeroplanes,’ Alf complained as he strapped himself into his seat.
‘Better than public transport,’ Pete replied. ‘And certainly better than walking.’
‘This is the part I hate most,’ Terry chipped in. ‘I hate being cooped up.’
‘Except in cramped rooms on squeaking beds with delectable little Indonesian whores.’
‘Oh, shut up, Pete!’ Terry said, flaring up again. ‘You’ve got a mind like a sewer.’
‘And a nose for the dirt.’ Dead-eye was looking grimly at Pete. ‘Why not can it, Trooper?’
‘My silence is now guaranteed, boss. Whoops! There she blows!’
The engines of the Pioneer had just roared into life. Less than a minute later she was taxiing along the runway, preparing to take off. Within minutes she was in the air, flying over another spectacular panorama of jungle, mountains, winding rivers and aerial bridges spanning deep, narrow gorges with torrents raging through them. A fine curtain of silver-grey mist covered the green splendour of the ulu and made it seem dreamlike, reminding all of them, except Terry, of their days in Malaya. They were memories of heroism and horror, of friendship and grief. The men were silent throughout the flight.
The journey was short, twenty minutes, and soon they were disembarking at Lundu, where another Bedford was waiting to transfer them to a familiar Wessex Mark 1 helicopter, piloted by their old friend, Lieutenant Ralph Ellis of the Army Air Corps. Ellis was biting into an apple and grinning sardonically.
‘This is getting to be a bad habit,’ he told them. ‘Dragging me out of bed at this ungodly hour. This,’ he added, waving the apple, ‘is the only breakfast I’ve had.’
‘We haven’t had breakfast yet,’ Pete reminded him. ‘You fly-boys have got an easy life – even apples for breakfast!’
‘He’s a healthy lad,’ Alf said.
‘With a little paunch,’ Pete pointed out.
‘And a little bald spot on his head, getting bigger each day.’
‘It’s the shock of being dragged out of bed this early,’ Alf explained to his friend. ‘He’s not used to the hard life.’
‘And you jokers,’ Ellis said, wrapping the apple core in a piece of paper and putting it into his tunic pocket, ‘have forgotten how to show respect for an officer. So shut up and get in.’
‘Yes, dear!’ Alf and Pete sang, clambering into the chopper, with Dead-eye and Terry right behind them.
The lift to the LZ took less than thirty minutes, and took them over the sheer green canopy of the jungle in brightening sunlight. Ellis dropped them near the frontier with Kalimantan, due north of Achan. Unable to land, he descended between the trees, dangerously close to their branches, and hovered there, creating a storm, just above the jungle floor.
The men jumped out one by one, burdened with weapons and bergens, and melted into the ulu before the Wessex had even started climbing. Already hidden by the soaring trees, the men grouped together near the
LZ, whiplashed by the slipstream of the rotors but waiting until the helicopter had ascended and was heading away from them. Only when it had disappeared beyond the jungle canopy, into the silvery-blue, cloud-smudged sky, did they prepare to move off.
‘I think it’s highly fucking unlikely,’ Alf said, ‘that the Indos and CCO won’t have seen that chopper drop us off.’
‘I’ve no doubt that they saw us,’ Dead-eye replied calmly, ‘but since we’re still on our own side of the border, they’ll assume we’re just another bunch of reinforcements moving up to join the border battalions. They won’t suspect for a moment that we’re planning to cross into Kalimantan.’
‘Still, the quicker we get out of here the better,’ Pete said.
‘I agree,’ Dead-eye replied quickly, ‘so let’s hit the road, lads.’
They marched away from the clearing, heading into the ulu, on the first leg of the route that Dead-eye had mapped out.
It would not be an easy route.
11
They headed roughly due south, following Dead-eye’s compass bearings, intending to turn due west seven days later, which would lead them to the finger spur seen on the maps. The first day’s march was uneventful and relatively easy, through primary jungle that did not require hacking, even though it was as humid as always and oppressively dark. During this first day’s hike they stopped frequently to rest and listen for enemy movements, broke for a lunch of water and dried biscuits, but otherwise kept going until nightfall, trying to get as far as they could while they felt reasonably fresh.
After selecting a suitable LUP, they had supper, which was another cold and unedifying meal. Then, while Pete and Alf sat out on point, keeping their eyes and ears open for enemy movements, Dead-eye gave Terry the first of his daily reports, to be transmitted, encoded, to Major Callaghan back at HQ.
They moved on at first light the following morning. Dead-eye was out in front on point as the scout, followed by Pete as his number two, then Terry with the radio, and Alf as Tail-end Charlie. Each man was concentrating intently on his individual defensive arc, holding his SLR at the ready and prepared to use it.
