by Shaun Clarke
‘Fuck it,’ Dead-eye said, even as he heard the throb of another diesel engine in the distance, beyond that impenetrable wall of tightly tangled bamboo and reeds. ‘There has to be another way. Let’s backtrack north-west to the firm ground where we left the others. They must be getting lonely by now.’
They managed to make it back to the others before last light the same day. That night, making themselves as comfortable as best they could on the same small island, the four men had a ‘Chinese parliament’ to pool suggestions. Out of this came the simple plan to continue south-east, following the line of the River Sentimo until they reached the River Koemba. They could then follow the latter due east until it took them to Seluas.
Having agreed on that, they all sighed with relief, then turned into their bashas to endure another night as best they could in a nightmare of whining insects, stinging creepy-crawlies, and unseen birds and animals that only made their presence noisily known when a man was trying to sleep.
They felt like hell the next morning.
13
As agreed, they moved out early the next day, heading south, wading waist-deep in the water for what seemed like an eternity, though it actually took them only three miles, to the confluence of the Rivers Poeteh and Sentimo. As Dead-eye had predicted, the water here was deeper, the foliage more impenetrable, but when they tried following the river, wading through even worse swamps, they soon lost it in dense jungle. Doggedly wading on, they found themselves emerging to relatively clear, swampy land which Dead-eye predicted was due north of the River Koemba.
Pressing on, they came to a series of slow-flowing tributaries that wound their way between a maze of dry banks and curtains of bamboo. They were trying to cross this maze, up to their waists in water, when a large boat, judging by the sound of its engine, swished by on the other side of a high bamboo curtain. Its wash lifted the flotsam of leaves so high that Alf was practically submerged, though he managed to hold his SLR above his head until he had surfaced again, spitting water and weeds from his mouth, then cursing angrily.
No one ribbed him; they dared not speak. Unable to see through the curtain of bamboo, beyond which was the channel along which the boat had passed, Dead-eye decided to change direction and head back into the swamp to avoid accidentally emerging into the river just as another boat was passing.
The change of direction turned out to be the SAS men’s first lucky break, since after wading for another four hours, hidden in the swamp but following the line of the river, they reached firm ground. It was, Dead-eye was convinced from its appearance, the fingertip of the spur he had been seeking.
‘No doubt about it,’ he said, checking his map against a compass reading. ‘This is the spur.’
Pleased, Dead-eye put the map and compass away, then took in the scene as they knelt on the edge of the narrow strip of dry jungle, hidden by tall grass, looking at the broad sweep of the River Koebma where it curved around the well-spaced trees of a rubber plantation. On his left the strip of jungle continued right up to the river bank. He pointed to it with his forefinger. ‘That could make an OP.’
He was right: it was just right for an observation post. In the centre of the strip of dry jungle a large tree spread its branches above dense scrub and a shallow ditch, but with open ground surrounding both – as open as it was to his right, where the rows of rubber trees spread along the river bank. The trees were being ‘rested’, with no sign of recent tappings, though Dead-eye saw that there were some well-used paths through the plantation, indicating that it was still being worked.
As a site for their OP, Dead-eye plumped for the lone tree and its scrub-covered, shallow ditch. Feeling exposed where he was kneeling, and having made sure that there were no enemy troops in the immediate vicinity, he ordered the patrol into the scrub surrounding and covering the ditch.
‘Make four scrapes under the scrub,’ he said. ‘Two men facing the river, two facing the jungle. And be quick about it.’
‘Anything for a kip,’ Alf said. ‘Even building an OP.’
‘A little home from home,’ Pete added, ‘with a view of the river.’
‘Shut up and start scraping.’
‘Yes, boss!’ they both chimed.
The simple OP was made up by digging four shallow depressions in the soft earth for their bashas – two facing the river for the purposes of observation, the others facing the jungle behind: one for observation, the second for sleeping in, with one man sleeping at a time. The scrapes were filled with a bed of leaves and the sleeping bags were then rolled out on the leaves. Another shallow scrape, placed in the centre of the four larger ones, was used as a well for kit and weapons. To help keep out the rain, ponchos were raised on forked sticks above the scrapes and pegged to the ground. The scrub was pulled closely over the ponchos and in turn covered with more leaves and foliage. Narrow ‘windows’ were made to the front and back of the foliage to give the men an adequate view of the river and jungle.
When the OP was completed, they settled down to wait, though they did not waste their time while doing so. Dead-eye updated his logbook and also redrew his map in the light of his recent explorations through the swamp, marking accessible routes, good lying-up positions, and average time-to-distance figures for the various routes recommended. Alf photographed the river and any traffic on it, whether civilian or military, and made notes on the shots he was taking, including the date, the time of day and a written description of the contents of the passing traffic and the direction in which it was cruising. Terry, as well as acting as the sentry facing the jungle behind the OP, checked through the various wavebands of his radio in hopes of picking up enemy transmissions as well as encoded news of other SAS patrols. Last but not least, Pete kept his eye on the river and his SLR aimed and ready to fire. His specialist skill, demolition, was of no use here.
They had not been in the OP for long when the first military launch chugged past, crewed by six half-naked Dyaks. Two uniformed Indonesian soldiers were sitting on the deck with their legs outstretched and their backs resting against tarpaulin-covered supplies. Their idea of protecting the cargo was to idly watch the river bank slip by. The boat flew the red-and-white ensign of Indonesia.
‘Let’s finish them off,’ Pete whispered.
‘No,’ Dead-eye replied. ‘First, we have to spend a few days just watching, photographing and taking notes on the traffic to establish just how much of it there is. We need permission from HQ to attack, and that’ll only be received when we’re ready to bug out.’
‘Shit!’ Pete whispered in frustration, then rolled away from the window in the foliage and said to Alf: ‘It’s all yours, mate.’
Alf immediately took his mate’s position and began to take photos of the passing launch. When he had done so, he quickly jotted down as many of its details as he could manage before it disappeared from view.
No other military craft passed that afternoon. By nightfall the SAS men had to fight a combination of boredom and exhaustion. Once darkness fell, however, they were able to slip down to the water’s edge to fill the large communal bottle, as well as their personal canisters. They purified the water with tablets before drinking it. Supper was a choice between dehydrated meat and tinned sardines, supplemented for some with cheese. Dead-eye spiced his sardines with curry powder, the smell of which nauseated the other three, who said it was putting them off their desserts of chocolate or sweets.
Finally, before settling down for the night, Terry transmitted, encoded, Dead-eye’s daily report to HQ. Receiving an acknowledgement, he was reminded that the real world still existed. But for now he was in this alien, unreal world, the light fading, the river gurgling in front of him, the jungle whispering behind him, the nocturnal chorus of the birds and animals steadily rising in the trees to deprive him and the others of sleep.
In fact, they all slept well that night, waking refreshed.
Shortly after a breakfast of oatmeal blocks washed down with cold tea, they had a bit of a scare when two
Indonesian soldiers appeared around the bend in the river and paddled up to a tree on the bank, very close to the OP. Wondering if this seemingly innocent act was in fact a diversionary move to cover an attack on the OP across the open ground behind it, Dead-eye decided to take no chances and ordered his men to adopt firing positions front and rear, cautioning them not to shake the scrub as they did so.
Rolling belly-down into the scrapes and gently easing the barrels of their SLRs through the scrub, the men took aim. Dead-eye and Pete covered the men in the boat; the other two covered the jungle behind the OP.
They lay like that for some time, not moving, hardly breathing. Though it seemed like an eternity, it was, in reality, only the few minutes it took for the Indonesian soldiers in the boat to empty a fish trap and go back down the river, rowing casually and chatting and laughing in loud, high voices.
‘They don’t seem too concerned about being overheard,’ Pete observed.
‘A good sign,’ Dead-eye replied. ‘That means they don’t suspect we’re in the area. They’ve just made my day.’
The rest of the day was equally busy, with a little local traffic in the morning followed by a greater number of military supply boats flying the Indonesian flag and manned by armed troops. Obviously they were cruising to and from the trading settlement at Seluas, which Dead-eye estimated was about five miles downstream.
With so much traffic passing, Alf was kept busy with his camera, and Pete had to take over the job of entering details of the traffic in the logbook. So busy were they that they had no time for lunch.
By early afternoon, with the sun high in the sky, the OP was intoleraby hot, full of buzzing flies and whining mosquitoes, and smelt of sweat and piss. Unable to leave their cover, the men urinated and defecated into plastic bags, in full view of each other, then sealed the bags and buried them in the mud. To make them even more uncomfortable, ants were hurrying back and forth in long lines across the bottom of the ditch, invading the kit well and crawling over food and weapons alike.
Even worse, spiders the size of an outspread hand occasionally emerged from holes in the mud and clambered fearlessly over the men’s boots. Unsettled though the men were by the experience, they had to resist the impulse to violently kick or swipe the giant spiders off, since this would have disturbed the foliage, possibly attracting the attention of the armed sentries on the Indonesian launches passing by less than 20 yards away. Instead, the harmless, though hideous spiders had to be removed with a gentle brush of the hand, which meant touching them longer than the men would have liked.
Terry, in particular, poured sweat each time a spider crawled over his booted foot or trouser leg. He shuddered each time he had to perform the ghastly task of brushing it off.
‘Are you all right?’ Dead-eye asked, obviously concerned.
‘Yes, Sarge, I’m OK.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. They just give me the willies.’
‘They’re harmless.’
‘They still give me the willies, but I’m all right.’
‘Good. Stick it out, Trooper.’
By late afternoon the SAS men were growing frustrated at their inability to attack the passing supply boats. Their frustration was increased by the sheer number of vessels on the river, most of them piled high with supplies for the Indonesian battalions.
Just before dusk, as storm clouds were gathering over the jungle canopy and great striations of light were streaming across the dimming sky, the men’s frustration dissolved into an almost hallucinatory state of disbelief as a large, immaculate cruising yacht approached around the bend in the river, passing only fifteen yards from the men.
As the vessel approached, a beautiful Indonesian girl in a white swimsuit stepped out of the deckhouse, draping a bathing towel over one arm. With shapely legs, full breasts, a flawless, high-cheekboned face, and long, ebony hair cascading down to the small of her back, she was a rare, unexpected vision of loveliness who took each man’s breath away.
After walking along the side of the yacht, ignoring the helpless, nervous stares of the Indonesian sentries, she spread out the towel on the deck, put on a pair of sunglasses, then stretched out on her back on the towel, raising an elegant leg and turning her face to the side. She lay there, frozen in crimson twilight, as the yacht passed the SAS men, so close that its wash splashed over the bank just below the OP.
‘I don’t believe it!’ Pete whispered.
‘Christ, she’s beautiful!’ Terry murmured.
‘She isn’t sunbathing. She’s just cooling down,’ Pete fantasized. ‘She must have worked up a sweat in that cabin with some fat-bellied bastard.’
‘I’m coming just thinking about it,’ Alf informed them, then released a soft, melodramatic groan. ‘Oh, God help me!’
‘Forget the girl,’ Dead-eye said in his more pragmatic way. ‘That boat makes a great target. It obviously belongs to a high-ranking civilian official – not a military officer.’
‘Military officers don’t get women like that,’ Pete said as the yacht passed. ‘That’s some wonderful whore, boss.’
‘It could have been his daughter,’ Terry said, his face filled with yearning as the vessel moved on and the girl disappeared out of sight behind the bulwark.
Alf rolled his eyes, then shook his head in disbelief. ‘Innocence is surely bliss!’ he exclaimed. ‘His daughter, for God’s sake!’
‘Quieten down, you men,’ Dead-eye growled. ‘The way you’re talking, you might as well get a megaphone and announce our presence up and down the river. We’re here to recce that river, not ogle corrupt local officials’ bints. Now let’s get back to business.’
After another minute or so of moans, groans and excited whispers, the men quietened down and went back to their work.
The sun started sinking. Darkness crept across the jungle. Lightning flashed through the dark clouds in the distant sky, followed by thunder.
Twenty minutes passed. Another launch came along the river with seven soldiers spread carelessly under its fixed canopy, eating and smoking in an unconcerned manner. Alf took the last photograph of the day and Pete logged the details. Then darkness fell.
‘Day’s work done,’ Alf whispered, removing the roll of film from his camera.
‘A lot of traffic in this little logbook,’ Pete informed them. ‘It certainly wasn’t time wasted.’
‘That girl was gorgeous,’ Terry reminded them. ‘That’s why the time wasn’t wasted. I’d lie here for another couple of days just to see her again.’
‘He’s a romantic,’ Alf said.
‘For lithesome whores,’ Pete corrected him.
‘You don’t have to be sarcastic,’ Terry said. ‘I’m just saying she was gorgeous to look at. No harm in that.’
‘Shut up!’ snapped Dead-eye in a hoarse whisper, glancing up and down the dark river, clearly frustrated. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Get on that A41, Terry, and tell those bastards at HQ that Sergeant Parker requests permission to fire on any suitable target, starting tomorrow. You get that? Now do it!’
Terry transmitted the message and they all sat back and waited, gorging on their personal preference among tinned sardines, blocks of dehydrated meat, cheese, dry biscuits, chocolate, sweets, cold tea and plain water. Though Alf and Pete were gasping for cigarettes, Dead-eye refused to Jet them light up lest the glow be seen by the enemy.
Forty minutes later, when the distant electrical storm had arrived at the river and was pouring rain on the OP to the accompaniment of thunder and lightning, Terry received a transmission from HQ granting immediate permission to attack suitable targets.
If the men had been allowed to make a sound, they would have leapt up and cheered.
14
Now that they could attack suitable targets, the men felt more enthusiastic when they woke the next morning. Shortly after completing their usual dismal breakfast, they saw two Indonesian soldiers passing by in a canoe with their Lee-Enfield .303-inch bolt-action rifles lying on
the crossboard between them. While they could have been snatched as useful prisoners, Dead-eye refused the men permission to do so, insisting that sinking a launch would be much more effective.
‘Apart from depriving the Indos of supplies,’ he explained, ‘the loss of a whole boat might frighten the river community into not cooperating with them in general.’
‘The other side of the hearts-and-minds coin,’ Terry said.
‘Thanks a million for that clarification, Mr Einstein,’ Pete said.
‘It’s good to have a brilliant tactician in the OP with you,’ Alf added. ‘Sort of fills you with confidence.’
‘Just kill the sarcasm, you two,’ Dead-eye told them. ‘And as a matter of fact, Terry’s right. He knows more than you two arseholes put together.’ Then suddenly his voice dropped to a whisper: ‘Keep your voices down. That canoe’s coming closer.’
The two soldiers in the canoe rowed right past the OP, hardly glancing at the high banks, both apparently lost in their thoughts as they studied the river. If it had not been for their uniforms and the rifles lying between them, they would have seemed like two men on a fishing trip. They rowed slowly, lazily, as if they had all day, and eventually disappeared around the bend where the river turned due east.
‘They’ll never know how lucky they were,’ Terry whispered.
‘Luck has a way of running out,’ Dead-eye replied in his soft but oddly chilling manner. ‘Their day might yet come.’
A longboat with a thatched canopy followed shortly after, poled by half-naked, colourfully tattooed Ibans, who were helped by the swiftly flowing current pushing them downstream. This was followed by another canoe, also rowed by Ibans; then by a couple of motor launches crewed by Iban traders and piled high with supplies for their kampongs. After that, for the next five hours, only the usual small boats passed the OP, some carrying Indonesian soldiers, but most not.
As the day wore on, the men grew impatient and started begging Dead-eye to let them make a strike.
