by Shaun Clarke
Stopping momentarily to let a recently landed Sikorski whine into silence, Callaghan glanced out through the tent’s opening and saw a troop of heavily armed soldiers of the Parachute Regiment marching towards the airstrip, from where they were to fly by Wessex to the mountains of the Radfan. Having served in Malaya and Borneo, Callaghan had a particular fondness for the jungle, but not the desert. Nevertheless, the sight of that darkening, dust-covered ground guarded by hedgehogs bristling with 25-pounders, mortars and machine-guns brought back fond memories of his earliest days with the Regiment in North Africa in 1941. That war had been something of a schoolboy’s idea of adventure, with its daring raids in Land Rovers and on foot; this war, though also in desert, albeit mountainous, would be considerably less romantic and more vicious.
‘In September 1962,’ the CO continued when silence had returned, ‘the hereditary ruler of Yemen, the Imam, was overthrown in a left-wing, Army-led coup. This coup was consolidated almost immediately with the arrival of Egyptian troops. The new republican government in Yemen then called on its brothers in the occupied south – in other words, Aden and the Federation – to prepare for revolution and join it in the battle against colonialism. What this led to, in fact, was an undeclared war between two colonial powers – Britain against a Soviet-backed Egypt – with the battleground being the barren, mountainous territory lying between the Gulf of Aden and Saudi Arabia.’
‘Is that where we’ll be fighting?’ Ken asked.
‘Most of you in the Radfan; a few in the streets of Aden itself. Aden, however, will be covered in a separate briefing.’
‘Right, boss.’
‘Initial SAS involvement in this affair took place, with discreet official backing from Whitehall, over the next eight years or so, when the royalist guerrilla army of the deposed Imam was aided by the Saudis and strengthened by the addition of a mercenary force composed largely of SAS veterans. Operating out of secret bases in the Aden Federation, they fought two campaigns simultaneously. On the one hand they were engaged in putting down a tribal uprising in the Radfan, adjoining Yemen; on the other, they were faced with their first battle against highly organized urban terrorism in Aden itself.’
‘That’s a good one!’ Ken said. ‘In the mountains of Yemen, a team of SAS veterans becomes part of a guerrilla force. Meanwhile, in Aden, only a few miles south, their SAS mates are suppressing a guerrilla campaign.’
‘We are nothing if not versatile,’ Callaghan replied urbanely.
‘Dead right about that, boss.’
‘May I continue?’
‘Please do, boss.’
‘In July this year Harold Macmillan set 1968 as the year for the Federation’s self-government, promising that independence would be accompanied by a continuing British presence in Aden. In short, we wouldn’t desert the tribal leaders with whom we’d maintained protection treaties since the last century.’
‘However, Egyptian, Yemeni and Adeni nationalists are still bringing weapons, land-mines and explosives across the border. At the same time, the border tribesmen, who view guerrilla warfare as a way of life, are being supplied with money and weapons by Yemen. The engaged battle is for control of the ferociously hot Radfan mountains. There is practically no water there, and no roads at all.’
‘But somehow or other,’ Dead-eye noted, ‘the war is engaged there.’
‘Correct. The Emergency was declared in December 1963. Between then and the arrival of A Squadron in April of that year, an attempt to subdue the Radfan was made by a combined force of three Federal Regular Army battalions of Arabs, supported by British tanks, guns and engineers. As anticipated by those who understood the tribal mentality, it failed. True, the FRA battalions did manage to occupy parts of the mountains for a few weeks at a cost of five dead and twelve wounded. Once they withdrew, however – as they had to sooner or later, to go back to the more important task of guarding the frontier – the patient tribesmen returned to their former hill positions and immediately began attacking military traffic on the Dhala Road linking Yemen and Aden – the same road that brought you to this camp.’
‘An unforgettable journey!’ Ken whispered.
‘Diarrhoea and vomit every minute for three hours,’ Les replied. ‘Will we ever forget it?’
‘While they were doing so,’ said Callaghan, having heard neither man, ‘both Cairo and the Yemeni capital of Sana were announcing the FRA’s withdrawal from the Radfan as a humiliating defeat for the imperialists.’
‘In other words, we got what we deserved.’
‘Quite so, Corporal Brooke.’ Though smiling, Callaghan sighed as if weary. ‘Given this calamity, the Federal government …’
‘Composed of …?’ Dead-eye interjected.
‘Tribal rulers and Adeni merchants,’ the CO explained.
‘More A-rabs,’ Ken said. ‘Got you, boss.’
‘The Federal government then asked for more military aid from the British, who, despite their own severe doubts – believing, correctly, that this would simply make matters worse – put together a mixed force of brigade strength, including a squadron each of RAF Hawker Hunter ground-support aircraft, Shackleton bombers, Twin Pioneer transports and roughly a dozen helicopters. Their task was twofold. First, to bring sufficient pressure to bear on the Radfan tribes and prevent the revolt from spreading. Second, to stop the attacks on the Dhala Road. In doing this, they were not to deliberately fire on areas containing women and children; they were not to shell, bomb or attack villages without dropping leaflets warning the inhabitants and telling them to move out. Once the troops came under fire, however, retaliation could include maximum force.’
‘Which gets us back to the SAS,’ Dead-eye said.
‘Yes, Sergeant. Our job is to give back-up to A Squadron in the Radfan. To this end, we’ll start with a twenty-four-hour proving patrol, which will also act as your introduction to the area.’
‘We don’t need an introduction,’ the reckless Corporal Brooke said. ‘Just send us up there.’
‘You need an introduction,’ Callaghan insisted. ‘You’re experienced troopers, I agree, but your experience so far has always been in the jungle – first Malaya, then Borneo. You need experience in desert and jungle navigation and that’s what you’ll get on this proving patrol. We’re talking about pure desert of the kind we haven’t worked in since the Regiment was formed in 1941, which excludes most of those present in this tent. Desert as hot as North Africa, but even more difficult because it’s mountainous. Limestone, sandstone and igneous rocks. Sand and silt. Lava fields and volcanic remains, criss-crossed with deep wadis. The highland plateau, or kawr, has an average height of 6500 feet and peaks rising to 8000 to 9000 feet. The plateau itself is broken up by deep valleys or canyons, as well as the wadis. In short, the terrain is hellishly difficult and presents many challenges.’
‘Any training before we leave?’ Dead-eye asked.
‘Yes. One full day tomorrow. Lay up tonight, kitting out and training tomorrow, then move out at last light the same day. The transport will be 4x4 Bedford three-tonners and Saladin armoured cars equipped with 5.56-inch Bren guns. Enjoy your evening off, gentlemen. That’s it. Class dismissed.’
Not wanting to waste a minute of their free time, the men hurried out of the briefing room and raced each other to the makeshift NAAFI canteen at the other side of the camp, where they enjoyed a lengthy booze-up of ice-cold bottled beer. Few went to bed sober.
3
Rudely awakened at first light by Jimbo, whose roar could split mountains, the men rolled out of their bashas, quickly showered and shaved, then hurried through the surprisingly cold morning air, in darkness streaked with rising sunlight, to eat as much as they could in fifteen minutes and return to their sleeping quarters.
Once by their beds, and already kitted out, they had only to collect their bergens, kit and weapons, then hurry back out into the brightening light and cross the clearing, through a gentle, moaning wind and spiralling clouds of dust, to the column
of Bedfords and Saladins in the charge of still sleepy drivers from the Royal Corps of Transport. The RCT drivers drank hot tea from vacuum flasks and smoked while the SAS men, heavily burdened with their bergens and other kit, clambered up into the back of the lorries. Meanwhile, the sun was rising like a pomegranate over the distant Radfan, casting an exotic, blood-red light through the shadows on the lower slopes of the mountains, making them look more mysterious than dangerous.
‘We should be up there in OPs,’ Les complained as they settled into their bench seats in the back of a Bedford. ‘Not wasting our bleedin’ time with a training jaunt.’
‘I don’t think we’re wasting our time,’ Ken replied. ‘I believe the boss. All our practical experience has been in Borneo and that won’t help us here.’
‘I wish I’d been in Borneo,’ Ben said. ‘I bet it was more exotic than this dump.’
‘It was,’ Larry said ironically. ‘Steaming jungle, swamps, raging rivers, snakes, scorpions, lizards, giant spiders, fucking dangerous wild pigs, and head-hunting aboriginals blowing poison darts. Join the SAS and see the world – always travelling first class, of course.’
‘At least here we’ve only got flies and mosquitoes,’ Taff said hopefully, swatting the first of the morning’s insects from his face.
‘Plus desert snakes, scorpions, centipedes, stinging hornets, spiders and Arab guerrillas who give you no quarter. Make the most of it!’
Having silenced the new men and given them something to think about, Les grinned sadistically at Ken, then glanced out of the uncovered truck as the Saladin in the lead roared into life. Taking this as their cue, the RCT drivers in the Bedfords switched on their ignition, one after the other, and revved the engines in neutral to warm them up. When the last had done the same, the rearmost Saladin followed suit and the column was ready to move. The Bedfords and the Saladin acting as ‘Tail-end Charlie’ followed the first armoured car out of the camp, throwing up a column of billowing dust as they headed out into the desert.
The route was through an area scattered with coconut and doum palms, acacias, tall ariatas and tamarisks, the latter looking prettily artificial with their feathery branches. They were, however, few and far between. For the most part, the Bedfords bounced and rattled over parched ground strewn with potholes and stones until, about half an hour later, they arrived at an area bounded by a horseshoe-shaped mountain range. The RCT drivers took the Bedfords up the lower slopes as far as they would go, then stopped to let the men out.
The soldiers were lowering their kit to the ground and clambering down when they saw for the first time that one of the Bedfords had brought up a collection of heavier support weapons, including a 7.62mm GPMG (general-purpose machine-gun), a 7.62mm LMG (light machine-gun) and two 51mm mortars.
‘Looks like we’re in for a pretty long day,’ Les muttered ominously.
‘No argument about that,’ Ken whispered back at him.
When the Bedfords had turned around and headed back the way they had come, Jimbo gathered his men around him. Dead-eye was standing beside him, holding his L42A1 bolt-action sniper rifle and looking as granite-faced as always.
‘The Bedfords,’ Jimbo said, ‘will come back just before last light. Until then we work.’ Pausing to let his words sink in, he waved his hands at the heavy weapons piled up to his left. ‘As you can see, we’ve brought along a nice collection of support weapons. We’re going to hike up to the summit of this hill and take that lot with us. I hope you’re all feeling fit.’ The men moaned and groaned melodramatically, but Jimbo, his crooked lip curling, waved them into silence. ‘For most of you,’ he said, ‘your previous practical experience was in jungle or swamp. A few of us have had experience in the African desert, but even that didn’t involve anything like these mountains. You are here, therefore, to adapt to a terrain of mountainous desert, with all that entails.’
‘What’s that, Sarge?’ Ben asked innocently.
‘Wind and sand. Potentially damaging dips and holes covered by sand, soil or shrubs. Loose gravel and wind-smoothed, slippery rocks. Ferocious heat. All in all, it calls for a wide variety of survival skills of the kind you haven’t so far acquired.’ He cast a quick grin at the impassive Dead-eye, then turned back to the men. ‘And the first lesson,’ he continued, nodding at the summit of the ridge, ‘is to get up there, carrying the support weapons and your own kit.’ Glancing up automatically, the men were not reassured by what they saw. ‘It’s pretty steep,’ Jimbo said. ‘It’s also covered with sharp and loose stones. Be careful you don’t break an ankle or trip and roll down. And watch out for snakes, scorpions and the like. Even when not poisonous, some of them can inflict a nasty bite … So, let’s get to it.’
He jabbed his finger at various groups, telling them which weapons and components they were to carry between them. Corporal Ken Brooke, Lance-Corporal Les Moody, and Troopers Ben Riley and Taff Thomas were assigned as the fourman GPMG team. Lance-Corporal Larry Johnson, already burdened with his extra medical kit, got off scot-free.
‘We picked the wrong specialist training,’ Les complained. ‘Johnson gets off with everything.’
‘It’s not just the fact that I’m our medical specialist,’ Larry replied, beaming smugly. ‘It’s because I have charm and personality. It comes natural, see.’
‘So does farting from your mouth,’ Ken shot back. ‘Come on, Les, let’s hump this thing.’
The four men tossed for it. Ken lost and became number two: the one who had to hump the GPMG onto his shoulders. Sighing, he unlocked the front legs of the 30lb steel tripod, swung them forward into the high-mount position and relocked them. Then, with Les’s assistance, he hauled the tripod up onto his shoulders with the front legs resting on his chest and the rear one trailing backwards over his equally heavy bergen. With the combined weight of the steel tripod, ammunition belts of 7.62mm rounds, and rucksack adding up to 130lb, Ken felt exhausted before he had even started.
‘You look like a bleedin’ elephant,’ Les informed him. ‘I just hope you’re as strong.’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ Ken barked back.
The four-way toss had made Les the gun controller, Ben the observer and Taff the number one, or trigger man. Between them, apart from personal gear, they had to carry two spare barrels weighing 6lb each, a spare return spring, a dial sight, marker pegs, two aiming posts, an aiming lamp, a recoil buffer, a tripod sighting bracket, a spare-parts wallet, and the gun itself.
‘This doesn’t look easy,’ Ben said, glancing nervously up the steep, rocky slope as Les distributed the separate parts of the GPMG.
‘It’s a fucking sight easier than humping that tripod,’ Les informed him, ‘so count yourself lucky.’
‘Move out!’ Jimbo bawled.
The whole squad moved out in single file, spread well apart as they would be on a real patrol, with the men who were carrying the support weapons leaning forward even more than the others. The climb was both backbreaking and dangerous, for each man was forced to navigate the steep slope while looking out for sharp or loose stones that could either break an ankle or roll from under his feet, sending him tumbling back down the mountain. In this, they were helped neither by the sheer intensity of the heat nor the growing swarms of buzzing flies and whining mosquitoes attracted by their copious sweat.
Almost driven mad by the mosquitoes, the men’s attempts to swat them away came as near to unbalancing them as did the loose, rolling stones. More than one man found himself suddenly twisting sideways, dragged down by his own kit or support weapon, after he had swung his hand too violently at his tormentors. Saved by the helping hand of the man coming up behind him, he might then find himself stepping on a loose stone, which would roll like a log beneath him, sending him violently forwards or backwards; or he would start slipping on loose gravel as it slid away underfoot.
By now the breathing of every man was agonized and not helped by the fact that the air was filled with the dust kicked up by their boots or the tumbling stones and slid
ing gravel. The dust hung around them in clouds, making them choke and cough, and limiting visibility to a dangerous degree, eventually reducing the brightening sunlight to a distant, silvery haze. To make matters worse, each man’s vision was even more blurred when his own stinging sweat ran into his eyes.
The climb of some 1500 feet took them two hellish hours but led eventually to the summit of the ridge. This had different, more exotic trees scattered here and there along its otherwise rocky, parched, relatively flat ground, and overlooked a vast plain of sand, silt and polished lava.
Throwing themselves gratefully to the ground, the men were about to open their water bottles when Jimbo stopped them. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Put those bottles away.’
‘But, Sarge …’ Taff began in disbelief.
‘Shut up and listen to me,’ Jimbo replied. ‘As you’ve all just discovered, the heat in the mountains can wring the last drop of sweat out of you much quicker than you can possibly imagine – no matter how fit you are. If you allow this to happen, you’ll soon be dehydrated, exhausted, and if you don’t get water in time, dead of thirst.’
‘So let us drink our water,’ Les said, shaking his bottle invitingly.
‘No,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Your minimum daily intake of water should be two gallons a day, but on a real operation we won’t be able to resup by chopper because this would give away the position of the OP. For this reason, you’ll have to learn to conserve the water you carry inside your body by minimal movement during the day, replenishing your water bottles each night by sneaking down to the nearest stream.’
‘So we should ensure that the OP site is always near a stream,’ Ben said, ‘and not on top of a high ridge or mountain like this.’
‘Unfortunately, no. It’s because they’re aware of the constant need for water that the rebel tribesmen always check the areas around streams for our presence. Therefore, the site for your OP should be chosen for the view it gives of enemy supply routes, irrespective of its proximity to water. You then go out at night and search far and wide for your water, no matter how difficult or dangerous that task may be.’
