by Shaun Clarke
‘They have it fucking easy,’ Les said, meaning the RAF pilots. ‘Sitting on their fat arses on soft seats, well out of range of enemy fire. A cushy life, those bastards have.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Ken replied. ‘A hell of a lot of them get shot out of the skies. They certainly lost a good few choppers and their crews in Malaya and Borneo.’
‘Yeah,’ Les agreed grudgingly. ‘I just wish I was up there right now, instead of in this bloody lorry.’
‘I’d rather be in a Bedford than in a chopper,’ Larry said with conviction. ‘They’re death-traps. At least we can get out and run, which gives you some kind of chance.’
‘A really heartening conversation we’re having here,’ Ken said with a crooked grin. ‘If you can say any more to boost our morale, I’d be delighted to hear it.’
‘Our Father, which art in heaven …’ Les began.
‘Go shove it!’ Ken said, laughing.
The column followed the same route it had taken the previous day, heading along the Dhala Road, first passing between rows of handsome coconut and doum palms, then past more thinly scattered acacias, ariatas and tamarisks, all of which looked too pretty to be real. After thinning out gradually, the trees eventually disappeared altogether, vapourizing into the starlit dusk over an immense, flat plain in which nothing of interest could be seen, other than the darkening mountains towards which they were heading.
The patrol eventually came to the area bounded by a horseshoe-shaped mountain range where, the previous day, they had suffered so much, but this time they did not stop. Instead they kept going until, a good two hours later, now mercifully in the cool of the moonlit evening, they arrived at the lower slopes of the mountains of the Radfan. There the column of vehicles ground to a halt and formed a defensive laager, with the 76mm QF guns and .30-inch machine-guns of the Saladins covering opposite directions.
The laager completed, the SAS troops disembarked, adjusted their webbing and the shoulder straps of their bergens, then picked up their weapons and fell into a diamond formation that was spread out across the lower slopes of the mountains, away from the laager. Preferred by the SAS in open country and on ‘tabs’ by night, this marching formation combined the best features of both file and single-file formations, allowing maximum fire-power to be focused on the front. At the same time, as with the other formations, it was designed to give ample protection to the rear and both sides as well.
Dead-eye, nominally the patrol commander, or PC, had chosen to be well out on point, as lead scout, covering the arc of fire immediately in front of the patrol. Jimbo, his fellow sergeant and second in command, or 2IC, was bringing up the rear as Tail-end Charlie, regularly swinging around to face the opposite direction to that in which the men were marching, covering the arc of fire to the rear and ensuring that the patrol had no blind spots. Lance-Corporal Derek Dickerson, humping the all-important A41 tactical radio, was well protected in the middle of the file. The other men, well strung out, were covering firing arcs to the left and right. While Dead-eye and Jimbo had the most demanding jobs, the other men also suffered great stress, because of the need for constant vigilance during the hike.
Dead-eye as PC and Jimbo as 2IC were both compelled to carry items additional to their normal kit, including more detailed maps, navigational equipment, passive night-vision goggles (PNGs), a spare short-range radio, and a SARBE (surface-to-air rescue beacon) for emergency communication with support or extraction aircraft. In addition, Dead-eye, as lead scout, was carrying special equipment for dealing with land-mines and booby-traps; wire-cutters and hessian for clearing barbed-wire entanglements; and an M23 grenade-launcher, which could be fixed to the barrel of his sniper rifle.
The march into the mountains was no less demanding than the rehearsal of the previous day. Even the lower, flatter slopes were filled with wadis, dried-up seasonal watercourses into which the men had to descend before climbing out again. The windswept plains were a treacherous combination of lava remains, soft sand and silt. Eventually leaving the lowlands behind, they were confronted by highlands of limestone, sandstone and igneous rocks.
Though not forced to endure the relentless heat of day, they suffered its opposite: air so cold that they-were breathing steam. Frost doubled the danger normally presented by loose stones and gravel. Dead-eye could see with great clarity through the eerie green glow of his PNGs, but the other men were dependent on the moonlight, which, reflecting off the ice and frost, rendered the darkness around these gleaming patches almost pitch-black. Nevertheless, they gradually adjusted to the darkness, and were soon on the level ground at the summit of the lowest of the series of ridges.
Not wanting the men to be silhouetted against the skyline, Dead-eye led them down the other side of the ridge, towards the deeper darkness far below. They would have to cross four ridges to get to their chosen OP, which was above an Arab village, and had to do it the hard way, by keeping out of sight. This meant marching up and down the sheer slopes instead of taking the path that circled around the ridges and joined them all. It would be a long, arduous march.
For many of the men, this hike from one peak to the other reminded them of ‘cross-graining the bukets’ in Malaya – marching from one summit to the next. The new men, on the other hand, were reminded of their hellish forced march across the Pen-y-Fan, the highest peak in the Brecon Beacons, at the culmination of Test Week during Selection Training. Known as the ‘Fan Dance’, it was probably the most demanding of all the tests undergone by SAS recruits – and this trek from one summit to another was certainly no easier.
But they kept at it, leaning forward as they ascended, slipping and sliding as they descended, whipped constantly by an icy wind and marching with great care in the deceptive moonlight. If they were soon feeling physically exhausted, they were also rendered psychologically so by the need for constant alertness as they strained to see by the moonlight, often mistaking shifting shadows and wind-blown foliage for the stealthy movements of enemy snipers. The relief, when they discovered their mistake, was often as brutal on their nervous systems as the fear that they were about to be shot at.
In fact, the only living creatures they saw on the mountains other than themselves were the odd ibex or oryx. Surprisingly, people did live here. In the valleys an occasional stone tower house or mud-brick hovel with stone foundations could be seen, usually standing alone, though some were in walled hamlets on the edge of meagre patches of cultivated land.
When such dwellings were seen, Dead-eye would give the patrol a rest while he entered details of the area in his logbook, including the exact location and size of the houses, hamlets or cultivated lands. Had any enemy troop movements been seen, he would have entered those as well.
Reaching their high ridge location before first light, the patrol divided into two groups, then constructed two temporary OPs spaced well apart and overlooking an Arab hamlet in the valley below. The OPs were of the star formation, with four ‘legs’ shaped like a cross: one for the sentry, one for the observer, and the other two serving as rest bays in which the men lay on their waterproof ponchos. To prevent the OPs being observed from the air, they were covered with camouflage netting strewn with stones, dust and any scrap of foliage to be found on the surrounding ground. By dawn, when the OPs were finished, the men designated as observers were doing just that with the aid of binoculars, while the others ate a breakfast of biscuits, chocolate and cold water. No fires could be lit because the smoke would have given away their position, so they continued to freeze.
In fact, the climb had taken so long, in such bitterly cold conditions, that the men had forgotten just how hot it could be during the day. They found out within the hour, when the sun melted the frost on the rocks, the flies and mosquitoes returned in force, and a heat haze shimmered up from the ground. By mid-morning the sun was fierce; by noon it was close to unbearable and made worse for the men because of the need to remain cooped up under the low-hanging camouflage netting.
The ham
let they were observing was believed to be a centre for Yemeni guerrillas, though none were seen throughout that long day. A few Arab men went out to till the small, sparse field, veiled women washed clothes around what looked like a desert spring, and children ran about between barking dogs and animals. None of the men looked remotely like guerrillas and no weapons were to be seen anywhere.
By late afternoon, it was clear to Dead-eye that if guerrillas had ever been in the hamlet, they were long gone by now. He entered this observation in his logbook, then turned to Ken and whispered: ‘We’re only supposed to spend one day here, which is just as well. There’s nothing down there. We’ll break up the OPs and move out under cover of darkness.’
‘I can’t wait,’ the corporal replied without a trace of irony.
The rest of the day passed slowly, forcing the men to draw on the patience they had learnt back at Hereford. While none of them lost their concentration completely – they had been trained too rigorously for that – each had his own way of distracting himself from the tedium.
Dead-eye and Jimbo, the two most experienced men in the patrol, had the most concentration and needed little distraction other than repeatedly going over in their minds every detail of the patrol: whose turn it was for sentry duty or rest; every detail of the landscape and any sign of movement on it; any visible activity in the settlement below; the position of the sun in its sinking and the exact time of last light. Jimbo watched and listened while Dead-eye scribbled periodically in his logbook.
The young signaller, Derek Dickerson, was kept busy constantly monitoring the various wavebands on his radio and sending encoded messages from Dead-eye back to the base camp. However, while not thus engaged, his mind tended to wander to thoughts of his old mates back in 264 Signals Squadron, Royal Corps of Signals, as well as to various girlfriends.
Also easily distracted by vivid memories of his love life was the patrol’s medical specialist, Lance-Corporal Larry Johnson, formerly of the Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC) and the same age as Dickerson. Larry was particularly distracted by thoughts of his latest and most serious girlfriend, Cathy Atkinson, a nineteen-year-old bank clerk whom he had met through a group of friends at a pub in his home town of Paignton.
If Larry was lying belly down in the OP’s sentry leg he was fully concentrating, but the minute he had nothing to do he would find himself silently singing pop songs while aching with longing for Cathy. He choked up, in particular, at recalling Roy Orbison’s It’s Over, even though his affair with Cathy had hardly begun. Convinced that he was in love with her and could not live without her, Larry was nevertheless angered by the way in which she could repeatedly impinge on his thoughts, even when he was trying so hard to concentrate. It did not seem like a manly affliction and caused him to doubt himself.
Lance-Corporal Les Moody, on the other hand, was experienced enough to let his mind wander when tedium threatened yet regain full concentration when it was called for. Also keen on pop music, his head was presently filled with A Hard Day’s Night, which had a certain aptness under these conditions. Indeed, as Les well knew, the only reason this war in Aden was not being reported by the British press was that Fleet Street was presently obsessed with the Beatles, virtually to the exclusion of all else.
Though only twenty-five, Les looked a lot older than the other lance-corporals, mainly because of his badly scarred left eye, broken nose and slightly twisted lower lip, all of which had been gained in various fist-fights in the pubs of Southend. Formerly of the 3rd Battalion, Royal Green Jackets, Les had served in Malaya and Borneo. Between those engagements he had married a local girl, Alison, on impulse – she had practically begged him, he liked to think – and fathered two sons. Though he treated his family decently during his few visits home, he had little interest in domesticity and preferred to be doing a man’s work with the Regiment. He thought of Alison and the boys occasionally, but mostly dwelt on his occasional flings with other women, his days at the races – he was an inveterate gambler – various riotous evenings with his mates, and the tragedies and triumphs of his two previous campaigns with the SAS.
Les’s good friend, Corporal Ken Brooke, when not on sentry duty, observing the Arab hamlet and the surrounding terrain with the keen eye of the thorough professional, would let his thoughts roam over a fairly wide spectrum. His thoughts roamed from his wife, of whom he was very fond, his three children – two girls and a boy – whom he adored, to the many interests he needed to keep himself busy, being a man of rich imagination and too much energy. Born and raised in Minehead, Ken was a keen wildlife photographer who, when on leave, spent many hours in Somerset’s Brendon Hills and the Exmoor National Park, photographing ponies, wild red deer, foxes, rabbits and badgers. He also enjoyed fishing, hiking, train-spotting and collecting stamps, all of which he thought about while keeping alert for possible enemy movements on the landscape or unusual activities in the hamlet below. Though less bored than the others, he was nevertheless glad to see the sun go down, signalling as it did that it would soon be time to leave.
When darkness came, bringing with it the cold, Dead-eye passed the word along to the other men that the OPs were to be carefully dismantled and all traces of them removed. When this had been done, in complete silence, he used hand signals to lead them away from the ridge, back down the way they had come, into a forbidding, rocky valley of moonlit darkness. They were temporarily protected from the wind there, but once they began climbing the opposite slope, it struck them with unexpected force, at once freezing them and almost bowling them over. Some of them were now grateful for the ruthless training they had undergone on the Brecon Beacons, realizing that without it they would not have survived this particular exercise.
Four hours later, when they were nearing the Dhala Road, dizzy with the cold and exhaustion, they were shocked to hear the sound of rifle fire and feel bullets zipping past their heads.
Marching in a diamond formation, they were able to drop to the ground and return the fire with a sustained fusillade from their personal weapons. Up ahead, they could see the spitting flames of the enemy rifles, which fortunately were not supported by machine-guns. Bullets stitched the earth around them and ricocheted off boulders. The shadowy figures of men ran back and forth up at the front, some gesticulating and shouting.
Out ahead, on point, but now belly down on the ground and about to fire his bolt-action sniper rifle, Dead-eye stopped himself just in time when he heard what he thought was English being shouted by the shadowy figures. Startled, he lowered his weapon, listened more carefully, and realized that he and his men were engaged in a fire-fight with soldiers of the British Army.
Raising his right hand, he indicated that the men behind him should stop firing, which they did only gradually, those at the back not being able to see him. When the hostile fire also tapered off tentatively, Dead-eye bawled: ‘We’re English! Stop firing! SAS!’
‘Oh, Christ!’ someone called out from the other side.
‘D Squadron, 22 SAS!’ Dead-eye called out. ‘Sergeant Richard Parker!’
‘Sergeant Shaun Clarke, Irish Guards. Stop firing, you men!’
As the last of the ‘enemy’ gunshots tapered off, Sergeant Clarke, his face blackened with ‘cam’ cream, stood up, shaking his head in disbelief and grinning ruefully. While their respective men also clambered sheepishly to their feet, wiping frost off their uniforms, Dead-eye and Clarke approached one another like guilty schoolboys. Even Dead-eye, normally impassive, was looking very self-conscious.
‘Well,’ he said, stopping in front of Sergeant Clarke, ‘that was a close one.’
‘Very close!’ the other man replied, grinning. ‘Sorry about that, but we weren’t told there were friendly forces in the hills. We’re just out on a proving patrol.’
‘So are we – and we weren’t told there were friendly forces in the area.’
‘Lack of communication,’ Clarke said. ‘A right bloody cock-up. Anyone hurt?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’ Clarke practically sighed with relief, then nodded down the ridge that led into a pool of deeper darkness. ‘Are you heading back now?’
‘Yes. Our RV’s down there.’
‘Lucky you. We’ve just started. But this little confrontation should give my boys something to think about. Keep them on their toes.’ He grinned again and held out his hand. ‘Well, best wishes, Sergeant.’
Dead-eye grinned as well, shaking Clarke’s hand. ‘Same to you,’ he said, then marched back to his men, most of whom were grinning broadly at him. ‘You men find this amusing?’ he asked them. When they grinned even more broadly, he said firmly: ‘Well, it’s not. We almost shot up our own men and that’s no laughing matter. We came out on a proving patrol, we’re bringing back nothing, and now we’ve got to report a potentially fatal encounter with our own men. This patrol has been a bloody disaster, so wipe those grins off your faces.’
The men glanced uneasily at one another before adjusting their webbing, checking their weapons, and starting the rest of the march to the rendezvous point, where they found the Saladins and Bedfords still grouped in a laager. Gratefully, the men loaded their weapons and other kit into the lorries, climbed in themselves, and settled down for the two-hour drive back to base. They all felt a bit foolish.
5
‘Actually, it wasn’t that bad,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Callaghan said reassuringly to Dead-eye and Jimbo in the HQ tent at Thumier. ‘Apart from almost being shot up by the Irish Guards – and they fired first, after all! – your patrol did all it was asked to do. I blame the shoot-out on a lack of communication between us and the greens. This time it was the fault of we Ruperts, so you’ve no need to worry.’
By ‘greens’ he meant the green-uniformed regular Army, while the word ‘Ruperts’ was normally used mockingly by the other ranks of the SAS to describe their own officers. In this case, the CO was using the terms as a means of light-heartedly taking the blame for the fire-fight with the Irish Guards. Dead-eye, who had always admired Callaghan, respected him even more for this.
