by Shaun Clarke
Both NCOs stared quizzically at the new, relatively inexperienced captain, who looked slightly embarrassed.
‘It was in your absence,’ Ellsworth said quietly. ‘I took a small patrol up into the Radfan, set up a nocturnal ambush and opened fire on a camel train that refused to halt. A couple of Arabs were killed, but a third was taken prisoner. My initial anxiety was that I might have made a mistake – that the Arabs were legitimate traders. Luckily, when we brought our prisoners back down, a local military intelligence officer identified him as a known guerrilla leader.’
‘Congratulations,’ Dead-eye said.
‘Well deserved, certainly,’ Callaghan said. ‘However, Captain Ellsworth’s initial concern that he might have shot up a perfectly innocent camel train highlights one of the problems we have up there in the Radfan: it’s swarming not only with the enemy, but with local traders going about their business – and if we shoot them by mistake it could lead to riots in Aden.’
‘In other words,’ Ellsworth said, ‘we’re going to have to be very careful before making any kind of move.’
‘Dead right,’ Jimbo said.
For a moment there was silence as Captain Ellsworth glanced thoughtfully at the map of the Radfan, spread out before him on the desk, and Callaghan gazed distractedly outside the tent, where the sun was sinking over the base camp, lengthening the shadows of the protective hedgehogs and their armaments. The Wessex pilot had finally switched off his engines and the only sound now heard from the landing pad was the shouting of the ground crew and the lesser roar of a jeep starting up. The mountains of the Radfan, also visible through the opening in the tent, looked distant and mysterious in the dimming light.
‘What kind of group are we taking up there?’ Dead-eye asked.
‘Two battalions of FRA infantry; 45 Royal Marine Commando with B Company; the Parachute Regiment; a troop of Royal Engineers; a battery of the Royal Horse Artillery armed with 105mm howitzers; and a Royal Tank Regiment equipped with Saladins.’
‘That’s not a small group,’ Jimbo noted.
‘No, Sergeant Ashman, it’s not. But we don’t know what we’re up against, so we can’t chance our arm.’
‘What’s the objective?’ Dead-eye asked.
‘Two hills, codenamed Rice Bowl and Cap Badge. Both are of vital importance because they dominate the camel routes from the Yemen and the only two fertile areas in the region. We intend to seize them from the rebels on 1 May.’
‘Day or night?’ Dead-eye asked tersely.
‘To be caught in the valley in the daylight would be suicidal, so both of the assault forces will move out at night. The Royal Marines will march seven miles from the Dhala Road, in Thumier, into hostile territory, to climb and hold the most northerly objective – Rice Bowl. Simultaneously, the Para Company will be dropped by parachute near the foot of Cap Badge.’
Callaghan nodded at Ellsworth, who leant forward to say: ‘This is where we come in. To land the Paras on an unmarked, undefended DZ would be just as suicidal as asking the Marines to march in broad daylight. Our task, then, is to establish, mark and protect a suitable DZ for the Paras.’
‘What would they do without us?’ Jimbo asked.
‘How many men do we take, boss?’ Dead-eye asked.
‘Nine. You move out at dusk on 29 April, under the command of Captain Ellsworth and travelling in Saladins. You’ll head due north along the Dhala Road, then leave the road at the Wadi Rabwa and climb up the sides of the wadi into the mountains. You’ll have to cover approximately eight miles to reach your objective and you only have twenty-four hours to do so.’
‘The opposition?’ Jimbo asked.
‘Intelligence reports suggest that it won’t be serious if you move discreetly.’
‘But, sir, you’ve just said,’ Dead-eye reminded him, ‘that intelligence about the Radfan is pretty thin – which means unreliable.’
The CO grinned and shrugged. ‘What can I say, Dead-eye, other than what I’ve told you? Intelligence thinks you might get off lightly, but it could be the opposite.’
‘Who dares wins,’ Dead-eye said, staring out of the tent.
8
Late in the afternoon of the following day, the nine men selected for the patrol prepared to move out by camouflaging themselves and their weapons. Given the cramped size of the tents, most of them did this sitting outside in the mercifully falling temperature, with their weapons and kit spread around them. As usual, they first cleaned their weapons and checked the ammunition, which in this instance included four magazines for the SLRs, a total of eighty rounds, plus a bandolier of the same ammunition and 200 rounds of .303-inch bullets for the patrol’s Bren gun. They were, in fact, more lightly armed than usual.
‘Why?’ Lance-Corporal Larry Johnson asked.
‘Because Lieutenant-Colonel Callaghan prefers mobility to fire-power for this kind of operation,’ Dead-eye informed him. ‘That’s why he also stressed that our ammunition’s to be conserved as much as possible, even during contact with the enemy. In other words, fire only when strictly necessary.’
‘Like when I’ve got someone’s bayonet up my arse?’
‘That about sums it up,’ Jimbo said.
When the weapons and ammunition checks had been made, they went off to collect their water ration: a one-gallon container and four water bottles per head. Now back doing what he was best at, Terry also collected his A41 tactical radio, which added another 44lb to his heavy load.
Finally, they darkened the exposed parts of the body – in particular the face, neck and hands – with stick camouflage. They also applied ‘cam’ to the shinier parts of the weapons to prevent them from reflecting the moonlight. Meanwhile the sun was setting beyond the mountains, and the hedgehogs around the perimeter of the camp, bristling with big weapons and howitzers, were receding into the gathering gloom.
‘So what were you two doing when you were away?’ Lance-Corporal Les Moody asked Dead-eye and Jimbo.
‘Not much,’ Dead-eye replied.
‘That isn’t an answer, Sarge.’
‘It was confidential,’ Jimbo told him.
‘But you were with little Terry here?’ Les said, indicating the younger soldier with a nod of his head.
‘That’s right.’
‘Which means you were in Aden.’
‘You’re so bright,’ Jimbo said.
‘I’ve heard that we have some special hit squads in Aden: blokes who dress up as Arabs and go into the souks for some close-action work with their 9-millis?’
‘You’ve seen too many war films,’ Jimbo said.
‘I didn’t pick it up there. That’s the word going round.’
‘Bloody rubbish,’ Dead-eye told him.
‘Is that right, Trooper?’ Les asked Terry. ‘Bloody rubbish?’
‘You had it straight from the horse’s mouth,’ said Terry rather too curtly.
‘Isn’t it true that when you disappeared from the Sports and Social Club in Hereford it was to do a quick course in Arabic, then be flown to Aden for a couple of months with one of them Keeni-Meeni squads?’
‘Keeni-Meeni?’ Terry asked deadpan. ‘What’s that?’
‘You don’t know?’
Terry shook his head.
‘That’s bullshit, Terry. You know exactly what it means and it’s what you were doing in Aden.’
‘I was acting as a signaller in Aden and that’s all I was doing. Isn’t that right, Dead-eye?’
‘That’s right,’ Dead-eye said.
‘I can’t get a straight answer to a simple question,’ Les complained.
‘Ask no questions and we’ll tell you no lies,’ replied Jimbo.
‘My lips are sealed from this moment on,’ Les said with a sigh.
They completed their preparations just as the sun was sinking. After heaving their bergens onto their backs, they strapped on their webbing and bandoliers of ammunition, then picked up their personal weapons and marched to the waiting Saladins. Apart from being equip
ped with 76mm QF guns and Browning .30-inch machine-guns, the armoured cars had been fitted in the manner of the World War Two LRDG Chevrolets, which were specifically equipped for the desert. Among the refinements were reinforced sand tyres, special filters, outsize fans and radiators, wireless sets, sun compasses, sextants, sand shovels, jerry cans, water condensers, woven sand mats and steel sand channels, the latter two to be used when the vehicle became trapped in sand or potholes. The sun had actually sunk when the armoured cars moved out of the camp one after the other.
As the convoy moved along the Dhala Road, into a deepening darkness relieved by moonlight and a sky perforated with stars, Terry glanced at the mountainous desert outside and thought how different it was from the terrain he had first fought in: the dense jungle and steaming swamps of Borneo. Though he had fought well there, earning his winged-dagger badge in no uncertain terms, he was still haunted by nightmares about how he and the rest of his squadron had waded through snake and insect-infested swamps, fighting Indonesian troops all the way.
While Terry’s dreams were filled with vivid recollections of the snakes, bloodsucking leeches and countless insects of the stinking swamps, now they were even more frequently haunted by his vivid recollection of how he and a few of the others, including Dead-eye and Jimbo, had eventually been forced to cross an aerial walkway that swayed high above a roaring gorge and was being fired at by vengeful Indonesians. Even fully awake, Terry had only to close his eyes to see his friend, Trooper Pete Welsh, peppered by enemy bullets and pouring blood from his many wounds, slide off the bridge and fall screaming to the bottom of the gorge, where he splashed into the raging rapids, was smashed against the rocks and then swept away out of sight for ever. That sight, Terry was sure, would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The present terrain, though also mountainous, was very different from that of Borneo, being parched by the sun and filled with wide, open spaces instead of dense jungle. Yet it was just as dangerous, with its own brand of the unknown, and Terry was glad to be in the company of Dead-eye, who had successfully led him and the other survivors out of the swamps and mountains of Borneo.
Dead-eye was presently in one of the other Saladins, but Terry thought of him now because he was not feeling too good and thought he knew why. It was because, while in Aden with Dead-eye and Jimbo, he had being doing what both men detested: ‘grandstanding’. This term, as Terry knew only too well, was applied by the SAS to any soldier who forgot that he was part of a team and instead put on a show to earn credit or glory for himself.
Having been a newcomer in Borneo, constantly awed by the coolness and courage of the old hands, particularly Dead-eye, in Aden Terry had been unable to resist showing off to him and that other old-timer, Jimbo. He had sat at that café table in Crater and, even worse, eaten food from one of the notoriously unhygienic food stalls, purely as an act of bravado. It had also been an act of gross stupidity – for which he was now paying the price with an upset stomach.
Compounding his stupidity, he had not confessed before leaving the base camp that he had an upset stomach. Now that the convoy was in the middle of the desert, heading for Wadi Rabwa and the mountains beyond, Terry knew that he could not be taken back or casualty-evacuated. Unless he suffered in silence, he could become a serious burden to the whole patrol.
Unfortunately, his stomach, which at first had only been slightly upset with what seemed like mild indigestion, was now twitching constantly with sharp, darting pains and making him feel nauseous.
‘How long’s the drive?’ Terry asked, glancing out of the Saladin at the vast flat plain running out to the distant mountains.
‘We should be at Wadi Rabwa in less than an hour,’ answered Jimbo. ‘From there it’s about eight miles to our objective, but we’ve got about twenty-four hours to get there. The wadi’s pretty steep and the march will be rough. Why do you ask?’
Terry looked uneasy. ‘My stomach’s playing up,’ he mumbled.
‘What?’
‘I feel queasy,’ Terry confessed. ‘But don’t let on to anyone else. I don’t want to be taken off the patrol.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘It hurts a bit and I feel sick.’
‘You must have picked up a bug when you had that Arab food in Crater. That was daft, Trooper.’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘This is no time to be feeling sick.’
‘I know. I’m really sorry, Sarge. I should have told you, but I thought it would go off soon.’
‘But it hasn’t?’
‘No, Sarge.’
Jimbo sighed. ‘You think you can stick with it throughout the hike?’
‘I’ll be OK. I promise.’
Jimbo shook his head in disbelief, then turned away. Squirming with guilt, Terry glanced at the other men in the armoured car – the recently badged troopers, Ben Riley and Taff Thomas – and was relieved that they appeared not to have heard the conversation.
‘Are you two all right?’ Jimbo asked them.
‘Yes, Sarge,’ Ben replied while Taff just nodded.
‘You weren’t the last time,’ Jimbo reminded them.
‘No, not the last time,’ Ben replied in his cocky manner. ‘We were only sick on the first trip, Sarge. That was in the middle of the day when the sun was as hot as hell. The last time, when we went out at night, like this, you had no problems with us.’
‘I stand corrected,’ Jimbo said, then yawned into his clenched fist.
Glancing at Ben and Taff, Terry remembered being told just how ill they had been shortly after arriving at Aden, on the drive from the RAF base in Khormaksar to the SAS camp in Thumier. Hearing about that journey had made Terry feel superior to the newcomers; and that sense of superiority, which he could now see as a weakness, is what had made him behave so badly in Crater, trying to impress his two more experienced sergeants. Now ill himself, he did not feel so superior to the two newcomers, and even felt ashamed.
Even more disconcerting was the knowledge that, while the journey so far had been along the Dhala Road, which was smooth enough, soon they would be leaving the road to ascend into, then climb out of, the steep rocky sides of Wadi Rabwa. After that, the going would be even rougher.
In fact, their descent into the eerily moonlit wadi began five minutes later when the Saladins turned off the road, bounced across very rough terrain, which jolted the vehicles relentlessly, then started inching down into the wadi with gears grinding and powerful engines screaming in protest.
At first the slope of the wadi could be seen in the moonlight, which streaked the loose grey gravel and parched, lunar rocks, but when they finally reached the dried-up watercourse, which ran for miles east and west, the moonlight was almost completely cut off by the opposite slopes and the column moved for a time through almost total darkness.
Time after time, the armoured cars ran into boulders too large to bounce over or became stuck in potholes too deep to traverse. When this happened, the men, guided by Jimbo, who had learned his desert skills with the LRDG in North Africa, had to climb out and either remove the boulders by hand or get the vehicle out of the large potholes with the aid of the woven sand mats or five-feet-long steel sand channels.
This latter operation involved pushing the sand mats or metal channels as far as possible under the wheels that had become stuck in the soft sand. The armoured car could then be either reversed or advanced slowly over them until it was free. A simpler variation on the original LRDG method of rescuing their Chevrolets from sand traps, it was effective but laborious and time-consuming.
Nevertheless, even in the pitch darkness, the men took the opportunity to check the tyres, usually letting some air out lest they burst on the sharper stones. They also checked that there was no sand in the carburettors. These tasks were managed by the light of hand-held torches.
This was a mistake. They realized so when, during an attempt to move another trapped vehicle, gunfire erupted from the hills beyond the wadi and a hail of bullets danced off
the rocks nearby, causing pieces of stones to fly off in clouds of dust and showers of sparks.
‘Shit!’ Jimbo growled, dropping automatically to his knees and raising his SLR into the firing position. ‘The bastards saw the torches.’
‘Our own fault,’ Dead-eye replied, dropping low beside him as the rest of the men scattered to take up firing positions from behind the armoured cars or higher rocks. He turned aside briefly to bawl at the men: ‘Don’t fire back! You’ll be wasting your time. You’ll only pinpoint our position. Just lie low and wait for further orders!’ He was cut off when another burst of tracer made sand spit up in a jagged line that whipped and coiled nearby, causing more fragments of rock to fly up through clouds of dust and silver sparks that looked like fireflies.
Captain Ellsworth ran back from the first Saladin, crouched low, holding his SLR across his chest, as more green tracer from the enemy machine-guns looped languidly down from the distant hill, appeared to gain speed as it approached, then raced at him in a phosphorescent stream that made the soil explode in a jagged line behind him.
Falling to one knee beside Dead-eye, he stared at the lines of tracer and spitting sand. ‘I thought the opposition wasn’t going to be serious if we moved discreetly,’ he said sarcastically.
‘Shining torches at night isn’t discreet,’ Dead-eye replied.
‘The enemy wasn’t supposed to be here,’ Jimbo reminded him. ‘They’re supposed to be in the Radfan.’
‘That lot have come down from the Radfan,’ Dead-eye said, ‘and caught us all napping.’
‘Caught us working our arses off,’ Jimbo corrected him.
The combined firing of rifles and machine-guns on the distant hills was not all that loud from where they were, but once the bullets and tracers reached the area it became a clamorous combination of spitting, hissing, thudding and cracking, with the rocks making a sharp exploding sound when they were split by the bullets.
‘I think we should keep moving,’ Ellsworth said. ‘It’s pitch-dark in the bottom of this wadi and as long as we don’t climb back up into the moonlight, they won’t be able to see us.’
