Читать книгу Guerrillas in the Jungle - Shaun Clarke, Shaun Clarke - Страница 6

The man emerged from the trees and stood at the far side of the road, ghostly in the cold morning mist. It was just after first light. Having been on duty all night, the young guard, British Army Private John Peterson, was dog-tired and thought he was seeing things, but soon realized that the man was real enough. He was wearing jungle-green drill fatigues, standard-issue canvas-and-rubber jungle boots and a soft jungle hat. He had a machete on one hip, an Owen sub-machine-gun slung over one shoulder and a canvas bergen, or rucksack, on his back. Even from this distance, Private Peterson could see the yellow-and-green flash of the Malayan Command badge on the upper sleeve of the man’s drill fatigues.

‘Jesus!’ Peterson whispered softly, then turned to the other soldier in the guardhouse located to one side of the camp’s main gate. ‘Do you see what I see?’

The second soldier, Corporal Derek Walters, glanced through the viewing hole of the guardhouse.

‘What…? Who the hell’s that?’

After glancing left and right to check that nothing was coming, the ghostly soldier crossed the road. As he approached the guardhouse, it became clear that he was shockingly wasted, his fatigues practically hanging off his body, which was no more than skin and bone. Though he was heavily bearded and had blue shadows under his bloodshot eyes, both guards recognized him.

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Private Peterson said. ‘He actually made it!’

‘Looks like it,’ Corporal Peterson murmured. He opened the door of the guardhouse and stepped outside where the skeletal figure had just reached the barrier and was waiting patiently in the morning’s brightening sunlight. ‘Captain…Callaghan?’ the guard asked tentatively.

‘Yes, Trooper,’ the captain said. ‘How are you this morning?’

‘Fine, boss.’ Corporal Peterson shook his head in disbelief. ‘Blimey, boss! You’ve been gone…’

‘Three months. Raise the barrier, thanks.’ When Corporal Peterson raised the barrier, Captain Patrick Callaghan grinned at him, patted him on the shoulder, then entered the sprawling combined Army and Air Force base of Minden Barracks, Penang, where the recently reformed 22 SAS was temporarily housed.

Not that you’d know it, Callaghan thought as he walked lazily, wearily, towards headquarters where, he knew, Major Pryce-Jones would already be at his desk. While in Malaya, the SAS concealed their identity by discarding their badged beige berets and instead going out on duty in the blue berets and cap badges of the Manchester Regiment. Now, as Callaghan strolled along the criss-crossing tarmacked roads, past bunker-like concrete barracks, administration buildings raised off the ground on stilts, and flat, grassy fields, with the hangars and planes on the airstrip visible in the distance, at the base of the rolling green hills, Captain Callaghan saw men wearing every kind of beret and badge except those of the SAS.

In fact, the camp contained an exotic mix of regiments and police forces: six battalions of the Gurkha Rifles, one battalion each of the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, the Seaforth Highlanders and the Devon Regiment, two battalions of the Malay Regiment, and the 26th Field Regiment of the Royal Artillery.

And that’s only this camp, Callaghan thought. Indeed, just before he had left for his lone, three-month jungle patrol, a battalion of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers had arrived from Hong Kong and the 2nd Guards Brigade had been sent from the United Kingdom. Subsequently, elements of other British regiments, as well as colonial troops in the form of contingents from the King’s African Rifles and the Fijian Regiment, had joined in the struggle. There were now nearly 40,000 troops committed to the war in Malaya – 25,000 from Britain, including Royal Navy and Royal Air Force personnel, 10,500 Gurkhas and five battalions of the Malay Regiment.

In addition, there were the regular and armed auxiliary policemen, now totalling about 100,000 men. Most of these were Malays who had joined the Special Constabulary or served as Kampong Guards and Home Guards. The additional trained personnel for the regular police consisted mainly of men who had worked at Scotland Yard, as well as former members of the Palestine police, experienced in terrorism, men from the Hong Kong police, and even the pre-war Shanghai International Settlement, who spoke Chinese.

It’s not a little war any more, Callaghan thought as he approached the headquarters building, and it’s getting bigger every day. This is a good time to be here.

Not used to the bright sunlight, having been in the jungle so long, he rubbed his stinging eyes, forced himself to keep them open, and climbed the steps to the front of the administration block. There were wire-mesh screens across the doors and windows, with the night’s grisly collection of trapped, now dead insects stuck between the wires, including mosquitoes, gnats, flies, flying beetles and spiders. An F-28 jet fighter roared overhead as Captain Callaghan, ignoring the insects’ graveyard, pushed the doors open and entered the office.

With the heat already rising outside, it was a pleasure to step indoors where rotating fans created a cooling breeze over the administrative personnel – male and female; British, Malay, and some Eurasian Tamils – who were already seated at desks piled high with paper. They glanced up automatically when Callaghan entered, their eyes widening in disbelief when they saw the state of him.

‘Is Major Pryce-Jones’s office still here?’ Callaghan asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ a Gurkha corporal replied. ‘To your left. Down the corridor.’

‘Thanks,’ Callaghan replied, turning left and walking along the corridor until he came to the squadron commander’s office. When he stopped in the doorway, the major raised his eyes from his desk, looked Callaghan up and down, then said in his sardonic, upper-class manner: ‘It’s about time you came back. You look a bloody mess, Paddy.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Callaghan replied, grinning broadly. He lowered his bergen and sub-machine-gun to the floor, then pulled up a chair in front of Pryce-Jones’s desk. ‘You know how it is.’

‘If I don’t, I’m sure you’ll tell me in good time. Would you like a mug of hot tea?’

‘That sounds wonderful, boss.’

‘MARY!’ Pryce-Jones’s drawl had suddenly become an ear-shattering bellow directed at the pretty WRAC corporal seated behind a desk in the adjoining, smaller room.

‘Yes, boss!’ she replied, undisturbed.

‘A tramp masquerading as an SAS officer has just entered the building, looking unwashed, exhausted and very thirsty. Tea with sugar and milk, thanks. Two of.’

‘Yes, boss,’ Mary said, pushing her chair back and disappearing behind the wall separating the offices.

‘A sight for sore eyes,’ Callaghan said.

‘Bloodshot eyes,’ Major Pryce-Jones corrected him. ‘Christ, you look awful! Your wife would kill me for this.’

Callaghan grinned, thinking of Jennifer back in their home near Hereford and realizing that he hadn’t actually thought about her for a very long time. ‘Oh, I don’t know, boss. She thinks I’m just a Boy Scout at heart. She got used to it long ago.’

‘Not to seeing you in this state,’ Pryce-Jones replied. ‘Pretty rough, was it?’

Callaghan shrugged. ‘Three months is a long time to travel alone through the jungle. On the other hand, I saw a lot during my travels, so the time wasn’t wasted.’

‘I should hope not,’ Pryce-Jones said.

After spending three months virtually alone in the jungle, living like an animal and trying to avoid the murderous guerrillas, most men would have expected slightly more consideration from their superior officers than Callaghan was getting. But he wasn’t bothered, for this was the SAS way and he certainly had only admiration for his feisty Squadron Commander. For all his urbane ways, Pryce-Jones was a hard-drinking, hard-fighting idealist, a tough character who had won a double blue at Cambridge and given up a commission early in World War Two in order to join a Scots Guards ski battalion destined for Finland. His wartime service included three years in Burma, much of it behind Japanese lines. He had then commanded an SAS squadron in north-west Europe from late 1944 until the regiment was disbanded in 1945.

Pryce-Jones was a stranger to neither the jungle nor danger. In fact, in 1950, General Sir John Harding, Commander-in-Chief of Far East Land Forces, had called him for a briefing on the explosion of terrorism in Malaya, asking him to produce a detailed analysis of the problem. In order to do this, Pryce-Jones had gone into the jungle for six months, where he had hiked some 1,500 miles, unescorted, in guerrilla-infested territory, and talked to most of those conducting the campaign. Though ambushed twice, he had come out alive.

According to what he had later told Callaghan, much of his time had been spent with the infantry patrols trawling through the jungle in pursuit of an ‘invisible’ enemy. Because of this, he had concluded that the only way to win the war was to win the hearts and minds of the population, rather than try to engage an enemy that was rarely seen. The Communist Terrorists, or CT, were following Mao Tse-tung’s philosophy of moving through the peasant population like ‘fish in a sea’, then using them as a source of food, shelter and potential recruits. What the British had to do, therefore, was ‘dry up the sea’.

To this end, Pryce-Jones’s recommendation was that as many of the aboriginals as possible be relocated to villages, forts, or kampongs protected by British and Federation of Malaya forces. By so doing they would win the hearts and minds of the people, who would appreciate being protected, while simultaneously drying up the ‘sea’ by depriving the guerrillas of food and new recruits.

When his recommendations had met with approval, Pryce-Jones, as the OC (officer commanding) of A Squadron in Minden Barracks, had sent Callaghan into the jungle to spend three months supervising the relocation of the kampongs and checking that the defence systems provided for them and the hearts-and-minds campaign were working out as planned.

Throughout that three months Callaghan had, like Pryce-Jones before him, travelled alone, from one kampong to the other, avoiding guerrilla patrols and mostly living off the jungle, covered in sweat, drenched by rain, often waist-deep in the swamps, drained of blood by leeches, bitten by every imaginable kind of insect, often going hungry for days, and rarely getting a decent night’s sleep.

In fact, it had been a nightmare, but since Pryce-Jones had done the same thing for twice that long, Callaghan wasn’t about to complain.

‘It wasn’t that difficult,’ he lied as the pretty WRAC corporal, Mary Henderson, brought in their cups of tea, passed them out and departed with an attractive swaying of her broad hips. ‘Although there are slightly over four hundred villages, most are little more than shanty towns, inhabited by Chinese squatters. Before we could move them, however, we had to build up a rapport with the aboriginals – in other words, to use your words, win their hearts and minds. This we did by seducing them with free food, medical treatment, and protection from the CT. Medical treatment consisted mainly of primitive clinics and dispensing penicillin to cure the aborigines of yaws, a skin disease. The kampongs and troops were resupplied by river patrols in inflatable craft supplied by US special forces, or by fixed-wing aircraft, though we hope to be using helicopters in the near future.’

‘Excellent. I believe you also made contact with the CT.’

‘More than once, yes.’

‘And survived.’

‘Obviously.’

Pryce-Jones grinned. ‘Men coming back from there brought us some strange stories.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Your clandestine warfare methods raised more than a few eyebrows back here – not to mention in Britain.’

‘You mean the prostitutes?’

‘Exactly.’

‘The best is the enemy of the good. We did what we had to do, and we did our best.’

Pryce-Jones was referring to the fact that some of the kampong prostitutes had been asking their clients for payment in guns, grenades and bullets instead of cash, then passing them on to the guerrillas in the jungle. Learning of this, Callaghan had used some of his SF (Security Forces) troops, there to protect the kampongs, to pose as clients in order to ‘pay’ the prostitutes with self-destroying weapons, such as hand-grenades fitted with instantaneous fuses that would kill their users, and bullets that exploded in the faces of those trying to fire them.

‘What other dirty tricks did you get up to?’ Pryce-Jones asked.

‘Booby-trapped food stores.’

‘Naturally – but what about the mail? I received some garbled story about that.’

Now it was Callaghan’s turn to grin. ‘I got the idea of mailing incriminating notes or money to leading Communist organizers. The poor bastards were then executed by their own kind on the suspicion that they’d betrayed their comrades.’

‘How perfectly vile.’

‘Though effective.’

‘Word about those dirty tricks got back to Britain and caused a great deal of outrage.’

‘Only with politicians. They express their outrage in public, but in private they just want us to win, no matter how we do it. They always want it both ways.’

Pryce-Jones sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He sipped his steaming tea and licked his upper lip. ‘But are we winning?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Callaghan replied without hesitation. ‘The war in the jungle’s definitely turned in our favour. The CT groups have become more fragmented. An awful lot of their leaders have been captured or killed. Food’s scarce outside the protected kampongs and the CT are therefore finding it more difficult to find recruits among the aboriginals, most of whom are now siding with us and clinging to the protection of our secured villages and forts. Unfortunately, now that the CT propaganda has failed, they’re turning to terror and committing an increasing number of atrocities.’

‘You’re talking about Ah Hoi.’

‘Yes. Only recently that bastard disembowelled an informer’s pregnant wife in front of the whole damned village. He left the villagers terrified. Now he’s rumoured to be somewhere south-west of Ipoh and we’ll soon have to pursue him. What shape are the men in?’

‘Better than the first bunch,’ Pryce-Jones replied.

Callaghan knew just what he meant. After Pryce-Jones had submitted his recommendations regarding the war, Lieutenant-Colonel ‘Mad Mike’ Calvert, veteran of the Chindit campaigns in Burma and commander of the World War Two SAS (Special Air Service) Brigade, had been asked to create a special military force that could live permanently in the jungle, to deny the guerrillas sanctuary or rest. That special force, based on the original World War Two SAS, was known as the Malayan Scouts.

Some of those who volunteered for the new unit were useful veterans of the SOE (Special Operations Executive), the SAS and the Ferret Force, the latter being a paramilitary unit drawn from Army volunteers, and former members of SOE’s Force 136. The ‘Ferret’ scouts had led fighting patrols from regular infantry battalions, making the first offensive sweeps into the jungle, aided by forty-seven Dyak trackers, the first of many such Iban tribesmen from Borneo. Though doing enough to prove that the British did not have to take a purely defensive position, the Force was disbanded when many of its best men had to return to their civilian or more conventional military posts.

Unfortunately, too many of the men recruited in a hurry were either simply bored or were persistent troublemakers whose units were happy to see them go elsewhere. One group had even consisted of ten deserters from the French Foreign Legion who had escaped by swimming ashore from a troop-ship conveying them to the war in Indo-China. To make matters worse, due to the speed with which the Malayan Emergency built up, there was little time to properly select or train them.

Shortly after the arrival of that first batch, there were official complaints about too much drunkenness and the reckless use of firearms on the base. According to Pryce-Jones, such charges had been exaggerated because of the nature of the training, which was done under dangerously realistic conditions. Nevertheless, if not as bad as described, the first recruits were certainly rowdy and undisciplined.

Some of the wilder men had eventually been knocked into shape, but others had proved to be totally unsuitable for the special forces and were gradually weeded out. Seeking a better class of soldier, ‘Mad Mike’ Calvert had travelled 22,000 miles in twenty-one days, including a trip to Rhodesia which led to the creation of C Squadron from volunteers in that country. From Hong Kong he brought Chinese interpreters and counter-guerrillas, who had served with him in Burma, to join his Intelligence staff. Another source was a squadron of SAS Reservists and Territorials (many of whom had served under David Stirling), which had formed up in 1947 as 21 SAS Regiment. Most of those men had been of much better calibre and proved a worthy catch when, in 1952, the Malayan Scouts were renamed as the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment (22 SAS).

The original three squadrons, A, B, and C, that had formed 22 SAS, had been augmented by a fourth, D Squadron, before Calvert left for the UK. By 1956 a further squadron, the Parachute Regiment Squadron, was raised from volunteers drawn from the Paras. That same year, C Squadron returned to Rhodesia to become the Rhodesian SAS and was replaced by a New Zealand squadron. This Kiwi connection meant that a number of Fijians joined the Regiment.

‘Do you still have problems controlling them?’ Callaghan asked. ‘If you do, they’ll be no good in the jungle. The CT will just eat them up.’

‘There’s still a lot of hard drinking and the occasional fragging of officers,’ Pryce-Jones replied, ‘but the lack of discipline has been corrected and replaced with excellent soldiering. Unfortunately, it’ll be a long time yet before we live down the reputation we acquired during those early years. Not that it bothers me. We’re supposed to be different from the greens, so let’s keep it that way.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Callaghan said, mockingly clapping his hands together. ‘The question is, can we actually use them or are they still being used for policing duties?’

‘Things have greatly improved on that front,’ Pryce-Jones told him. ‘Due to the recent expansion of the Federation of Malaya Police and the creation of Home Guard units and a Special Constabulary, the Army is increasingly being released from its policing obligations and given more time and means to fight the CT. The men are all yours now.’

‘They’ll need to be separated from the greens,’ Callaghan said, referring to the green-uniformed regular Army, ‘and preferably trained in isolation.’

‘I’ve anticipated that. A new Intelligence section has been opened in Johore. It’s filled with men experienced in jungle operations from the time they worked with me in Burma. I’ve included Hong Kong Chinese to act as interpreters. The head of the section is Major John M. Woodhouse, Dorset Regiment. As so much of the SAS work involves a hearts-and-minds campaign, which requires Intelligence gathering of all kinds, and since we’ll need Chinese speakers, the Regiment will be flown to Johore, where a special training camp is already in the process of completion. The men can complete their preliminary training here, then move on to Johore a week from now.’

‘Excellent,’ Callaghan said. Restless already, even though exhausted, he stood up and went to the window behind the major’s desk. Looking out, he saw a Sikh foreman supervising some Malay coolies in the building of a sangar at the edge of the runway containing rows of Beverley transports and F-28 jets. The sun was rising quickly in the sky, flooding the distant landscape of green hills and forest with brilliant light.

‘I want to get that bastard Ah Hoi,’ he said.

‘You will in due course,’ Pryce-Jones replied. ‘Right now, you need a good meal, a hot shower and a decent sleep. And I need to work. So get out of here, Paddy.’

‘Yes, boss,’ Captain Callaghan said. He picked up his soaked, heavy bergen and camouflaged sub-machine-gun, then, with a blinking of weary eyes, walked out of the office.

‘You can smell him from here,’ Mary said, when Callaghan had left.

‘A rich aroma,’ Pryce-Jones replied.