Читать книгу Guerrillas in the Jungle - Shaun Clarke, Shaun Clarke - Страница 7

As Captain ‘Paddy’ Callaghan was having a good sleep after showering three months of jungle filth off his emaciated body, the latest influx of recently badged troopers to 22 SAS were settling in for a week of initial training in Minden Barracks, before being flown on to Johore. Though just off the Hercules C-130 transport aircraft which had flown them all the way from Bradbury Lines, Merebrook Camp, Worcestershire, via RAF Lyneham, Wiltshire, the men were in a good mood as they adjusted to the brilliant morning sunshine and rising heat of the mainland, just across the Malacca Straits, facing the lively town of Penang.

‘I’ve heard all about that place from an RAF buddy stationed at Butterworth,’ Trooper Dennis ‘the Menace’ Dudbridge said, as the Bedford truck transported them away from the airstrip to the barracks at the far side of a broad, flat field. Formerly of the Gloucestershire Regiment, he was short, broad-shouldered, and as feisty as a bantam cock, with a permanently split lip and broken nose from one too many pub fights. ‘He said the whores all look as sexy as Marilyn Monroe.’

‘If a different colour and a bit on the slit-eyed side,’ Corporal ‘Boney Maronie’ Malone reminded him.

‘I get a hard-on just thinking about Marilyn Monroe,’ Trooper Pete Welsh informed them in his deadly serious manner.

‘Put splints on it, do you?’ Boney Maronie asked him.

‘We can’t all walk around all day with three legs,’ Pete replied, brushing his blond hair from his opaque, slightly deranged blue eyes. ‘Not like you, Boney.’

‘He doesn’t need splints,’ Trooper Alf Laughton observed. ‘He needs a sling to keep it off the fucking ground when it sticks out too far. Isn’t that true, Boney?’

‘Some of us just happen to be well endowed. Not that I’m one to boast, lads, but you just don’t compare.’

‘I trust you’ll put it to good use in Penang,’ Dennis the Menace said.

‘If we get there,’ Boney replied. ‘I’ve heard they’re not giving us any time off before they send us into that fucking jungle to get bled dry by leeches.’

‘They wouldn’t dare!’ Alf Laughton exclaimed. With flaming red hair and a face pitted by acne, Laughton looked like a wild man. He had been here three years ago, with the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, and still had fond memories of George Town when the sun had gone down. ‘We’re entitled to a little fun and games before they work us to death.’

‘We’re entitled to Sweet FA,’ Pete Welsh said, ‘and that’s what we’ll get.’

Though they had all been badged recently, most of these men were experienced and had come to the SAS from units active in other theatres of operation. Some had come from the Long Range Desert Group (LRDG) and the wartime SAS, others had been recruited by ‘Mad Mike’ Calvert from British forces stationed in the Far East; and many, including a number of National Servicemen, were skilled soldiers who had volunteered to avoid the discipline of the more conventional regular Army. At least one of them, Sergeant Ralph Lorrimer, now sitting up front beside the driver of the Bedford, had experience in guerrilla warfare gleaned from wartime operations in North Africa, and as a member of Force 136, the clandestine resistance force set up by the SOE in Malaya during the Japanese occupation. Most of them, then, were experienced men.

Indeed, one of the few with no previous experience in warfare was the recently badged Trooper Richard Parker, already nicknamed ‘Dead-eye Dick’ because of his outstanding marksmanship, as displayed not only during his three years with the 2nd Battalion, Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, but also on the firing range of the SAS base at Merebrook Camp, Malvern. Brown-haired, grey-eyed and almost virginally handsome, Dead-eye was as quiet as a mouse, every bit as watchful, and very keen to prove himself with the SAS. Perhaps it was because his quiet nature seemed at odds with his remarkable skills as a soldier, which included relentless tenacity as well as exceptional marksmanship, that the men had taken him up as a sort of squadron mascot and were inclined to be protective of him, particularly when out on the town. Even the traditional bullshit, when it flew thick and fast, landed lightly on young Trooper Parker.

‘Hey, Dead-eye,’ Boney Maronie said to him, ‘when they give us some time off I’ll take you into George Town and find you a nice Malayan girl who likes breaking in cherry-boys.’

‘I’m not a cherry-boy,’ Parker replied quietly as the Bedford bounced over a hole on the road leading to the barracks. ‘I’ve had my fair share.’

‘Oh, really?’ Boney asked with a broad grin. He was six foot tall, pure muscle and bone, and sex-mad. ‘Where and when was that, then?’

Dead-eye shrugged. ‘Here and there. Back home. In West Croydon.’

‘In your car?’

‘I’ve never had a car.’

‘So where did you do it?’

‘None of your business, Boney. Where I did it and who I did it with is my concern, thanks.’

‘You’re a cherry-boy. Admit it!’

‘I’m not,’ Dead-eye replied. ‘It’s just something I don’t talk about. I was brought up that way.’

‘You bleedin’ little liar,’ Boney said. ‘If you’ve got as far as squeezing a bit of tit, I’d be bloody amazed.’

Dead-eye shrugged, but said no more. The conversation was beneath him. In fact, he was attractive, girls liked him a lot, and he’d practised sex with the same clinical detachment he brought to everything else, getting his fair share. He just didn’t think it worth boasting about. Being a soldier, particularly in the SAS, was much more important.

‘It’s the quiet little buggers like Dead-eye,’ Dennis the Menace said to Boney Maronie, ‘who get their oats while blow-hards like you are farting into the wind. I know who I’d bet on.’

‘Hey, come on…’ Boney began, but was rudely interrupted when the Bedford ground to a halt outside the barracks and Sergeant Lorrimer bawled: ‘All out back there! Shift your lazy arses!’

The men did as they were ordered, hopping off the back and sides of the open Bedford MK four-ton truck. When they were assembled on the baking-hot tarmac in front of the barracks, Sergeant Lorrimer pointed to the unattractive concrete blocks and said: ‘Argue among yourselves as to who gets what basha, then put your kit in the lockers and have a brief rest. I’ll be back in about thirty minutes to give you further instructions.’

‘The man said a brief rest,’ Pete Welsh echoed, ‘and he obviously means it.’

‘You have a complaint, Trooper?’ Sergeant Lorrimer placed his large hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes. He was sweating and his beefy face was flushed.

‘Complain? I wouldn’t dream of it, boss! Thirty minutes is much too long.’

‘Then we’ll make it twenty,’ Lorrimer said. ‘I take it you agree that’s in order?’

‘Absolutely!’ Welsh glanced uneasily left and right as the rest of the men groaned audibly and glared at him. ‘No problem here, boss.’

‘I could do with some scran,’ Dennis the Menace said.

‘You’ll get a proper meal tonight,’ Sergeant Lorrimer replied, ‘when you’ve been kitted out and had a sermon from the OC. Meanwhile, you’ll have to content yourself with a breakfast of wads and a brew up. And since you’ve only got twenty minutes to eat and drink, I suggest you get started.’

Sergeant Lorrimer jumped back up into the Bedford while the men moaned and groaned. Even as the truck was heading away towards the administration buildings located along the edge of the airstrip, the men continued complaining.

‘Your bloody fault, Pete,’ Dennis the Menace said. ‘We could have had all of thirty minutes – now we’re cut down to twenty. You should’ve known better.’

‘I only said…’

‘One word too many.’ Alf Laughton was disgusted with him. ‘You know what Sergeant Lorrimer’s like when he gets too much sunshine. His face turns purple and he can’t stand the bullshit.’

‘You’re all wasting time talking,’ Dead-eye pointed out with his usual grasp of the priorities. ‘If you keep talking you’ll waste more of your twenty minutes and won’t have time for breakfast. Let’s pick beds and unpack.’

The accommodation consisted of rectangular concrete bunkers surrounded by flat green fields, slightly shaded by papaya and palm trees. The buildings had wire-mesh and wooden shutters instead of glass windows. The shutters were only closed during tropical storms; the wire-mesh was there to keep out the many flying insects attracted by the electric lights in the evenings. Likewise, because of the heat, the wooden doors were only closed during storms.

From any window of the barracks the men could see the airstrip, with F-28 jets, Valetta, Beverley and Hercules C-130 transports, as well as Sikorski S-55 Whirlwind helicopters, taking off and landing near the immense, sun-scorched hangars. Beyond the airstrip was a long line of trees, marking the edge of the jungle.

After selecting their beds and transferring personal kit to the steel lockers beside each bed, the men hurriedly unwrapped their prepacked wads, or sandwiches, and had hot tea from vacuum flasks.

‘Christ, it’s hot,’ Pete Welsh said, not meaning the tea.

‘It’s hardly started,’ Alf Laughton told him. ‘Early hours yet. By noon you’ll be like a boiled lobster, no matter how you try to avoid the sun. Fucking scorching, this place is.’

‘I want to see Penang,’ Dennis the Menace said. ‘All those things you told us about it, Alf. All them Malay and Chinese birds in their cheongsams, slit up to the hip. George Town, here I come!’

‘When?’ Boney Maronie asked. ‘If we’re not even getting lunch on our first day here, what hope for George Town? We’re gonna be worked to death, mates.’

‘I don’t mind,’ Dead-eye said, stowing the last of his personal gear in his steel locker. ‘I came here to fight a war – not to get pissed and screw some whores. I want to see some action.’

Dennis the Menace grinned crookedly and placed his hand affectionately on Dead-eye’s head. ‘What a nice lad you are,’ he said, only mocking a little. ‘And what a good trooper! It’s good to see you’re so keen.’

‘You’d see action if you came with me to George Town,’ Boney Maronie informed him. ‘You’d see a battle or two, mate.’

‘Not the kind of battle Dead-eye wants to see,’ Dennis the Menace said. ‘This kid here has higher aims.’

‘That’s right,’ Dead-eye said.

Boney Maronie was rolling his eyes in mock disgust when the red-faced Sergeant Lorrimer returned, this time in an updated 4×4 Willys jeep that had armoured perspex screens and a Browning 0.5-inch heavy machine-gun mounted on the front. Hopping down, leaving the driver behind the steering wheel, Lorrimer bawled instructions for the men to assemble outside the barracks in order of height. When they had done so, he marched them across the broad green field bordered with papaya and palm trees to the quartermaster’s store, to be kitted out with everything they needed except weapons, which could only be signed for when specifically required.

The standard-issue clothing included jungle-green drill fatigues, a matching soft hat and canvas-and-rubber boots. The men were also supplied with special canvas bergens which looked small when rolled up, but enormous when filled. The contents of each individual bergen included a sleeping bag of hollow-fill, man-made fibre; a bivi-bag, or waterproof one-man sheet used as a temporary shelter; a portable hexamine stove and blocks of hexamine fuel; an aluminium mess tin, mug and utensils; a brew kit, including sachets of tea, powdered milk and sugar; matches in a waterproof container and flint for when the matches ran out; needles and thread; a fishing line and hooks; a pencil torch and batteries; a luminous button compass; signal flares; spare radio batteries; fluorescent marker panels for spotter planes in case of rescue; a magnifying glass to help find splinters and stings in the skin; and a medical kit containing sticking plasters, bandages, cotton wool, antiseptic, intestinal sedative, antibiotics, antihistamine, water-sterilizing tablets, anti-malaria tablets, potassium permanganate, analgesic, two surgical blades and butterfly sutures.

‘Just let me at you,’ Dennis the Menace said, waving one of his small surgical blades in front of Boney’s crutch. ‘The world’ll be a lot safer if you don’t have one, so let’s lop it off.’

‘Shit, Dennis!’ Boney yelled, jumping back and covering his manhood with his hands. ‘Don’t piss around like that!’

‘You think this is funny, Trooper?’ Sergeant Lorrimer said to Dennis the Menace. ‘You think we give you these items for your amusement, do you?’

‘Well, no, boss, I was just…’

‘Making a bloody fool of yourself, right?’ Lorrimer shoved his beetroot-red face almost nose to nose with the trooper. ‘Well, let me tell you, that where you’re going you might find a lot of these items useful – particularly when you have to slice a poisonous spike or insect out of your own skin, or maybe slash open a snake bite, then suck the wound dry and suture it yourself without anaesthetic. Will you be laughing then, Trooper?’

‘No, boss, I suppose not. I mean, I…’

‘Damn right, you won’t, Trooper. A joker like you – you’ll probably be pissing and shitting yourself, and crying for your mummy’s tit. So don’t laugh at this kit!’

‘Sorry, boss,’ Dennis the Menace said. ‘Hear you loud and clear, boss.’

‘At least I know you clean the wax from your ears,’ Lorrimer said, then bellowed: ‘Move it, you men!’

Once the squadron had been clothed and kitted out in order of size, they were marched back across the broad field, which, at the height of noon, had become a veritable furnace that burned their skin and made them pour sweat. To this irritation was added the midges and mosquitoes, the flies and flying beetles, none of which could be swotted away because every man, apart from being burdened with his heavy bergen, also had his hands engaged carrying even more equipment. When eventually they reached the barracks, their instinct was to throw the kit on the floor and collapse on their bashas. But this was not to be.

‘Right!’ Sergeant Lorrimer bawled. ‘Stash that kit, have a five-minute shower, put on your drill fatigues, and reassemble outside fifteen minutes from now. OK, you men, shake out!’

The latter command was SAS slang for ‘Prepare for combat’, but the men knew exactly what Lorrimer meant by using it now: they were going to get no rest. Realizing that this time they didn’t even have time to complain or bullshit, they fought each other for the few showers, hurriedly dressed, and in many cases were assembling outside without having dried themselves properly, their wet drill fatigues steaming dry in the burning heat. They were still steaming when Lorrimer returned in the jeep, but this time he waved the jeep away, then made the men line up in marching order.

‘Had your scran, did you?’ he asked when they were lined up in front of him.

‘Yes, boss!’ the men bawled in unison.

‘Good. ’Cause that’s all you’re going to get until this evening. You’re here to work – not wank or chase skirt – and any rest you thought you might be having, you’ve already had in that Hercules. OK, follow me.’

He marched them across the flat field, through eddying heatwaves, all the way back to the armoury, located near the quartermaster’s stores. There they were given a selection of small arms, including the M1 0.3in carbine with 30-round detachable magazines, which was good for low-intensity work at short range, but not much else; the 9mm Owen sub-machine-gun, which used 33-round, top-mounted box magazines, could fire at a rate of 700 rounds per minute, and was reliable and rugged; the relatively new 7.62mm semi-automatic SLR (self-loading rifle) with 20-round light box magazines, which had yet to prove its worth; and the standard-issue Browning 9mm High Power handgun with 13-round magazines and Len Dixon holster.

When the weapons had been distributed among the men, each given as much as he could carry, Lorrimer pointed to the Bedford truck parked near by.

‘Get in that,’ he said. ‘After the weather in England, I’m sure you’ll appreciate some sunshine. All right, move it!’

When they had all piled into the Bedford, they were driven straight to the firing range, where they spent the whole afternoon, in ever-increasing heat, firing the various weapons – first the M1 carbine, then the Owen sub-machine-gun and finally the unfamiliar SLR. The heat was bad enough, but the insects were even worse, and within an hour or two most of the men were nearly frantic, torn between concentrating on the weapons and swotting away their tormentors. When they attempted to do the latter, they were bawled at by the redoubtable Sergeant Lorrimer. After two hours on the range, which seemed more like twelve, their initial enthusiasm for the sunlight, which had seemed so wonderful after England, waned dramatically, leaving them with the realization that they had been travelling a long time and now desperately needed sleep, proper food, and time to acclimatize to this new environment.

‘What the fuck’s the matter with you, Trooper?’ Sergeant Lorrimer demanded of Pete Welsh.

‘Sorry, boss, but I just can’t keep my eyes open.’

‘A little tired after your long journey from England, are you?’ Lorrimer asked sympathetically.

‘Yes, boss.’

‘So what are you going to do in the jungle, Trooper, when you have to sleep when standing waist-deep in water? Going to ask for tea and sympathy, are you? Perhaps some time off?’

‘I’m not asking now, boss. I’m just having problems in keeping my eyes open. It’s the sunlight, combined with the lack of sleep. We’re all the same, boss.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Lorrimer said. ‘You’re all the same. Well, that makes all the difference!’ He glanced melodramatically around him, at the other men lying belly-down on the firing range, half asleep when not being tormented by mosquitoes and other dive-bombing tormentors. ‘Need sleep, do you?’ he asked.

‘Yes, boss!’ they all bawled simultaneously.

‘If you sleep before bedtime,’ Lorrimer explained, ‘you’ll all wake up in the middle of the morning, so you’d best stay awake. On your feet, Troopers!’

When they jumped to their feet, shocked by the tenor of Lorrimer’s voice, he ran them a few times around the firing range, which was now like God’s anvil, and only let them rest again when at least one of them, the normally tough Alf Laughton, started swaying as if he’d been poleaxed.

‘Get back in the Bedford,’ Lorrimer said, addressing the whole group. ‘You’re just a bunch of pansies.’

Breathless, pouring sweat, hardly able to focus their eyes, they piled into the Bedford, were driven back to the armoury, lined up for what seemed like hours to return their weapons, then were allowed to make their own way back to the barracks. There, in a state of near collapse, most of them threw themselves down on their steel-framed beds.

No sooner had they done so than Sergeant Lorrimer appeared out of nowhere, bawling, ‘Off your backs, you lot! You think this is Butlins? Get showered and change into your dress uniforms and be at the mess by 5.30 sharp. Any man not seen having dinner will be up for a fine. Is that understood? Move it!’

They did so. In a state of virtual somnambulism, they turned up at the crowded mess, where Sergeant Lorrimer was waiting to greet them.

‘Spick and span,’ he said, looking them up and down with an eagle eye. ‘All set for scran. OK, go in and get fed, take your time about it, but make sure you reassemble back out here. No pissing off to the NAAFI.’

‘The day’s over after din-dins,’ Dennis the Menace said.

‘It is for the common soldier,’ Lorrimer replied, ‘but not for you lot.’ He practically purred with anticipation. ‘You lot are privileged!’

They soon found out what he meant. After dinner, which few of them could eat, being far too exhausted, they were marched back to the barracks, told to change back into their already filthy drill fatigues, then driven out of the camp in a Bedford. A good ten miles from the camp, in an area notable only for the anonymity of its jungle landscape – no towns, no kampongs – they were dropped off in pairs, each a few miles from the other, none having the slightest clue where they were, and told that if they wanted a good night’s sleep, they had to make their own way back to the camp as best they could. If they were not back by first light, when Reveille would be called, they would be RTU’d – sent straight back to Blighty.

‘Do we get even a compass?’ Boney Maronie asked. He and Pete Welsh were one of the first pairs to be dropped off.

‘No,’ Lorrimer replied. ‘What you get is the information that the camp is approximately ten miles north, south, east or west. The rest you have to find out for yourself. Have a nice evening, Trooper.’

‘Thanks, boss. Same to you.’

In fact, all of them made it back, though by very different means. Boney Maronie and Peter Welsh marched until they came to a main road – an hour’s difficult hike in itself – then simply hitched a lift from a Malay banker whose journey home took him straight past the camp. Dennis the Menace and Dead-eye Dick had checked the direction of their journey in the Bedford, so they simply used the moon to give them an east-west reference and used that to guide them back the way they had come. After a walk that took them well past midnight, they came to a kampong where the headman, obviously delighted to have a chat with strangers, gave them dinner then drove them back to the base, depositing them there two hours before first light. Alf Laughton, dropped off with a recently badged trooper, formerly of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers, became disgusted with his young partner, deliberately lost him, then waylaid a passing cyclist, beat him unconscious, stole his bicycle and cycled most of the way back. Just before reaching the main gate of the camp, he dumped the bicycle and walked the rest of the way, thus ensuring that neither the assault nor the theft could be traced back to him.

Others did even worse than Alf Laughton and, being found out, were RTU’d, as was Laughton’s unfortunate young partner.

The rest, getting back successfully without committing any known criminal act, collapsed immediately on their beds and slept as long as they could. The ones who had the longest sleep were Boney Maronie and Pete Welsh, who had managed to get back two hours after leaving, earning almost a whole night in a proper bed.

Few others were so lucky. Typical were Dennis the Menace and Dead-eye Dick, who, having not slept since leaving England nearly twenty-six hours earlier, managed to get two hours sleep before Reveille, at first light. After that, the whole murderous routine was repeated again – for seven relentless, soul-destroying days.

All of this was merely a build-up to Johore, where, so Sergeant Lorrimer assured them, the ‘real’ jungle training would be done.

Johore loomed like a nightmare of the kind that only this breed of man could fully understand and hope to deal with.