Читать книгу Headhunters of Borneo - Shaun Clarke, Shaun Clarke - Страница 7

Selected as one team were Sergeant Parker, Corporals Welsh and Laughton, Private Malkin, all of D Squadron, and A Squadron’s Corporal Sanderson, who would be their general guide and adviser, both in the jungle and regarding their relationship with the Dyaks.

After their day of rest, which took the form of a lengthy booze-up in the NAAFI, they arose at first light to shower, shave, dress, have a hearty breakfast, then get kitted out with proper jungle wear. This included ‘olive-greens’; a soft, peaked hat with sweat-band and a yellow marker inside for identification; and rubber-and-canvas jungle boots with a metal plate inserted in the sole to prevent sharp objects, such as vicious punji stakes, going through the sole and into the foot. The kit consisted of ammunition pouches; two external water bottles; and the usual bergen rucksack including, in this instance, a useful bamboo carrier, two spare water bottles, a rolled-up sleeping bag, canvas sheeting and camouflaged hessian for setting up a temporary ‘basha’, and an escape belt holding high-calorie rations, hexamine fuel blocks, a fishing line and hooks, a small knife, waterproofed matches, a button-compass and a small-scale map.

Private Malkin was given a standard-issue Armalite M16 5.56mm assault rifle with 20-round box magazine, Corporal Sanderson opted for the generally less popular 7.62mm SLR, which he insisted he was used to, and the rest selected the 7.62mm Armalite assault rifle, which was light and compact, and therefore ideally suited to the jungle. Each man was also given a good supply of ‘36’ hand-grenades and ‘80’ white-phosphorus incendiary grenades, which were clipped to the webbed belts around their chests and waist. All of them were also given a standard-issue 9mm Browning High Power handgun with 13-round magazines and a Len Dixon holster. They were also given two knives, a Fairburn-Sykes commando knife and a parang.

‘Shit,’ Terry said, swinging the Malay jungle knife experimentally from left to right, ‘this thing looks pretty dangerous.’

‘We first had these in Malaya,’ Alf told him, ‘and a lot of us badly cut ourselves while learning to use them. It isn’t as easy as it looks, so handle that item with care, kid.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Terry clipped the sheathed parang to his belt, beside the commando knife. ‘I feel as heavy as an elephant with all this gear.’

‘You’ll soon get used to it, Trooper.’

Though every member of the four-man patrol had been trained in signals, demolition and medicine, and was presently undergoing training in the local language, each individual had to specialize in one of these skills. Trained to Regimental Signaller standard in Morse code and ciphers, the team’s specialist signaller was responsible for calling in aerial resup (resupply) missions, casualty evacuations and keeping contact with base. While all had been trained in demolition work, the team’s specialist in this field was responsible for either supervising, or carrying out, major sabotage operations. The job of the language specialist was to converse with the locals, to both gain their trust as part of the hearts-and-minds campaign and gather any information he could glean from them. Last but not least, the specialist in medicine would not only look after the other members of his patrol but also attempt to win the trust of the locals by treating them for any illnesses, real or imagined, that they might complain of.

As the team’s demolition expert, Pete Welsh was placed in charge of their single crate of mixed explosives, mostly of the plastic type such as RDX and PETN, along with both kinds of initiator: electrical and non-electrical, with the relevant firing caps and time fuses. As signaller, Terry was not asked to depend on his Celtic clairvoyance but instead was given an A41 British Army tactical radio set, which weighed 11lb excluding the battery and was carried in a backpack. Each of the men was supplied with a SARBE (surface-to-air rescue beacon) lightweight radio beacon to enable them to link up with CasEvac helicopters should the need arise.

Having been trained in first-aid and basic medicine, each man in the patrol was obliged to carry an individual medical pack that included codeine tablets and syrettes of morphine; mild and strong antiseptics (gentian violet and neomycin sulphate); chalk and opium for diarrhoea and other intestinal disorders; the antibiotic tetracycline; and an assortment of dressings and plasters. However, as the team’s medical specialist, more extensively trained with the US Army’s special forces at Fort Sam, Houston, Texas, and Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Alf was in charge of a comprehensive medical pack that included all the above items, but also a greater selection of drugs and dressings, as well as surgical equipment and a dental repair kit.

‘I wouldn’t let that butcher near my mouth,’ Pete said, ‘if my teeth were hanging out by the roots. I’d rather pull ’em myself.’

‘Any more sarcastic remarks,’ Alf retorted, ‘and I’ll practise my surgery on your balls instead of your teeth. I’m pretty good when it comes to the cut and thrust, so don’t cross me, mate.’

‘Another mad doctor,’ Pete replied. ‘We should call you Sukarno.’

As the team’s linguist, Dead-eye carried the lightest load. But once in the jungle, which was usually known by the native word ulu, he would compensate for this by being out front on ‘point’, as scout – the most dangerous and demanding job of them all.

Sanderson, as their guest, or rather guide, carried only his personal weapons and kit.

Kitted out just after breakfast, the men were then compelled to spend the rest of the long, hot morning on the firing range, testing the weapons and honing their skills. This was not as easy as it sounds, for the heat soon became suffocating, sweat ran constantly down their foreheads and into their eyes when they took aim, and they often choked on the dust kicked up by the backblast of the weapons. On top of all this, they were tormented by the usual swarms of flies and mosquitoes.

‘I give up,’ Alf said. ‘I can’t even see along the sights with these clouds of bloody insects everywhere. Let’s just call it a day.’

‘Get back on your belly on the ground,’ Dead-eye said. ‘And don’t get up till I say so.’

‘Yes, Sarge!’ Alf snapped.

They came off the firing range covered in a fine slime composed of their own sweat and the dust. After a refreshing shower, they washed the clothes they had used on the firing range, hung them up to drip dry in the still-rising heat, dressed in their spare set of olive-greens, then hurried to the mess for lunch. This was followed by an afternoon of lessons about the history, geography and culture of Borneo, with particular emphasis on the border between Sarawak and Kalimantan, where most of their operations would take place.

By the time the lessons had ended, in the late afternoon, the men’s clothes had dried and could be ironed (which they did themselves), then packed away in the bergens. When their packing was completed, they had dinner in the mess, followed by precisely one hour in the bar, which ensured that they could not drink too much.

Back in the spider, or sleeping quarters, each man had to take his place beside his bed, while Dead-eye inspected his kit and weapons, ensuring that no bergen was too heavy and that the weapons were immaculately clean and in perfect working order. Satisfied, he told them to be up and ready to leave by first light the following morning, then bid them goodnight and left the barracks.

When Dead-eye had gone Terry exhaled with an audible sigh. ‘Blimey!’ he almost gasped. ‘That Sergeant Parker scares the hell out of me. He’s so bloody expressionless.’

‘A born killer,’ Alf said gravely.

‘Heart of stone,’ Pete added.

‘He eats new boys like you for breakfast,’ Alf warned. ‘I’d be careful if I was you.’

‘Aw, come on, lads!’ Terry protested, not sure if they were serious or not. ‘I mean…’

‘Never look him directly in the eye,’ Pete said firmly.

‘Never speak to him unless spoken to,’ Alf chipped in.

‘If you see him take a deep breath,’ Pete continued, ‘hold onto your balls.’

‘He’ll bite them off otherwise,’ Alf said, ‘then spit them out in your face.’

‘Leave off, you two!’

‘It’s the truth,’ Pete said.

‘Cross our hearts,’ Alf added. ‘Old Parker, he’d cut your throat as soon as look at you, so it’s best to avoid him.’

‘How can I avoid him?’ Terry asked. ‘He’s our patrol leader, for God’s sake! I mean, he’s going to be there every minute, breathing right in my face.’

‘And he does so hate new troopers,’ Pete said. ‘You can take that as read.’

‘You poor bastard,’ Alf said.

Terry was starting to look seriously worried when Alf, able to control himself no longer, rolled over on his bed to smother his laughter in his pillow.

‘Night-night,’ Pete said chirpily, then he switched out the lights.

At dawn the next morning, after a hurried breakfast, they were driven in a Bedford RL 4×4 three-ton lorry to the airfield, where they transferred to a stripped-out Wessex Mark 1 helicopter piloted by Lieutenant Ralph Ellis of the Army Air Corps. Some of them knew Ellis from Malaya five years before, when he had flown them into the Telok Anson swamp in his Sikorsky S-55 Whirlwind.

‘You men haven’t aged a day,’ Ellis greeted them. ‘You always looked like a bunch of geriatrics.’

‘Listen who’s talking,’ Pete countered. ‘Nice little bald spot you’ve developed in five years. Soon you’ll be nothing but ears and head while we remain beautiful.’

‘The girls still love the pilots,’ Ellis replied. ‘They don’t view us as hooligans in uniform. They think we have class.’

‘And what’s this?’ Alf asked, poking Ellis in the stomach with his forefinger. ‘A nice bit of flab here.’

‘It’s the easy life the bastard lives,’ Pete informed his mate. ‘He’ll soon look like a cute little blancmange with a billiard ball on top.’

‘Very funny, I’m sure,’ Ellis replied. ‘Just get your fat arses in the chopper, thanks.’

‘Yes, mother!’ Alf and Pete replied as one, grinning wickedly as they clambered into the Wessex, followed by the others. Once inside, the men strapped themselves in, cramped together among the mass of equipment. The engines roared into life and the props started spinning. The helicopter shuddered as if about to fall apart, rose vertically until it was well above the treetops, then headed west, flying over a breathtaking panorama of densely forested hills and mountain peaks, winding rivers, waterfalls, swamps, aerial bridges and shadowy, winding paths through the ulu.

‘That jungle looks impenetrable from here,’ Terry observed, glancing down through the window in disbelief.

‘In many places it is,’ Alf replied, ‘but we’ll manage somehow.’

Twenty minutes later the Wessex landed in a jungle clearing and the men disembarked, to be greeted by another member of A Squadron, Sergeant Alan Hunt. Dropped on his own a week ago, he was living in the clearing, close to a stone-filled, gurgling river, his basha a poncho pegged diagonally from the lowest branch of a tree to the ground with his kit piled neatly up inside. Hunt was wearing jungle-green trousers and a loose shirt that seemed far too big for him. A Browning High Power handgun was holstered on his hip.

‘Hi, boss,’ Sanderson said, shaking the sergeant’s hand. ‘Boy, have you lost a lot of weight already!’

The sergeant grinned and shrugged. ‘Three stone fell off me just living here for two weeks. You’ll all look the same soon enough.’ He indicated the clearing with a wave of his right hand and all of them, glancing around at the oblique beams of sunlight streaking the gloom, realized just how hot and humid it was. ‘Ditch your gear and fix up your bashas. This is home for the next week or so. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. When you’re ready, gather around my lean-to and I’ll tell you what’s happening.’

When the helicopter had taken off again and its slipstream had died down, the men followed Hunt’s example by constructing triangular shelters with their waterproof ponchos, first hammering two Y-shaped sticks into the ground about six feet apart, running a length of rope between them and tying the rope tight, then draping the poncho over the rope and pegging the ends down to form a triangular tent. A groundsheet was rolled out inside the tent and covered with dry grass to make a mattress. A sleeping bag was then rolled out on the grass to make a soft bed. All of the lean-tos were well hidden by clumps of bamboo and screened from above by the soaring trees.

When their kit had been placed carefully around the inner edges of the tent, the men lit their hexamine stoves outside and brewed up. They drank their tea gathered around Hunt, hearing what he had been up to since arriving there a fortnight earlier.

‘As most of you know,’ he began, ‘when waging our hearts-and-minds campaign in Malaya, we transplanted the aboriginals from their original kampongs into new, fortified villages, well out of reach of the CTs. Given the nature of the locals, as well as the terrain, there’s no possibility of doing that here. In any case, most of the tribesmen are well disposed towards the British and we have to capitalize on that by relying on non-violent persuasion and using them where they live, rather than attempting to move them on. To this end I’ve already made contact with the elders of the nearby kampong, which is about five minutes from here.’

He pointed at the dense jungle to his left.

‘My first step towards penetration was to build this hide within walking distance of the kampong. From here, I kept the village under observation long enough to ensure that neither guerrillas nor Indonesian regulars were already established there. Once I was sure that they weren’t, I walked in, all smiles, and made contact through a combination of basic Malay and sign language. Gradually, they came to accept me and I started helping them with modest medical aid and by bartering some of my possessions for some of theirs. Now that I’ve been accepted, I can introduce you as friends and hopefully you’ll win their trust the same way, gradually becoming part of the village and sharing their lifestyle. Once that’s been accomplished, we’ll persuade them that our other friends should be invited in, too. If they agree, we can then call in the regular Army and Gurkhas – all one big happy family. We then use the village as a Forward Operating Base, moving out on regular patrols into the ulu, hopefully with the help of the villagers.’

‘What are they like as people?’ Dead-eye asked.

‘Physically small, generally cheerful, and lazy.’

‘Sounds just like me!’ Pete quipped.

‘They don’t cut their hair,’ Hunt continued, ignoring the quip. ‘Nor do they dress above the waist – neither the men nor the women – so you’ll have to learn not to let the females distract you too much.’

‘I’m willing to die for my country,’ Alf said, ‘but what you’re asking is too much.’

‘I’m very serious about this,’ Hunt said sharply. ‘Certain proprieties have to be maintained here, no matter how you might feel to the contrary. For instance, the village elders have a tendency to offer their daughters as a gesture of goodwill. You won’t get into trouble if you politely refuse. However, you may get into trouble if you accept.’

‘My heart’s breaking already,’ Pete said. ‘I know just what’s coming.’

‘Although, as I’ve said, the natives are generally cheerful, the young men suffer jealousy like the rest of us mere mortals and could take offence if you take their girls. In short, if you receive such an offer, make sure you refuse.’

‘What kind of gifts should we give them?’ Terry asked, as solemn as ever.

‘You don’t. Generally speaking, the Malay system of giving gifts doesn’t work here, though bartering of a minor nature is enjoyed. Instead, what you do is be mindful of their pride, showing tact, courtesy, understanding and, most of all, patience regarding all aspects of their lifestyle. Also, it’s vitally important that you show respect for the headman, whose dignity and prestige have to be upheld at all times. Obey those few simple rules and you should have no problems.’

‘So when do we start?’ Dead-eye asked.

‘Today,’ Hunt replied. ‘At least one man has to stay here to guard the camp at all times – this will be a rotating duty – while the others go into the kampong. As Corporal Sanderson is already familiar with the Indians, he’ll stay here today and the rest of you can come in with me. Leave your weapons here in Sanderson’s care, then let’s get up and go.’

‘We’re going straight away?’ Terry asked, looking uneasy.

‘That’s right, Trooper. What’s your problem?’

‘He’s embarrassed at the thought of seeing all those bare boobs,’ Pete said, making Terry blush a deep crimson.

‘Cherry-boy, is he?’ Hunt asked crisply.

‘No!’ Terry replied too quickly. ‘I’m not. I just…’

‘Think you’ll get a hard-on as soon as you see those bare tits,’ Pete interjected, giving form to Terry’s thoughts. ‘Well, no harm in that, son!’

‘Just keep your thoughts above the waist – yours, that is,’ the sergeant said, ‘and you should be all right. OK, men, let’s go.’

As Sanderson stretched out on the grassy ground beside his basha and lit up a cigarette, the others extinguished the flames from the burning hexamine blocks in their portable cookers, then followed Hunt into the dense undergrowth. Surprisingly, they found themselves walking along a narrow, twisting path, barely distinguishable in the gloom beneath the overhanging foliage.

Terry, the least experienced in the group, immediately felt oppressed and disorientated by the ulu. He had stepped into a vast silence that made his own breathing – even his heartbeat – seem unnaturally loud. Instead of the riot of birds, wildlife, flowers and natural colours he had expected, he found only a sunless gloom deepened by the dark green and brown of vine stems, tree-ferns, snake-like coils of rattan, an abundance of large and small palms, long, narrow, dangerously spiked leaves, gnarled, knotted branches – and everywhere brown mud. Glancing up from the featureless jungle, he was oppressed even more by the sheer size of the trees which soared above the dense foliage to dizzying heights, forming vertical tunnels of green and brown, the great trunks entangled in yet more liana and vine, disappearing into the darkness of their own canopy, blotting out the sunlight.

Looking up, Terry felt even more dizzy and disorientated. In that great silent and featureless gloom, he felt divorced from his own flesh and blood. His racing heart shocked him.

Though the hike took only five minutes, it seemed much longer than that, and Terry sighed with relief when the group emerged into the relative brightness of an unreal grey light that fell down through a window in the canopy of the trees on the thatched longhouses of the kampong spread out around the muddy banks of the river. The dwellings were raised on stilts, piled up one behind the other, each slightly above the other, on the wooded slopes climbing up from the river. Some, Terry noticed with a tremor, had shrunken human heads strung above their doors. The spaces below and between the houses, where the ground had been cleared for cultivation, were filled with the Iban villagers – also known as Sea Dyaks because they had once been pirates – who, stripped to the waist, male and female, young and old, were engaged in a variety of tasks, such as cooking, fishing, laundering, picking jungle fruit – figs, durians, bananas and mangos – or working in a small, dry padi, where their basic food, rice and tapioca, was grown. This they did with no great expenditure of energy, except when playing odd games and giggling. Their longboats were tied up to a long, rickety jetty, bobbing and creaking noisily in the water. Buffalo and pigs also congregated there, drinking the water or eating the tall grass as chickens squawked noisily about them.

‘They fish in that river,’ Hunt explained. ‘They also hunt wild pig, deer, birds, monkeys and other animals, using traps and the odd shotgun, but mostly blowpipes that fire poisoned arrows. Annoy them and they’ll fire them at you – so don’t steal their women!’

Terry was blushing deeply, Pete and Alf were gawping, and Dead-eye was staring impassively as a group of bare-breasted women, giggling and nudging each other, approached behind a very old, wizened man who was naked except for a loincloth and, incongruously, a pair of British army jungle boots. Obviously the headman, he raised a withered arm, spread the fingers of his hand, and croaked the one word of English he had learned from Sergeant Hunt: ‘Welcome!’

Two weeks later, Terry had stopped blushing at the sight of the bare-breasted women, but felt even more disorientated and removed from himself. This had begun with his first short trek through the awesome silence and gloom of the ulu, but was deepened by his daily visits to the kampong and his increasingly intimate interaction with the Ibans. They were so gentle and good-natured that he could not imagine them as pirates, let alone as the headhunters they obviously were, judging by the shrunken heads on prominent display. Certainly, however, they lived a primitive life of fishing in the rivers, hunting animals with blowpipes, tilling the kampong’s one rice-and-tapioca padi, and constantly maintaining their longhouses with raw materials from the jungle. They also engaged in amiable barter, trading jungle products such as timber, rattan, rice, tapioca, fruit, fish, even the swiftlet’s nests used for Chinese soup, in return for clothes, boots, rifles, tins of baked beans, chewing gum and cigarettes. Bartering, from the point of view of the SAS troopers, was the easiest way to the affections of the villagers, leading to much giggling and backslapping.

Once this had become commonplace, however, the men started winning the hearts and minds of the Ibans in other ways: Pete showed them how to use explosives for various small tasks, such as blowing fish out of the water; Alf ran a daily open-air clinic to deal with their real and imagined illnesses; Terry entertained them by tuning his shortwave radio into various stations, which invariably reduced them to excited giggles; Dead-eye trained some of them in the selective use of weapons; and Hunt and Sanderson took turns with Dead-eye to teach English to the more important men of the kampong.

The SAS men spent most of their waking hours with the Ibans, which made for a long and exhausting day. Invariably, this began at first light when, just after breakfast, they would make the short hike through the ulu from their hidden camp to the kampong. After an average of twelve hours in the kampong, eating their lunch with the Ibans, they would make their way back to the camp, invariably at last light and concealing their tracks as they went, to have a brew-up and feed gratefully off compo rations.

The Ibans were very sociable, and often, in the interests of good manners and improved relations, the troopers would be obliged to stay in one of the longhouses to partake of native hospitality. For all of them, this was pure torture, particularly since the villagers’ favourite meal was a stinking mess called jarit, which they made by splitting a length of thick bamboo, filling it with raw pork, salt and rice, and burying it for a month until it had putrefied. Indeed, while Dead-eye and Hunt were able to digest this stinking mess without bother, the others could only do so without throwing up by washing it down with mouthfuls of tapai, a fierce rice wine which looked like unfermented cider, scalded the throat and led to monumental hangovers. Nevertheless, when drunk through straws from large Chinese jars, it was potent enough to drown the stench and foul taste of the jarit.

The eating and drinking, combined with the accompanying entertainments, in which the SAS men were obliged to dance for the villagers, was made no easier by the fact that many families shared a single longhouse and the air was fetid not only from their sweat and the heat. Also, because they used the floor as a communal toilet, urinating and defecating through the slatted floor onto the ground below, the pungent air was thick at all times with swarms of flies and mosquitoes.

Luckily for the SAS men, they were called upon to explore the surrounding area and fill in the blank spaces on their maps, showing waterways suitable for boat navigation, tracks that could be classified as main or secondary, distances both in linear measurements and marching hours, contours and accessibility of specific areas, primary and secondary jungle (belukar), and swamps, and areas under cultivation (ladang). They also filled their logbooks with often seemingly irrelevant, though actually vitally important, details about the locals’ habits and customs, their food, their state of health, the variety of their animals, their weapons and their individual measure of importance within the community. Last but not least, they marked down potential ambush positions, border crossing-points, and suitable locations for parachute droppings and helicopter landings. While this work was all conducted in the suffocating humidity of the ulu, it was preferable to socializing in the fetid longhouses.

By the end of the two weeks, close relationships had been formed between the villagers and the SAS men, with the former willing to listen to the latter and do favours for them.

‘The time’s come to bring in the regular troops and fortify the kampong,’ Sergeant Hunt informed Dead-eye. ‘Then we can go out on proper jungle patrols, using the village as our FOB.’

‘Do you think the locals will wear it?’

‘That depends entirely on how we put it to them,’ Hunt said with a relaxed grin. ‘I think I know how to do that. First we tell them that evil men from across the mountain are coming and that we’re here to protect the village. Then we explain that although our group is only five in number, we have many friends who’ll descend from the sky, bringing aid. It would be particularly helpful, we’ll then explain, if the necessary space could be created for the flying soldiers to land safely. I think that might work.’

‘Let’s try it,’ Dead-eye said.

That afternoon they approached the village elders, joining them in the headman’s longhouse, where they were compelled to partake of the foul-smelling jarit, mercifully washing it down with the scalding, highly alcoholic rice wine. After four hours of small talk, by which time both troopers were feeling drunk, Hunt put his case to the headman and received a toothless, drunken smile and nod of agreement. The headman then also agreed to have a landing space cleared for the flying soldiers to land on. Indeed, he and the others expressed great excitement at the thought of witnessing this heavenly arrival.

Immediately on leaving the longhouse, Hunt, trying not to show his drunkenness, told Terry to call up A Squadron and ask them to implement the ‘step-up’ technique devised by their brilliant commander, Major Peter de la Billière. This entailed warning a full infantry company to be ready to move by helicopter to a remote forward location for a demonstration of quick deployment and firepower.

The following day, when Hunt and Dead-eye were sober, the tribesmen expertly felled a large number of trees with small, flexible axes, dragged them away with ropes, then flattened the cleared area, thus carving a helicopter landing zone out of the jungle. When they had completed this task and were waiting excitedly around the edge of the LZ for the arrival of the ‘flying soldiers’, Hunt ordered Terry to radio the message: ‘Bring in the step-up party now.’ About fifteen minutes later the helicopters appeared above the treetops, creating a tremendous din and a sea of swirling foliage, before descending vertically into the clearing and disgorging many small, sombre Gurkhas, all armed with sharpened kukris, or curved machetes, and modern weapons. The next wave of choppers brought in Royal Marine Commandos, the regular Army, and the remainder of D Squadron, SAS, all of whom were armed to the teeth.

The Ibans giggled, shrieked with excitement, and finally applauded with waves and the swinging of their blowpipes. They viewed the arrival of the Security Forces as pure entertainment.