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With the arrival of the full Security Forces complement, the fortification of the kampong was soon accomplished and it became, in effect, a Forward Operating Base complete with landing pads for the resup Wessex Mark 1 helicopters; riverside sangars manned with Bren light machine-guns and Gurkhas armed with 7.62mm SLRs; and defensive pits, or ‘hedgehogs’, encircled by thatch-and-bamboo-covered 40-gallon drums, bristling with 4.2-inch mortars and 7.62mm general-purpose machine-guns, or GPMGs.

The bartering of portable radios, simple medical aid and other items beloved by the villagers rapidly ensured that the SF troops became a welcome body of men within the community – so much so that eventually the natives were making endless requests for helicopter trips to outlying kampongs and help with the transportation to market, also by chopper, of their rice and tapioca, timber and even pigs and chickens. In short, they came to rely more on the soldiers and airmen than on their own civilian administration.

‘Like living in fucking Petticoat Lane,’ Alf said. ‘If you don’t know how to barter you’re doomed. A right bunch of Jew-boys, this lot are.’

‘Jew-boys in loincloths,’ Pete added. ‘With long hair and a lot of weird tattoos. They’d look pretty normal in the East End, peddling their wares.’

‘Do you mind?’ Terry said.

‘What’s that, Trooper?’ Pete asked.

‘I don’t think you should use terms like “Jew-boys”. I think it’s offensive.’

‘But you’re Irish!’ Alf exclaimed.

‘Just born there,’ Terry corrected him.

‘If you were born there, that makes you fucking Irish, so don’t come it with me, Pat.’

‘Don’t call me Pat.’

‘His name’s Paddy,’ Pete exclaimed.

‘He must be an Irish Jew,’ Alf responded, ‘to be so concerned about this lot.’

‘I’m not Jewish,’ Terry said. ‘I’m not really Irish either. I just happened to be born there, that’s all, but my family moved to Liverpool when I was three, so I don’t know any more about Ireland than you two. I’m not Irish, really, and I’m certainly not a Jew. I just dislike anti-Semitism, that’s all.’

‘The cocky bastard’s just picked up his winged dagger and already he thinks he can give us lectures. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ said Pete.

‘I just meant…’ began Terry.

‘Don’t worry, kid,’ Alf said in his kindly manner, ‘we’re not remotely offended. We just think you’re a dumb prat.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Pete agreed.

Despite the sentiments of Alf and Pete, the SAS troopers, being already experienced in hearts-and-minds work, were very skilled at it. Major Callaghan, who loved life in the jungle and had revelled in kampong life ever since his Malayan days, made his contribution by flying out, at his own expense, hampers of Christmas food from Fortnum and Mason’s of London, to supply the natives. Not surprisingly, Pete’s only comment was: ‘They eat better than we do. Spoiled rotten those Indians are.’

‘Fortnum and Mason’s, no less!’ Alf exclaimed, his normally pink cheeks more flushed than normal. ‘And here we poor bastards sit, getting sick on raw pork and tapioca. Makes you want to puke, doesn’t it?’

Sergeant Hunt, on the other hand, being of a practical bent, made his personal contribution to village life by constructing a water-powered generator to provide the only electric light in thousands of square miles. This thrilled the villagers.

Not to be outdone, Corporal Sanderson, whose four-day trek through the jungle after the attack on Long Jawi the previous year had already gained him a great deal of respect among his fellow SAS troopers, dismantled his bergen and converted its metal frame into a still for making alcohol.

‘He may be from A Squadron,’ Pete said, ‘but he’s all right with me. Any man who can make a still from a rucksack has to be A1.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Alf replied, sampling the brew from Sanderson’s still. ‘But then I’ll drink to anything!’

While most of the men clearly enjoyed making such contributions to village life, they never lost sight of precisely why they were making them: to win the hearts and minds of the Ibans, and persuade them to favour the SF forces over those of President Sukarno or the CCO. The message that accompanied their contributions was therefore always the same.

‘The Indonesians and the CCO are on the other side of the mountains and one day they’ll cross them to destroy you,’ Dead-eye, the language specialist, would solemnly inform the locals in their own tongue. ‘We are here to protect you.’

Once they had managed to convince the villagers of this, the SAS men were able to convince them also that they must help themselves by staying alert for anything unusual seen in the ulu.

‘Particularly the marks of rubber-soled boots,’ Hunt explained to them. ‘The sign of the Indo invader. If you see those, please tell us.’

‘Yes, yes,’ the village elders promised, perhaps not quite understanding what they were being asked to do. ‘We understand. Welcome!’

They did, however, know enough to understand that they were receiving the good things of life from people who feared the Indonesians and CCO. For that reason, when asked if they could select certain of their number to be ‘link-men’ with the soldiers, they were quick to comply. Callaghan then placed those selected as link-men in the charge of the Gurkhas, who trained them in the use of certain weapons, but mainly used their natural talents for tracking and intelligence-gathering in the jungle. Though called the Border Scouts, like those who had gone before them, they were not destined to be used as fighting soldiers, but as aids on the reconnaissance and intelligence-gathering missions. Given modern weapons to carry – mostly World War Two 0.3-inch M1 carbines – they were more than happy to take part.

‘They love those fucking rifles,’ Pete observed, ‘but they forget to keep them out of your face when they’re loading and cocking.’

‘Too right,’ his mate Alf agreed. ‘If they actually get to shoot the bloody things, they’ll be shooting themselves.’

‘Or us,’ Pete replied.

‘In the meantime,’ Terry said, ‘I’m keeping out of their way.’