Guerrillas in the Jungle
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.
3
The troopers coped with the forthcoming nightmare of Johore by fantasizing about the great time they would have when they were given the mandatory weekend off and could spend it on the island of Penang. This fantasy was fuelled by the stories of Alf Laughton, who, having been in Malaya before, when serving with the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, still recalled vividly his wild evenings in George Town, with its trishaws, taxis, steaming food stalls, colourful markets and bazaars, sleazy bars, grand hotels and, of course, incredibly beautiful Eurasian women in sexy cheongsams.
Alf Laughton had the rest of them salivating.
The first seven days, which seemed like seven years, ended on a Friday and most of them, though exhausted beyond what they could have imagined, were looking forward to their great weekend in Penang, after their briefing by Major Pryce-Jones, which took place, helpfully, at six in the evening, when the sun was going down and the humid air was cooling.
‘First, a bit of background,’ Pryce-Jones began. He was standing on a raised section of the floor at one end of the room, in front of a large map of Malaya. Captain Callaghan was seated in a chair to the side of the raised area. In the week he had been back, he had already put on weight and was looking more his normal, healthy self. ‘The Communist Party has existed here in a small way since the 1930s,’ Pryce-Jones continued, ‘when this was a prosperous place. Unfortunately, we then made the mistake of arming the Communist guerrillas during the war, to enable them to fight the Japanese. It never entered our heads that after the war those same weapons would be turned against us. In the event, they were. Once the guerrilla supremo, Chin Peng, had been awarded an OBE in the Victory Honours, he formed his 1,200 wartime guerrillas into ten regiments and used his 4,000 captured British and Japanese weapons to mount a campaign of terror against the Malays. They publicly executed rubber plantation workers, lectured the horrified onlookers on the so-called war against Imperialism, then melted back into the jungle.’
After pausing to let his words sink in, Pryce-Jones tapped the blackboard beside the map, where someone had scrawled in white chalk: ‘Kill one, frighten a thousand: Sun-Zu.’
‘These are the words of the old Chinese warrior Sun-Zu, and Chin Peng’s guerrillas live by them. For this reason, once they had struck terror into the hearts of the Malays, they turned on the Europeans, mostly British plantation managers. Two were bound to chairs and ritually murdered. After that, the war escalated dramatically and British forces were brought in.’
Pryce-Jones put the pointer down and turned away from the blackboard. ‘By early 1950, the Communist Terrorists had killed over 800 civilians, over 300 police officers and approximately 150 soldiers. We can take comfort from the fact that over 1,000 CT have been killed, over 600 have been captured, and nearly 400 have surrendered so far. Nevertheless, there’s no sign of an end to the war, which is why you men are here.’
‘Lucky us!’ Dennis the Menace exclaimed, copping a couple of laughs.
‘The CT attacks,’ Pryce-Jones continued when the laughter had died away, ‘are mostly against kampongs, isolated police stations, telecommunications, railways, buses, rubber estates, tin mines, and what they term the “running dogs of the British” – namely, us, the Security Forces. British infantry, however, with the help of Gurkha and police patrols, have managed to cut off food supplies going to the CT in the jungle. They’ve also booby-trapped supplies of rice, fish and other foods found prepared for collection by the CT. With the removal of over 400 Chinese squatters’ villages from the edge of the jungle to wire-fenced enclosures defended by us, the CT have been deprived of yet another source of food, supplies and manpower. For this reason, they’ve moved deeper into the jungle, known to them as the ulu, where they’re attempting to grow their own maize, rice and vegetables. In order to do this, they have to make cleared spaces in the ulu – and those spaces can be seen from the air. Unfortunately, it takes foot patrols days, sometimes weeks, to reach them. Which is where you come in.’
‘Here it comes!’ Boney Maronie chimed.
‘The hard sell,’ Dennis the Menace added.
‘All right, you men, be quiet,’ Sergeant Lorrimer told them. ‘We don’t have all night for this.’
Looking forward to the first evening of their free weekend, which most would spend in Penang, the men could only agree with Sergeant Lorrimer, and settled down quickly.
‘To win the cooperation of the local tribesmen,’ Pryce-Jones continued, ‘we established a number of protected kampongs. Attracted by free food and medical treatment, as well as by the idea of protection from the atrocities of the CT, the tribesmen gradually moved into the kampongs and set up their bashas next to those of our troops. Medical supplies were dropped by the RAF and treatment given by doctors and Royal Army Medical Corps NCOs attached to the SAS. Once an individual settlement was established with a full quota of tribesmen, it became permanent and was placed under the control of the police or Malayan security forces. We’d then move on to build another elsewhere until we had a whole chain of such “forts” down the centre of the country, effectively controlling the area, keeping the terrorists out.’
‘The hearts-and-minds campaign,’ young Dead-eye said, having already done his homework.
‘Correct. The campaign was successful in winning the trust of the tribesmen. They responded by becoming our eyes and ears in the ulu, passing on information on the whereabouts and movements of the CT.’
‘So what’s our place in all this?’ Boney Maronie asked.
‘You’ll be called upon to be part of patrols based for long periods in the jungle,’ Pryce-Jones replied. ‘There you’ll make contact with the aboriginals, the Sakai, who’re being coerced by the terrorists into providing them with food. Once contact is made, you’ll attempt to win their trust by supplying them with penicillin and other medicines, by defending their kampongs from the CT and in any other way you can.’
‘Bloody nursemaids again!’ Dennis the Menace groaned.
‘Is staying for long periods in the jungle feasible for anyone other than the aboriginals?’ Dead-eye asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ Captain Callaghan said. ‘It’s a daunting task, but it can be done. Indeed, at a time when seven days was considered the absolute limit for white men, one of our Scout patrols spent 103 days in there. The CC’ – Callaghan nodded in the direction of Major Pryce-Jones – ‘has spent six months alone in the ulu and, as you know, I’ve just returned from a three-month hike through it. So it can be done.’
‘If the Ruperts can do it,’ Alf Laughton said, using the SAS nickname for officers, ‘then I reckon we can too.’
‘As Trooper Dudbridge has expressed his disdain for the hearts-and-minds side of the operation,’ Pryce-Jones cut in, ‘I should inform you that your main task will be to assist the Malay Police Field Force at kampongs and in jungle-edge patrols. You’ll also send out small patrols from your jungle base to ambush the CT on the tracks they use to get to and from their hide-outs.’
‘That sounds more like it,’ Pete Welsh said, grinning as his wild blue eyes flashed from left to right and back again. ‘Doing what we’ve been trained to do.’
‘You’ve also been trained in hearts-and-minds tactics,’ Sergeant Lorrimer reminded him, ‘so don’t ever forget it.’
‘Sorry, boss,’ Welsh replied, grinning lopsidedly and rolling his eyes at his mates. ‘No offence intended.’
‘Good.’ Lorrimer turned away from him and spoke to Major Pryce-Jones instead. ‘Will we be engaged only in jungle-edge patrols?’
‘No,’ Captain Callaghan replied after receiving the nod from Pryce-Jones. ‘It’s true that in the past we’ve avoided deep-penetration raids, but because of the increasing success of our food-denial operations, the CT are now heading deeper into the ulu. Unfortunately for them, in order to grow their own food they have to fell trees and make clearings. As our Company Commander has rightly pointed out, such clearings can be spotted from the air, which means they’re vulnerable to attack. We’ll therefore attack them. We’ll do so by parachuting – or tree-jumping, which you’re about to learn – into a confined Dropping Zone near the area. Then we’ll place a cordon around the clearing. It won’t be easy and certainly it will be dangerous, but in the end we’ll win.’
‘We’re going to parachute into the jungle?’ Alf Laughton asked, sounding doubtful.
‘Yes,’ Captain Callaghan answered. ‘If I can do it, anyone can do it – and believe me, I’ve done it.’
‘Is that one of the things we’ll learn in Johore?’
‘Correct,’ Callaghan replied.
‘I can’t wait,’ Pete Welsh said sarcastically. ‘The top of a tree right through my nuts. I’ll be back in the boys’ choir.’
‘Assuming that Trooper Welsh doesn’t lose his precious nuts on a tree,’ Sergeant Lorrimer said, ‘and we all make it down to the DZ in one piece, what problems can we expect to find in that terrain?’
‘Most of the country is dense and mountainous jungle,’ Captain Callaghan replied, ‘considered habitable only by aboriginal peoples, such as the Sakai. The hill contours make for steep, slippery climbs, while the routes off the paths are dense with trees that can trip you up and break your ankles. Nevertheless, as the few paths are likely to be mined or ambushed, you’ll have to avoid them and instead move over uncharted ground. The terrorists have a network of jungle informers and will be using them to keep track of your movements, which will help them either to attack or avoid you. Finding them before they find you won’t be made any easier by the difficulties of navigating in the jungle. You will, however, be aided by Dyak trackers, Iban tribesmen from Sarawak, all experts in jungle tracking and survival.’
‘We go out in small patrols?’ Dead-eye said.
‘Yes. Three- or four-man teams. In the words of the founder of the Malayan Scouts, Lieutenant-Colonel Calvert: “The fewer you are, the more frightened you are, therefore, the more cautious you are and, therefore, the more silent you are. You are more likely to see the enemy before he will be able to see you.” We abide by those words.’
‘What’s our first, specific mission?’ Boney Maronie asked.
Callaghan stepped aside to let Major Pryce-Jones take the centre of the raised platform and give them the good news.
‘Aerial reconnaissance has shown that the CT are growing food in a clearing in the Belum Valley, a remote, long mountain valley located near the Thai border. That valley will be searched by Gurkha, Commando and Malaya Police patrols, all moving in on foot, which should take them five days but gives them the advantage of being more difficult to spot. You men will form the stop, or blocking, party, parachuting in a day’s march from the RV. This operation will commence once you’ve completed your extensive jungle training in Johore.’
‘When do we leave, boss?’ Dennis the Menace asked.
‘Tonight.’
4
The camp in Johore was a primitive affair, shared between Gurkhas, Royal Marines, RAF, British Army REME, Kampong Guards from the Federation of Malaya Police and SAS personnel. Hastily thrown together in a clearing in the jungle, it was surrounded by coconut palms, papaya trees and deep monsoon drains, with rows of wood-and-thatch barracks, latrines, open showers, a mess hut, armoury, quartermaster’s store, motor pool, administrative block, NAAFI shop, airstrip for fixed-wing aircraft and helicopters, and a centrally located ‘sports ground’ with an obstacle course at one end, used for everything from weapons training to Close Quarters Battle (CQB) and unarmed combat.
‘They don’t even give us one night in Penang,’ Alf Laughton complained as they were selecting their camp-beds and settling into the barracks, ‘and now they plonk us down in this dump. A diabolical liberty!’
‘More dust, heat, flies and mosquitoes,’ Dennis the Menace said. ‘Welcome to Paradise!’
‘You know why these barracks are raised off the ground, don’t you?’ Pete Welsh asked rhetorically, having the answer all prepared. ‘Because this place is crawling with scorpions, centipedes and snakes, every one of ’em poisonous.’
‘It’s crawling with everything except women,’ Boney Maronie said, ‘which is why they should have given us at least one night out in Penang. I think I’m getting ready to explode. I’ll drench the whole fucking ceiling.’
‘Boasting again,’ Dennis the Menace said. ‘You haven’t really got it in you. But that obstacle course out there looks like hell. A few runs over that fucker and you’ll soon get rid of all your excess energy. By the time you’ve finished, you won’t remember what a woman is, let alone what she feels like.’
‘Tree-jumping,’ Dead-eye said. ‘That’s what bothers me. Those trees are 150 feet high and pretty damned dense. I don’t fancy climbing those with a bergen, rifle and knotted rope, let alone parachuting into them.’
‘Piece of piss,’ Pete Welsh said, his grin making him look slightly crazy. ‘You just spread your legs and get spiked through the balls by the top of a tree. If you miss that, you crash down through the branches and get all smashed to hell. Failing that, you snag your chute on the branches and possibly hang yourself. Sounds like a joyride.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Alf Laughton said.
Once settled in, the men were gathered together in the briefing room, given a brief lecture on the history and habits of the jungle natives, told not to call them ‘Sakai’, which meant ‘slave’, and informed that they would be receiving a two-hour lesson in the native language every day. The first such lesson began immediately and was very demanding.
When it had ended, at 10 a.m., the men were allowed a ten-minute tea break, then marched to the armoury, where they were given a selection of weapons, including those fired on the range of Minden Barracks: the M1 0.3in carbine, the 9mm Owen sub-machine-gun, the 7.62mm semi-automatic SLR and the Browning 9mm High Power handgun. They were also given a Fairburn-Sykes commando knife and a machete-like parang.
Having already tested the men’s skills on the range at Minden Barracks, Sergeant Lorrimer knew precisely who was best at what and distributed the weapons accordingly, with the Owen sub-machine-guns going to those he was designating as scouts, or ‘point men’, in his patrols.