Secret War in Arabia

Weapons training covered everything in the SAS arsenal, including use of the standard-issue British semi-automatic Browning FN 9mm high-power handgun, the 9mm Walther PPK handgun, the M16 assault rifle, the self-loading semi-automatic rifle, or SLR, the Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine-gun, the MILAN anti-tank weapon, various mortars and a wide range of ‘enemy’ weapons, such as the Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle.

In combat and survival training they were taught the standard operating procedures, or SOPs, for how to move tactically across country by day or night, how to set up and maintain observation posts, or OPs, and how to operate deep behind enemy lines. This led naturally to signals training, covering Morse code, special codes and call-sign systems, the operation of thirty kinds of SAS radio, recognition of radio ‘black spots’, the setting-up of standard and makeshift antennas, and the procedure for calling in artillery fire and air strikes.

As one of the main reasons for being behind enemy lines is the disruption of enemy communications and transportation, as well as general sabotage, particularly against Military Supply Routes, or MSRs, this phase of their training also included lessons in demolition skills and techniques, particularly the use of explosives such as TNT, dynamite, Semtex, Composition C3 and C4 plastic explosive, or PE, Amatol, Pentolite and Ednatol. Special emphasis was laid on the proper placement of charges to destroy various kinds of bridge: cantilever, spandrel arch, continuous-span truss and suspension.

Many jokes were made about the fact that those lessons led directly to instruction in first aid, including relatively advanced medical skills such as setting up an intravenous drip, how to administer drugs, both orally and with injections, and the basics of casualty handling and care.

This phase of Continuation Training culminated in escape and evasion (E&E) and Resistance to Interrogation (RTI) exercises. E&E began with a week of theory on how to live off the land by constructing makeshift shelters from branches, leaves and other local vegetation, and sangars, or semicircular shelters built from stones, and by catching and cooking wild animals. (Repeated jokes about rat stew, Ricketts recalled, had raised a few queasy laughs.) Those theories were then put into practice when the men were dropped off, alone, in some remote region, usually with no more than their clothing and a wristwatch, knife and box of matches, with orders to make their way back to a specified RV without either becoming lost or getting caught by the enthusiastic Parachute Regiment troopers sent out to find them.

Those caught were hooded, bound, thrown into the Paras’ trucks and delivered to the interrogation centre run by the Joint Services Interrogation Unit and members of 22 SAS Training Wing, where various physical and mental torments were used to make them break down and reveal more than their rank, name, serial number and date of birth. Those who did so were failed even at that late stage in the course. Those who managed to remain sane and silent went on to undertake jungle-warfare training and the parachute course.

‘For me,’ Bill said, ‘that was the best bit of all. I loved it in the jungle. I mean, even though it was tough all I could think of was how I’d come all the way from the Stevens and Williams Glassworks to the jungles of fucking Malaysia. I was in heaven, I tell you.’

‘It wasn’t Malaysia,’ Andrew corrected him. ‘It was just close to there. It’s the only British dependency inhabited by Malays that didn’t join the Federation of Malaysia.’

‘He’s so fucking educated,’ Gumboot said, ‘you’d never think he’d been up a tree. What the fuck’s the difference? It was jungle, wasn’t it? That’s why you couldn’t possibly fail there, mate. You must have felt right at home.’

‘My family, comes from Barbados,’ Andrew said, flashing Gumboot a big smile, ‘where they have rum and molasses and white beaches. No jungle there, Gumboot.’

‘Anyway,’ Tom said, looking as solemn as always, ‘I agree with Bill. I was a lot more relaxed when we went there. It was too late to fail, I thought.’

‘So did some others,’ Jock reminded them, ‘and the poor bastards failed. One even failed during the parachute course. Can you fucking believe it?’

‘That would have killed me,’ Ricketts said. ‘I mean, to be RTU’d at that stage. I would have opened a vein.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Andrew said.

Jungle-warfare training was a six-week course in Brunei, the British-protected sultanate of North-West Borneo, forming an enclave with Sarawak, Malaysia, where the SAS was reborn after World War Two and where it learnt so many of its skills and tactics; There the candidates were sent on four-man patrols through the jungle, some lasting almost a fortnight. During that time they had to carry out a number of operational tasks, including constructing a jungle basha, killing and eating wildlife, including snakes, without being bitten or poisoned, and living on local flora and fauna. Most importantly, they had to show that they could navigate and move accurately in the restricted visibility of the jungle. Failure in any of these tasks resulted in an even more cruel, last-minute, RTU.

Those who returned successfully from Brunei did so knowing that they had only one hurdle left: a four-week course at the No 1 Parachute Training School at RAF Brize Norton, Oxfordshire, where Parachute Jump Instructors, or PJIs, taught them the characteristics of PX1 Mk 4, PX1 Mk 5 and PR7 (reserve) parachutes, then supervised them on eight parachute jumps. The first of these was from a static balloon, but the others were from RAF C-130 Hercules aircraft, some from a high altitude, some from a low altitude, most by day, a few by night, and at least one while the aircraft was being put through a series of manoeuvres designed to shake up and disorientate the parachutists just before they jumped out. Those who made this final leap successfully had passed the whole course.

The men drinking around this table in the Paludrine Club had all just done that.

‘I still don’t believe it,’ Andrew mused, ‘but here we all are: in a Sabre Squadron at last. I think that’s reason enough for another drink.’

‘I think you’re right,’ Jock said, going off to the bar for another round.

Once badged, the successful candidates were divided between the four Sabre Squadrons, with those around this table going to Squadron B, where they would spend their probationary first year. They were also allowed into the Paludrine Club to celebrate their success and get to know each other as they had not been able to, or feared to, during the past six months of relentless training and testing.

‘So,’ Gumboot said, raising his glass when Jock had set down the fresh round of drinks. ‘Here’s to all of us, lads.’

They touched their glasses together and drank deeply, trying not to look too proud.

2

The day after their celebratory booze-up with the other successful troopers, which was followed by a farewell fling with wives and girlfriends in the camp’s Sports and Social Club, the six men allocated to B Squadron were called to the interest room to be given a briefing on their first legitimate SAS mission. As the group was so small, the briefing was not taking place in that room, but in the adjoining office of the Squadron Commander, Major Greenaway. To get to his office, however, the men had to pass through the interest room, which was indeed of interest, being dominated by a horned buffalo head set high on one wall and by the many photographs and memorabilia of previous B Squadron campaigns that covered the other walls, making the room look rather like a military museum.

Andrew was studying photographs of the Malaysia campaign, as well as items of jungle equipment, when a fair-haired SAS sergeant-major, built like a barrel but with no excess fat, appeared in the doorway of Major Greenaway’s office.

‘I’m your RSM,’ he said. ‘The name is Worthington, as befits a worthy man and don’t ever forget it. Now step inside, lads.’

Following the Regimental Sergeant-Major into the office, they were surprised to find one wall completely covered by a blue curtain. Major Greenaway had silvery-grey hair and gazed up from behind his desk with keen, sky-blue eyes and a good-natured smile.

‘You all know who I am,’ he said, standing up by way of greeting, ‘so I won’t introduce myself. I would, however, like to offer you my congratulations on winning the badge and warmly welcome you to B Squadron.’ When the men had murmured their appreciation, Greenaway nodded, turned to the wall behind him and pulled aside the blue curtain, revealing a large, four-colour map of the Strait of Hormuz, showing Muscat and Oman, with the latter boldly circled with red ink and the word ‘SECRET’ stencilled in bold black capital letters across the top.

Greenaway picked up a pointer and tapped the area marked ‘Southern Dhofar’. ‘Oman,’ he said. ‘An independent sultanate in eastern Arabia, located on the Gulf of Oman and the Arabian sea. Approximately 82,000 square miles. Population 750,000 – mainly Arabs, but with substantial Negro blood. A medieval region, isolated from the more prosperous and advanced northern states by a 400-mile desert which rises up at its southern tip into an immense plateau, the Jebel Massif, a natural fortress some 3000 feet high, nine miles wide, and stretching 150 miles from the east down to, and across, the border with Aden, now the People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen. The Gulf of Oman, about 300 miles long, lies between Oman and Iran, leading through the Strait of Hormuz to the Persian Gulf and the oil wealth of Saudia Arabia. So that’s the place.’

The major lowered the pointer and turned back to face his new men. ‘What’s the situation?’

It was a rhetorical question requiring no answer other than that he was about to give. ‘Oman has long-standing treaties of cooperation with Britain and is strategically important because Middle East oil flows to the West through the Strait of Hormuz. If the communists capture that oil, by capturing Oman, they’ll end up controlling the economy of the Free World. The stakes, therefore, are high.’

Resting the pointer across his knees, Greenaway sat on the edge of his desk. Ricketts, who had worked on the North Sea oil rigs as a toolpusher before joining the regular Army, had been impressed by many of the men he met there: strong-willed, independent, decisive – basically decent. The ‘boss’, who struck him as being just such a man, went on: The situation in Oman has been degenerating since the 1950s with Sultan Said bin Taimur’s repressive regime forcing more and more of the Dhofaris in the south – culturally and ethnically different from the people in the north – into rebellion. After turning against the Sultan, the rebels formed a political party, the Dhofar Liberation Front, or DLF, which the Sultan tried to quell with his Sultan’s Armed Forces, or SAF. The rebels were then wooed and exploited by the pro-Soviet Yemenis, who formed them into the People’s Front for the Liberation of the Occupied Arabian Gulf – the PFLOAG. This greatly improved the situation of the rebels, or adoo, and the Sultan’s regime, falling apart, failed to mount an effective counter-insurgency war. Which is where we come in.’

He studied each of the men in turn, checking that he had their full attention and that they all understood him.

‘What’s “adoo” mean, boss?’ Tom asked.

‘It’s the Arabic word for “enemy”,’ Greenaway informed him. ‘Can I continue?’

‘Yes, boss!’

‘The SAF has long had a number of British ex-officers and NCOs as contract advisers, but they were facing a losing battle in the countryside. Exceptionally cruel, punitive actions, such as the public hanging of suspected rebels and the sealing of their life-giving wells, were only turning more of the people against him. As it wasn’t in British interests to let the communists take over Oman, in July last year the Sultan was overthrown by his son, Qaboos, in an almost bloodless coup secretly implemented and backed by us – by which I mean the British government, not the SAS.’

A few of the men laughed drily, causing the major to smile before continuing. ‘However, while Qaboos, with our aid, gradually started winning the hearts of those ostracized by his father’s reactionary regime, the PFLOAG – backed by the Russians, whose eyes are focused firmly on the oil-rich countries of Arabia – continued to make inroads into Oman. Now the adoo virtually control the Jebel Dhofar, which makes them a permanent threat to the whole country.’

Ricketts glanced at the other troopers and saw that they were as keen as he felt. What luck! Instead of Belfast, which was like Britain, only grimmer, they were going to fight their first war in an exotic, foreign country. Childish though it was, Ricketts could not help being excited about that. He had always needed changes of scenery, fresh challenges, new faces – which is why he had first gone to the North Sea, then joined the regular Army. While Belfast might have similar excitements, it was not the same thing. Ricketts was thrilled by the very idea of Oman, which remained a mysterious, perplexing country to air but a few insiders. Also, he was drawn to hot countries and desert terrain. Of course, Maggie would not be pleased and that made him feel slightly guilty. But he could not deny his true nature, which was to get up and go, no matter how much he loved his wife. He felt like a lucky man.

‘What we’re engaged in in Oman,’ the boss continued, ‘is the building of a bulwark against communist expansionism.’ Standing again, he picked up the pointer and turned to the map. ‘That bulwark will be Dhofar,’ he continued, tapping the name with the pointer, ‘in the south of Oman, immediately adjacent to communist-held Aden, now the People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen. Our job is to back Sultan Qaboos with military aid and advice and to win the hearts of his people by setting up hospitals and schools, by teaching them the skills they need, and by crushing the adoo at the same time. The so-called hearts-and-minds campaign is already in progress, with British Army Training Teams, or BATT, based at Taqa and Mirbat. Our job is to tackle the adoo. Any questions so far?’

‘Yes, boss,’ Ricketts said, already familiar with SAS informality and determined to put it to good use. ‘It’s clearly a laudable aim, but how do we win the military side of it?’

Greenaway smiled. ‘Not everyone considers our aims to be laudable, Trooper. Indeed, Britain has been accused of supporting a cruel, reactionary regime merely to protect its oil interests. While I happen to think that’s the truth, I also believe it’s justified. We must be pragmatic about certain matters, even when our motives aren’t quite laudable.’

‘Yes, boss,’ Ricketts said, returning the major’s wicked grin. ‘So how do we fight the war, apart from winning hearts and minds?’

Greenaway put down the pointer, sat on the edge of the desk, and folded his arms. ‘Since early last year, with the aid of the firqats – bands of Dhofari tribesmen loyal to the Sultan – we’ve managed to gain a few precarious toe-holds on the coastal plain immediately facing the Jebel Dhofar. Now, however, we’re about to launch an operation designed to establish a firm base on the Jebel, from where we can stem the adoo advance. That operation is codenamed Jaguar.’

‘Is this purely an SAS operation?’ Andrew asked, realizing that this was a typical SAS ‘Chinese parliament’, or open discussion.

‘No. In all matters relating to Oman, the SAF and firqats must be seen to be their own men. For this reason, B Squadron and G Squadron will be supporting two companies of the SAF, Dhofari firqats and a platoon of Baluch Askars – tough little buggers from Baluchistan. Nearly 800 fighting men in all.’

‘Are the SAF and the firqats dependable?’ Gumboot asked, gaining the confidence to speak out like the others.

‘Not always. The main problem lies with the firqats, who are volatile by nature and also bound by Islamic restrictions, such as the holy week of Ramadan, when they require a special dispensation to fight. But they have, on occasion, been known to ignore even that. When they fight, they can be ferocious, but they’ll stop at any time for the most trivial reasons – usually arguments over who does what or gets what, or perhaps some imagined insult. So, no, they’re not always dependable.’

‘What about the adoo?’ Ricketts asked.

‘Fierce, committed fighters and legendary marksmen. They can pick a target off at 400 yards and virtually melt back into the mountainside or desert. A formidable enemy.’

‘When does the assault on this Jebel what’s-its-name begin?’ Bill asked, nervously clearing his throat, but determined to be part of this Chinese parliament.

‘About a month from now,’ Greenaway informed him. ‘After you’ve all had a few weeks of training in local customs, language and general diplomacy, including seeing what previous SAS teams have been up to with schools, hospitals and so forth. It’s anticipated that the assault on the…’ – the major looked directly at Trooper Raglan with a tight little smile before pronouncing the name with theatrical precision – ‘Jebel Dhofar will begin on 1 October. The Khareef monsoon, which covers the plateau with cloud and mist from June to September, will be finished by then, which will make the climb easier. Also, according to our intelligence, there’ll be no moon that night, which should help to keep your presence unknown to the adoo.’

‘Who, of course, have the eyes of night owls,’ said Worthington, who had been standing silently behind them throughout the whole briefing. Only when Major Greenaway burst out laughing did the men realize that the RSM was joking. Still not quite used to SAS informality, some of them grinned sheepishly. Worthington managed to wipe the smiles from their faces by adding sadistically: ‘Rumour has it that there are over 2000 adoo on the Jebel. That means the combined SAF and SAS forces will be outnumbered approximately three to one. Should any of you lads think those odds too high, I suggest you hand in your badges right now. Any takers?’ No one said a word, though some shook their heads. ‘Good,’ said the RSM, before turning his attention to Major Greenaway. ‘Anything else, boss?’

‘I think not, Sergeant-Major. This seems to be a healthy bunch of lads and I’m sure they’ll stand firm.’

‘I’m sure they will, boss.’ The RSM looked grimly at the probationers. ‘Go back to the spider and prepare your kit. We fly out tomorrow.’

‘Yes, boss!’ they all sang, practically in unison, then filed out of the office like excited schoolboys.

3

The four-engined Hercules C-130 took off the following afternoon from RAF Lyneham, refuelled at RAF Akroterion in Cyprus, then flew on to RAF Salalah in Dhofar, where the men disembarked by marching down the tailgate, from the gloom of the aircraft into the blinding, burning furnace of the Arabian sun.

On the runway of RAF Salalah stood Skymaster jets, each in its own sandbagged emplacement and covered by camouflage nets. Three large defensive trenches – encircled by 40-gallon drums and bristling with 25lb guns and 5.5 Howitzers, and therefore known as ‘hedgehogs’ – were laid out to the front and side of the airstrip. Overlooking all was an immense, sun-bleached mountain, its sheer sides rising dramatically to a plateau from the flat desert plain.

‘That must be the Jebel Dhofar,’ Ricketts said to Andrew.

‘It is,’ a blond-haired young man confirmed as he clambered down from the Land Rover that had just driven up to the tailgate. ‘And it’s crawling with heavily-armed adoo. I’m Sergeant Frank Lampton, from one of the BATT teams. ‘I’m here to guide you probationers through your first few days.’ He grinned and glanced back over his shoulder at the towering slopes of the Jebel Dhofar, the summit of which was hazy with the heat. ‘How’d you like to cross-grain the bukits of that?’ he asked, turning back and grinning. ‘Some challenge, eh?’

‘It’d dwarf even the Pen-y-fan,’ Andrew admitted. ‘That’s some mother, man.’

‘Right,’ Lampton said. Slim and of medium height, the sergeant was dressed in shorts, boots with rolled-down socks and a loose, flapping shirt, all of which were covered in the dust that was already starting to cover the new arrivals. A Browning 9mm high-power handgun was holstered on his hip. Squinting against the brilliant sunlight, he pointed to the convoy of armour-plated Bedfords lined up on the edge of the runway. ‘Stretch your legs,’ he told the men, ‘and get used to the heat. When the QM has completed the unloading, pile into those trucks and you’ll be driven to the base at Um al Gwarif. It’s not very far.’

While the men gratefully did stretching exercises, walked about a bit or just sat on their bergens smoking, the Quartermaster Sergeant, a flamboyant Irishman with the lungs of a drill instructor, organized the unloading and sorting of all the squadron’s kit by bawling good-natured abuse at his Omani helpers, all of whom wore shemaghs and the loose robes known as jellabas. The new arrivals watched them with interest.

‘Fucked if I’d like to hump that stuff in this heat,’ Gumboot finally said, breaking the silence.

‘You soon will be,’ Lampton replied with a grin, puffing smoke as he lit a cigarette. ‘You’ll be humping it up that bloody mountain, all the way to the top. That’s why you’d better get used to the heat.’ He inhaled and blew another cloud of smoke, then smiled wryly at Ricketts. ‘Now these Omanis,’ he said, indicating the men unloading the kit and humping it across to the Bedfords, ‘they’d probably down tools if you asked them to do that. That’s why they call the SAS “donkey soldiers” or majnoons – Arabic for “mad ones”. Are they right or wrong, lads?’

‘Anything you say, boss,’ Bill said, ‘is OK by me.’

‘An obedient trooper,’ Lampton replied, flicking ash to the ground. ‘That’s what I like to hear. Which one of you is Trooper Ricketts?’ Ricketts put his hand in the air. ‘I was informed by the RSM that you’re the oldest of the probationers,’ Lampton said.

‘I didn’t know that, boss.’

‘You’re the oldest by one day, I was told, with Trooper McGregor coming right up your backside. That being the case, you’ll be my second-in-command for the next few days. I trust you’ll be able to shoulder this great responsibility.’

Lampton, though a sergeant, was hardly much older than Ricketts, who, feeling confident with him, returned his cocky grin. ‘I’ll do my best, boss.’

‘I’m sure you will, Trooper. The RSM also said you put up a good show at the briefing. Fearless in the presence of your Squadron Commander. Right out front with the questions and so forth. That, also, is why you’ll be in nominal charge of your fellow probationers while you’re under my wing.’

‘This sounds suspiciously like punishment, boss.’

‘It isn’t punishment and it isn’t promotion – it’s a mere convenience. Do you want to beg off?’

‘No, boss.’

‘You gave the correct answer, Trooper Ricketts. You’re a man who’ll go far.’ Glancing towards the Bedfords, Lampton saw that Major Greenaway and RSM Worthington were already allocating the other members of B Squadron to their respective Bedfords. ‘The unloading must be nearly completed,’ Lampton said, dropping his cigarette butt to the tarmac and grinding it out with his heel. ‘OK, Ricketts, collect the other probationers together and follow me to that truck.’

Ricketts did as he had been told, calling in his small group and then following Lampton across to one of the Bedfords parked on the edge of the airstrip. When they were in the rear, cramped together on the hard benches, already covered in a film of dust and being tormented by mosquitoes and fat flies, Lampton joined them, telling another soldier to drive his Land Rover back to base. The Bedford coughed into life, lurched forward, then headed away from the airstrip to a wired-off area containing a single-storey building guarded by local soldiers wearing red berets. The Bedford stopped there.