Ian Slater - South China Sea

“Not to mention what all the Chinese in Vietnam and Malaysia might do. We could have another Communist insurgency in Malaya, and who would stop it? Apart from that, it would turn the whole of the South China Sea into an Asian Yugoslavia.”

“Ironic,” Nash commented wryly. “The Americans are prepared to send in troops to help a Communist power.”

“Not at all,” Tyler-Jones said tartly. “They helped Stalin— worst Communist of all — a thoroughly nasty piece of work. We helped him too, remember? Besides, without Uncle Joe as well as Uncle Sam, we could have been in a rather sticky situation.” He meant England would have lost the Second World War.

Tyler-Jones sat down and took up his letter opener, a cassowary bone dagger from an old patrol officer who had once journeyed up New Guinea’s Fly River. The weapon made him think of another dagger, the famed curved Kukri knife of Britain’s legendary Gurkha troops. They were fierce fighters, especially renowned for jungle warfare. Late in the 1980s, during a recruitment replenishment drive for just over sixty men, more than sixty thousand men applied. The Gurkhas took only the best of the very best.

“How about we offer them a Gurkha battalion and a squadron or two of SAS?” The Special Air Service commandos had carried out the lightning raid in London against the terrorists in the Iranian embassy in 1961 to rescue British hostages, and had performed sterling service behind the lines in Iraq.

Nash, though deputy minister of defense, couldn’t recall how many men were in a squadron of SAS.

“Varies,” Tyler-Jones told him. “Around seventy-two. I suggest we send two or three squadrons, and have a battalion of our Gurkhas in Brunei on standby — ready for deployment. Not many as far as numbers go, I agree, but top drawer all the same.”

“And we should offer them without strings attached,” Nash asked.

“Not visible ones anyhow,” Tyler-Jones replied cagily. “I’m seeing the Prime Minister at Number Ten this evening. Don’t do anything until I give the green light.”

Nash looked surprised. “You don’t think the P.M.’ll raise any objection, do you?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Tyler-Jones answered. “You know, England and America — allies in two world wars, Korea, et cetera — Iraq. Our ‘special relationship’ and so forth.”

“Some of the opposition don’t think there’s a special relationship anymore.”

“They may be right to some extent, but there are the ties of blood Winston spoke about, despite the fact that we are separated by a common language.”

Nash forced a smile. It was a very old chestnut but one that the minister still thought amusing. “Quite,” he said. “I won’t draw up the offer beyond a rough draft.”

Tyler-Jones glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes? If so, I can take it around to the P.M. myself.”

“It’ll be ready, sir.”

“Good… Tuesday, isn’t it?”

“Ah, yes sir.”

“Oh, God — the P.M. and his one-main-course dinner. An example to the nation in hard economic times. Tuesdays, Nash, are corned beef, cabbage, and white onion sauce — none of which I can abide.”

Nash’s eyebrows rose. “Surely, Minister, the menu isn’t as predictable as that?”

“Alas, it is. Our beloved leader, Nash, has not one of the more discerning palates in government. It’s rumored — no, it has been confirmed —that he likes those awful American hot dogs.”

“Perhaps there’ll be a change in the menu — in your honor, Minister.”

“Perhaps,” Tyler-Jones replied, though his tone was not one of conviction.

“One could simply order the soup,” Nash proffered with a smile.

“Yes,” Tyler-Jones answered wryly. “And one could end up on the back benches. No, Nash, I shall do my duty, and you do yours.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Nash reached the door, Tyler-Jones, looking over his reading glasses at the deputy minister, said, “You see how much I trust you, Nash.”

Nash glanced at the very rough draft of Great Britain’s offer, one England could just afford, but one he was sure the Americans would like. However, if it were to get out before the P.M. had seen it…

Tyler-Jones, his hands forming a cathedral, was shaking his head. “No, no, not the offer of troops, old man. The bloody cabbage!”

“Oh — yes, Minister,” Nash said, smiling.

“You mention a word of that and I’m for the high jump.” He meant, for hanging.

“Don’t worry, sir. Mum’s the word.”

The minister, his hands still in the prayer position beneath his closely shaved chin, merely nodded.

“Mr. Tyler-Jones, Prime Minister,” announced the secretary at 10 Downing Street, and then, withdrawing in utter silence, deftly closed the door to the P.M.’s study.

“Richard,” the P.M. said, smiling, taking off his reading glasses and extending his hand in greeting.

“Prime Minister,” Tyler-Jones acknowledged.

“Sit down, Richard. I’ve been going over these budget figures again. And your department is one that we’ll have to trim.”

“We’ve trimmed to the bone, Prime Minister. You may have noticed that we’ve reduced the number of our Gurkha battalions significantly. We’ve gone from eight thousand men to two and a half thousand.”

“Yes,” the Prime Minister interjected, “I realize that. It’s not a criticism of you, Richard, but I’ve been wondering — do we really need them at all?”

Tyler-Jones was flabbergasted, and fought against his natural urge to respond sarcastically. “I think we do — need them, Prime Minister. Their fighting ability is legendary. Perhaps, sir, not being an avid student of the military, you might not realize the extent of their reputation.”

“I realize full well, Richard. They are very very good soldiers. My father used to regale us as children with tales of their unquestioning loyalty and ferocity. That knife they carry, the—”

“Kukri.”

“Yes.” The P.M. smiled. “Sounds like something one would use in the kitchen, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps, Prime Minister,” Tyler-Jones said. “The Gurkhas use it to hack their way through jungle and to cut off their enemies’ heads.”

“Yes, Father did mention that, but can’t they be replaced by British troops? I mean by that, of course, home-based troops?”

“Hardly economically viable, Prime Minister. All in all they’re a bargain, and their morale — well, what can one say? In the Falklands War when the Argentinian units heard the Gurkhas were on their way, it caused mass panic — a ‘withdrawal in force,’ I think the Argentinians called it.”

“Mass desertion?” the P.M. proffered.

“Just so,” Tyler-Jones responded, adding, “Of course, during Mao’s cultural revolution they also proved invaluable.”

“Really? How?”

“Difficult to know where to begin. In any event, when the Red Guards let loose by Mao spilled over into Hong Kong and caused massive riots, we sent in the Gurkhas — had ‘em draw their Kukris. Once they draw the big knife, you see, there’s an imperative to use it before they can return it to the scabbard.”

“Oh,” the P.M. said. “That I didn’t know.”

Tyler-Jones saw his opportunity, and the moment the P.M. finished speaking, he added, “And I thought that if Beijing wants to foment more trouble on the Vietnamese-Chinese border, we might be able to assist our American cousins with Gurkhas.”

“Very good, Richard,” the P.M. responded, unwinding, both arms outstretched for isometric exercise, pushing hard against the edge of the desk. “Very good indeed. And of course the Gurkhas, black chaps and—”

“But Asian in appearance. They come from Nepal.”