Shaun Clarke - Counter-insurgency in Aden

A short break was allowed for a limited intake of water, then Jimbo gave them a lesson in special desert signalling, covering Morse code, special codes and call-sign signals; use of the radios and how to clean them of sand; recognition of radio ‘black spots’ caused by the peculiar atmospheric conditions of the mountainous desert; setting up standard and makeshift antennas; and the procedure for calling in artillery fire and air strikes, which would be their main task when in their OPs in the Radfan.

Most of the men were already rigid with exhaustion, dehydration and mild sunstroke when Jimbo took another thirty minutes to show them how to make an improvised compass by variously stroking a sewing needle in one direction against a piece of silk and suspending it in a loop of thread so that it pointed north; by laying the needle on a piece of paper or bark and floating it on water in a cup or mess tin; or by stropping a razor-blade against the palm of the hand and, as with the sewing needle, suspending it from a piece of thread to point north.

Mercifully, the sun was starting to sink when he showed them various methods of purifying and conserving water; then, finally, how to improvise water-filtering systems and crude cookers out of old oil drums and biscuit tins.

‘And that’s it,’ he said, studying their glazed faces with thinly veiled amusement. ‘Your long day in the desert is done. Now it’s back to base camp.’

‘Which you can only do,’ Dead-eye told them, ‘if you manage to leg it back to the Bedfords.’

‘Aw, Jesus!’ Larry said without thinking. ‘Can’t we all pile into that Bedford and let it take us back to the others?’

‘That Bedford is for the equipment only,’ Dead-eye told him. ‘Besides, you men have to get used to the desert, and this last hike is all part of your training. Now get going.’

Relieved, at least, of the heavy support weapons, the men heaved their packed bergens and other kit onto their aching backs, turned to face the sinking sun, and walked in a daze back to the other Bedfords. Two almost collapsed on the way and had to be helped by the others, which slowed them down considerably; but just before last light they all made it and practically fell into the trucks, which bounced and rattled every yard of the half-hour journey back to the camp.

Battered and bruised, covered in insect bites, smeared with sweat-soaked sand and dust, hungry and unbelievably thirsty, they collapsed on their steel beds in the tents and could hardly rouse themselves even to shower, shave and head off to the mess tent. Indeed, most of them were still lying there, almost catatonic, when Jimbo did a round of the tents, bawling repeatedly that those not seen having a decent meal would be RTU’d – returned to their original unit. Though they all cursed the SAS, so great was the shame attaching to this fate that they rolled off their beds, attended to their ablutions, dressed in clean clothes and marched on aching legs to the mess tent to have their scran and hot tea. Somewhat restored, they then made for the NAAFI tent to get drunk on cold beer. Finally, after what seemed like the longest day of their lives, they surrendered to sleep like children.

The men began their proving patrol the following evening, loading up the Bedfords just before last light with their individual kit and support weapons. For their personal weapons, old Borneo hands like Ken Brooke and Les Moody still favoured the M16 5.56mm assault rifle, which accepted a bayonet and could fire a variety of grenades although it was not so good in desert conditions because of its poor long-range accuracy and tendency to jam up with sand.

Dead-eye, said to be the best shot in the Regiment, preferred the L42A1 7.62mm bolt-action sniper rifle, which had a telescopic sight, was robust and reliable, and had good stopping power at long range, making it ideal for sniping from high mountain ridges. While some of the other men likewise favoured this weapon, most of them had been issued with the L1A1 SLR, which had a twenty-round box magazine, could be used on single shot or automatic, and was notable for its long-range accuracy.

The support weapons included the 7.62mm GPMG; the L4A4 LMG, which was actually a Bren gun modified to accommodate the 7.62mm round; the 51mm mortar with base plate, its ammunition distributed among the men; and a couple of US M79 grenade-launchers, which could be fired from the shoulder. All of these weapons were hauled up into the back of the Bedfords, then followed in by the men, making for very cramped conditions.

‘Here we go again,’ Larry said, moving his head to avoid the A41 tactical radio set being swung into a more comfortable position on the shoulders of the operator, Lance-Corporal Derek Dickerson. ‘Another luxurious journey on the Orient Express!’

‘It’s nice to have these paid holidays,’ Ben said, twisting sideways to avoid being hit by Larry’s shoulder-slung wooden medical box. ‘It makes me feel so important.’

As the men tried to find comfortable positions on the benches along the sides of the lorries, the sun was sinking low over the distant mountains, casting a blood-red light through the shadows. At the same time, a Sikorski S-55 Whirlwind was roaring into life on the nearby landing pad, whipping up billowing clouds of dust as it prepared to lift off.

‘Where the fuck is he going?’ Les asked in his usual peevish way as he settled into his bench seat in the back of the Bedford.

‘The RAF airstrip at Habilayn,’ answered Ken. ‘It’s only a couple of minutes by chopper from here.’

‘If it’s so close,’ Taff asked, ‘why couldn’t we be flown to the drop zone instead of going by lorry, which will take a lot longer?’

‘And make you throw up,’ Larry chuckled.

‘Ha, ha,’ Taff retorted, now used to their bullshit and also determined never to throw up again.

‘Because the DZ overlooks an Arab village,’ Ken explained, ‘and an insertion by chopper would be seen by every rebel in the area.’

‘Besides,’ Larry added sardonically, ‘an insertion by chopper would be too easy

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