Headhunters of Borneo

SHAUN CLARKE

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by 22 Books/Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1994

Copyright © Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1994

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

Shaun Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008155032

Ebook Edition © November 2015 ISBN: 9780008155049

Version: 2015-10-15

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

OTHER TITLES IN THE SAS OPERATION SERIES

About the Publisher

Prelude

The landscape consisted of dense, often impenetrable jungle, swamps, rivers so broad and deep that they were frequently impassable and aerial walkways created at dizzying heights over the rapids by the primitive tribesmen. Snakes, scorpions, lizards, poisonous spiders and dangerous wild pigs infested the whole area. Though seemingly uninhabitable, the jungle was home to many native settlements, or kampongs, most located either by the river or on a hillside, where the inhabitants tilled the land around them or hunted for fish, lizard, boar, deer, baboon, porcupine or the ever-present snake.

These primitive peoples were Land Dyaks, Ibans, Muruts and Punans, who lived in longhouses made of atap wood, with sloping roofs of tin or thatch. The longhouses were apt to creak balefully on the stilts that had kept them out of the water for decades. Inside they were unhygienic and usually fetid because as many as fifteen families would live in a single dwelling at any given time, using the slatted floor as a communal lavatory. Small and indolent, the natives wore nothing above the waist, regardless of sex, wore their hair long, often tattooed themselves against evil spirits, and lived off rice, tapioca, vegetables and curried meat. Before being killed for eating, their prey was first stunned by a virulent nerve poison borne on a slim bamboo dart shot from a blowpipe.

Early morning in the jungle and swamps was often misty. The strong sun did not break through until at least mid-morning and most afternoons brought a torrential deluge of rain, accompanied by spectacular electrical storms. As a result, the water often rose 30 feet in a single day, slopping and splashing around the stilts of the longhouses, making them groan in protest.

Because certain of the tribesmen, notably the headhunters among them, thought the creaking and groaning were the whispering of bad spirits, they attempted to keep the spirits at bay by stringing up shrunken human heads on the doorposts atop the entrance stairways.

Many of the primitive Iban tribesmen, being experts in jungle tracking, had been employed by the British during the Malayan Emergency of 1948–60 as Army trackers, and were dubbed the Sarawak Rangers. Now, in 1963, having been trained by the SAS, they had been recruited again as an irregular force, the Border Scouts, used mainly as trackers, but also armed and trained as paramilitaries. Increasingly under the command of, and working alongside, the Gurkha Rifles, they were engaged in the ‘secret’ war being waged to protect Sarawak, Borneo, from the forces of Indonesia’s ambitious President Sukarno, who were striking from neighbouring Kalimantan.

Enlisting the aid of the indigenous population, and with the additional reconnaissance and intelligence support of the men of A Squadron, SAS, the Gurkha-led patrols made cross-border raids against the Indonesians, worked at winning the hearts and minds of the jungle dwellers, and set up many Scout posts and observation posts (OPs) in the kampongs and along the densely overhung river banks.

At Long Jawi in Sarawak, 30 miles from the border with Kalimantan, the Gurkhas had established a Scout post consisting of twenty-one trained locals, or Border Scouts, two Police Field Force signallers and a six-man Gurkha team headed by SAS corporal, Ralph Sanderson, on loan to A Squadron from D Squadron. Operating from their own riverside longhouse just outside the village, the members of the border team had spent weeks making friends with the tribesmen in the other longhouses in the area, training certain of them to be armed Border Scouts, and patrolling the valleys, not only for intelligence about Indonesian Army or CCO – Clandestine Communist Organization – troop movements, but also to map out a possible route across the jungle-covered mountains between Sarawak and Kalimantan.

Nominally in charge of such missions, Corporal Sanderson had immersed himself in local culture to such an extent that he was treated by the natives as one of their own and was told all they knew about Indonesian activities in the valley and across the hills, where the build-up of uniformed enemy forces was increasing daily.

Though the SAS were not yet under orders to take aggressive action against such forces, they were allowed to embark on reconnaissance and intelligence-gathering (R & I) missions and, if they sighted the enemy, to inform the Gurkhas and guide them and the armed Border Scouts back across the border. The Gurkhas and Border Scouts would then attack the enemy and make a subsequent hasty retreat back to the Scout post on their own side of the border.

These experiences had filled Sanderson with admiration for the skill and courage of the Gurkhas, but left him with mixed feelings about the Border Scouts. Although fond of the tribesmen, who were superb as trackers and good-natured as comrades, he was convinced that training them as paramilitaries was a waste of time. As well as lacking any sense of discipline, they simply could not learn to handle their weapons properly, and were always pointing them accidentally at one another when they were cocked and loaded. It was the corporal’s belief, therefore, that while the Border Scouts were dependable as trackers, they could not be relied on in a fire-fight and might even be a liability.

Sanderson did not know it, but he was about to be proven right in a most forceful manner.

Just before dawn one day in September 1963 a well-equipped company of Indonesian regulars made an attack by river on Long Jawi, emerging from the early morning mist. The Border Scouts manning the GPMG (general-purpose machine-gun) in a protective sangar at the edge of the river, just outside the Security Forces longhouse and the kampong 500 yards east of it, had been drinking tapai, a potent local cider, the night before and were sleeping soundly at their gun when the Indonesian boats slid into the river bank. The Border Scouts were still sleeping it off when the enemy troops, all wearing jungle-green fatigues and carrying Armalite M16 5.56mm and Kalashnikov AK47 7.62mm assault rifles, slipped off the boats, spread out in a broad firing arc and advanced quietly on the longhouse. While they were doing so, more troops disembarked behind them to set up two 7.62mm RPK light machine-guns spaced so as to cover both lines of retreat from the longhouse.

The first of the Border Scouts was awakened by the snapping of twigs on the jungle floor as the Indonesian troops stealthily approached his sangar. Looking up and seeing two of them practically on top of him, he managed to let out a shrill cry of warning before the enemy guns burst into action with a deafening roar and a combined hail of 5.56mm and 7.62mm bullets tore the sangar apart, turning the Scout into a convulsing rag doll of torn clothing, punctured flesh, exposed bone and pouring blood. The guard next to him suffered a similar fate before even lifting his head, expiring in an explosion of swirling thatch, bamboo and dust from the exploding walls of the devastated sangar.

The Security Forces men also inside the longhouse were rudely awakened by the roaring of the guns outside. First out of his hammock was Corporal Sanderson, who almost in one movement rolled off the bed and landed on his feet on the slatted floor. Picking up his self-loading rifle, he rushed to the veranda while the two Police Field Force signallers and a six-man Gurkha team sharing the longhouse were still struggling to get their wits together. Running at the crouch out through the entrance and along the veranda raised high above the ground, he saw that the Border Scouts who had been sleeping around the longhouse were perishing in a hail of bullets from the Indonesian raiders. The latter were spread out across the clearing between the river and the longhouse and firing their weapons on the move.

The combined roaring of the two Indonesian RPK light machine-guns, fired simultaneously to spray the front of the longhouse, filling the air with flying splinters of bamboo and thatch, merely added to the general bedlam of gunfire, ricocheting bullets, shouting and screaming.

Realizing instantly that there was no hope of defending the longhouse, Sanderson fired a couple of bursts from his SLR. He had the satisfaction of seeing a couple of enemy troops fall down, then he bolted around the corner of the longhouse – the veranda ran right around it – as some Gurkhas emerged from inside, bravely firing their SLRs from the hip. More Indonesians were cut down, but the Gurkhas were punched back by a fusillade of enemy gunfire and collapsed with pieces of clothing and bloody flesh flying from their torn bodies. Even as they were dying, their killers were racing up the steps of the longhouse, still firing on the move.

Now at the side of the longhouse, Sanderson saw one of the two Police Field Force signallers frantically working the radio on the communal table while the other shouted instructions in his ear and the remaining Gurkhas fired their weapons at the entrance. In a futile gesture of defiance, he aimed his SLR through the window-shaped opening in the wall and opened fire as the Gurkhas were cut down by a hail of enemy bullets and the first of the Indonesians burst into the room. The slaughtered Gurkhas were still being bowled backwards by the bullets, knocking chairs and tables over, as the Indonesians shot by Sanderson quivered and collapsed. Those behind them, however, either opened fire on the hapless signallers – blowing the radio to bits and turning one of the signallers into a shuddering quiltwork of shredded cloth and spurting blood – or turned towards Sanderson, trying to locate the source of his gunfire.

The second signaller was still tapping the Morse code keys frantically when a parang swept down through striations of sunlight and sliced off his hand. Before he had time to feel the pain and scream, he was shot through the head with a pistol. The man who had shot him was in turn dispatched by a burst from Sanderson, before the SAS corporal turned away from the window – the other Indonesians too were now aiming at him – and vaulted over the bamboo wall of the veranda as bullets whistled past his head.

A former paratrooper, Sanderson landed on his feet, let his legs buckle, rolled over a few times and jumped back up as a group of Indonesians, one carrying a flaming torch, raced around the corner of the longhouse. A short burst from Sanderson’s SLR bowled over a couple of them, including the one carrying the flaming torch. Falling, the man set fire to himself and started screaming dementedly, his feet frantically kicking up loose soil as some of his comrades tried to put out the blaze.

Meanwhile Sanderson had slipped into the jungle and crept around the back of the longhouse, carefully covering his tracks, while the Indonesians who had seen him plunged on ahead without checking, assuming he would flee in a straight line. As they disappeared into the undergrowth, Sanderson kept circling around the back of the building and saw, through the dense undergrowth, that the Indonesians were setting fire to it. Moving further away, still concealing his own tracks and footprints, he headed for the kampong, to where the sounds of shooting and screaming had spread. Through a window in the undergrowth he saw the Indonesians throwing blazing torches onto the verandas of the simple houses while the natives, men, women and children, fled into the jungle. Having seen enough, and aware that there would be no survivors in the longhouse, Sanderson turned away and headed deeper into the jungle.

When he glanced back for the last time, he saw, through the narrowing window in the undergrowth, that the raiders were looting the kampong and destroying it by fire. When they were finished, he knew only too well, they would withdraw in their boats, leaving nothing but smouldering ruins. As there was nothing he could do to prevent it, Sanderson looked back no more.

He moved at the crouch deeper into the jungle, weaving broadly between the trees, stopping every few minutes to concentrate on the silence and allow any enemy troops in the vicinity to give themselves away by their movement. As he had anticipated, the group pursuing him had broken up to fan out, hoping to find him sooner that way.

One of them materialized straight ahead, his presence made known only by the slight shifting of foliage. Not wishing to give his presence away by firing his SLR, and also in need of rations for what he knew would be a long hike, Sanderson very carefully lowered his SLR to the jungle floor, unsheathed his Fairburn-Sykes commando knife, and inched forward to the shifting, whispering foliage. Rising up silently behind where the foliage was moving, he saw the shoulders and back of the head of the enemy soldier in jungle-green fatigues.

Sanderson stepped forward without hesitation, letting the bushes part noisily, to cover the soldier’s mouth with one hand, jerk his head back and slash across his throat with the knife, slitting the jugular. As the man went into a spasm and his throat gushed warm blood, Sanderson kept his mouth covered and held him even tighter, ensuring that his convulsions did not make too much noise. The dying soldier struggled very briefly, choking on his own blood, and eventually went limp in Sanderson’s arms.

Lowering the dead man gently, almost tenderly to the ground, though this was solely to keep the noise down, Sanderson removed the webbed belt containing his victim’s survival rations and placed the belt around his own body. Then, after going back to pick up his SLR, he headed carefully into the jungle once more.

Four days later, after an epic journey through jungle and swamp, across rivers, through uncharted valleys and over densely wooded hills, using nearly invisible tracks and dangerously swaying aerial walkways, braving snakes, scorpions, wild pigs, charging boar and headhunters, Sanderson – slashed by thorns and palm leaves, bitten by mosquitoes, drained of blood by leeches, a stone lighter and almost starving, his uniform in tatters and his feet badly blistered – stumbled out of the jungle in the early-morning mist of Kuching, Sarawak, and staggered up to the guarded main gates of SAS HQ.

‘I have something to report,’ he croaked to the astounded trooper on duty. Then he collapsed.

1

The briefing took place in the new SAS headquarters, a large house lent to them by the Sultan of Brunei and known as the ‘Haunted House’ because during the days of the Japanese occupation, when it had been used as an interrogation centre, a young British woman had been tortured to death there and was now said to haunt the place. Even so, it was a great improvement on the makeshift headquarters the SAS Squadrons had been using previously, containing as it did a communications centre (COMMCEN), sleeping quarters, showers, recreation room, and other rooms such as the lecture hall where the briefing was given.

Leading the session was the Squadron Commander, Major Patrick ‘Paddy’ Callaghan, who felt completely at home in Borneo after having served his stint in Malaya during the Emergency. Also, though many SAS officers felt ill at ease when first confronting their notoriously critical troopers – it was the SAS NCOs, after all, who picked the officers during Initial Selection and thereafter judged them sternly – Callaghan felt comfortable because of his lengthy experience with the SAS since its inception in World War Two.

In fact, Callaghan had been one of the very first officers to work with the regiment’s founder, Captain David Stirling, alongside the Long Range Desert Group in North Africa. After a few years back with his original regiment, 3 Commando, he had been one of the first chosen to take part in the regiment’s re-formation during the Emergency in Malaya. From there he had returned to Bradbury Lines, then still located at Merebrook Camp, Malvern, where he had worked with his former Malayan Squadron Commander, Major Pryce-Jones, on the structuring of the rigorous new Selection and Training programme for the regiment, based mostly on ideas devised and thoroughly tested in Malaya. Promoted to the rank of Major in 1962, shortly after the SAS had transferred to Bradbury Lines, Hereford, Callaghan had been pleased to be offered the leadership of D Squadron just before its assignment to the Borneo campaign in 1964.

It is possible, therefore, that he felt even more at peace with the world because some of his former troopers, including the so-called ‘troublemakers’ Pete Welsh and Alf Laughton, both since promoted to corporal, and Corporal (now Sergeant) Richard Parker, were here with him, impatiently waiting for the briefing while wiping sweat from their faces and swatting away swarms of flies and mosquitoes.

‘Piggin’ fucking flies and mosquitoes,’ Alf Laughton said. ‘They only send me to countries filled with the bastards. It’s their way of tormenting me and driving me loopy.’

‘You buzz like a fly and whine like a mosquito,’ his good mate, Pete Welsh, replied sardonically. ‘That’s why they send you to places like this. They think they’re sending you home.’

‘Fuck you an’ all,’ Alf grunted.

‘All right,’ Callaghan said firmly, picking up a pointer, tapping it noisily on his lectern, then pulling the cloth covering off the blackboard behind him to reveal a large map of Borneo. ‘Pay attention now. This,’ he continued when the men had settled down, ‘is what we’re protecting.’ He tapped the word ‘Sarawak’ with his pointer, then ‘Kuching’ and ‘Brunei’ and finally ran the pointer along the red-dotted line marking the border. ‘Regarding the required background…’

He was interrupted by the customary moans and groans, since this was always the least popular part of an initial briefing, when the men had to listen, rather than taking part in the SAS custom of the ‘Chinese parliament’, or free exchange of ideas between officers and men.

‘I know you all find this boring,’ Callaghan said, grinning, ‘but it’s necessary, so kindly be quiet.’ When they had settled down again, he continued: ‘Brunei is one of three British dependencies in Borneo; the others are the colonies of North Borneo, now known as Sabah, and Sarawak. These territories, though extensive, represent only a quarter of the island. The rest belongs to Indonesia, whose head of state, President Sukarno…’

‘The Mad Doctor!’ Alf bellowed, winning a few laughs. With flaming red hair and a face pitted by acne, the corporal looked like a wild man. He had served twice in Malaya. The first time was in 1953 with the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry – when he had spent most of his time having a good time in Penang, rather than fighting. The second was in 1958, when, as a recently badged SAS trooper, he had been forced to stop fooling around and, instead, faced the horrors of the Telok Anson swamp alongside Sergeant Parker, Corporal Pete Welsh and a good many other, now dead, friends. Once considered a troublemaker and almost thrown out of the SAS, Alf had been saved by his exemplary behaviour in that dreadful swamp and went on to become a ruthlessly efficient member of the Directing Staff at 22 SAS Training Wing, Hereford. Now considered an ‘old Malayan hand’, he was indisputably a good man to have in Borneo.

‘Yes,’ Callaghan agreed, acknowledging the nickname bestowed by British troops on Indonesia’s ambitious leader. ‘The Mad Doctor…Anyway, on 8 December 1962 an internal rebellion in Brunei was organized and led by a young sheikh named Azahart, who wanted to unite the three dependencies. This he did by launching simultaneous guerrilla attacks against police stations, government buildings and other strategically important targets. Obliged to put this revolt down, the British quickly sent in troops stationed in Singapore, including the Queen’s Own Highlanders, the Royal Marine Commandos and the Gurkhas. Eight days later the rebellion was over and most of the rebels had fled into the jungle.’

‘Where they remain to this day,’ Pete Welsh said.

‘More or less,’ answered Callaghan.

Another old Malayan hand, Londoner Pete Welsh was an explosives expert who had been trained at No 101 Special Training School Singapore during World War Two, transferred as a sapper to 3rd Corps, with whom he had fought the Japanese during the occupation, then finally became an SAS trooper with D Squadron, returning to Malaya to take part in the Emergency with Alf Laughton, as well as some other good friends, who were killed in the Telok Anson swamp. Like Alf, regarded at that time as troublesome, he had, just like his mate, been matured by his experiences in the swamp and emerged to become an exemplary member of the Directing Staff at 22 SAS Training Wing. He was glad to be in Borneo, back in the thick of things.

‘Which brings us to the Mad Doctor,’ Alf said.

‘Correct,’ Callaghan replied. ‘President Sukarno, a great fan of the Japanese, is now driven by the dream of unifying south-east Asia under a single leadership – naturally, in this case, his own – and has cast his greedy gaze on Borneo. For this reason, when Britain backed the proposed formation of a new political entity in the region, comprising Malaya, Singapore, Sabah, Sarawak and Brunei, Sukarno opposed it, did everything in his power to wreck the plan and, in December 1962, just after the Brunei Revolt had been put down, infiltrated insurgents from Kalimantan into Borneo. When, in September 1963, Sabah and Sarawak were officially incorporated into the new Malaysian Federation, Sukarno’s forces dramatically increased their activities, with more attacks along the border. The British response was, again, immediate: to fly a force of Malaysian, British and Commonwealth troops in to contain the insurgents. You men are a further part of that force.’

The last comment was followed by a round of applause, handshaking, mutual backslapping and mutual congratulation. Callaghan let the hubbub die down before continuing: ‘The jungle war, or so-called “Confrontation”, between Britain and Indonesia is being fought on our part with a mixed force of Gurkhas, Australians and New Zealanders, totalling about 28,000 men. It’s being fought in an area as intractable as Vietnam or – for those old hands present – Malaya.’

‘If we did it in Malaya,’ Pete Welsh said, ‘we can do it here.’

‘Hear, hear!’ a few of the men chimed.

Callaghan grinned and nodded, acknowledging what they were saying, before adding a more cautious note. ‘Let’s hope so. However, please bear in mind that just as the CTs [communist terrorists] in Malaya were wizards in the jungle, so President Sukarno’s Indonesian troops are seasoned experts in this largely unexplored jungle region.’

‘Not as expert as us,’ Pete said stubbornly. ‘We can match anyone in the ulu.’

‘Right,’ Alf agreed.

Callaghan grinned, then continued: ‘The original purpose of Sukarno’s troops was to destabilize the fledgling Federation of Malaysia through clandestine guerrilla warfare and terrorism. However, when that failed, Sukarno’s generals turned to all-out invasion and blatant warfare, including air attacks on the Malay Peninsula and incursions along the border between Indonesian-held Kalimantan and Sarawak. Our job is to stop that.’

‘How?’ Sergeant Richard Parker asked in his chillingly quiet manner. Glancing down from the dais, Callaghan saw the grey eyes of Parker gazing up at him, unblinking and, to some, unnerving.

Parker was universally known as ‘Dead-eye Dick’ or simply ‘Dead-eye’ because of his exceptional marksmanship – displayed not only during his three years with the 2nd Battalion, Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, but also on the firing range of the SAS base at Merebrook Camp, Malvern, and then, most notably, during the Malayan Emergency of 1958. As Callaghan knew only too well, Dead-eye had gone into that campaign a rather quiet, serious young man who desperately wanted to be a good SAS trooper and had emerged, after some dreadful experiences in the Telok Anson swamp, an even quieter, emotionally withdrawn man but a superlative soldier.

Promoted to corporal as a reward for the bravery and skill he had displayed in Malaya, particularly in the swamp, Dead-eye had moved with the Regiment from Malvern to Hereford, where he acted as a somewhat restless member of the Directing Staff, clearly yearning for another war to fight. Bored with the peace-time fighting force, he had married a girl he met in Hereford, but separated from her three years later. By 1963, when he had been posted with the squadron to Borneo, the marriage was over.

Callaghan thought he knew why. For a long time after returning from Malaya, Dead-eye had been haunted by his appalling experiences in the Telok Anson swamp, in particular the death of the man he had most respected and tried to emulate, Sergeant Lorrimer, whose head had been guillotined by a female CT wielding a parang, a machete-like jungle knife. This gruesome scene had taken place right in front of Dead-eye.

Subsequently, back in Malvern, then in Hereford, Dead-eye had suffered repeated nightmares about the severed head of Lorrimer, whose eyes (so Dead-eye reported to the SAS psychiatrist) had kept moving frantically left and right in his head for some time after it had been severed. This bizarre phenomenon had been caused by a final, perfectly natural, nervous spasm of the muscles controlling the eyeballs, but to Dead-eye it had seemed that Lorrimer was still alive in some way and desperate to know what had happened to him – or, worse still, pleading for release from his nightmare.

More than anything else, it was the recollection of that severed head and its desperately swivelling eyes that had haunted Dead-eye for years afterwards and probably made him impossible to live with. It could not have helped the marriage; in fact, it had almost certainly ended it.

‘The main problem facing Major-General W. Walker, the British commander in Borneo,’ Callaghan replied, speaking directly to Dead-eye, ‘is that he has only five battalions to cover more than 1000 miles of jungle-covered border. Also, in addition to Sukarno’s Indonesian insurgents, he has to contend with an internal threat in the shape of the Clandestine Communist Organization, composed mainly of Chinese settlers from Sarawak. Initially, General Walker wanted us to act as a kind of mobile reserve, dropping onto the jungle canopy by parachute, as we did in Malaya, but this was deemed too dangerous and unlikely to produce worthwhile results. Instead, we’ll be operating in small patrols along the border, not engaging with the enemy unless absolutely necessary, but providing early warning of any Indonesian or CCO incursions.’

As most of the men hated R & I, as distinct from direct engagement, this announcement received the expected moans and groans, eventually silenced by a question from Pete Welsh.

‘We’ve virtually just arrived here,’ he said, ‘so know little about what’s going on. Who else is involved in this conflict? Sorry, boss, confrontation!’

Callaghan grinned at Pete’s mockery of the official term, then became serious again. ‘As Malaysia is a member of the South-East Asia Treaty Organization, the Aussie and Kiwi SAS have each sent us a squadron. The Kiwis, in particular – perhaps because of the large number of Maoris in their ranks – are the best jungle trackers we’ve got. I would ask you men of D Squadron – fresh as you are from training in West Germany and Norway and, in many cases, experienced as you are from your excellent work during the Emergency in Malaya – to be on your best behaviour with them.’

This was greeted with hoots of derisive laughter, which Callaghan deliberately ignored.

‘Also, having arrived here a few months before us, A Squadron has renewed old friendships with veterans of the Sarawak Rangers, Iban tribal trackers and headhunters brought to the Malay Peninsula in the 1950s as teachers and pupils of the SAS during the campaign.’

One of the new men, Private Terry Malkin, nervously put his hand up, cleared his throat and said, ‘’Scuse me, boss!’

‘Yes?’

‘What did you mean when you said that the natives were teachers and pupils?’

Malkin, only recently badged and still nervous with the old hands, was a Signaller. As he came from Northern Ireland, the other troopers often joked that he should be particularly good as a radio operator, blessed as he surely was with Celtic intuition and ‘second sight’. A lot of jokes bounced off Malkin’s hide on those spurious grounds.

‘We taught them about modern firearms and soldiering; they taught us about tracking in the jungle. Since coming here, A Squadron has been using them as a paramilitary force, the Sarawak Rangers, later known as the Border Scouts, but that’s being changed. From now on they’ll be used solely as trackers and support units to SAS-led Gurkha teams.’

‘Why?’ Dead-eye asked.

‘Last September our Scout post at Long Jawi, located near the border of Sarawak, was attacked and destroyed by over a hundred Indonesian soldiers who’d crossed the border from Kalimantan. Most of those men approached the post by boat, but according to the sole survivor of the attack, Corporal Ralph Sanderson, some of them emerged from the kampong itself, which they must have infiltrated days before.’

At the mention of Sanderson’s name, practically everyone in the room glanced automatically at the lean-faced soldier sitting in the back row, ignoring the flies and mosquitoes swarming around him. He was obviously used to them.

‘Though he came to Borneo with A Squadron,’ Callaghan explained, ‘Corporal Sanderson has been transferred to D Squadron to give us the benefit of his experience. If any of you men have any questions to put to him at any time over the next few months, don’t hesitate. For the moment, however, please limit yourselves to any questions you might have for me regarding the briefing so far.’

‘How did we react to the attack against Long Jawi?’ Dead-eye asked.

‘Swiftly and effectively,’ Callaghan replied without hesitation. ‘We flew Gurkhas to cut-off points on the Indonesians’ line of retreat, where most of the enemy were killed in ambushes. Nevertheless, the fact that the Dyaks had not mentioned their presence, and that the Border Scouts failed to lend adequate support to the few Gurkhas in the post, made it perfectly clear that we can’t depend on the former for anything other than tracking and intelligence gathering. Their training has therefore been taken over by the Gurkha Independent Parachute Company. Also, they no longer wear uniforms, which makes them less obviously members of the Security Forces. Naturally, we’ll still use them as porters or to fell trees to clear helicopter LZs, as they’re expert at both those tasks.’

‘What about us?’ Alf asked.

‘Since the Indonesian forces are making more frequent incursions into Sarawak and Sabah, we’ll be living almost entirely in the jungle, this time relying on our Border Scouts only for local information or when visiting a longhouse for a brief stay. Once we’ve settled in among the indigenous population, our function will be to patrol the areas where the Indonesians are most likely to cross the border. These include the comparatively flat plains along Sarawak’s western border; the valley tracks leading through Stass, about 30 miles from Kuching, the capital of Sarawak; the previously mentioned Long Jawi in the 3rd Division; the valleys south of Pensiamgan; and the waterways of eastern Sabah.’

Dead-eye turned his flat, grey gaze on Corporal Sanderson. ‘Speaking from experience, what’s your judgement on the Indo incursions?’

Sanderson smiled slightly, recognizing a kindred soul. ‘It’s my belief,’ he replied with confidence, ‘that small Indonesian patrols also infiltrate by other, less visible routes, particularly in the unexplored stretch of jungle known as “the Gap”, lying east of the Pensiamgan valleys of Sabah.’

‘Precisely,’ Callaghan interjected. ‘The Gap! Though largely unexplored territory, therefore particularly dangerous, that area will become your main battle zone.’

‘I thought we weren’t engaging the enemy,’ Alf said sarcastically.

‘You know what I mean, Trooper. If engagement is unavoidable, you engage; otherwise these are R & I patrols.’

‘How do we insert?’ Terry Malkin asked.

‘A good question from our most recently badged member!’ Callaghan responded, only half joking and going on to give a serious explanation. ‘We insert in small groups by chopper to an LZ within yomping distance of the respective target kampongs. From there we march the rest of the way. Once at their selected kampong, the individual small groups will ingratiate themselves slowly but surely, adopting a hearts-and-minds approach, as we did in Malaya. Finally, when the trust of the aboriginals has been gained, you will persuade them to let us bring more troops in by helicopter – the regular Army, Royal Marine Commandos and Gurkhas – to turn the kampongs into fortified camps. Once that’s done, we start sending SAS-led R & I patrols out into the surrounding jungle – either with or without the help of the natives.’

‘What are the hazards of this particular jungle?’ Terry asked, obviously taking this, his first campaign, very seriously.

Callaghan simply glanced at Sanderson, who said without a trace of irony: ‘Snakes, lizards, leeches, wild pigs, aggressive boar and primitive peoples: Land and Sea Dyaks, Muruts and Punans. Some of them are headhunters and don’t take too kindly to strangers.’

‘And we’re using them as trackers?’ the trooper asked doubtfully.

Sanderson grinned. ‘Only the ones we know and have personally trained. Others, when not actually headhunting, work for the Indos or CCO, so you have to be careful.’

‘When do we insert?’ Dead-eye asked.

‘The day after tomorrow,’ Major Callaghan replied. ‘Today you rest; tomorrow you prepare; the next day you leave. The flight is only twenty minutes. When you reach your LZ, an NCO from A Squadron will be there to take you in to the selected kampong and guide you through the hearts-and-minds requirements for this particular area. Any more questions?’

‘Yes,’ Pete Welsh said. ‘I’m told that the natives often offer their bare-breasted daughters as gifts. Are we allowed to accept?’

‘The elders are genuine when they offer,’ Sanderson replied from the last row, ‘but if you accept the offer, you’re liable to offend the young men of the kampong. The short answer, then, is a categorical no!’

A loud chorus of exaggerated groans filled the room, followed by Alf’s melodramatic: ‘War is hell!’

‘You should know,’ Callaghan responded. ‘That’s it. Class dismissed!’

The men gratefully pushed back their chairs and hurried out of the briefing room, determined to enjoy their last day of rest before the hard work began.

2

Selected as one team were Sergeant Parker, Corporals Welsh and Laughton, Private Malkin, all of D Squadron, and A Squadron’s Corporal Sanderson, who would be their general guide and adviser, both in the jungle and regarding their relationship with the Dyaks.

After their day of rest, which took the form of a lengthy booze-up in the NAAFI, they arose at first light to shower, shave, dress, have a hearty breakfast, then get kitted out with proper jungle wear. This included ‘olive-greens’; a soft, peaked hat with sweat-band and a yellow marker inside for identification; and rubber-and-canvas jungle boots with a metal plate inserted in the sole to prevent sharp objects, such as vicious punji stakes, going through the sole and into the foot. The kit consisted of ammunition pouches; two external water bottles; and the usual bergen rucksack including, in this instance, a useful bamboo carrier, two spare water bottles, a rolled-up sleeping bag, canvas sheeting and camouflaged hessian for setting up a temporary ‘basha’, and an escape belt holding high-calorie rations, hexamine fuel blocks, a fishing line and hooks, a small knife, waterproofed matches, a button-compass and a small-scale map.

Private Malkin was given a standard-issue Armalite M16 5.56mm assault rifle with 20-round box magazine, Corporal Sanderson opted for the generally less popular 7.62mm SLR, which he insisted he was used to, and the rest selected the 7.62mm Armalite assault rifle, which was light and compact, and therefore ideally suited to the jungle. Each man was also given a good supply of ‘36’ hand-grenades and ‘80’ white-phosphorus incendiary grenades, which were clipped to the webbed belts around their chests and waist. All of them were also given a standard-issue 9mm Browning High Power handgun with 13-round magazines and a Len Dixon holster. They were also given two knives, a Fairburn-Sykes commando knife and a parang.

‘Shit,’ Terry said, swinging the Malay jungle knife experimentally from left to right, ‘this thing looks pretty dangerous.’

‘We first had these in Malaya,’ Alf told him, ‘and a lot of us badly cut ourselves while learning to use them. It isn’t as easy as it looks, so handle that item with care, kid.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Terry clipped the sheathed parang to his belt, beside the commando knife. ‘I feel as heavy as an elephant with all this gear.’

‘You’ll soon get used to it, Trooper.’

Though every member of the four-man patrol had been trained in signals, demolition and medicine, and was presently undergoing training in the local language, each individual had to specialize in one of these skills. Trained to Regimental Signaller standard in Morse code and ciphers, the team’s specialist signaller was responsible for calling in aerial resup (resupply) missions, casualty evacuations and keeping contact with base. While all had been trained in demolition work, the team’s specialist in this field was responsible for either supervising, or carrying out, major sabotage operations. The job of the language specialist was to converse with the locals, to both gain their trust as part of the hearts-and-minds campaign and gather any information he could glean from them. Last but not least, the specialist in medicine would not only look after the other members of his patrol but also attempt to win the trust of the locals by treating them for any illnesses, real or imagined, that they might complain of.

As the team’s demolition expert, Pete Welsh was placed in charge of their single crate of mixed explosives, mostly of the plastic type such as RDX and PETN, along with both kinds of initiator: electrical and non-electrical, with the relevant firing caps and time fuses. As signaller, Terry was not asked to depend on his Celtic clairvoyance but instead was given an A41 British Army tactical radio set, which weighed 11lb excluding the battery and was carried in a backpack. Each of the men was supplied with a SARBE (surface-to-air rescue beacon) lightweight radio beacon to enable them to link up with CasEvac helicopters should the need arise.

Having been trained in first-aid and basic medicine, each man in the patrol was obliged to carry an individual medical pack that included codeine tablets and syrettes of morphine; mild and strong antiseptics (gentian violet and neomycin sulphate); chalk and opium for diarrhoea and other intestinal disorders; the antibiotic tetracycline; and an assortment of dressings and plasters. However, as the team’s medical specialist, more extensively trained with the US Army’s special forces at Fort Sam, Houston, Texas, and Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Alf was in charge of a comprehensive medical pack that included all the above items, but also a greater selection of drugs and dressings, as well as surgical equipment and a dental repair kit.

‘I wouldn’t let that butcher near my mouth,’ Pete said, ‘if my teeth were hanging out by the roots. I’d rather pull ’em myself.’

‘Any more sarcastic remarks,’ Alf retorted, ‘and I’ll practise my surgery on your balls instead of your teeth. I’m pretty good when it comes to the cut and thrust, so don’t cross me, mate.’

‘Another mad doctor,’ Pete replied. ‘We should call you Sukarno.’

As the team’s linguist, Dead-eye carried the lightest load. But once in the jungle, which was usually known by the native word ulu, he would compensate for this by being out front on ‘point’, as scout – the most dangerous and demanding job of them all.

Sanderson, as their guest, or rather guide, carried only his personal weapons and kit.

Kitted out just after breakfast, the men were then compelled to spend the rest of the long, hot morning on the firing range, testing the weapons and honing their skills. This was not as easy as it sounds, for the heat soon became suffocating, sweat ran constantly down their foreheads and into their eyes when they took aim, and they often choked on the dust kicked up by the backblast of the weapons. On top of all this, they were tormented by the usual swarms of flies and mosquitoes.

‘I give up,’ Alf said. ‘I can’t even see along the sights with these clouds of bloody insects everywhere. Let’s just call it a day.’

‘Get back on your belly on the ground,’ Dead-eye said. ‘And don’t get up till I say so.’

‘Yes, Sarge!’ Alf snapped.

They came off the firing range covered in a fine slime composed of their own sweat and the dust. After a refreshing shower, they washed the clothes they had used on the firing range, hung them up to drip dry in the still-rising heat, dressed in their spare set of olive-greens, then hurried to the mess for lunch. This was followed by an afternoon of lessons about the history, geography and culture of Borneo, with particular emphasis on the border between Sarawak and Kalimantan, where most of their operations would take place.

By the time the lessons had ended, in the late afternoon, the men’s clothes had dried and could be ironed (which they did themselves), then packed away in the bergens. When their packing was completed, they had dinner in the mess, followed by precisely one hour in the bar, which ensured that they could not drink too much.

Back in the spider, or sleeping quarters, each man had to take his place beside his bed, while Dead-eye inspected his kit and weapons, ensuring that no bergen was too heavy and that the weapons were immaculately clean and in perfect working order. Satisfied, he told them to be up and ready to leave by first light the following morning, then bid them goodnight and left the barracks.

When Dead-eye had gone Terry exhaled with an audible sigh. ‘Blimey!’ he almost gasped. ‘That Sergeant Parker scares the hell out of me. He’s so bloody expressionless.’

‘A born killer,’ Alf said gravely.

‘Heart of stone,’ Pete added.

‘He eats new boys like you for breakfast,’ Alf warned. ‘I’d be careful if I was you.’

‘Aw, come on, lads!’ Terry protested, not sure if they were serious or not. ‘I mean…’

‘Never look him directly in the eye,’ Pete said firmly.

‘Never speak to him unless spoken to,’ Alf chipped in.

‘If you see him take a deep breath,’ Pete continued, ‘hold onto your balls.’

‘He’ll bite them off otherwise,’ Alf said, ‘then spit them out in your face.’

‘Leave off, you two!’

‘It’s the truth,’ Pete said.

‘Cross our hearts,’ Alf added. ‘Old Parker, he’d cut your throat as soon as look at you, so it’s best to avoid him.’

‘How can I avoid him?’ Terry asked. ‘He’s our patrol leader, for God’s sake! I mean, he’s going to be there every minute, breathing right in my face.’

‘And he does so hate new troopers,’ Pete said. ‘You can take that as read.’

‘You poor bastard,’ Alf said.

Terry was starting to look seriously worried when Alf, able to control himself no longer, rolled over on his bed to smother his laughter in his pillow.

‘Night-night,’ Pete said chirpily, then he switched out the lights.

At dawn the next morning, after a hurried breakfast, they were driven in a Bedford RL 4×4 three-ton lorry to the airfield, where they transferred to a stripped-out Wessex Mark 1 helicopter piloted by Lieutenant Ralph Ellis of the Army Air Corps. Some of them knew Ellis from Malaya five years before, when he had flown them into the Telok Anson swamp in his Sikorsky S-55 Whirlwind.

‘You men haven’t aged a day,’ Ellis greeted them. ‘You always looked like a bunch of geriatrics.’

‘Listen who’s talking,’ Pete countered. ‘Nice little bald spot you’ve developed in five years. Soon you’ll be nothing but ears and head while we remain beautiful.’

‘The girls still love the pilots,’ Ellis replied. ‘They don’t view us as hooligans in uniform. They think we have class.’

‘And what’s this?’ Alf asked, poking Ellis in the stomach with his forefinger. ‘A nice bit of flab here.’

‘It’s the easy life the bastard lives,’ Pete informed his mate. ‘He’ll soon look like a cute little blancmange with a billiard ball on top.’

‘Very funny, I’m sure,’ Ellis replied. ‘Just get your fat arses in the chopper, thanks.’

‘Yes, mother!’ Alf and Pete replied as one, grinning wickedly as they clambered into the Wessex, followed by the others. Once inside, the men strapped themselves in, cramped together among the mass of equipment. The engines roared into life and the props started spinning. The helicopter shuddered as if about to fall apart, rose vertically until it was well above the treetops, then headed west, flying over a breathtaking panorama of densely forested hills and mountain peaks, winding rivers, waterfalls, swamps, aerial bridges and shadowy, winding paths through the ulu.

‘That jungle looks impenetrable from here,’ Terry observed, glancing down through the window in disbelief.

‘In many places it is,’ Alf replied, ‘but we’ll manage somehow.’

Twenty minutes later the Wessex landed in a jungle clearing and the men disembarked, to be greeted by another member of A Squadron, Sergeant Alan Hunt. Dropped on his own a week ago, he was living in the clearing, close to a stone-filled, gurgling river, his basha a poncho pegged diagonally from the lowest branch of a tree to the ground with his kit piled neatly up inside. Hunt was wearing jungle-green trousers and a loose shirt that seemed far too big for him. A Browning High Power handgun was holstered on his hip.

‘Hi, boss,’ Sanderson said, shaking the sergeant’s hand. ‘Boy, have you lost a lot of weight already!’

The sergeant grinned and shrugged. ‘Three stone fell off me just living here for two weeks. You’ll all look the same soon enough.’ He indicated the clearing with a wave of his right hand and all of them, glancing around at the oblique beams of sunlight streaking the gloom, realized just how hot and humid it was. ‘Ditch your gear and fix up your bashas. This is home for the next week or so. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. When you’re ready, gather around my lean-to and I’ll tell you what’s happening.’

When the helicopter had taken off again and its slipstream had died down, the men followed Hunt’s example by constructing triangular shelters with their waterproof ponchos, first hammering two Y-shaped sticks into the ground about six feet apart, running a length of rope between them and tying the rope tight, then draping the poncho over the rope and pegging the ends down to form a triangular tent. A groundsheet was rolled out inside the tent and covered with dry grass to make a mattress. A sleeping bag was then rolled out on the grass to make a soft bed. All of the lean-tos were well hidden by clumps of bamboo and screened from above by the soaring trees.

When their kit had been placed carefully around the inner edges of the tent, the men lit their hexamine stoves outside and brewed up. They drank their tea gathered around Hunt, hearing what he had been up to since arriving there a fortnight earlier.

‘As most of you know,’ he began, ‘when waging our hearts-and-minds campaign in Malaya, we transplanted the aboriginals from their original kampongs into new, fortified villages, well out of reach of the CTs. Given the nature of the locals, as well as the terrain, there’s no possibility of doing that here. In any case, most of the tribesmen are well disposed towards the British and we have to capitalize on that by relying on non-violent persuasion and using them where they live, rather than attempting to move them on. To this end I’ve already made contact with the elders of the nearby kampong, which is about five minutes from here.’

He pointed at the dense jungle to his left.

‘My first step towards penetration was to build this hide within walking distance of the kampong. From here, I kept the village under observation long enough to ensure that neither guerrillas nor Indonesian regulars were already established there. Once I was sure that they weren’t, I walked in, all smiles, and made contact through a combination of basic Malay and sign language. Gradually, they came to accept me and I started helping them with modest medical aid and by bartering some of my possessions for some of theirs. Now that I’ve been accepted, I can introduce you as friends and hopefully you’ll win their trust the same way, gradually becoming part of the village and sharing their lifestyle. Once that’s been accomplished, we’ll persuade them that our other friends should be invited in, too. If they agree, we can then call in the regular Army and Gurkhas – all one big happy family. We then use the village as a Forward Operating Base, moving out on regular patrols into the ulu, hopefully with the help of the villagers.’

‘What are they like as people?’ Dead-eye asked.

‘Physically small, generally cheerful, and lazy.’

‘Sounds just like me!’ Pete quipped.

‘They don’t cut their hair,’ Hunt continued, ignoring the quip. ‘Nor do they dress above the waist – neither the men nor the women – so you’ll have to learn not to let the females distract you too much.’

‘I’m willing to die for my country,’ Alf said, ‘but what you’re asking is too much.’

‘I’m very serious about this,’ Hunt said sharply. ‘Certain proprieties have to be maintained here, no matter how you might feel to the contrary. For instance, the village elders have a tendency to offer their daughters as a gesture of goodwill. You won’t get into trouble if you politely refuse. However, you may get into trouble if you accept.’

‘My heart’s breaking already,’ Pete said. ‘I know just what’s coming.’

‘Although, as I’ve said, the natives are generally cheerful, the young men suffer jealousy like the rest of us mere mortals and could take offence if you take their girls. In short, if you receive such an offer, make sure you refuse.’

‘What kind of gifts should we give them?’ Terry asked, as solemn as ever.

‘You don’t. Generally speaking, the Malay system of giving gifts doesn’t work here, though bartering of a minor nature is enjoyed. Instead, what you do is be mindful of their pride, showing tact, courtesy, understanding and, most of all, patience regarding all aspects of their lifestyle. Also, it’s vitally important that you show respect for the headman, whose dignity and prestige have to be upheld at all times. Obey those few simple rules and you should have no problems.’

‘So when do we start?’ Dead-eye asked.

‘Today,’ Hunt replied. ‘At least one man has to stay here to guard the camp at all times – this will be a rotating duty – while the others go into the kampong. As Corporal Sanderson is already familiar with the Indians, he’ll stay here today and the rest of you can come in with me. Leave your weapons here in Sanderson’s care, then let’s get up and go.’

‘We’re going straight away?’ Terry asked, looking uneasy.

‘That’s right, Trooper. What’s your problem?’

‘He’s embarrassed at the thought of seeing all those bare boobs,’ Pete said, making Terry blush a deep crimson.

‘Cherry-boy, is he?’ Hunt asked crisply.

‘No!’ Terry replied too quickly. ‘I’m not. I just…’

‘Think you’ll get a hard-on as soon as you see those bare tits,’ Pete interjected, giving form to Terry’s thoughts. ‘Well, no harm in that, son!’

‘Just keep your thoughts above the waist – yours, that is,’ the sergeant said, ‘and you should be all right. OK, men, let’s go.’

As Sanderson stretched out on the grassy ground beside his basha and lit up a cigarette, the others extinguished the flames from the burning hexamine blocks in their portable cookers, then followed Hunt into the dense undergrowth. Surprisingly, they found themselves walking along a narrow, twisting path, barely distinguishable in the gloom beneath the overhanging foliage.

Terry, the least experienced in the group, immediately felt oppressed and disorientated by the ulu. He had stepped into a vast silence that made his own breathing – even his heartbeat – seem unnaturally loud. Instead of the riot of birds, wildlife, flowers and natural colours he had expected, he found only a sunless gloom deepened by the dark green and brown of vine stems, tree-ferns, snake-like coils of rattan, an abundance of large and small palms, long, narrow, dangerously spiked leaves, gnarled, knotted branches – and everywhere brown mud. Glancing up from the featureless jungle, he was oppressed even more by the sheer size of the trees which soared above the dense foliage to dizzying heights, forming vertical tunnels of green and brown, the great trunks entangled in yet more liana and vine, disappearing into the darkness of their own canopy, blotting out the sunlight.

Looking up, Terry felt even more dizzy and disorientated. In that great silent and featureless gloom, he felt divorced from his own flesh and blood. His racing heart shocked him.

Though the hike took only five minutes, it seemed much longer than that, and Terry sighed with relief when the group emerged into the relative brightness of an unreal grey light that fell down through a window in the canopy of the trees on the thatched longhouses of the kampong spread out around the muddy banks of the river. The dwellings were raised on stilts, piled up one behind the other, each slightly above the other, on the wooded slopes climbing up from the river. Some, Terry noticed with a tremor, had shrunken human heads strung above their doors. The spaces below and between the houses, where the ground had been cleared for cultivation, were filled with the Iban villagers – also known as Sea Dyaks because they had once been pirates – who, stripped to the waist, male and female, young and old, were engaged in a variety of tasks, such as cooking, fishing, laundering, picking jungle fruit – figs, durians, bananas and mangos – or working in a small, dry padi, where their basic food, rice and tapioca, was grown. This they did with no great expenditure of energy, except when playing odd games and giggling. Their longboats were tied up to a long, rickety jetty, bobbing and creaking noisily in the water. Buffalo and pigs also congregated there, drinking the water or eating the tall grass as chickens squawked noisily about them.

‘They fish in that river,’ Hunt explained. ‘They also hunt wild pig, deer, birds, monkeys and other animals, using traps and the odd shotgun, but mostly blowpipes that fire poisoned arrows. Annoy them and they’ll fire them at you – so don’t steal their women!’

Terry was blushing deeply, Pete and Alf were gawping, and Dead-eye was staring impassively as a group of bare-breasted women, giggling and nudging each other, approached behind a very old, wizened man who was naked except for a loincloth and, incongruously, a pair of British army jungle boots. Obviously the headman, he raised a withered arm, spread the fingers of his hand, and croaked the one word of English he had learned from Sergeant Hunt: ‘Welcome!’

Two weeks later, Terry had stopped blushing at the sight of the bare-breasted women, but felt even more disorientated and removed from himself. This had begun with his first short trek through the awesome silence and gloom of the ulu, but was deepened by his daily visits to the kampong and his increasingly intimate interaction with the Ibans. They were so gentle and good-natured that he could not imagine them as pirates, let alone as the headhunters they obviously were, judging by the shrunken heads on prominent display. Certainly, however, they lived a primitive life of fishing in the rivers, hunting animals with blowpipes, tilling the kampong’s one rice-and-tapioca padi, and constantly maintaining their longhouses with raw materials from the jungle. They also engaged in amiable barter, trading jungle products such as timber, rattan, rice, tapioca, fruit, fish, even the swiftlet’s nests used for Chinese soup, in return for clothes, boots, rifles, tins of baked beans, chewing gum and cigarettes. Bartering, from the point of view of the SAS troopers, was the easiest way to the affections of the villagers, leading to much giggling and backslapping.

Once this had become commonplace, however, the men started winning the hearts and minds of the Ibans in other ways: Pete showed them how to use explosives for various small tasks, such as blowing fish out of the water; Alf ran a daily open-air clinic to deal with their real and imagined illnesses; Terry entertained them by tuning his shortwave radio into various stations, which invariably reduced them to excited giggles; Dead-eye trained some of them in the selective use of weapons; and Hunt and Sanderson took turns with Dead-eye to teach English to the more important men of the kampong.

The SAS men spent most of their waking hours with the Ibans, which made for a long and exhausting day. Invariably, this began at first light when, just after breakfast, they would make the short hike through the ulu from their hidden camp to the kampong. After an average of twelve hours in the kampong, eating their lunch with the Ibans, they would make their way back to the camp, invariably at last light and concealing their tracks as they went, to have a brew-up and feed gratefully off compo rations.

The Ibans were very sociable, and often, in the interests of good manners and improved relations, the troopers would be obliged to stay in one of the longhouses to partake of native hospitality. For all of them, this was pure torture, particularly since the villagers’ favourite meal was a stinking mess called jarit, which they made by splitting a length of thick bamboo, filling it with raw pork, salt and rice, and burying it for a month until it had putrefied. Indeed, while Dead-eye and Hunt were able to digest this stinking mess without bother, the others could only do so without throwing up by washing it down with mouthfuls of tapai, a fierce rice wine which looked like unfermented cider, scalded the throat and led to monumental hangovers. Nevertheless, when drunk through straws from large Chinese jars, it was potent enough to drown the stench and foul taste of the jarit.

The eating and drinking, combined with the accompanying entertainments, in which the SAS men were obliged to dance for the villagers, was made no easier by the fact that many families shared a single longhouse and the air was fetid not only from their sweat and the heat. Also, because they used the floor as a communal toilet, urinating and defecating through the slatted floor onto the ground below, the pungent air was thick at all times with swarms of flies and mosquitoes.

Luckily for the SAS men, they were called upon to explore the surrounding area and fill in the blank spaces on their maps, showing waterways suitable for boat navigation, tracks that could be classified as main or secondary, distances both in linear measurements and marching hours, contours and accessibility of specific areas, primary and secondary jungle (belukar), and swamps, and areas under cultivation (ladang). They also filled their logbooks with often seemingly irrelevant, though actually vitally important, details about the locals’ habits and customs, their food, their state of health, the variety of their animals, their weapons and their individual measure of importance within the community. Last but not least, they marked down potential ambush positions, border crossing-points, and suitable locations for parachute droppings and helicopter landings. While this work was all conducted in the suffocating humidity of the ulu, it was preferable to socializing in the fetid longhouses.

By the end of the two weeks, close relationships had been formed between the villagers and the SAS men, with the former willing to listen to the latter and do favours for them.

‘The time’s come to bring in the regular troops and fortify the kampong,’ Sergeant Hunt informed Dead-eye. ‘Then we can go out on proper jungle patrols, using the village as our FOB.’

‘Do you think the locals will wear it?’

‘That depends entirely on how we put it to them,’ Hunt said with a relaxed grin. ‘I think I know how to do that. First we tell them that evil men from across the mountain are coming and that we’re here to protect the village. Then we explain that although our group is only five in number, we have many friends who’ll descend from the sky, bringing aid. It would be particularly helpful, we’ll then explain, if the necessary space could be created for the flying soldiers to land safely. I think that might work.’

‘Let’s try it,’ Dead-eye said.

That afternoon they approached the village elders, joining them in the headman’s longhouse, where they were compelled to partake of the foul-smelling jarit, mercifully washing it down with the scalding, highly alcoholic rice wine. After four hours of small talk, by which time both troopers were feeling drunk, Hunt put his case to the headman and received a toothless, drunken smile and nod of agreement. The headman then also agreed to have a landing space cleared for the flying soldiers to land on. Indeed, he and the others expressed great excitement at the thought of witnessing this heavenly arrival.

Immediately on leaving the longhouse, Hunt, trying not to show his drunkenness, told Terry to call up A Squadron and ask them to implement the ‘step-up’ technique devised by their brilliant commander, Major Peter de la Billière. This entailed warning a full infantry company to be ready to move by helicopter to a remote forward location for a demonstration of quick deployment and firepower.

The following day, when Hunt and Dead-eye were sober, the tribesmen expertly felled a large number of trees with small, flexible axes, dragged them away with ropes, then flattened the cleared area, thus carving a helicopter landing zone out of the jungle. When they had completed this task and were waiting excitedly around the edge of the LZ for the arrival of the ‘flying soldiers’, Hunt ordered Terry to radio the message: ‘Bring in the step-up party now.’ About fifteen minutes later the helicopters appeared above the treetops, creating a tremendous din and a sea of swirling foliage, before descending vertically into the clearing and disgorging many small, sombre Gurkhas, all armed with sharpened kukris, or curved machetes, and modern weapons. The next wave of choppers brought in Royal Marine Commandos, the regular Army, and the remainder of D Squadron, SAS, all of whom were armed to the teeth.

The Ibans giggled, shrieked with excitement, and finally applauded with waves and the swinging of their blowpipes. They viewed the arrival of the Security Forces as pure entertainment.

3

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.’

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