Counter-insurgency in Aden

Counter-insurgency in Aden

SHAUN CLARKE

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

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 2016

Cover Photographs © www.piciubrothers.altervista.org (main image); Shutterstock.com (textures)

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: 9780008155063

Ebook Edition © November 2015 ISBN: 9780008155070

Version: 2015-10-29

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 port of Aden is located on a peninsula enclosing the eastern side of Bandar at-Tawahi, Aden’s harbour. It is bounded to the west and north-west by Yemen, to the north by the great desert known as the Rub’ al-Khali, the Empty Quarter, to the east by Oman, and to the south by the Gulf of Aden and the Arabian Sea. Though a centre of trade since the days of antiquity, and mentioned in the Bible, the city in 1964 looked less than appealing.

Standing beside his wife, Miriam, on the deck of the P & O liner Himalaya, Norman Blakely, emigrating to Australia from Winchester, where he had taught ancient history at the renowned public school, realized he had known all these facts since his own school days. He certainly recognized the features he had often read about, yet he felt a certain disappointment at what he was seeing, not least the surprising modernity of the place.

Even from this distance, beyond the many rowing boats and motor launches dotted about the mud-coloured waters of the harbour, Aden was no more than an untidy sprawl of white-painted stone tower buildings and warehouses surrounded by an ugly clutter of jibs and cranes, immense oil tanks and huge lights raised high on steel gantries – all hemmed in on two sides by the promontories of Jebel Shamsan (Aden) and Jebel Ihsan (Little Aden). Both of these short necks of bleached volcanic rock thrust out from, and were dominated by, an equally unattractive maritime mountain range that varied from 1000 to 2000 feet and was constantly shadowed by depressing grey clouds.

Rising up the lower slopes of the mountains behind the town, about a mile beyond it, was a roughly triangular maze of low, white-painted buildings, which Norman assumed was the old commercial centre known as the Crater. What he did not know – even though he and the other passengers had received a leaflet gently warning them of the ‘occasional’ dangers of Aden – is that it was the home of the most dangerous anti-British terrorists in that troublesome country.

‘If the town’s as depressing as it looks from here,’ Norman said to Miriam, ‘we’ll take a taxi up to the Crater. It’s almost certainly less commercialized than Aden proper – and hopefully more like the real thing.’

‘That leaflet said not to wander too far from the port area,’ Miriam reminded him.

‘The authorities always exaggerate these situations for their own reasons,’ Norman said with conviction. ‘In this instance, they doubtless want us to remain in the port area because that’s where all the duty-free goods are sold. They just want to make money. Such goods aren’t sold up in the Crater, so that’s where we’ll go.’

Trade in a particular kind of duty-free goods was already taking place in the water below them, where the ‘bum boats’ were packed tightly together by the hull of their ship and stacked high with a colourful collection of souvenirs and other cheap merchandise piled high in wooden crates and cardboard boxes. On offer were ‘hand-tooled’ – in fact, mass-produced – leather purses and wallets; cartons of Senior Service, Players, Woodbine and Camel cigarettes; Zenith 8×30 binoculars, sold in sealed boxes, many of which were fake and did not work; 35mm SLR cameras; transistor radios; counterfeit Rolex wristwatches; and even cartons of Colgate toothpaste. The goods were being sold by shrieking, gesticulating Arabs dressed in a colourful variety of garments, from English shirts and trousers to sarongs and turbans, though all wore thongs about their legs.

The Arabs were bartering by shouting preliminary prices and sending their wares up for inspection in baskets tied to ropes that had been hurled up to the passengers, who had obligingly tied them to the ship’s railing. The individual passenger then either lowered the goods back down in the basket or removed them and deposited the agreed amount of money in their place.

While this noisy, good-natured barter was being conducted between the passengers and the Arab vendors below, other passengers were throwing coins into the water between the bum boats and watching Arab children dive from the jetty for them.

Ignoring these activities, Norman led his wife down the swaying gangplank to embark on the sixty-man transit boat that would take them the short distance to the quay. The latter was guarded by uniformed British soldiers, some in shorts, others in lightweight trousers, some armed with Sten guns or self-loading rifles, others with pistols holstered at their hips.

The sight of the soldiers made Miriam more nervous.

‘Are you sure this is wise?’ she asked Norman.

‘Of course,’ he said resolutely, but with a hint of irritation, for his wife was the anxious type. ‘Can’t let a few tin soldiers bother us. Besides, they’re here for our protection, so you’ve no need to fear.’

‘There’s a war going on here, dear.’

‘Between Yemeni guerrillas and the British army, mostly up in the mountains. Not down here, Miriam.’ He tugged impatiently at her hand. ‘Come on! Let’s explore.’

Walking through the arched entrance of the Aden Port Trust, which was guarded by more British troops, Norman and Miriam stepped into Tawahi Main Road, where they were suddenly assailed by the noise of traffic and a disorientating array of signs in Arabic and English. Stuck on the wall by the entrance was a small blue rubbish bin with a notice saying, in English only: Keep Your Town Clean. Another sign said: Aden Field Force – Forging an Empire. Left of the entrance, lined up against a wire-mesh fence surmounted by three strands of menacing barbed wire which protected the building, was a taxi rank whose drivers, all Arabs wearing a mixture of sarongs, turbans and loose shirts, were soliciting custom from the Himalaya’s emerging passengers. Other Muslims were carrying with one hand trays piled high with bananas, selling steaming rice-based dishes from blue-painted, wheeled barrows, or dispensing water for a price, dishing it out by the ladleful from a well-scrubbed steel bucket.

An enthusiastic armchair traveller on his first real trip away from home, Norman was keen to see the harbour area, which he knew was called Ma’alah. Politely rejecting the services of the beaming, gesturing taxi drivers, he led his wife through the teeming streets. He was instantly struck by the exotic variety of the people – mostly Sunni Muslims, but with a smattering of Saydi Muslims from the northern tribes of northern Yemen, as well as small groups of Europeans, Hindus and Yemeni Jews.

However, the history teacher was slightly put off by the sheer intensity of the noisy throng, with its cripples, blind men, thieves with amputated hands, grimy, shrieking children, armed soldiers, both British and Federation of South Arabia, along with goats, cows and mangy dogs. He was also disillusioned by the forest of English shop signs above the many stores stacked with duty-free goods. Everywhere they looked, Norman and his increasingly agitated wife saw signs advertising Tissot and Rolex wristwatches, Agfa and Kodak film, BP petrol.

A soldier from the Queen’s Own Highlanders, complete with self-loading rifle (SLR), water bottle and grim, watchful face, stood guard at a street corner by the Aden Store Annexe – the sole agent for Venus watches, proudly displayed in their hundreds in the shop window – under a sign showing the latest 35mm cameras. In another street, the London Store, Geneva Store and New Era Store stood side by side – all flat-fronted concrete buildings with slatted curtains over window-shaped openings devoid of glass – with buckets, ladders and the vendors’ chairs outside and the mandatory soldiers parading up and down. In a third street, the locals were practically jammed elbow to elbow under antique clocks and signs advertising hi-fi systems, televisions and photographic equipment, while the tourists, either seated on chairs or pressed back against the walls by the tide of passers-by, bartered for tax-free goods, oblivious to the armed troops standing watchfully beside them.

As well as blind and crippled beggars, including one who hopped along on his hands and knees like a human spider, the streets were packed with fast-talking Arabs selling phoney Rolex wristwatches and Parker pens. Honking Mercedes, Jaguars and more modest Volkswagen Beetles all had to make their slow progress not only through the teeming mass of humans, but also through the sea of livestock and undernourished dogs.

Towering over the town, the mountains appeared to run right down to the streets, sun-bleached and purplish in the grey light, with water conduits snaking along their rocky slopes.

Stopping by the Miramar Bazaar, Norman wiped sweat from his face, suddenly realized that the heat was appalling, and decided that he had had enough of this place. Apart from its few remaining Oriental features, it was all much too modern and commercialized for his liking.

‘Let’s take a taxi to the Crater,’ he said.

‘It’s called Crater,’ Miriam corrected him pedantically. ‘Not the Crater…And I don’t think we should go up there, dear. It’s supposed to be dangerous.’

‘Oh, tosh!’ Norman said impatiently, eager to see the real Aden. ‘It can’t be any worse than this filthy hole. Besides, you only live once, my love, so let’s take our chances.’

So packed was the street with shops, stalls, animals and, above all, people, that the cars could only inch forward, their frustrated drivers hooting relentlessly. It took Norman some time to find a vacant taxi, but eventually the couple were driven out of town, along the foot of the mountains, to arrive a few minutes later at the foetid rabbit warren of Crater.

Merely glancing out the window at the thronging mass of Arabs in the rubbish-strewn street, wreathed in smoke from the many open fires and pungent food stalls, was enough to put Miriam off. She was disconcerted even more to realize, unlike in the harbour area, there were no British soldiers guarding the streets.

‘Let’s go back, dear,’ she suggested, touching Norman’s arm.

‘Rubbish! We’ll get out and investigate,’ he insisted.

After the customary haggling, Norman paid the driver and started out of the taxi. However, just as he placed his right foot on the ground, a dark-skinned man wearing an Arab robe, or futah, and on his head a shemagh, rushed past him, reaching out with his left hand to roughly push him back into the cab.

Outraged, Norman straightened up and was about to step out again when the same Arab reached under his futah and took out a pistol with a quick, smooth sweep of his right hand. Spreading his legs to steady himself, he took aim at another Arab emerging from the mud-brick house straight ahead. He fired six shots in rapid succession, punching the victim backwards, almost lifting him off the ground and finally bowling him into the dirt.

Even as Miriam screamed in terror and others bawled warnings or shouted out in fear, the assassin turned back to the deeply shocked couple.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said in perfect English, then again pushed Norman back into the taxi and slammed the door in his face. He was disappearing back into the crowd as the driver noisily ground his gears, made a sharp U-turn and roared off the way he had come, the dust churned up by his spinning wheels settling over the dead Arab on the ground.

Shocked beyond words, no longer in love with travelling, Norman trembled in the taxi beside his sobbing wife and kept his head down. Mercifully, the taxi soon screeched to a halt at the archway leading into the Aden Port Trust, where their ship was docked.

‘He was English!’ Norman eventually babbled. ‘That Arab was English!’

Miriam sobbing hysterically in his arms, he hurried up the gangplank, glad to be back aboard the ship and on his way to Australia.

‘He was English!’ he whispered, as they were swallowed up by the welcoming vastness of the Himalaya.

1

The Hercules C-130 transport plane bounced heavily onto the runway of Khormaksar, the RAF base in Aden. Roaring even louder than ever, with its flaps down, it threw the men in the cramped hold together as it trundled shakily along the runway. Having been flown all the way from their base at Bradbury Lines, Hereford, via RAF Lyneham, Wiltshire, the men of D Squadron SAS were glad to have finally arrived. Nevertheless they cursed a good deal as they sorted out their weapons, water bottles, bergen rucksacks, ammunition belts and other kit, which had been thrown together and become entangled during the rough landing.

‘This pilot couldn’t ride a bike,’ Corporal Ken Brooke complained, ‘let alone fly an aeroplane.’

‘They’re pilots because they’re too thick to do anything else,’ Lance-Corporal Les Moody replied.

‘Stop moaning and get ready to disembark,’ Sergeant Jimmy ‘Jimbo’ Ashman told them. ‘That RAF Loadmaster’s already preparing to open the door, so we’ll be on the ground in a minute or two and you can all breathe fresh air again.’

‘Hallelujah!’ Ken exclaimed softly.

In charge of the squadron was the relatively inexperienced, twenty-four-year-old Captain Robert Ellsworth. A recent recruit from the Somerset and Cornwall Light Infantry, the young officer had a healthy respect for the superior experience of the troops who had already served the Regiment well in Malaya and Borneo, particularly his two sergeants, Jimmy Ashman and Richard Parker. The former was an old hand who had started as a youngster with the Regiment when it was first formed in North Africa way back in 1941 under the legendary David Stirling. Jimbo was a tough, fair, generally good-natured NCO who understood his men and knew how to get things done.

Parker, known as Dead-eye Dick, or simply Dead-eye, because of his outstanding marksmanship, was more of a loner, forged like steel in the hell of the Telok Anson swamp in Malaya and, more recently, in what had been an equally nightmarish campaign in Borneo. Apart from being the best shot and probably the most feared and admired soldier in the Regiment, Parker was also valuable in that he had spent his time since Borneo at the Hereford and Army School of Languages, adding a good command of Arabic to his other skills.

Another Borneo hand, Trooper Terry Malkin, who had gone there as a ‘virgin’ but received a Mention in Dispatches for his bravery, was in Aden already, working under cover with one of the renowned ‘Keeni-Meeni’ squads. As a superior signaller Terry would be sorely missed for the first few weeks, though luckily he would be returning to the squadron in a few weeks’ time, when his three-month stint in Aden was over.

Three NCOs who had also been ‘broken in’ in Borneo, though not with the men already mentioned, were among those preparing to disembark from the Hercules: the impetuous Corporal Ken Brooke, the aptly named Lance-Corporal Les Moody and the medical specialist, Lance-Corporal Laurence ‘Larry’ Johnson. All were good, experienced soldiers.

Two recently badged troopers, Ben Riley and Dennis ‘Taff’ Thomas, had been included to make up the required numbers and be trained under the more experienced men. All in all, Captain Ellsworth felt that he was in good company and hoped to prove himself worthy of them when the campaign began.

The moment the Hercules came to a halt, the doors were pushed open and sunlight poured into the gloomy hold. Standing up with a noisy rattling of weapons, the men fell instinctively into two lines and inched forward, past the stacked, strapped-down supply crates, to march in pairs down the ramp to the ground. Once out of the aircraft, they were forced to blink against the fierce sunlight before they could look about them to see, parked neatly along the runway, RAF Hawker Hunter ground-support aircraft, Shackleton bombers, Twin Pioneer transports, and various helicopters, including the Sikorski S-55 Whirlwind, which the squadron had used extensively in Malaya and Borneo, and the ever-reliable Wessex S-58 Mark 1. Bedford three-ton lorries, Saladin armoured cars and jeeps with rear-mounted Bren light machine-guns were either parked near the runway or cruising along the tarmac roads between the corrugated tin hangars and concrete buildings. Beyond the latter could be seen the sun-scorched, volcanic rock mountains that encircled and dominated the distant port of Aden.

The fresh air the men had hoped to breathe after hours in the Hercules was in fact filled with dust. Their throats dried out within seconds, making them choke on the dust when they tried to breathe, and they all broke out in sweat the instant they stepped into the suffocating heat.

‘Jesus!’ Ken hissed. ‘This is worse than Borneo.’

‘I feel like I’m burning up,’ Les groaned. ‘Paying for my sins.’

‘Pay for those and you’ll burn for ever,’ Jimbo told him, breaking away from a conversation with Captain Ellsworth and Sergeant Parker. ‘Now pick up your gear and head for those Bedfords lined up on the edge of the runway. We’ve a long way to go yet.’

‘What?’ the newly fledged trooper Ben Riley asked in shock, practically croaking in the dreadful humidity and wiping sweat from his face.

‘We’ve a long way to go yet,’ Jimbo repeated patiently. ‘Sixty miles to our forward base at Thumier, to be exact. And we’re going in those Bedfords parked over there.’

‘Sixty miles?’ Ben asked, as if he hadn’t heard the sergeant correctly. ‘You mean now?

‘That’s right, Trooper. Now.’

‘Without a break?’

‘Naturally, Trooper.’

‘I think what he means, Sergeant,’ the other recently badged trooper, Taff Thomas, put in timidly, aware that the temperature here could sometimes rise to 150 degrees Fahrenheit, ‘is that a two-week period is normally allowed for acclimatization to this kind of heat.’

Ken and Larry laughed simultaneously.

‘That’s for the bleedin’ greens,’ Les explained, referring to the green-uniformed regular Army. ‘Not for the SAS. We don’t expect two weeks’ paid leave. We just get up and go.’

‘Happy, Troopers?’ Jimbo asked. Both men nodded, keen to do the right thing. ‘Right, then, get up in those Bedfords.’

The men did as they were told and soon four three-tonners were leaving the RAF base. They were guarded front and rear by British Army 6×6-drive Saladin armoured cars, each with a 76mm QF (quick-firing) gun and a Browning .30-inch machine-gun. The convoy trundled along a road that was lined with coconut palms and ran as straight as an arrow through a flat desert plain covered with scattered clumps of aloe and cactus-like euphorbia.

As the Bedfords headed towards the heat-hazed, purplish mountains that broke up the horizon, the coconut palms gradually disappeared and the land became more arid, but with a surprisingly wide variety of trees – acacias, tamarisks, jujube and doum palms – breaking up the desert’s monotony.

Once they were well away from Aden, out on the open plain, the heat became even worse and was made bearable only by the wind created by the lorries. This wind, however, churned up dense clouds of dust that made most of the men choke and, in some cases, vomit over the rattling tailgates.

‘Heave it up over the back,’ Jimbo helpfully instructed Ben as he tried to hold his stomach’s contents in with pursed lips and bulging cheeks. ‘If you do it over the side and that wind blows it back in, over us, you’ll have to lick us clean with your furry tongue. So do it over the rear, lad.’

His cheeks deathly white and still bulging, the trooper nodded and threw himself to the back of the vehicle, hanging over the tailgate and vomiting unrestrainedly into the cloud of dust being churned up by the wheels. He was soon followed by his fellow trooper, Taff Thomas, who picked the exact same spot to empty his tortured stomach, while the more experienced men covered their faces with scarves and either practised deep, even breathing or amused themselves with some traditional bullshit.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Ken said to Taff as the latter wiped his mucky lips clean with a handkerchief and tried to control his heavy breathing. ‘You’ll feel better after you’ve had a good nosh at Thumier. Great grub they do there. Raw liver, tripe, runny eggs, oysters, octopus, snails that look like snot, green pea soup…’

Taff groaned and went to throw up again over the back of the bouncing, rattling Bedford, into boiling, choking clouds of sand.

‘Bet you’ve never eaten a snail in your life,’ Larry said, more loudly than was strictly necessary. ‘That’s nosh for refined folk.’

‘Refined?’ Ken replied, glancing sideways as Taff continued heaving over the tailgate. ‘What’s so refined about pulling a piece of snot out of a shell and letting it slither down your throat? That’s puke-making – not refined.’

‘Ah, God!’ Ben groaned, then covered his mouth with his soiled handkerchief as he shuddered visibly.

‘Throw up in that,’ Jimbo warned him, ‘and I’ll make you wipe your face with it. Go and join your friend there.’

Shuddering even more violently, Ben dived for the tailgate, hanging over it beside his heaving friend.

‘A little vomit goes a long way,’ Ken said. ‘Across half of this bloody desert, in fact. I never knew those two had it in ’em. It just goes to show.’

Men in the other Bedfords were suffering in the same way, but the column continued across the desert to where the lower slopes of the mountains, covered in lava, with a mixture of limestone and sand, made for an even rougher, slower ride. Here there were no trees, so no protection from the sun, and when the lorries slowed to practically a crawl – which they had to do repeatedly to navigate the rocky terrain – they filled up immediately with swarms of buzzing flies and whining, biting mosquitoes.

‘Shit!’ Les complained, swiping frantically at the frantic insects. ‘I’m being eaten alive here!’

‘Malaria’s next on the list,’ Ken added. ‘That bloody Paludrine’s useless.’

‘Why the hell doesn’t this driver go faster?’ Larry asked as he too swatted uselessly at the attacking insects. ‘At this rate, we might as well get out and walk.’

‘It’s the mountains,’ Ben explained, feeling better for having emptied his stomach and seemingly oblivious to the insects. ‘This road’s running across their lower slopes, which are rocky and full of holes.’

‘How observant!’ Ken exclaimed.

‘A bright lad!’ Les added.

‘Real officer material,’ Larry chimed in. ‘These bleedin’ insects only go for red blood, so his must be blue.’

‘I’m never bothered by insects,’ Ben confirmed. ‘It’s odd, but it’s true.’

‘How’s your stomach?’ Ken asked the trooper.

‘Feeling sick again?’ queried Les.

‘I can still smell his vomit from an hour ago,’ Larry said, ‘and it’s probably what attracted these bloody insects. They’re after his puke.’

Ben and Taff dived simultaneously for the rear of the lorry and started heaving yet again while the others, feeling superior once more, kept swatting at and cursing the insects. This went on until the Bedford bounced down off the slopes and headed across another relatively flat plain of limestone, sandstone and lava fields. They had now been on the Dhala road for two hours, but it seemed longer than that.

Mercifully, after another hour of hellish heat and dust, with the sun even higher in a silvery-white sky, they arrived at the SAS forward base at Thumier, located near the Habilayn airstrip, sixty miles from Aden and just thirty miles from the hostile Yemeni border.

‘We could have been flown here!’ Ben complained.

‘That would have been too easy,’ Ken explained. ‘For us, nothing’s made easy.’

In reality the camp was little more than an uninviting collection of tents pitched in a sandy area surrounded by high, rocky ridges where half a dozen SAS observation posts, hidden from view and swept constantly by dust, recced the landscape for enemy troop movements. There were no guards at the camp entrance because there were no gates; nor was there a perimeter fence. However, the base was surrounded by sandbagged gun emplacements raised an equal distance apart in a loose circular shape and nicknamed ‘hedgehogs’ because they were bristling with 25-pounder guns, 3-inch mortars, and Browning 0.5-inch heavy machine-guns. Though the landscape precluded the use of aeroplanes, a flattened area of desert near one of the hedgehogs was being used as a helicopter landing pad, on which were now parked the camp’s helicopters, including a Sikorski S-55 Whirlwind and a British-built Wessex S-58 Mark 1. The Bedfords of A Squadron were lined up near the helicopters. A line of men, mostly from that squadron, all with tin plates and eating utensils, was inching into the largest tent of all – the mess tent – for their evening meal. A modified 4×4 Willys jeep, with armoured perspex screens and a Browning 0.5-inch heavy machine-gun mounted on the front, was parked outside the second largest tent, which was being used as a combined HQ and briefing room. Other medium-sized tents were being used as the quartermaster’s store, armoury, NAAFI and surgery. A row of smaller tents located near portable showers and boxed-in, roofless chemical latrines were the make-do ‘bashas’, or sleeping quarters. Beyond those tents lay the desert.

‘Home, sweet fucking home,’ Les said in disgust as he clambered out of the Bedford to stand beside his mate Ken and the still shaky troopers, Ben and Taff, in the unrelenting sunlight. ‘Welcome to Purgatory!’

Ken turned to Ben and Taff, both of whom were white as ghosts and wiping sweat from their faces. ‘Feel better, do you?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Corporal,’ they both lied.

‘The vomiting’s always followed by diarrhoea,’ Ken helpfully informed them. ‘You’ll be shitting for days.’

‘It rushes out before you can stop it,’ Les added. ‘As thin as pea soup. It’s in your pants before you even know you’ve done it. A right fucking mess, it makes.’

‘Christ!’ Ben exclaimed.

‘God Almighty!’ Taff groaned.

‘Keep your religious sentiments to yourselves,’ Jimbo admonished them, materializing out of the shimmering heat haze to study them keenly. ‘Are you two OK?’

‘Yes, Sarge,’ they both answered.

‘You look a bit shaky.’

‘I’m all right, Sarge,’ Ben said.

‘So am I,’ Taff insisted.

‘They don’t have any insides left,’ Ken explained. ‘But apart from that, they’re perfectly normal.’

Jimbo was too distracted to take in the corporal’s little joke. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘So pick up your kit, hump it over to those tents, find yourselves a basha, have a smoko and brew-up, then meet me at the quartermaster’s store in thirty minutes precisely. Get to it.’

When Jimbo had marched away, the weary men humped their 60-pound bergens onto their backs, picked up their personal weapons – either 5.56mm M16 assault rifles, 7.62mm L1A1 SLRs or 7.62mm L42A1 bolt-action sniper rifles – and marched across the dusty clearing to the bashas. Because the two new troopers had been placed in their care, Ken and Les were to share a tent with Ben and Taff.

‘Well, it isn’t exactly the Ritz,’ Ken said, leaning forward to keep his head from scraping the roof of the tent, ‘but I suppose it’ll do.’

‘They wouldn’t let you into the Ritz,’ Les replied, ‘if you had the Queen Mother on your arm. This tent is probably more luxurious than anything you’ve had in your whole life.’