Fought a million battles

 

We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go.  Always a little further, it may be. Beyond the last blue mountain barred with snow .Across the angry glimmering sea*

                                                     Prologue

This revised and expanded  second edition of my book is not only some of my recollections from my time serving as a Territorial Army Volunteer (TAVR). With whom I served in one form or another from 1968 to early 1984. But also to highlight the many many thousands of the  Army, Navy and RAF  volunteers who support the ever reducing regular forces with their service.

They are from my fading memory without the aid of a diary but with some research and the odd photograph. Nevertheless, if some people and places and dates have got mixed up or caused any offence.  I apologise None of this would have happened without the huge contribution of support and sacrifice and love  from my wife Georgina, that at times I did not deserve but will be eternally grateful..

My period of service came between the country's major war fighting conflicts. My only opportunity to become directly involved came towards the end of my service in 1982 when the Falklands war broke out. I, like many others, volunteered as soon as the news first broke, only to be refused immediately.  This was not entirely unexpected as the reserve forces covenant at the time of mobilisation could only be decreed by the government in a national emergency.*.

There was however a great deal of other “stuff” that had been going on, to a lesser degree in Africa,  the middle and far east, South America, Germany and the “troubles”. I was privileged  to be able to contribute in a very small way to  what my country asked for and meet and served  with many great characters both volunteers and regular soldiers. Serving from America in the west  a great deal of time in Europe as you would expect,  but onto the middle and far east and New Zealand before ending my time back in the uk.

Although my final “hurrah” did not materialise, I like to think that we volunteers contributed in many ways to the greater good, even if only a few of us ever fired our weapons in anger in my time.

A lot of these “contributions” are not covered in these pages, nor are the  volunteers' full names mentioned in the following pages. Not through enforcement, as I have my “letter of disclosure” but because the mantra of “need to know” is still in my breast, Many of us have signed an affidavit to say what others who did not need to know then, do not need to know now and we would not divulge them.

I realise that your view of the volunteers who go to work every day when they are not in uniform, managing the triangle of family, army and work may be skewed as a result. But in the end appreciate our contribution and at times bring a smile to your lips, for without humour many hardships could not be endured.  

Tred Parris April 2022

Fought a Million Battles.

I always liked to think of myself as a patriot and willing to do my bit, but looking back I realise that these sentiments only came over time. But at the time the reason for joining the Territorials was for money!  In 1967 I was working as aT2B ( lowest of the low!) for the GPO*, part of a team of four we had one of those green lorries you used to see trundling about with a couple of telegraph poles stuck on top. Well we used to put them up,  or do repairs to underground cables and the like. One of my colleagues from another crew who had recently moved out from what was called the “London overspill”  told me he was still serving as  a Territorial Army volunteer driver for the Royal Corps of Transport as it was then back in West London where he had moved from.  Have a morning chat before going out on our days work that he attended a  “drill”* once a week,  did one days training a month and a two week “camp” once a year. My ears pricked up when he said he got paid, and a yearly bonus of £100.00 a lot of money at the time.

 I had not long been married,  as well as her day job.  Georgina was also very often out working at night hosting the “Pippa Dee” parties* that were popular at the time to help contribute to the household budget. I can't remember how much I earned but for me using was our ancient multicoloured Thames van that its previous owner, a decorator must have tried his paints out on, to drive the seven miles from home to Bletchley Park. where the GPO was based and back, often ran out of petrol, mid or towards the end of the week, depending if we used it over the weekend. When it did I left it abandoned wherever it was until the next pay day when armed with a can full of petrol I walked back to it ,and the whole process started again,so a bit of extra cash sounded very inviting!

                                    

 I had always been interested in all things military, and as a youngster very often saw the local “TA” boys standing around looking very smart in their “BD”*, polished boots, blancoed webbing belt and beret very often tucked under the shoulder epaulettes so as not to spoil their brylcreem Elvis Presley hairstyles, waiting for the three tonner to turn up for drill night in Aylesbury. So with Georginas blessing I started looking around, and found 201 Medium Battery  Royal Artillery in Leagrave near Luton within easy striking distance at the time. Calling ahead I went over on their “drill night” and saw their PSI* During our chat the subject of parachuting came up, something medium batteries of guns did not do!   The PSI* must have seen the interest in my eyes telling me with a smirk, the nearest unit that did parachuting was at Hitchin. But they got paid an extra 50p a day!  In due course I found myself in the Squadron office of C Squadron 21 SAS(V) a place I was to become very familiar with in the years ahead.( I was to return to 201  many years later as a senior NCO But then to demonstrate the then current Soviet small arms. The AK47 assault rifle, its predecessor the rather delicate but beautiful to fire SKS with its fold away bayonet and the section machine gun the belt fed RPD).

At Hitchin Their PSI with a welcoming smile,said I would be welcome*, but I would have to do something called “Selection and Continuation”. I had never heard of the Special Air Service. The only  SAS I had heard of was a Scandinavian airline. I said ok, where do I sign?

* The regiments poem from James Ellroy Flecker

* BD the old khaki serge blouse and trousers the army wore at the time. 

* GPO General Post Office  Now BT

* PipaDee a range of plastic containers and kitchen ware.

* PSI  Permanent Staff Instructor,  a regular normally coming to the end of his service.

*Incredibly you could join straight from civvy street at the time

                                                   Selection

So a few weeks later, a buff Ministry of Defence rail warrant dropped through our letter box with an accompanying letter inviting me to attend the Duke of York's HQ in the Kings road Chelsea for a medical, to be sworn in and sign the official secrets act!

 At the time its great rambling building housed the three regiments group HQ. I recall that tucked away a little single rather obscure door. It read FANY in white letters indicating the Field Army Nursing Yeomanry. But in a previous  life the HQ of SOE Special Operations Executive. That sent many very courageous young women into occupied france. 

Going to London was something of an experience for a small town boy like me. Going for a “big night out” to the Wilton Hall Bletchley seven miles aways a popular dance hall near where I worked, was considered a special event, never mind medicals and secrets acts!  Nevertheless, I found myself with several other hopefuls, some of whom  I found out as we met nervously chatting to each other came from “C” Squadron, so I was not alone. The first glimmer of “we are all in this together” came later that day when one of the hopefuls asked the guy in front of him whose eyes were being tested to remember the top line as he had not got his glasses on in case he failed before he even got started!!  We all passed and spent the rest of the day being kitted out with “ Greens” *, woolly pulleys* a para smock, boots, gaiters, a cap comforter, 44 pattern* webbing that looked impossible to fathom out, but as it turned out not all of it was worn, a poncho cape for wet weather, although until we brought our own much bigger Aussie style ground sheet madd a very inadequate “Basha* '' . A sleeping bag. As well as a  kit bag, bergen rucksack* shirts, hairy and large baggy  green draws cellular!  Some of the Army jargon left me puzzled in those early days, a “housewife” ( a sewing kit) abbreviation like KFS ( Knife fork and spoon) and B/Fast! (Breakfast). The following Wednesday, me and the other, I think eight recruits, paraded for the first time at Hitchin. Falling in behind the Squadron  lads,  made myself presentable as I could with my unfamiliar new clothes but looking around  some of the others looked like something the cat dragged in!  Watched slightly in awe at some of the sqn lads who with the exception of the few who I would later get to  know would always look so they need a dresser, all smartly dressed “falling in” with practised ease.the stand at ease for the evening muster parade.

Over  the next few Wednesday drill nights, we were shown how to dress, do simple drill manoeuvres such as falling in, in some sort of order, standing at ease and coming to attention when your name was called out replying “here staff”.  We got our eager hands, for the first time on the army's standard self loading rifle*. Learning how to disassemble and reassemble its parts (Striping) with our inexperienced fingers and thumbs. Started to be taught map reading,  went out on map to ground familiarisation on the nearby Hexton hills where we could see a huge area of land to the North . We could then look at our  OS maps and use our compass, learning grid references to some points on the map what different symbols meant, such as a church or wood.  From these basics we went on to learn to do “back bearings'' , a triangular method of establishing your exact location in the days before the advent of the satellite navigator and learning to judge distances, contour lines that when read transformed the two dimensional map into hills and dales mountains and valleys into a three dimensional picture, essential knowledge when planning a walking route. Fitness  training was also part of our regular routine. Our Instructor was the formidable Sgt Dereck. He was one of the few soldiers who had served in all three SAS regiments, (22/23 and 21), so he was a very experienced man, he was also a demon Joker!  One drill  night we were instructed to pick up one of the long heavy former benches we had in the drill hall between us and follow Dereck out of the hall, at the double! Turning left we jogged the quarter or so mile to the nearby park, did a circuit, followed by squats jumps push ups etc before setting off back

As we neared the gates we swung out expecting to go in when Dereck went straight past!  The groans and gasps were audible!   Just about clinging  on by this time, we did another mile or so before returning, hoping that we would go this time. Thankfully we did collapsing  on and around the benches that  became synonymous  with sweat and hard breathing over the coming weeks and months.

A few weeks later our first weekend loomed; this was the start of the “Selection and Continuation” and the first weekend of many I would leave Georgina on her own for what I had so glibly signed up to!   We were briefed on arrival along with  the other recruits,  there would be three weekends, fortnightly in the South Downs. Followed by three in the Brecon Beacons, and then two weeks at the Parachute Battle School  situated in Brecon itself. The first of these three we were all assembled  together meeting up with the other budding band of brothers to form the Selection course, 1/68.

 This consisted of instructions on how to use the “44” webbing, pack our bergen so that essentials you might need were readily accessible at the top and dry clothes, socks and the vital sleeping bag, all inside a plastic bag at the bottom., cook the contents of the dried food in our twenty four hour ration packs on the small  “Hexi” cooker*. We then set off on what was to be another first for me, cross country walking carrying my steel framed bergen* rucksack.  This  was led by one of our directing staff (DS), stopping to do  map reading, taking back bearings*, estimating distances, reading our maps and the like when we stopped for a “brew”.  The walk was about ten miles, coming to an end in the late afternoon, then putting up a “Basha”* for  the first time and learning from the  uncomfortable night that followed  how important a good spot was, if you could find one! The second weekend was a full day march now as individuals, carrying a minimum of 35 Lb in our bergen, it was about then I started carrying a large can of peaches in syrup if I needed to make up the weight, as I did in the early days and then enjoy when the day was done. A belt kit with water, a compass pouch,  twenty four hours of emergency food and a tiny first aid kit.and ammunition pouches used for “goodies” on the hoof until we joined the regiment.. There was another night leg tagged on starting after the last light of about six miles.  The South downs were a fairly safe training area as all the walking was along the back of the downs, looking down from the ridge the lights of the coastal towns could be seen clearly to the South and with pylons marching across the countryside, the slightly scary cables, humming and sizzling over my head in the right direction, it was hard to get lost. But some did and on the third weekend some faces were already missing!

                              

Weekend three, by now its early March, Georgina was heavily pregnant,  the baby  was overdue and she had gone into Aylesbury Hospital.The numbers on the course were now visibly smaller, our test  was more of the same along the South Downs only further both in the day and at night, I was by this time a confident navigator and was taking to this like a duck to water!  My only drama was that to my horror I went to draw my map from within my para smock to find it was not there! Thinking where it might have fallen out and the possibility of the sack!  I had no choice but to go back to a hedge I had clambered through and to my relief finding it. One of the first lessons I never forgot, Assembling on Sunday morning in a lay-by on the busy London to Brighton road several bodies were already on the three tonner parked waiting for us. Not all had made it or had “Jacked*. 

I was obviously desperate to get home and decided to head straight for the hospital, arriving mid afternoon to find my lovely wife distraught because the baby had been still  born!  To make matters worse, she was not even in a side ward but just had a screen around her so she could hear all the happy mums, babies and visitors' laughter! Even after all these years writing these lines tears are running down my cheeks, heaven knows what impact the loss made to Georgina. A lesser person I am sure would have crumbled into despair. Although  later  she would very often weep when I left her, she never once asked me to give up on what was now my quest .

   * issue Trousers known as “Greens”

   * Woolly pully, Heavy duty jumper

    * Hexi cooker a small fold up base to light the Hexamine tablets in.

    * 44 pattern webbing issued first issued in 1944

    * Basha is a Malay word for shelter or home, a left over word for the SAS early years.

    * SLR, Self Loading Rifle weighed about 10Lb with a 20 round magazine.

   *Back bearings , a method of pinpointing your position

   *The bergen rucksack , originally designed for skiing, with a triangular frame.

   *Jacked, very few volunteers where sack almost gave up.

                     The Black Mountains and the Brecons

Then came our first visit to the Wales the historic stamping ground for the regiment since its resurrection in the 1950*.  By now the weight we were expected to carry was 40 lb plus our belt kit as well as a weapon. But not a lethal one, but an old  bolt action Lee Enfield No 4 weighing in at 10 LB that went out of service when I was still in short trousers, it did not have a sling so had to be carried at the ready.

Our first introduction to Wales was to the Black Mountains, Just inside the Welsh border  the mountains run North from Abergavenny, a series of peaks and troughs, Starting  with what was my  first serious climb up the  very steep six hundred metres up to the ridge line. Then following the undulating climbs and falls  of the mountain to what was  in a feature called the “Sugar Loaf” at its Northern end another two hundred metres higher, The views were superb, I recall  one of those fantastic clear spring days , a long way off  to the looking East the dark blue silhouette of our next challenge the Brecon Beacons. But our day was not over as it was followed by another night leg. The lovely early spring day was now replaced by a cold wind whipping across the ridge pulling my cap comforter down over my ears. Prest on, navigation like the  earlier South Downs walk was not a problem. My compass  kept on the ridge along with the lights of the towns and  villages in Wales and England on the left and right.. Finally dropping down to the Rv and our transport. The morning parade revealed yet more of my fellow recruits had fallen foul of an injury or decided it was not for them.

From then onto the Brecon Beacons, the practice of not knowing when you had arrived at the last  RV* started to be used.  Very often you may be asked a question like “ Point out a church with a steeple on the map”, or “What is the height you are at now?”. You were expected to be properly dressed, stating your name and address the instructor as “Staff”.  On occasion your bergen would be weighted and the penalty of being underweight was a large autographed stone to carry to your next RV,  something I never fell foul of thanks to my  now regular tin of peaches!  Once we reported we were given a six figure grid reference, The DS did a quick check confirming you knew where it was on your map, off you went on the next leg.

The Beacons for those not familiar with, is in the Welsh National park, it is dominated by “Pen Y Fan” and its 2907 ft  top which  can be seen from most of the park, and on a clear day as far back as the Black Mountains we had so recently walked  two weeks earlier. The “fan” as we called it  is surrounded by other only slightly less formidable peaks each intersped with deep valleys, rivers and reservoirs.  Our regiment made full use of these ups and downs to plan the various routes the recruits would be expected to complete. 

                                                         

                               *      The Brecons and selection routes for 1/68 

  *    All the British  SAS Regiments were disbanded at the end of WWII.  (NZ, Australia, Greece, South Africa  and Rhodesia carried on).  The Malayian emergency  in 1950 brought back many old veterans in what was known as the Malayain Scouts that soon morphed into 2/1 SAS being formed. Later becoming a reserve regiment when 2/2  was formed as the regular regiment, later joined by 2/3 SAS as another reserve regiment. To make up the three at the time I joined.

                                             

                                                WELSH WAX

Arriving at the Story Arms, a car park of the A470 and venue I came to know well  from Brecon south to Mertha very late Friday night, we made our bashas as best we could with orders to parade at 0700 the next morning ready to move. Looking up, I could see the silhouettes of the mountains surrounding us. The chilled wind and dark brooding mountains filled me with foreboding at what lay ahead, a sensation that never left me.  After a restless uncomfortable night in sloping tree roots of the woods adjacent to Story Arms car park, paraded with the others standing behind our  bergens in the “at ease” position for our briefing in the cold grey Welsh morning, cap comforters pulled down and the colares of our parachute regiment smocks turned up. We  were  briefed, then split into groups under an instructor to start another conducted walk. Sgt Derek once again our leader, we set off.  Leaving the car park first coming across a stream that ran down from the distant peaks.  Our leader told us the first this was we were going to get some “Welsh wax” on our boots, and promptly walked across the stream looking back to make sure we followed, later we discovered nearby rocks that could be used as stepping stones, and much  later still a bridge was built   So with soggy boots we started up on the first of many accents of the “fan” the track at that time could only be walked in single file, later walking on my own at night or in fog it was quite difficult to follow, you could easily wander off on the broad fairly feature less sides up to the mountain, something I did on several occasions, relying on my compass bearing on the top to get back to the track.

But on our first visit in daylight with a leader there were no such problems. Apart from trying to draw enough breath to keep your position in the column, my tactic at that time was simply looking down at the man's legs and feet in front of me making sure the distance remained the same.  The climb took us about an hour thankfully arriving on the saddle and the last of the serious climbing before walking up on up to the trig point itself on the  “fans” flat top,  from here there was  on a clear day, a superb vista right across the Beacons, something I never tired of.

                            

                                  

                                              DS Staff leads the way

Then down the extremely steep and precarious South side using the old disused rail track, following it thankfully down its gently sloping grass track  to the bridge near the old Torpantau station site at the top of what is now called the “Taff Trail''. After a break in the pine trees next to the gentle stream, that ran down from water catchment in the basin below the fan, a few minutes of peace and calm to light up the Hexi cooker for  a quick brew and some scoff, before setting off back up the track, to the “fan” that now looked a very long way away and very high in the distance. Climbing the last  up to the peak required all four limbs and a scramble out onto its flat stony top.  Before descending  once again back down to the Story Arms late in the afternoon. Exhausted, but with a couple of hours before we had orders to parade again, cooking up a curry, one of many more to come!  Rolled out my sleeping bag and using my belt kit as a pillow, slept the sleep of the dead!

As the light began to fail there was no parade, we were expected to be where and when we had been briefed on arrival, assembled around the back of the three tonner, given our final RV for the night march and being checked by the DS each knew where it was. Moving off and  stopping to study my map under the light of red filter of my G10* torch, I could see it involved the first half of the day's conducted walk, but then climbing again and following the escarpment East for about nine miles  to a trig point over the Talibont causeway, followed by a steep descent down where the RV would be. Or, I surmised following all of the first half  of the day down to near the Taff Trail, where I saw on the morning's march there was a disused tunnel. On the map it ran under the bottom of the mountain coming out at the southern end of Talibont, almost the same distance but no climbing! 

I made my decision, as it turned out, so did some others.  Arriving at the tunnel entrance I was mortified it might be  blocked!   But on closer inspection  found a single door, stepping inside to total eerie blackness with just the sound of dripping water to keep me company. Taking the filter off my torch started picking my way over the assorted detritus on what then seemed an endless odyssey following the beam of my torch in the pitch blackness until suddenly coming across the other end of the tunnel.  It was again blocked but to my relief also with a small access door.  This let me out. into a cold clear night to finish my night march.  Arriving in the early hours of Sunday Morning. Already on board the three tonner were the others who had made it back, then transported back to the Story Arms totally exhausted.

Sunday morning held nothing more demanding than a debrief, not all had made it back or had  “Jacked”. Then the three hour drive in the back of the freezing windy smoke filled lorry rocking in and out of sleep, many in their sleeping bags on the coconut matting floor, others  hudled, with hoods up swaying to and fro, dozing in and out of sleep as we hurtled back up the A40 and the TA centre. Arriving and lowering myself down, my legs felt so stiff and cold that I feared  they might snap if I  jumped!  Then climbing gingerly into our car to drive the fifty minutes drive home to Georgina, a shower, food and love making before falling asleep next to her lovely warm soft body exhausted. 

 Monday morning back to work!  

Two weeks later we were back.  The routine was now established, kissing Georgina goodby, loading my bergen in the car for the drive to Hitchin, meeting  the others and the ride in the three tonner back to the Story Arms, sometimes we stopped for fish and chips in Burford or nearby surprising the locals barging in bleary eyed  for Cod and  chips, Then arriving again very late on Friday night looking like the others for a flat spot in the woods to sleep as best under our bashas Then the Saturday morning 0700 parade for the briefing and bergen weighed in.This time it was “three times over”, sometimes called the “fan dance”, virtually no navigation required providing the weather stayed fine. Up to the Trig point RV on the “fan”, report in, then down to the RV at the top of the Taff Trail, back up to the top, down again following the many false peaks on the North side to the old disused ranges at the Cwmcynwyn at the bottom.  Arriving there my legs wobbly from the long downhill descent, finding our sergeant lolling up the wheel of a landrover in the afternoon sunshine. Reporting in, he simply smirked, raised his hand and pointed back up!  A last exhausting climb back up the many false peaks to the top and a final jog down to the Story Arms to what would be the final RV. Reporting in after 9 1⁄2 hours.

Our last weekend in the Brecons was the dreaded “Long Drag”, all we knew was that it was indeed going to be very long.  Walking from one RV  to another until you were told you had finished!  We weren’t told quite how long the “drag" was,   “rumour”, control thought 45 miles. As it happened I came in at nineteen and a half hours, as it turned out  half an hour inside the cut off time.  The record was set  that day of twelve and a half hours by one of my fellow recruits from “D' squadron in Portsmouth. The exact distance remained a mystery to me, but  if my cross country speed was about two miles per hour (one mile and our up, three jogging down)  that would make it about what rumour control thought it would be.! 

Next stop selection “camp”,  packing for the expected two weeks and saying goodby to Georgina set off once again to Hitchin and whatever lay ahead.  We were based at   the Parachute Battle School Brecon.  As it turned out the “test” week was pretty well all the same as we had done before, although a speed march was added at some point  being double marched as a group for five miles or so thankfully in light order. The big difference in the test week was both the accumulation of long exhausting days and nights and minor injuries turning into major ones, making it much more demanding and as the days went on claiming more victims.

This was to be followed by the planned continuation training for those that passed. The first  walk was starting at the causeway on our old friend Talibont reservoir an almost reverse of what we had done before, but this time in daylight, and timed., climbing up to the trig point,  then walking to the first RV at the bridge on the Taff Trail, up over the fan down to the story arms.     Looking back, using  the old railway tunnel when walking  the route the other way around, was the cause of my impending demise. Because somehow I got myself well off route. Finally arriving at “Taff Trail'' RV  much later in the afternoon was good for me. Finding two of the four remainers from “C” squadron sitting behind the DS staff on their bergens, obviously out of the running. Then falling for one of  the oldest ruses, I used myself many years later  when on training wing, to tell a recruit that he  was so far behind there was no way  he was going to get to the next RV in time, you might as well “Jack now!” the DS staff told me. Looking up the valley to the fan it looked a very long way away, dark and moody in the late afternoon shadow,  agreeing without giving it much thought,  unslinging my bergon sat down,  I was out. finished. I had just jacked, Instantly regretting my decision, but it was too late!

I then spent the next couple of embarrassing days with the other failures doing dishes in the cookhouse until there was sufficient transport to be laid on back to our various squadrons. Handing my kit in and returning home feeling slightly shell  shocked and  very dejected at the turn of events.

  

Green Jacket!

Not long after my failed selection attempt, casting about found a platoon of the Royal Green Jackets 4th Volunteer Battalion based in nearby Bletchley not far from the GPO depot where I still worked.( now part of “The Rifles”).

Joining the Green Jackets, I knew as little about them as I had about the SAS(V).  Discovering that they were a light infantry outfit* with a history dating back to the American wars of independence.  At the time the TAVR  was going through a major review so although my first contact was at Bletchley, never attended there, but reported to Aylesbury where the newly formed  3 Platoon of  the 4th Royal Green Jackets  (4 RGJ) was based.  Each platoon had three eight man sections with SLR rifles and the “Gimpy”, general purpose machine gun, all at the  Oxford road Aylesbury.TA centre.  The platoon was one of three all part of “A” company along with its two other platoons, plus its anti tank and mortar support teams The other two other companies and the battalion HQ were all London based. 

In due course I drew my clothes, the “ new”  to me 58 pattern webbing,  helmet and other paraphernalia, including an old style greatcoat and ancient respirator, but no”draws cellula”

 My new green beret with its “light infantry” bugle horn based cap badge all stuffed in a kitbag.

Although a new boy found myself slotting into the platoon, I had a long way to go before I would be a competent infantry soldier, but a lot of the basics I had from my experience on selection all stood me in stead. Not long after joining, we learned that the battalion was gearing up for its annual camp at Folkstone. For me and other new boys it would be a “recruits camp” and once again leaving Georgina and by then our young son to their own devices for a couple of weeks.

So saying goodbye once again to my long suffering partner and baby son Kelly.

She must have been thinking “ Here we go again!”  Len, an established TA soldier and lance corporal came to  pick me up.

I had met Len after being put in his section when I had joined. He became a sort of mentor in those two weeks and has since gone on to become one of my life long friends. If he ever reads these lines, I owe him a debt of gratitude and several beers. I make a special mention of Len because as we progressed through the ranks, he was always one rank in front of me, until both of us received our royal warrants when promoted to  Warrant Officer class two even then he was promoted before me, and still likes to remind me all these years later, that he has seniority! 

 

  New boy and small son!    Persian Gulf

All this was to stand  me in good stead in the future.  I loved it, slotting right into the platoon and soon became an established member enjoying the physical side of the march and shoots, assault courses, weapons training as well as the cameradra and social side of men who soon became my friends.  Learning a great deal about both myself during those two weeks as well as a lot about the basics. The light infantry peculiarities of the very fast 140 paces to the minute and  when  ordered  to halt of the march to stop and turn to the left and stand at ease, as well as  equipment, radios,  weapons and tactics  all part of the infantry's lifeblood.

After we came back from Folkestone and the welcome reuniting with my family, The weekend training went on, one of those lessons I was never to forget was when training to fight in a built up area in the deserted “Imber Village*”, I  meant to throw a thunder flash, (a simulated grenade)  into a windowless house only for it to bounce back from the frame and land at my feet where it went off with a very large bang! 

You only do that sort of thing once!

In  June 1969 the battalion deployed to the Isle of Man,  we boarded a train to move up to Liverpool, and the ferry, the battalion formed up on the busy station looking almost  like one of those wartime pictures of a troop train and it  drew many a stare.  Once we arrived at the Altcar training camp  on the Isle of Man our home for the duration, training went on much the same but with the battalion together on a much larger scale. We also did boat training using alloy  “assault boats”. 

The Islands TT races were on at the time so road movement was restricted to certain times of the day, frequently we could hear the screaming of high revving engines as the bikes tore around the twisty twenty two mile road circuit.

Told by my platoon sergeant several days into our camp  to report to the company commander,  who to my alarm  tasked me to meet an incoming Army Air Force helicopter and “Recce”* forward to find a lager (a suitable defensive position ) for the company that to lager at  night.  The chopper duly arrived in dramatic style, pivoting around close to the ground in preparation to depart. It was one of those now ancient types, a Bell 47 with a large bubble canopy for the pilot and in this case a very nervous me. The company commander must have thought  mistakenly off me as  (probably due to my recent history)  a competent navigator,

I had no experience of helicopters, but at the same time did not want to lose face by showing my inexperience, clambering into the cockpit and donning the headphones to cut out the hammering of the engine just behind us.   Gave my thumbs up to “Biggles' ', the engine note changed and we lifted off on our quest. The topography of the hills and dales of the island were quite easy to read from the ground level, but as we gained altitude these all flattened into one. To make matters worse we had gone around in a large circle and I had not got a clue where we were or in what direction we were facing,  (something that is common to helicopter operations). Pessing my throat mic said as much to the pilot but neither had he!   Soon a road soon came into view as we flew across the country side.  At my suggestion we decided to follow it, within  minutes coming to a crossroads with a sign post. Going down to the hover and no doubt making several motorist hearts beat faster, reading the names on the post. At that point, picking up where the nearby names on the map  were spread on my knees, I was able to give my pilot the thumbs up and indicate with my hand the bearing we needed to go.  Shortly after finding a good spot for the company was then quite easy, one of the advantages of height.  Returning like some hero to the gaggle that had gathered to welcome the returning helicopter.  Climbing out  it immediately departed and in the sudden quiet ran back doning my beret and reported to the company commander.  He seemed very impressed. having no idea of our adventures and mistakenly securing my shaky expertise as some sort of ace navigator. Later in the  camp there was the closing exercise. The full  battalion was involved, giving  officers and men alike  the chance to train as one cohesive unit.  I, now thought of as being an expert navigator  was tasked with  leading a night time “fighting patrol*” to attack our  capture of an enemy soldier,  who were a small group of regulars from the third battalion. 

We set off  shortly after the last light, soon running into hill fog and shortly after that, I was lost!  We never found the enemy,  and  with my reputation in tatters,  returned to our lines with tails between our legs and my “mate” Len  never let me forget it even to this day!

Back into routine the battalion held Junior and Senior NCO  (Non commissioned Officer) cadres from time to time. Mine was  for a junior NCO position and held over a weekend at the company HQ in Oxford.  All weekend training of course meant preparing  homework in the week, studying the “infantry manual”, and preparing kit , something else that was to follow me for many years, spending one of the nights before the weekend sorting out and prepping my kit. Then  shortly after coming home on a Friday, something to eat, kissing goodbye to the family, driving in this case to  company HQ in Oxford.  Two full days of  training in commanding troops( others on the cadre) , taking a training period,  attending  lectures on procedure and so on, arriving back home late in the evening on Sunday.  Shortly after, the cadre was promoted to Lance Corporal.  Now proudly wearing my new single dark green stripe became second in command of my rifle section and in charge of the “gun” group” ( the sections machine gun)

In January 1970 the battalion was off again to Sharjah in the Trucial Oman States. It was my first experience of the desert, descending to land my first  impressions out of the window of the prop driven Brittania aircraft  as it circled, with the undercarriage rumbling dawn and flaps extending, was of a spectacular endless sea of sand stretching out  looking a reddish brown in the early morning sunlight.  Something I never tired of seeing, although later well aware of how the cool morning light soon transferred into a hot blazing midday heat!

Based in the town my recollections were of a dusty downtrodden place, with a lot of dirty white single story buildings, it had a single road that stretched out into the desert coming to a dead stop after some twenty miles, where it  was surrounded by several cars that had either ran out of petrol or had been abandoned as unwanted.  On the road out in the back of several beat up old lorries, probably left over from the war, that lacked a cab door and a bare footed local driver!

We passed quite a few Arabs walking alongside the road, some with camels, others with heavily laden donkeys.  We had been told that it was bad manners to wave with your left hand because that was the hand arabs used to clean themselves after using the toilet    Needless to say each one that returned our salutations as we passed by, used their left hand!

We were based in  wadi shawka ( not sure about the spelling!) out in the desert that had a running stream  for pretty much all of the ten days.  We trained in what the navy calls a tropical routine, meaning leaving early in the morning to train in all the basics that were our bread and butter, ending at around midday until early evening because of the heat. Then more of the same as the day cooled.  The difference in temperature between the heat of the day and the cold of the night was remarkable. On guard duty just before dawn a cap comforter, gloves and the collar turned up on your great coat was a must!

                                      

One day doing an advance to contact our section came to a halt taking cover behind whatever was available. A voice from my left said “corporal can I move?” asking why he said “cos there's a f.....ing  great black snake sharing this rock with me !”

On another occasion the medical officer came round giving us instructions on the need for salt to replace what we were losing through our exertions.  He handed out two tablets each, me being me, chucked them both in my mouth and swallowed.   A look of horror came over the docs face ,”you supposed to dissolve them in your water bottle” he shouted,  I was then ordered to the laughs from the assembled  platoon to drink  the contents of my water bottle then jump up and down to dissolve them in my stomach.

Towards the end of our time there was the usual major exercise, I can't recall who were the “enemy” I never saw them anyway, but laying spread out along an escarpment, we had a visit from our  commanding officer  along with a couple of other officers.  He came to stand alongside me surveying the lower ground in front of  our position.  Turning on my side, saying “excuse me sir, but you are sky lining our position” he mumbled his apology and retreated, but later I had a very large flea in my ear for embarrassing the Colonel from our platoon Sergeant Tony B!

                                     

                                 3 Platoon on patrol gun group at the rear.

 

Returning one day from training we found the local Arabs, taking advantage of our inexperience and deserted camp, had stolen a  tent!  We found it quite amusing at the time, but I bet the Colonel Is still filling in forms today!  In the last few days we had some free time and I went into the Bazar to buy a “Persian” rug to take home. Later learning that my wife thought it was horrid,  after a short period it disappeared never to be seen again!  

Trying to negotiate with the stall holder,  another Arab came to stand by me dressed in a traditional dishdash, complete with head gear and a huge brown arabic nose, he said in plain English “ don't panic mate I will sort it out for you”.  Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather!. 

But sort it out he did!  Parading on the last day, two “Pinkies”* long wheelbased Land Rovers equipped with long range fuel tanks, sand boards and radios each manned with four sunburnt soldiers drove by.  Bristling with weapons wrapped for travel in canvas covers and with  radio aerials waving to and fro sped off out towards the Saudi border. 

I immediately identified them as SAS and it brought back all the rancour of my failure and I resolved then to try selection again*.

So despite a very nice letter from the Colonel asking me to reconsider, ( addendum)

I requested a leave of absence and transfer to the 21 SAS(V) to attempt selection again. But this time as a much more capable person!

 

.

•  M.O Medical Officer

•  The Pinkies were so named because of  desert camouflage of pink    

• Two attempts at selection were allowed.

Second Time Around

My second attempt very nearly did not happen.  Parading for the first time, I still wore my infantry style combat suit complete with stripe and green beret not knowing that no rank or insignia is allowed. All are supposed to be equal for the forthcoming coming tests.  Two full screws (Army slang for corporals) part of the directing staff,  I could see out of the corner of my eye, were making a beeline for me!   They ordered me to remove my beret and don a cap comforter, then drawing a knife one made to start cutting the stripe off my arm.  Thinking this was well out of order, and  a personal disgrace to me to have my rank removed in public, refused,  but offered to fall out and remove the offending item before rejoining the muster parade . This was allowed by the  W011 in charge, but of course I had made two enemies who were going to make me pay dearly for the incident.

Being by then quite experienced, and considerably fitter,  found the South Downs weekends not much more than a refresher.   Navigation was made even easier as the routes were much as before, still physically demanding in places, but well within my abilities,  more by luck than judgement staying out of trouble until we came to the second weekend in the Brecons and the first time we were walking as individuals (again for me). Approaching the back of the three tonner being used as an RV, saw with some trepidation the two corporals who earlier I had fallen foul of at the first  muster parade  were manning it.  They decided I was not dressed correctly and ordered me to do twenty press ups,  annoyed but undeterred  obayed the order, carrying on to complete the weekend. But this behaviour did not stop, invariably they would be at one or another RVs and each time found some reason for more punishment and delay until one day,  commanded in pouring rain, to do press ups in a large puddle of water, my patience snapped and said no!   I was not going to do press ups in water,  ensuring  that the remainder of my day and night march would be done in soaking wet clothes that was well out of order!

The screws had already given me my next RV, so without having it checked that I knew where it was or permission turned and went on my way. Unknown to me at the directing staff's  debrief, at the end of the weekend they wanted me sacked.  The following Wednesday I found myself called into the Squadron office, the PSI by then  now late Norman Duggen, a long time regular coming to the end of his time, asking me what had gone on. I explained, admitting that refusing an order was not the right way to go about getting through selection, but also explaining why my refusal was in my opinion justified.  The outcome was an admonishment but  permission to carry on, and the two individuals never bothered me again.

Long drag came and went as long and exhausting as it had been the first time. Recalling that although this was supposed to be completed as individuals, inevitably you jogged along with others from time to time.

On one occasion stopping for a breather another guy stopped, exchanging experiences before setting off keeping each other company for a while.   I was feeling quite low at the time and the company somehow picked me up.  Later I was able to do the same for someone else, meeting him tired and dispirited, but just a few words and an invitation to walk along with me,  he  picked up, got the second wind and the next day was amongst the finishers.

The “ test week” was basically a rerun of the last Brecon weekends with a five mile speed march added in..  But, there was a difference, minor injuries can become major ones.  There was no time to recover your energy, before the next day's demands. For some this proved too much and they withdrew because of one or the other maladies, or some like me to try again.  Completing course 2/1970 about ten percent had passed from those who had originally volunteered, keeping what the average had been for some years.  

Us who were left went straight onto continuation. The  aim of this really was as much about suitability to “fit in” as well as various exercises at night, days on the ranges, minor tactics, river crossing and, including survival navigation, animal traps and trapping and resistance to interrogation. 

                                                          

                                                        Continuation

My fingers were numb and shaking a little as I tied the last loop of paracord around the top of my improvised bergen rucksack raft*.   Just inches from my soggy right knee in the mud, the dark  smooth fast flowing waters of the river Wye looked threatening in the late October night.

On the other side way off in the distant blackness a very small single convoy light looked out with its red impassive eye  from our transport.  It  seemed to be waiting patiently, beckoning  those that crossed  to its safe interior and the ride back to the battle school.  Our instructions were to get to the transport,  those that did not would have to walk!  Some we never saw again! 

 (failures were separated from those going on).  Feeling  for the muddy  bottom with my plimsole covered foot, the cold water soaked through my “greens” 

( lightweight trousers), then plunging in and dragging the raft with me I struck  out for the other side, the current  and cold  took my breath away,  the dark outline of the bank swept past me at an alarming rate.

For what seemed ages later the mass of the far bank was in front of me, my feet touching the muddy reed filled bottom, scrabbling, clawing and  climbing up  onto the open field relieved to be  on dry land again.   Grunts and gasps on either side of me told me they had made it too.   In the distance the small red unblinking light still waited patiently.  slinging my bergen set off at a trot in the strange glow of warmth that prevails in the first  few minutes after getting onto dry land (rapidly changing to freezing cold). All around me  other dark shapes jogged  along grunting under their loads across the field.

Without warning I fell over in an almighty undignified crash, confused I caught my breath,  struggling  like some stranded whale when the object I had fell over let out an enormous mooooo and stood up, blotting out the moonlight!  In  a flash I was up and  running hard, I had fallen over a cow!  Needless to say I was first back!

                                          

                                               

                                                            Library picture

In the following  days we did training on minor tactics,  an innocent  little title that meant repeatedly throwing  myself  with the others up and  down the moon grass of the Sennybridge ranges with either a rifle or lugging the  twenty eight pound general purpose machine gun,  lungs bursting, to fire, at distant targets. The red racers laced between the scattered sheep who seemed oblivious to the mortal danger.   All under the constant merciless  snarling para regiment  instructors.   Some of us had done this before in the units we came from, of course  but the  brutality of dead sheep caught in the crossfire was ignored now,  a tiny lamb lying helpless alongside his dead mother is dispatched without breaking a step.

Recovering a wounded member of your patrol when in contact with the enemy. CQB (close quarter battle) moving along a twisting path shooting at  targets that popped up or  were standing  semi concealed in cover. Ambush drills, anti ambush drills and so on.  One lighter moment was to come on the night of a     “ target reconnaissance “ exercise boarding  the old Bedford RL three tonner  we  hurtled along the South Wales roads,  in the back rocked  back and forth in the darkness of the battened down flap  waiting for the speed to drop off.   Soon the lorry slowed to a stop, the tarp was lifted and the dark shape of the first man climbed out.  A few stops later it was my turn.  The three tonner roared  into the darkness, leaving me in a cloud of petrol fumes.  The tiny deserted road I had been dumped  was sky lined above me by the dark brooding  silhouettes of the Beacons. My mission was to find and produce a report on a railway tunnel entrance.  My tiny covered torch  illuminated the railway in  its red glow to the north on the map,  but not as the elusive tunnel entrance,  learning the lesson  that different colour lenses on a torch made some colours on a map invisible!. The other valuable lesson I learned  that night was, when aiming for a specific location at night using your compass , such as my tunnel aim off ! 

Two hours later my choices had been reduced to either, hoofing it back to camp  admitting failure, or meeting the returning lorry with a cunning plan!   Chatting to the anonymous dark shadows of the other hopefuls, as the three tonner sped its way back it’s differential whining in protest. A  picture started to form and  by the time we got back to camp my report,  gleaned from questioning the others, was a very credible likeness of a single track railway running into the tunnel entrance, and was deemed acceptable by the DS staff,  Phew! !

There was much more to learn of course, but this was for the future after a parachute course, getting “badged” (passing all the requirements) and joining 

the squadron. 

• The Bergan raft  was constructed by wrapping your poncho around the bergan tying with a paracord and with your weapon on top swim with it across the obstacle. In theory  used on any water above the knee, an instruction seldom obeyed!

                                        

                                                  

  Escape and Evade!

We never did the E & E as part of the continuation. But on arriving at the first “drill”  night after arriving back from my parachute course. At least two squadron members grabbed me,  a hood  was crammed over my head and over the next couple of hours had a small taster of what interrogation techniques I might expect if captured. 

 At some point soon after some of us went down to  the JSIU (Joint Service Interrogation Unit) then based in Ashford, submitting ourselves to  be interrogated.  There were three  groups who had to do resistance training, us, Marines and aircrew.  There may well have been others who worked on the “dark side” to.

The weekend started with  some lectures,  what we might expect our captures to know,  for instance, if you had been decorated  your name might well have been in print in some magazine or local paper,  then there was every possibility that your interrogators would shortly after your standard statement of “Sorry, I can't answer that question Sir” and giving your name rank and service number, would research you and soon know all about you and your family.  

 These  techniques along with sleep and  sensory deprivation, being forced to hold stress positions, sometimes  held outside  day or night,  possibly naked,  all with hoods  on and white noise in the background, were designed to break you down.  We for our part was to try and resist for twenty four hours by which time the vast majority of what tactical information you knew would be redundant and of little value to the enemy.

At the end of the lectures, armed men came into the room and we were “in the bag” the rest of the day  and night was very unpleasant, between  “softening  up” I was frog marched in to face” Mr Nasty” with bright lights in my  eyes, shouting  threats and obscenities at me. Or “Mr Nice”  offering a cigarette and trying to get a Red Cross statement  signed so my  family could be informed I was  alive and well.   By Sunday morning when my hood was taken off and told it was all over, I wasn't sure if I believed it,  such was my confusion and it took some time before I accepted that it really was over!.  Travelling back to Hitchin all of us had a  story to tell!   We were all also well aware that what we had experienced was in the context of training.  In the real thing our experience might well be considerably worse,  even before we  got taken to an interrogation centre!

                                             

 Reading About the incredible wartime exploits of SAS Maj Roy Farren  and 2 SAS in France and later in Italy, he describes how the constant worry of  surprise attack and being  captured was very wearing and he also worried about becoming “windy”.  My contribution many years later  in 2/1 SAS(VR) pale into miniscule insignificance, but looking back I think that although at the time I thought of myself that as a fit six foot two man in his prime, I was  impervious to such pressures, but  they  probably contributed to the nightmares I suffered intermittently for several years after leaving the regiment. The nightmares  were all the same, I was in the bottom of a conical shell hole, helpless,  around the rim riding Russian Cossacks. Invariably at this point Georgiana would wake me saying I was making loud unintelligible noises.

A major E&E  came later when the whole regiment took  part in an  E&E exercise that winter.   Stripped of our kit,  we were herded onto old unheated  railway carriages at Euston, guarded by soldiers in unfamiliar uniforms and armed with AK47s  ( would this be allowed today I wonder?), armed  ourselves with only  a  “sketch map” with north  and a few landmarks on it,   we were dumped unceremoniously  and hungry onto the snow covered freezing Stamford training  area on one of the coldest nights for many years, our small party of three.  Twins Pete and Dave looked for the pole star amongst the ice cold  clear twinkling night sky and set off.   In the distance we could see jeep headlights and troop transports stopping to drop off the Hunter force.  

Some time later the situation had gone from an E&E exercise to one of survival! Looking at the others, with  frozen snot on their top lips,  frosted eyebrows and clothing  white with frost, things were getting serious!

We came upon a darkened deserted farm house,  amongst the outbuildings  an old abandoned  and dilapidated caravan, inside was our salvation,  rolls and rolls of fibreglass insulation!   It took no encouragement to wrap ourselves in it knowing we are not going to freeze to death. The price was terribly itching when we finally emerged  in the morning into a crystal clear Sunday winter morning.  As it happened the exercise had been cancelled, the night time temperature had been eighteen below and had been deemed dangerously low even for us.

There were other E&E exercises, very often in Denmark, that went under the now politically incorrect name  “ Black Maki”. These were  double edged in that the Dutch home guards were put on alert, in fact it seemed the whole country was on alert for our arrival.  Entry was either by parachute, but more often low flying three tonner (lorry)if the weather precluded jumping in.

We acted as Russian Spetsnaz  tasked to attack various targets and then exfiltrate without  being captured and falling into the clutches of the JSIU.   

On one occasion being the only member who had not been captured when  we were  “bumped” early  one morning,  escaping with just my rifle  as the commotion erupted near me in the.  I just had time to erupt out of my sleeping bag, grab my belt kit and weapon and move rapidly away, then with a quick peek out down a fire break to make sure the enemy had not put out  stops, ran across into a the pines on the other side making for the emergency RV,  where the remainder of the Squadron would be. But  fearing there would be a follow up, possibly with dogs once the hunter force realised one had got away. Found some thick bramble and crawled under and through it, emerging scratched and bleeding continued moving away and towards our ERV  ( emergency RV). The search still was still on as a  over a light aircraft started circling the area out in the open ground, it was the days before thermal imaging, forcing me to stay under cover until it had disappeared and the light started to fail.  Arriving  at the ERV without further incident.  Passing through our guard position and Sitting down by a tree, amongst slumbering bodies.   We routinely tied our “woolly Pulleys” * our  waists if just  in these circumstances all else had to be abandoned to escape. Putting it on, it still wasn't long before my teeth were chattering and my body was shaking with cold, trying to keep the frost off me, I had put my  waterproof map over me as a sort of survival blanket.

 Jim Shad disturbed by my arrival, offered to share his sleeping bag later,  so we both  had a very tightly  squeezed but warm night. Jim says he can still remember how I smelt!

Our exfiltration on another “Black Maki '' was to be picked up by a torpedo boat off the Dutch coast.  There was a bitterly cold wind blowing off the north sea. Moving after dark to the pick up point, we  waited patiently out of the wind in the dunes for the appointed time before we started signalling out into the night, when  we hoped the boat would be waiting to reply, had to hoof it as trucks started pulling up on the road, tailgates were banging down disgorging “ enemy” troops. I remember there was a lot of snow on the ground, we split up as outnumbered ten to one,  we could fight, each of us to make for  the emergency RV.  Snow was very heavy on the ground so it was impossible to hide your tracks. I remember jumping from clear patch to clear patch and  walking backwards for some time in a succesfull attempt to confuse the hunters!

• Woolly Pully. Heavy duty issue pullover.

                                     

                           

    Another time and place, but the pictures tells the tale

The Stanford particle training area in Norfolk was one of the army's well used exercise areas.  We were there with the Germans, French and Dutch special forces on the ten day NATO long range patrol exercise  “Tristar”. Tasks involved meeting agents for information exchange or replacement kit, signalling and moving locations and on.  One night, taking the customary five minutes in the hour break off the line of march, we heard the sound of marching feet approaching us shortly after  a four man German patrol marching past us all in step! We needed no second bidding but to follow them at a safe distance so if there was trouble ahead, they would find it first!

The hunter force was the third battalion of my old regiments, the Green Jackets. (3 RGJ)  They had just come back from Ireland and were very sharp.  Forcing us to move frequently as they did cordon and searches.  In the end the call was so close we only just escaped with our weapons and belt kits.  Abandoning everything else and forcing us to live off our emergency rations until we could get to an agent Rv,  It was bitterly  cold,  finding somewhere as safe as we could we tried resting, all four of us in the spoon position  taking it in turns to be in the middle!

In Northern Scotland the country's  last great wilderness. Our task was to get  across a mythical border into “Blue” land (friendly territory) many miles south of our drop off point.  The Gurkas were the hunter force, they have an enviable reputation, but as it turned out did  not cause us a great deal of problems. The weather was very inclement, the rain driving them into whatever dry cover was available, allowing us the opportunity to slip by their “stop lines” with very little hindrance. To this day on a rainy night I say “ this is a good night for dirty deeds!”

Having to cross the (I think) river Spey to make for a boat to take us further south, Mick, who was lead scout, was looking along the bank, in the dark of course for a crossing point and fell in!  His voice growled back to us three tittering in darkness on the bank “were crossing here”. One other incident came to mind later reading  the “Bravo 20” account of  the first Gulf war, when the half troop, who had been split up, stopped a taxi at gunpoint  to get as far as they could towards the  Jordanian border. Their bid failed as it happened at a checkpoint.

But for us resting in cover one morning saw an ancient single decker bus appear over the horizon coming down towards us on what was little more than a single track road. Stepping out we flagged it down.  We were by this time filthy, dirty,  unkempt,  unshaven and armed.  The bus stopped and the  driver asked with a twinkle in his eye “how far are you going boys ?”.   We said as far as possible please and climbed in. Inside the door to the left was a wicker basket with some chickens in and on the first seat a little lady dressed in black clutching her shopping bag in her lap who never batted an eyelid as we four barged past.The ten miles or so ride we got was very welcome!  I think the driver had done this before!

At the Northern end of ( I think) Lock New we made our agent contact who would pilot a small boat that would transport us down the lock through the night and pass any shore based stop lines. We made the  agent RV ok and set off south into the foggy night to the far end of lock ,the little boat's outboard engine puttering contentedly. Turning into the shore after some time and switching the motor off, using our paddles we moved silently towards the dark outline of the shore against the fog. When without warning a trout jumped into the boat, shortly followed by another!

For a brief second stealth was forgotten as hands scrabbled to grab the fish in case they jumped out again!  They made a tasty breakfast in our  LUP* the next morning.

Arriving at what we thought was the final RV after dark we found quite a few other patrols were already back, reporting into our training major a man of formidable reputation for the Iranian Embassy siege  and who canoed around the UK by way of a holiday! We Were told that we were not at the last RV, it was in fact the other side of the river!

Although I had a much senior ranked officer with me, as patrol commander, decisions were mine and I declined to attempt an un-recced crossing at night. But offered to be ready to cross at first light once we had seen the other side and could cross using the proper tactics.

There was a huge pregnant pause, the silence from my senior patrol member  who I expected to support my decision, the  silence was palpable!  For a moment I thought there was a distinct possibility that I could face the sack! As it happened we were not the only patrol to decline a night crossing and the exercise ended without repercussions. 

As you read on, I remind you that on each occasion, long or short Georgina coped at home as many wives and partners did with whatever had to be coped with,  routine or emergency, all without  support and on each following Monday morning, us TA  boys all  went back to work!

• LUP lying up position ( a LUP should be a nest hive not a nest)

                       

 

Badged

“Stand up, hook up, check equipment”.   The  PJI (Parachute Jumping instructor) shouted  above the noise of the  engines.  Swaying and bracing myself, latching my static line onto the overhead steel cable, checking my harness is all ok and running my eye over the man's parachute pack in front of me to make sure all the small ties were in place. The Hercules* is banking around towards the drop zone on Weston on the Green, pitching up and slowing to 90 knots, the PJI  slides up the port paratrooping door.  Immediately cold gusty air rushes in, from my position in the stick, the green Oxford countryside slides by below us.  Levelling up, the red light on the door frame comes on, the PJI holds up two fingers and mouths for two minutes ,my  left leg is trembling , we shuffle forwards, the first man holding onto the door frame.  The red eye glares at us for what seemed ages and just as suddenly flicks to green. “GO! GO!” came the shout as the first man disappeared out of the door.  Shuffling up in line, now it's me, grabbing the door frame and stepping out on the small ledge,  I attempt to jump but my legs buckle and before I know it I am riding down the slipstream. The chute opened, looking up to make sure it had deployed correctly with my hand on the reserve. The noise and drama inside the aircraft suddenly changes to peaceful silence as I sway under my open green canopy. 

Looking down onto the DZ *  Those in front of me are now on the ground, their chutes collapsed like useless bundles of washing. Seconds later my view changes as the green grass comes rushing up,  bending my knees, turning my feet off to avoid toes, knees, nose, hospital, to start my parachuting career.  My feet bang down, knocking my  breath away.  Rolling forward, standing up and it was all over. I had completed my first descent from an aircraft.

                              

                                                       Parachutist!

• Hercules. a four engine transport aircraft

• DZ. Drop Zone

• PJI . Parachute Jumping Instructor

This jump was to be the first of six, three from a  balloon and three from an aircraft.  This one had been clean fatigue (without equipment), the next was a two stick, jumping  from alternative  doors, followed by jumping with equipment in daylight and finally with equipment at night.

Having to get my weight to get from fourteen stone to thirteen and a half  before I could go, joining the other four from “C” Squadron  to report to RAF Abingdon, the No1 parachute school, ten days previosly.

 For the first few days training consisted of doing  forward rolls onto matting, then jumping a few feet down from a mock up fuselage onto mats. Then controlled descents from a tower,  followed by leaping from a mock up exit door and sliding down a wire, the jump being followed by a short but dead drop, hence the name knacker cracker!

Moving onto the balloon for several descents, a strange experience: the cage with four of us in it rising silently to eight hundred feet. Instinctively clutching the side in case you fall out  when you are about to jump out of the thing a few minutes later.

Our dispatcher called me to the opening, he is a comedian, and says “If you pile in, can I have your boots?”, followed by “GO”.  It's a dead drop  from the cage, but as you look up you can see your chute being pulled out of its bag and deploying. Then a disembowel voice from hundreds of feet below saying things like “ Check your chute” or “Steer to the right” and as you approached the ground  “Keep your feet together”, from the megaphoned  voice of a PJI  on the ground.

There was one refusal from the aircraft, I was well back in the stick, but felt a slight hesitation of moving. I looked forward in time to see the PJI grab a guy and heave him  back out of the door as the rest of us  piled forward and out of the door. By the time we got back to Brize,he and his kit was gone. He was one of ours.

             Much later                       Balloon jump               Knacker cracker   The tower

 Becoming para trained was the last requirement before becoming “Badged”.  SAS wings are different from normal para wings, in that  they are upturned, in light blue, our founder David Stirling* then in North Africa  and a keen Egyptologist and influenced by the design  of the Egyptian “Ba”* bird symbol bestowing the wearer eternal flight after death.

They signified much more than that, the wearer was just para trained but that also signified he  had completed  selection and continuation and was now a fully fledged member of a Sabre Squadron.

 

                               

                           

   

                                

* I must thank Georgina for spotting the similarity when we visited the Tutankhamun              exhibition in  London

* The regiment was formed there, known as  “L” detachment of the SAS , implying it was a small part of a much bigger unit, now known as the “originals”.

The beige beret and the wings was the cause of considerable resentment of some of our regular regiments where everyone who was attached wore their own unit's badge with the beige beret. But in the reserve regiments many did not have a parent unit, thus regulars seeing men volunteers with the winged dagger  they wrongly assumed they were “badged” when in  fact it is the wings that differentiated  Sabre squadron men bers from HQ staff. 

The parachute was one of the primary means of arriving at what was known as “entry”, (getting into hostile territory) but by no means the only one. Over my twelve and a bit years with the regiment I did surprisingly few jumps.  For instance, you only needed to do one a year to stay, on date and on some years that is all I did, on others a lot more.  Sometimes in the summer we had a balloon or helicopter at RAF Henlow and could do three “hollywood” (clean fatigue) descents in the evening.   Several jumps could take place as part of exercises in a year, both here and abroad.  As well as jumping with the RAF,   also jumping with the French 13th Parachutistes du régiment (13RDP) the US 11th Special Forces Group (11SFG), probably totalling about sixty descents give or take, in all.  A small number of us were trained in HALO (High Altitude Low Opening) techniques for clandestine entry. I would have liked to have been part of that group but it was not to be, being somewhere else at the time.  Over the years, also jumping from a variety of aircraft, the C130 Hercules, various helicopters including off the tailgate of the Chinook, when it felt that you were about to step on the man's head in front of you.  French Transal 140, an ancient C47 Dakota , U.S C123 Provider when on exchange with U.S special forces.  The briefing for which was memorable, in that it was long and exhaustive. At the end the guy on the stage was saying “In the case of an emergency”, when he suddenly stopped, looking at his pilot sitting along the stage, saying “ What the hell do we do, in the case of an emergency?” We all laughed long and loud, but was he joking ?

                                 

                                      

                          

                                       Jumping from a US Army Huey about 1980

Parachuting stories are legion. Like any bit of danger mild or great that has been shared, everyone has a story to tell. We jumped into water, small drop zones that caused landings in trees. As did my boss Bill who found out when jumping onto a very large DZ once but with a single lone tree in the middle of it.  Someone walked across my canopy on one night jump, alarming and very dangerous near the ground  Fellow squadron member Alan thinking he saw a pond, released part of his harness in preparation of entering “the water”,  then hit top of a convex roofed building, sliding off and landing unceremoniously on the ground. The RAF dropped us early on one airfield exercise, some landing on the perimeter track, we had several injuries that day, squadron sergeant major Terry breaking both his ankles. I also broke an ankle later jumping in on a target attack exercise in Scotland, rescued by members of “D” 23 SAS(V), spending the weekend being wheeled around Dundee in a  wheelchair, very  drunk and disorderly!

                 

                                 

         Stand by,Stand bye”  My artist impression of a night drop 

   

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  Patrol Signaler

Biting down hard on the pencil clamped in my teeth, concentrating on the faint morse code coming from the  finicky “301” receiver in my earpiece.  Scribbling down on my message pad the series of letters and numbers of the message “base” was sending us. The signal fading in and out with all sorts of radio chatter and music in the background from other transmitters across Europe. The ionosphere is also doing its evening thing of moving down and causing more problems. Terry, my patrol commander, crammed next to me in the narrow hollow just inside the tree line of the wood we were in, is watching and waiting for me to finish to find out the reply to the evening SITREP (situation report).  Further along the the other two patrol members, Pete our lead scout is scoffing a mars bar and watching our backs, Alan our “tail end charlie” watching from under his camouflage face veil, the column of  armoured vehicles of “orange” (exercise enemy) forces growling and clanking by our position on the road below.  Once the message is decoded Terry gets out his map studying it, then starts to put down our reply, we both encode and encrypt it using his code book and my one time pad (each page only used once).  Now I am back on the “net”,  this time on the “314” transmitter and start tapping our reply using the key fitted on its green rectangular corner, it's tiny four and half watt signal going out from the aerial trailed along the overhead bushes to our base hundreds of miles to the West.   Back comes the acknowledgement QRK (received and understood).   Ahead of us is a more hard “hard routine” surviving on snack food from the ration pack, no fires, hot food or drinks and a long night's “tab” (tactical advance to battle) to another location.  Around us parked up camouflaged in by- roads and woods, dozens of vehicles and hundreds of  “Orange force” troops. We are deep in “orange force” territory and will have to move with care.

Just after joining  the Squadron our O.C  (officer commanding)  Kevin  decided that everyone should be able to signal, given our primary role* at the time was reconnaissance behind the FEBA. ( forward area of the battlefield.) Thus a very important aspect of training was cross training, so that in theory every one could sigal to some degree or another.  To this end for some time our “drill” nights were taken up in the signals room at Hitchin under the watchful eye of Bud and Russ, two of our senior signalers.  We sat at the long partitioned bench, morse keys in hand, earphones on trying to learn this strange language of dots and dashes.  What transpired was that some of us started to get on well, others not so and some could not get the hang of it at all and never would.  Being one that could, along with other promising candidates, was put on a signals course destined me to become a patrol signaller.

The course was held in London at our Duke of York's HQ.  So once a month I found myself  travelling down to do much the same as we were doing on the squadron drill nights, towards the end  however going out on the South Downs to practise our burgining skills outside.  Also driving to work or sitting reading a book,  I would often try to spell out the words and numbers in morse in my head.  

We also could take home a “128” set for “home working”.  The “128” was an old war time radio built into a suitcase and used by SOE agents It used crystals, could be powered by battery or mains electricity. When at home we very often would take a picnic out with our young son to a country park.  Once settled, connecting the “set” to the car battery and “working” (transmitting and receiving) back to the London base, often to the puzzled looks of passers by.  At home the aerial, trailed out the window and the set plugged into a light socket  found it  interfered with the TV, and probably our neighbours set as well. 

 

                            

Soon becoming more proficient and learning the mnemonics of the morse rather than the dots and dashes,  the letter “F” for instance comes through as “did it hurt you”, and “Q” as “here comes the bride”.  Was also developing my “fist” that in time meant other operators could tell who was on the other end of the transmission. Starting to get cocky,  and sending faster all the time, until “base” sends back  a message even faster forcing me to send “QSL” (Please send more slowly).  Lesson learned!

That year the regiment went  to Barage in the French Alps for its “camp”  accompanied by French Alpine instructors, to learn the skills of climbing and  operating in mountainous terrain.                                                                                                                          But this was not for me, finding myself in a French army base in Ger, a small garrison town further North. There our days and sometimes evenings we continued to practise morse and “Q” codes (each code meaning something).  One evening needing some fresh air before the next class,  I found myself in a cafe near the main gate.  By that time I was starting to learn a few very basic French words and could order a beer. The barmaid, a mature and well rounded lady in her forties giving me my beer, smiled and said something in French.  I could do nothing more than politely smile back, a french soldier further along the bar,  giving me a huge grin, translated, saying “She said you are a ”beautiful English soldier”  Not wanting to be another notch on her pump handles,  smiled politely, looked at my watch, finished my beer and exited smartly!

                                       

          

    Still new, look at that beret!

• Primary Roll reporting enemy movements

Very often we would go up into the foothills,  with our expert Joe  from the regular regiments signals squadron  Both to get a bit of exercise and also practise setting up and “working” back to the base now in Ger, I don't ever remember doing it at night or in inclement weather. 

The joys of laying under a poncho at night, rain pattering on the outside, my tiny red light held in my teeth was yet to come!

At the end of this period, I was honoured that our then Squadron Sergeant Major Terry chose me to be his signaller, a partnership that was to last several years.

                           

                 Signals course France early 1972

As time went on we moved on from the 301, the small transistor size and extremely sensitive receiver , its small dial only about the size of a 50p covered hundreds possible frequencies. Even putting a finger near it might upset it, so most of us  signallers relied on the rubber end of a pencil to keep our distance and the 316 transmitter to send on.  It was very reliable but was only as good as its  arial.  When in Germany we were frequently our friends in the east also listened to us and frequently would sweep jam our transmissions. Sweep jamming is when a very loud noise comes in and sweeps right though your frequency blotting out hearing anything. This  forced us to send again, giving the enemy in a war fighting scenario the opportunity to triangulate your location with possible fatal consequences!  We were then introduced with the “Burst” kit when the signal was taped laboriously into a mini typewriter with just three keys a dot, dash and space; this put the message on a tape that was then  connected to the 316 to be sent at high speed back to base. 

Later still the army standardised on a Clansman range  of radios that both transmitted or received calls both on voice or morse. For us humping everything a seriously heavier bit of kit to carry!

                              

                                  The clansman range

There were  three types of aerial, although on the move only one used what is known as “end fed”. A single wire that had to be run out in the one hundred and eighty degrees to base and if possible slanted up, the length of the aerial depended on the frequency, at night this was low, hence a long aerial, this could prove fun and games putting it up with our telling the world you were there!

We also had others such as the elevated dipole and triple dipole types both for use in static positions such as an established hide.  I don't recall using the triple at all. 

The modern army no longer teaches morse code with the advent of the sat phone and its secure transmission up and down to HQ via a satellite.

Primary Role

I am on the horns of a dilemma and  writing about my experiences when we were deployed on our primary role, this was usually on one of the major NATO exercises that took part in Germany On the one hand because at the time some of our activities near the IGB ( Inner German border), we were told  should never be spoken of again. But clearly after such a passage of time and the huge change in the geography it's of no consequence now . But still I find it sticks in my craw to write about it.. On the other hand Peter Sir Peter De La Billiere, our most decorated soldier at the time and one time SAS group Commander, tells all in his book “Looking for trouble”!  So here is my “abridged” version!

The cold war was on the wane in my time with the regiment, but 1 Brit Corp* in the central area of Germany was still faced with a very big and nasty looking 13th Soviet shock army*. Our primary role of reconnaissance was to allow the Soviets to overrun our positions and then report back to Corp HQ. Initially this was from static locations at carefully selected locations.. Later we patrolled out from them, because obviously if the enemy was moving even a short distance from a static location, they could not be seen.  Although it was not long before we knew the type of a  passing  tracked vehicle by its sound. Several gizmos had been tested, one I remember detected sheep wandering near the devices, but not being able to see, was it sheep or soldiers!.  It became apparent there was just no real substitute at the time for the Mark 1 eyeball!  Once we had started  to  patrol.  We soon found that it could be difficult to locate a large number of armoured vehicles on the move.  Something the uninitiated may find incredible, they make one hell of a din, engines growling and squealing tracks But like the elephants in the jungle I encountered later in the Far East, to actually say, “they are over there”, could be somewhat of a guess.  On one occasion I found out that from the “enemy” being “over there” could very quickly become, “over here” when using the forward edge of a tree line an armoured personnel carrier (APC) came hurtling round over a small brow in the road  my civil brain expected  it to continue past me on the road, suddenly veered to the left and came strait through the the roadside hedge towards my position. Needless to say my heart rate went through the roof, fortunately it then turned again and disappeared into the trees. I suddenly realised my hands were aching, gripping my rifle so hard and ending my first “tank fright”.

 All this was in a possible Nuclear, chemical or biological threat. The Russians considering all of them as part of their “all arms' or asymmetric strategy of war fighting. To  fulfil our role, we had to have a secure base that could give us long term protection if needed, in short going underground. Enough said.

 

                            

* The corps was  the principal combat element of the (BAOR) 

*  13th Shock army was part of the group of Soviet forces Germany ( GSFG)

Cyprus

Kitted up and briefed we were ready to go. The only way was up as our “Boss” Kevin, had set up the squadron headquarters on one of the highest points in the North East of the island for the three day exercise in the mountains.  Just as we were about to leave, the “2ic” (second in command) rushed over with a signal  saying “ The boss needs water”.  We looked with dismay at the five gallon jerry can in his other hand.  A gallon of water weighs ten pounds, so this was going to weigh fifty pounds give or take  a bit and this was on top of the sixty odd we already were carrying, we were not impressed.  Being a new boy out for the first time with my adopted patrol it was a case of gritting my teeth and getting on with it.  During the next hour we took it in turns to carry the can (how true was that old saying).  Arriving hot and sweaty, the can was promptly taken from us and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boss was filling his mess tin so he could have a shave.  Terry, my PC (patrol commander) said nothing and raised an eyebrow, rank has its privileges as I had just experienced.

Cyprus was my first  camp after joining the squadron, over the next ten days or so learning a great deal about the basics of patrol life and its routines.  In many respects looking back the whole regiment did mainly all the basic activities and thus Cyprus slipped into the following years as an unmemorable time.

We used the ranges several times, zeroing our weapons.  Cheating on a shooting competition with our sister “D” squadron while taking our turn in the butts (shooting range).  Bringing down the figure eleven targets and pasting over their bullet holes before they walked up to count them and thus “C” squadron having the winning . score.  Bizarrely although we did not trumpet our arrival in Cyprus, or anywhere else for that matter, on the first day on the ranges the local ice cream wagon pulled up, so much for being low profile!!   We also Trained with the Royal Corps of Transport landing craft. It had an engine problem and started to drag its anchor, the situation became dangerous,  so a volunteer swam out  because, bizarrely, we could not communicate as we only used morse code at the time. To tell them help was on its way.                               

There was quite a lot of down time,  as men  were falling out of the morning muster parade as sickness and diarrhoea swept through our ranks.  Mick and I found ourselves in a cellar bar one evening having a beer, when four Cypriot guys came in, two sitting each side of us, trapping us in. My heart rate rose dramatically, as this looked like big trouble. Pretending  to continue chatting Mick said  under his breath “You take two on the right, I’ll hand the others”..

This standoff lasted a few more minutes when just as quickly they upped and left, followed very shortly after by us.  We also had the opportunity to go down to the shore after our three day exercise.  Swimming in the sea playing Pyramids and Bombing,  where the player holding a pebble between his bare cheeks  waddled forward to try and release it onto the target in the sand. When it was Terries turn his “bomb” would not release as it turned out to be a lump of congealed oil. So we had to hold him down and clean it out with sand!  A story that still stands the test of time at reunions.

                                                 

                                                                                     

                                                     Posing with my first  patrol Terry, Pete and Alan

 

Twentieth Century Hardtack

Later that year we had several opportunities to train with the marines and make use of the several islands that dot around our coast. 

The first was to be to to Alderney, this proved as  un successful as our predecessors had tried to do in WWII when there was a plan to stage a series of raids on the all the channels islands under the the code name “Hard Tack”*.  No 28  raid landed on an area called “little Port'' a tiny cove on the north side  of the island, the officer leading the mixed back of commadoes trod on a mine.  Seriously injuring himself and altered the germans and resulting in a hasty withdrawal under fire. After that it was decided that these pinpricks served very little except to encourage the Germans to build better defences and were scrubbed.

Many years later running a caravan holiday on the island I was able to visit the small memorial and pay my respects.

                           

                                   

 Our island raid, Exercise Shark Fin, proved to be another failure.

The marines were transporting us in one of their landing craft. For those not familiar with them they are little more than a metal shoe box shaped craft with a ramp and the front and a small bridge at the rear.

Once out into the night swell the boat heaved and yawed, to us land lumbers in an alarming way!  Water started to slosh over the side and we took shelter under the bridge, putting on waterproofs and later our ponchos. As we chugged on following the lights of the coast off on our starboard side, we soon became alarmed more by the crafts' antics. Very shortly after the marine skipper said he thought it was getting past the joke and we turned back, arriving in Poole harbour met by the grey light of the day, slightly damp, but alive and smiling!

The second island raid that I recall I was not involved in, but the main character Major Frank and my one time boss when I later joined the training wing, when he the was the liaison officer for 23 SAS(VR) with whom he was supposed to meet at Brize Norton and jump into the isle of Wight that night. 23 Never made it on time, the lorry breaking down somewhere up the A1.

Frank recalled that the C130 Herky Bird was standing  on the tarmac “turning and burning.  Ramp down and rigged for parachuting waiting for its load,  the dull red glow from the interior silhouetting the lone parachutist, Frank !. The RAF then announced they had got to go and he was going with them!.

Later, arriving over the island  Frank recalled when he told me the tail. Fussed around by several PJIs,

jumped into the night sky as the aircraft turned for home.  We will never know if the RAF made a Nav error or if they were just glad to get the job done and go home. But Frank landed in a Farms backyard. The commotion of the dogs barking and the sudden rise of noise of alarmed chickens brought the farmer's wife came out in her knight dress waving a twelve bore shotgun telling him she did not care if he was a sky raider or not, clear off!

Frank and his wife Jean lived on the island so I suppose it was not long before he was in his “local” having a pint or a cuppa in his front room with a surprised wife!.

We visited them in their big multi roomed rambling house on zig zag road Frank and his lovely wife Jean on many occasions years later, they were alway very accommodating, very often finding a load of ex paras there being fed and watered, even when about ten of us from the Hobblers walking club ( all ex C Sqn)  came to do  a walk along the south coast of the island.  Frank insisted we stay there and Jean, bless her heart, put us up, refused any payment and she always seemed to make the chicken curry go a bit further!  R.IP. Frank, you were one of a kind. 

                                     

                                     

*Operation Hardtack was the name of a series of British Commando raids during the Second World War. The operation was conducted by No. 10 (Inter-Allied) Commando, No. 12 Commando and the Special Boat Service

White Bison.

It's nearly the last light on the fourth day.  I'm starving hungry, the few filthy potatoes we had dug up and boiled two nights ago are a distant memory. Hearing  the approaching engine of a light aircraft and looking at the others, they obviously had too.  Needing no encouragement from Dave our patrol commander took cover, on exercises aircraft could either be friend or foe.  The little aircraft flew over us a few minutes later, taking a chance Dave signalled, It was a Belgium Air Force Auster,  banking around to circle back over us, the crew man throwing out  what proved to be a large ration pack.

                         

                                  

                               My artist impression was painted years later.

Needless to say our next meal was fit for a king!  The ration pack meal  proved to be American. To our amusement it contained a packet of  French letters, we thought the likelihood of us putting them to good use was, to say the least, unlikely.  Using them over the muzzles of our rifles to keep them clean. There was also chewing gum and five cigarettes, none of which were ever in our own issue ratpacks (ration packs).

Two days previously, about a dozen of us from 21 and 23 (SASV) stood in a little clearing alongside the massive Ardennes forest, on the German Belgium border.

The Belgian paratroopers, part of the hunter force, watched as we were being searched prior to the start of a weeks E&E, all part of the annual NATO exercise Eugenie.

The Belgiums searched through every bit of kit, then being ordered to undress our clothes as well, relieving us of anything we could eat, smoke or spend.   Managing to secrete an Oxo cube where the sun didn't  shine, I had a smug but uncomfortable feeling in my nether regions, when we were finally released and got under way.  

Our mission to get to an RV across a notional border in “blue” (friendly) territory to the east. The next night using the cube to flavour the potatoes we had dug up,  and boiled, nobody noticed it was no longer square!  The potatoes covered in soil, made for a gritty, but gratefully received meal.

The following day proved to be uneventful as we made our way east, the exercise area was massive, so we knew that the hunter forces had their work cut out to capture us. Their tactic, we surmised, would be to ambush probable “choke” points that the necessity for speed and the terrain would channel us evaders into.  On the evening of the second night,  just as the light was beginning to fade, we found ourselves walking along a narrow track with a steep fall on one side and banked wood on the other.  Ahead forty yards up, the track disappeared into the blackness of the mouth of the forest.  Being lead scout my mind said, possible ambush site for the hunter force.  Signalling the others to stop, whispered to my “boss” my concerns about the threatening entrance into the wood.  Dave never to less ordered me forward to investigate. Thinking “thanks Dave”, starting forward weapon at the ready although none of us had any ammunition, up the track.  Approaching the blackness of the entrance, hearing what sounded to my nervous ear like the distinctive click of a safety catch, turned on my heels and ran flat out back down the track.  

To the amazement of the rest of the patrol kneeling in cover at the track side, went thundering past!  I don't remember seeing them, such was my hast, only coming to a stop when out of breath.  Several minutes later sheepishly walking back to the rest of them, their teeth white in the darkness as they grinned at my antics.  As it happened there was no ambush or more dramas that night or the following days.  Some time later that night however we managed to get separated from our tail end charlie, Jim. Losing contact is surprisingly easy when moving in the near blackness of a forest at night. Something that was to happen to me many years later in America.  We didn't see Jim again until meeting in the safety of the final RV and the end of the exercise. “Eugenie” was my first patrol after joining the squadron. This set the scene for many years to come, taking part in exercises each year in addition to the one annual “camp”.

There was another “Eugenie'' several years later, but this time as a sergeant and patrol commander.  We joined special forces from right across Nato. Spanish mountain commandos were all little swathi men who wore berets at a rakish angle and large daggers on their belts and French troops from the 13th Regiment Dragoons Parachutists. These were also our hosts, using French aircraft  we were dropped in small groups all across the very rugged  “Massif central”.

Our mission was to “recce” bridges to see if they would stand the use of heavy armour (tanks). Reporting back by long distance communication to the French Paras base. Before exfiltrating across the very rugged “massif” to an LZ (landing zone) to be picked up by a french helicopter. French marine infantry the “enemy” hunter force.

Things went wrong from day or rather night one. The french dropped into a very tight DZ , sloped with a tree that Mac, our fourth member, managed to land in.  On top of this our Greek Signaler, “George” on loan from  “A” Squadron somehow managed to jettison his bergen on the way down. Finally finding it and all its contents complete with a rifle strapped on the outside smashed to bits. Even the zip on his sleeping bag was broken. The radio of course rattling like a money box, completely useless.

We had an emergency RV where a French agent could be contacted should we need one. Obviously we did and on the following night made the RV inside the  time window the agent would be waiting.  Agent contacts are as you would expect are very dodgy things to do, having no idea if it is compromised or not. Taking the necessary precautions of observing the contact location before our agent arrived. Barry, our lead scout and I approached him on high alert. We had a password to assure him that we also had not been compromised, in this case, “White Bison”.  The procedure using a password is that the challenge is made with the first part of the password and the reply the second.  Our agent decided not only to use both parts of the password but to add to our confusion, saying (obviously!) “Bison blanc” in french.  The pregnant pause that followed  seemed to go on forever, before our anglo saxon brains realised what had been spoken to us numkins, who had not realised we would be spoken to in French.

Contact made,  A radio, essential to our mission and the bare necessities of life for George to continue was collected. On approaching “our” bridge the following night, in the darkness being followed by a herd of cows, each it seemed with a bell around their necks. Fortunately the bridge was not guarded so we were able to do the recce, making contact the following day to send our report on the morning SITREP (situation report).

Several years had passed since my first experience of possible ambush sites, forgetting the principles that in rugged or closed countries, the “enemy” were likely to ambush any pinch points.

The result was that the following night I walked straight into one. On exercise the “game” is up in this situation. For real, no doubt there would have been an exchange of fire, that I fear we would have come out of very badly indeed. Underlining why armies exercise, for failing to prepare is preparing to fail. 

The French marines relieved us of our weapons and equipment. Expecting rough treatment, a bag over the head and zip tied hands, we were surprised that they only ushered us into their truck. With both us and the marines in the back we set off, still in my mind to unpleasantness in the interrogation centre. Seats on foreign troop trucks very often face out. For  the first several minutes trying to summon the courage to simply dive out into the night. Failed miserably. 

We arrived back at what looked like the upstairs hay loft amongst some farm buildings.  To our amazement we're shown to a row of camp beds amongst our captures! It was a plane   that  although we certainly had been captured, we were now being treated as guests!  I had a stilted conversation with their Rupert. He said they had alway a good idea where we were because the farmers had called in to the local police to say the dog was disturbed in the night. This was  a lesson learned and something that stayed with me to give a very wide berth to isolated buildings! 

The following morning he was transported back to the same site and released.

Relieved and slightly bemused by the turn of events went our way, eventually after cross graining some very rugged country, made the RV and our lift, a French Air Force Puma coming into view, low over the trees, banking and landing with typical Gaelic flair. Half an hour later, he was deposited back to the 13 RDP base. We found some of our other patrols were back. We were sharing half our billet with the Spanish mountain commandos, who had amazingly been withdrawn because it was too wet! 

Our last night in the barracks was riotous, coming back from the debrief in the main building where the French colonel told his assembled regiment that the Brits had walked over a hundred kilometres in three days and two nights. Not only that, they were reservists. Hundreds of heads turned to see who these dozen men were with beige berets standing quietly along the back wall.  Back in our billet the Spaniards were amazed when we brought back beers from the canteen and then started playing the mad game of “ flaming arsoles”  Each competitor clamping a rolled up page of newspaper between his bare cheeks, It was then set on fire. The object being to get to the other end  of the barracks and back before the flame reached his nether regions.

I expect Spaniards veterans are still telling the story today as I am.

“Do You Speak English ?”

Stumbling out of the noisy, laughter filled guest house expecting to see our transport waiting for us, we were greeted with nothing but deserted street lamps marching off into the darkness.  Someone went back in, the noise and light washing over us as the door opened and closed, tempting us with another beer, and returned to say that with the help of some and gesticulating the landlord had done the necessary and a taxi was on its way.  Any off duty time generally amounted to one night in the local town the night before we departed.  Transport known to all as the “Passion Wagon” was organised by RHQ (Regimental Headquarters). This Left at 19:30 on the dot, dropping us in the town centre. Later the one and only pick up back to camp left at 23:00 and on this occasion we had missed it. The taxi arriving very shortly after in the universal cab, a bog standard Mercedes, was well used to taking inebriated squaddies back to their camp and needed no instructions.  Once the three of us had crammed in the back seat our leader, Terry sitting in the front decided he wanted a cigarette, a lot of us had the fifthly habit of smoking back then, but no one had a light so he then attempted to negotiate with the driver, who spoke as much English as Terry did German, asked in a drunken slur and his best pigeon German.  “ You um smokum?“ The driver not surprisingly had no idea what he was talking about, and Terry repeating the ridiculous phrase in a louder voice did not not get our smokes lit Nor improve British German relations!.

At least once a year the SAS (V) regiment found itself in Germany, taking part in a major exercise.  The British army stood toe to toe with the very nasty looking 13th Shock Army, part of the GSFG (Group of Soviet Forces Germany).  We were involved in either training for our primary role or, very often acting as part of “enemy orange forces”,  Russian Spetsnaz.

                         “C” Sqn, Friend or Enemy

All squaddies pick up some basic local language wherever they are in the world and we were no exception.  On our visits to BAOR, we Learned to order curried sausage with some chips (Currywurst mit ein paar frits), some beer (ein große Biere bitte), and for the Romeos amongst us “How much for all night”? (Wie viel für die ganze Nacht?).  But when it came to anything more, things became a bit more of a challenge. 

It was common at the time for the regiment's soldiers to go on language courses for when deployed, Arabic in North Africa,  Aden and Yemen in the early years. The Malaysian emergency and the “confrontation” in Borneo later and so on.  But once N.I  (Northern Ireland) raised its ugly head all eyes were for a long time focused across the Irish sea. As a result of these ongoing diversions, learning to speak German took a back seat!

But as our main area of interest was in Germany, RHQ thought that we really should learn some useful German phrases.  With the “Poison Dwarf” (AKA Kevin) some months later trying to locate a German army barracks, where the Regiment's “Quick Move” kit was stored. We were soon lost in the maze of streets and buildings of the huge conurbation that is the Ruhr Valley. We stopped to try out our newly learned phrases on an elderly gentleman sitting out on his doorstep.  I was driving at the time and watched KW walk back to the old guy, and ask in his best German.  ”Good afternoon sir, could you direct me to the local army barracks please?”, “Guten Tag, können Sie direkt uns zu den Kasernen bitte”.  Watching in the wing mirror, the old boy jumped up, his eyes lit up and took his pipe out to gesticulate. He began with much arm waving to give instructions to our missing destination.  

The display went on for several minutes, and finally with a wave of thanks KW returned.  Jumping into the passenger seat, the look on his face said it all. “Well,I asked, which way?“  “I have not got a f****ing clue“ came the retort. The old German thought the fluently presented question clearly indicated that the enquirer also understood fluent German, had replied in kind, and at speed in his native tongue!  A fatal flaw had been revealed in our cunning plan!  Later after we had located our gear, the crack widened!  We decided with a couple of hours to spare, we would find the nearest guest house and have a bite to eat.  As I quite fancied my own skills in the language department, insisted on ordering our meal, the waiter took our order for a couple of large beers (zwei große Biere bitte), then with a slightly puzzled air, dutifully wrote down what  was ordered to eat walking away with a slight shake of his head. 

We sat and sipped our beers.  About twenty minutes later he reappeared with our meals, consisting of boiled potatoes, mashed potatoes and chips! We decided at that point that the only phrase we needed was “Sprechen Sie Englisch?” (Do you speak English?).

              

My artistic impression of a night pick up, painted some years later

 Going Commando 

In the mid 1970s I found myself on the list to go on a jungle course in far flung Malaya with our regular sister  “D” Sqn 22 SAS. But first, having to get some jabs organised, called the Pioneer Corps that in the 1970s had a barracks in nearby Northampton. The nearest place I could go for my malaria, typhoid, and other nasties. The M.O (medical officer) could see me next  Saturday morning.  Now as it happened in those far flung days of my married life we very often went to or held a house party, this Saturday was no exception. The party was to be a fancy dress at a nearby neighbour's house, the theme was the orient. Duly going along  the next Saturday and seeking out the M.O, or to be precise his nurse.  A well built and very capable looking lady who was going to administer the jabs, this she did with a stern warning that under no circumstances was I to have any alcohol.  Now at the time, I reckoned I was a good example of twenty four year old prime British beef, and was not inclined to be told what to do by an overbearing lady. Back home in the early evening, up in the master bedroom I donned my Charlie Chang outfit, complete with droopy moustache and long plaited pigtail.  Of course this was accompanied with a small dram of the golden liquid. A little later having become aware of the lack of movement from upstairs Georgina came to investigate and found me, hat, pigtails and Charlie Chan moustache slewed to one side, sparko on the bed. Loving me as she did at the time she subdued her giggles in case I was awakened and gently pulled the covers over me for the remainder of the evening and indeed the night! On Sunday awaking slightly bemused at my attire and situation, but feeling basically okay, and  it was time to complete my packing. 

 I only really heard of Malaya from Britain’s ten year involvement in defeating the Communist threat in the 1950s.

 However I did know that it was going to be hot and humid, but did not know of course just how hot and humid!  Aware that some of the things you did not do in the jungle were your everyday activities of bathing, shaving and dabbing on a little Old Spice or changing one's underwear from time to time or putting one's jimjams on at night.

I expected to be away from home for about three months, six weeks of which would be “upcountry” in the boondocks (jungle)  learning how to live and fight in the jungle. So hygiene really came to the fore, there would be no use of soap or shaving cream and the like, and certainly no deodorant as all these would be a dead give away to anyone who lived or moved about there.  To this end I put my fertile mind to the problem of underwear, because one only carried two sets of clothes,  jungle fatigues, worn in the day and one of OGs to change into at night to sleep in.  On the market had come some throwaway men’s (and presumably ladies and “other ranks”) underwear, this was made of some sort of rayon, the nearest I can think of today would be a throw away Jey clothes. I thought these would do admirably, as I could simply take off the grungy ones and put on new from the estimated six needed for the six weeks, (or possibly three if I put them on inside out for a week), once  in the boondocks. They also had the advantage of being very flimsy and light and as one had to carry whatever you needed, these throw away knickers sounded just the ticket. But going back to having recovered from the weekend’s activities. I kissed my beloved goodbye, picked up my assorted kit complete with new underpants and was on my way to Brize Norton to start my attachment. Arriving and reporting I found myself along with three others, one from “D” Sqn  “21” and two from “ R” Sqn “22”, (the regular's own reserve squadron), who were to become my patrol. With about sixty others all boarding the aircraft with its backward facing seats  used in the RAFs troopers in those days. 

With much revving of engines and vibrations as the pilot held the overladen aircraft against its brakes, we set off first heading for Cyprus and arrived there after dark some six hours later. This was my first experience of the near east and stepping off from the crowded and hot cramped interior of the “Brit” into the lovely cool and star-studied Cypriot night was like stepping into Peter Pans never never land. To cap it all we were astonished to be fed in the RAF mess complete with white tablecloths and waiters! After just an hour we were back on the plane heading across the Med, down the Nile delta and out into the Indian ocean heading for Gan, a tiny dot of rock at that time a vital fuelling stop for transiting RAF aircraft. 

This proved to be a dusty fly ridden airstrip with a corrugated tin shed at one end of the runway. Disembarking we stood  bleary eyed and now slightly dishevelled waiting, in the early morning coolness of the Arabian dawn, while an ancient fuel bowser trundled up from some far flung buildings and refuelled us for the next leg to Singapore.

Later that day out of the tiny window of the “Brit” caught my first sight of the little Island that held Singapore city. The causeway across to Lahore and then the vastness of the jungle extending as far as the eye  could see. The aircraft circled and with a rumble of lowering undercarriage and whine of the flaps being extended alighted smoothly on the tarmac of RAF Changi.  Getting off the plane, thinking at first that the engines were still running and we were walking through the hot exhaust gases, it was only when I cleared the wing tip that I realised that this was the normal late afternoon  tropical temperature.  The humidity was such that within a dozen paces my shirt was stuck to my back, and ominously my underpants to my two parts where the sun does not shine.  Having got our kit we heaved it onto waiting lorries and sweating heavily boarded hot and humid waiting buses to head for Nee Soon Barracks. A night's tossing and turning on army camp beds before sorting out what we had to take and what was going into storage. My kit soon piled up and stuffed into my bergen rucksack, including of course now only five pairs of my dainty blue throw away knickers. 

 By midday I found myself number four in a “stick” of eight men waiting for the next lift from the RAF Wessex helicopters that had been assigned to lift us up to base camp some eighty miles up the country.  With a huge down wash of rotor blades the chopper settled on the grass. The martian-like figure of the crew man waved us forward to mount the aircraft. 

                                

We chucked our kit aboard and scrambled in, with a glance out of the door the crew man reporting to the pilot over his radio, his voice lost in the hammering of the engines and whirling rotor blades. That everyone was aboard, we lifted off, wheeling  out and heading north towards the waiting jungle. With the door open the cool air washed into the helicopter as first the barracks, then houses and roads slipped past beneath us to be replaced by occasional dirt logging roads, then the solid green mat of the jungle.  Thirty minutes later the engine note changed as the aircraft banked, wheeled and descended. Another logging track came into view with a river and a bridge, a few minutes later the Wessex settled onto the middle of the bridge and we jumped off. The martian heaved off our rucksacks, some rations and a couple of boxes of ammo and without more ado the aircraft left in a swirl of dust and small stones, disappearing within seconds. The heat was also back within seconds.  Holding my weapon in one hand heaving my rucksack onto my shoulder sweat popping out from every pore with every movement.  It was about a mile up the logging track from the helipad. Then off into the ulu (jungle) and down towards the base camp alongside the Songy (river) Bong. The move  lasted about three quarters of an hour before we arrived at the place that was going to be home for some time to come, But all was not well and things did feel right “down below”.  After the introduction briefing from the D.S. Taking the chance to slip away and inspect the reason for the strange sensations under my fatigues, was soon revealed. All that was left of my modern man disposables were three strips of elastic, one around each leg and one around my waist. It looked like I was going commando for the next six weeks.

        Food and  Kampong hearts and minds visits 

“Where the hell have those blokes been?”

Peering out through the thick “atap” (thorny bushes) we had spent the night  in. The total blackness  is starting to turning to grey, something catches my eye. Is that a man standing alongside the nearest tree? Or is it an animal? Surely not a horse?  Or could it be?  We are a dozen miles from any habitation. My heart has suddenly gone from sleepy rest to thumping so loud that  the man or horse or whatever it is would be able to hear it.  I have to make a decision to either wake the patrol now. or wait. The seconds tick by, my mouth has gone dry. As the grey of dawn slowly but surely turns to daylight. What had looked like a man, or horse and rider turns into just another jungle fond. What a “Dip stick” I think to myself, that was a close call.

The last stag (on watch) was normally the quiet one, the chorus of birds and insects making their myriad of chirps and buzzes had yet to start.

It was where the saying “You can't see the hand in front of your face”  was really true, the brain can easily be taken over by imagination and easily fooled, as it had just happened to me.

One of  “C” squadrons patrols Pete had mistaken the luminous dials of his watch read upside down, as watches were hung from a cord around the neck, as twelve thirty at night instead of six in the morning. Waking the patrol as ordered for its early start. He was not flavour of the day! 

For those who have not had the pleasure of the jungle, devices for night time viewing were still in their infancy. So when darkness fell at 1900 on the dot, it was almost impossible to move about, except perhaps along a track of some sort. So on patrol, the late afternoon routine was.  Moving off the line of march, setting up the “316” radio to send  afternoon SITREP.  (situation report on the day's activities and getting new orders). Then move on for an hour or so doing some minor tactics that included a “U” turn to make sure there was no following up.

                   

                         

    

All before finding some very thick and spiky “atap” bushes, getting in the middle for the night's LUP (lying up position).  It was only then that the evening routine could start, of each in turn cleaning weapons. Get some “scof”, rig a basha with a hammock and parachute sleeping bag. Then stand too (be on guard ), all before the blackness descended. Each member then does a turn at “stag” (on watch) throughout the night.

                        

                        Both signaler and patrol commander

It was on day seven of a week of uneventful patrol.  The only exception was a brief period of excitement while watching from the jungle a young Chinese woman doing her morning TiaChe exercises on their long house veranda.  As well as doing square searches as part of our brief, we also did hearts and minds visits to local villages. On one occasion giving the head man's wife, who had been ill for several days half an aspirin.  Within a few minutes she was up and obviously feeling a lot better, such was the power of simple medication on her drug free body.  We also gave some of our precious boiled sweets to the kids for whom they must have been a great treat.  They would grab them and run away laughing and chattering. Our toilet paper was also in demand, not to be used for its purpose but for writing on when needed.

By way of a thank you the family invited us to eat, gave us what looked like pre chewed nuts or something on a banana leaf. Smiling my thanks  and swallowing each mouthful as fast as possible!

Of course our visits were double edged as Danny, our linguist chatted to the family and gleaned any useful information on what was going on in the area. 

 Giving away some of my  precious boiled sweets and “bog” paper required a special sort of determination not to eat or use them. Because everything had to be carried and this could be a tricky balancing act as there was only so much that could be crammed in a bergen and belt kit.

The list could be endless, ammo, radio, code books, batteries, dry clothing and plimsolls for sleeping in, Hammock, and parachute sleeping bag, medic pack, compass, Gollock ( machete) also some PE (plastic explosive) and the paraphernalia that goes with it. Spare batteries the list goes on. Not forgetting food and water! The bulky ration packs were pared to the bone. Breakfast, a brew and maybe sardines on the hard tack biscuits, midday, something quick and easy like a Mars bar. Night time may be a sweet curry for me, always carrying curry paste, along with rice if it had not been used in a “rice” pudding. The remainder was buried!

Coming to the end of the patrol, food was running out, having eaten more than we thought we needed. We decided to head back to our buried treasure.  Approaching with caution and observing the site, three of us took up kneeling defensive positions as the lead scout went forward in “light order” (without his bergen) He stopped in the small clearing, and started to clear away the jungle debri.  Seeing the first glint of the ration pack wrapper,  he turns and grins back to me, his teeth startling white against his grizzled bearded face. Food!

                  Ŵ

The next day  we waited for the thumping of the New Zealand helicopter coming to fetch us. Throwing out the agreed colour smoke grenade, the aircraft appeared into view over the jungle canopy setting down on our logging track landing pad. We needed no second bidding from the martian like crew men's beckoning hand to run forward at the crouch. Chuck our bergens on board clambering in as the Huey (U.S made helicopter). The engine note rose, we lifted off .  As the cool air washed over us like some summer shower, looking around at the others, they looked exhausted. Unshaven and their clothes on the point of disintegration. Not long after the mattress of jungle changed to the odd track then road and finally the outskirts of the Nee-soon barracks.

The Huey banks, flares and settles down on the camp grass, without ceremony, we jump out of the aircraft  it immediately lifts off and  departs. The light after the gloom of the jungle is starting and to my surprise it's Sunday morning. The quartermaster, as was the custom, had lit a petrol fire to burn our tattered clothing. Once done we picked up our kit and weapons and started making our way back to our basha.

Being Sunday the ANZAC (Australian and New Zealand) troops were on parade, they looked out of the corner of my eye immaculate as we trapesed past clad only in skivvies and boots.

One of them was heard to say “Blimey where have those blokes been?”

A sketch draw much later as part of a publication in our association                           

                                              magazine

 

 

 

 

 

  Down Under

The short distance from Nee-Soon barracks gate down to the main road was a short one, on either side local traders had set up their stalls, you could buy just about anything.  Off duty servicemen of which there were many, were forced to walk past each time they entered or left.  Needless to say each stall holder would harang you on each passing.  Having done our time in the jungle, we had three days off.  In those few days my spare uniform had been cleaned and pressed by ”SoSo” a tiny wizened lady that seemed to have free range around the camp and took in washing and repairs. All my clothes, even my disgusting blue underpants, unashamedly put in had come back a resectable mottled grey, all delivered immaculately pressed  and folded for just a couple of dollars.

One of the nicest experiences had been a visit to the Botanical gardens, walking amongst the stunning flora and fauna in quiet solitude. Georgnia and I visited again many years later in my ship refurbishment days to enjoy its magnificent displays.

                         

Wanting to buy a small camera stopped on one of my forays into town at a stall crammed with all sorts of watches and cameras.  Immediately being set upon by the owner, “You wanna buy one? I give you a good price” he said, coming forward when he saw my interest. Being a new boy and having been warned not to accept the first or even the second price waved him off, walking away to his pleas until out of earshot, by which time of course the next stall holder had taken over.  On day three and my last walk out, the price had come sufficiently to what seemed reasonable, buying one.

The last night was a sort of right of passage for the regiments soldiers visiting Singapore, a visit to “Boogie Street”.  During The day the Boogie, real name Bugis, was an insignificant narrow street with shops, bars and stalls as many others were in the city.

At  night however the stalls disappeared, tables and chairs came out into the road. Music started to play as people started to arrive and the evening got going. Our merry band was no exception ordering beers took a table and waited for the main event, the appearance of the local Ki-ties.  These transgender people came looking for “buisnes”, us squadies were of course prime targets!

               

 The “ladies” were not shy, one making a beeline for us sat on my lap saying “You want good time soldier boy, only twenty dollars?”.

Someone in the background caught my eye getting ready to take a photograph, putting my hand up, shouted  “No don't!”, my wife is never going to believe this is a bloke!” 

Even up close “she” looked stunning, embarrassed and laughing pushed “her” off. “She” came back twice as the night wore on, the price lowered  first to twelve dollars finally for free! 

I will leave it up to the reader's imagination as to what “good time” involved, but it was never going to be good enough for me.

We did hear of  one of our Squadron lads who did take up an offer, he then went missing for two days coming back wearing a big smile saying he had been well fed and “looked after”, the only thing that worried him was “her” flat had two locks on it, one to get in and one to get out! 

The following evening bused down to Changi airport. There was an hour or so to wait before boarding the RAF Brittania, wandering about the airport's spacious marble covered shopping area, stopped to look in the window of a camera shop. There was my camera and it was cheaper! The stall holder had seen me coming in the end.

That evening we were on our way, looking out the window  as the lights of Singapore slipped behind us. Ahead the dark night skies as we headed South across Indonesia and the Coral sea towards Darwin, Australia.

The next day, our hours break in the bar at Darwin airport was suddenly interrupted in true Australian style, by a white boiler suited man coming in and shouting above the hubbub, “They are ready to go if you are”. 

Serviced, we were once again on our way. This time across the vast wilderness that is the Australian outback, the Tasmanian sea to our next stop, Auckland, New Zealand to meet their SAS Squadron.

Our visit was the first time that the two countries' regiments had met since Korea. I'm not sure if it was on a significant date or not but it was as the navy would say “showing the flag”, a mixture of socializing, cross training and exchanging experiences as the Kiwis had been on operations in the Vietnam war. We finally finished up at a place called Wangaupura and received a welcoming speech from their squadron's “boss”. Pretty well the next day got down to an introduction to tracking by a colour blind Maori. He was very impressive. Tracking is a skill that can be taught but has to be practised and therefore we were never going to excel. 

This was part of an unremarkable exercise of several days. One night laying in my sleeping bag listening to the huge storm that night, bringing rotten trees  crashing down around us in the forest, hoping our number was not up. My own excitement was a wild sow bore running straight through the two man “basha” being shared with ''Horse”, an ''R” Squadron guy, followed by six squealing youngsters. 

                     

We had a week or so having the choice of activities from the New Zealanders. Not wanting to do anything, took a few days out living on the “Thousand Island beach”.  Swimming in the day and sleeping under the stars at night.  Others did rock climbing, abseiling, shooting deer from helicopters or parachuting from their ancient WWII Dakota aircraft.  On the last day electing to join in, standing in the door waiting for the green light.  The door frame, worn away to its bright alloy skin by a thousand hands and the many layers of paint told the tale of the aircrafts long life.

We were free most evenings. Not giving it a great deal of thought at the time, because we had been our own TA patrol in Malaya and we had very little to do with the remainder of  the squadron. Found ourselves pretty much the same in New Zealand. We never for instance went to any combined social events of which there must have been several. In fact the regulars were conspicuous by their absence.  

Only one guy talked to me on a regular basis, the only others who did to any degree were from our accompanying 264 (SAS) signals squadron.

.

We were kept at arm's length. The locals however could not have been more welcoming, having a beer on my own one evening in the local Returned Servicemen's Club, their equivalent to our British Legion, was invited to join a couple of locals on a nearby table. One offered me the keys to his house as he was away for a few days, saying ”Just put it under the doormat when you have finished”.  On another occasion, an invite to go back for Sunday dinner and the use of the family's natural hot tub. This was gratefully accepted and had a very pleasant afternoon of family life when so far  away from my own. This has left me with a very fond memory of our Kiwi cousins that has lasted to this day. 

                

On the very last day all of us and the Kiwi guys along with their families filled the then small airport. One guy had brought a guitar and before long the whole place was rocking with great wartime songs like “We will meet again”.  Followed by a very emotional goodbye their “boss” coming on the aircraft shaking hands with every one of us.

Our journey home had two stops both out of necessity and the need to catch up with events in the middle east. We stopped first on a small island base off the Omainy coast. Here “D” squadron went off for a briefing on the current situation. We were pointedly excluded. Understanding that the ethos of “need to know” applied but nevertheless feeling very much what the regulars thought of us, being firmly put in our place as very second class soldiers. Then off again onto Cyprus and finally RAF Lynham. Descending through the clouds to a rainy England and looking forward very much to seeing my family again. But the rain also reminded me that we were back in Europe this was just as well, because a couple of months later I was in what NATO called its northern flank, Norway and just in time for my daughter Chloe to be born.

 The Northern Flank

Looking down from the bus windows at the tiny twinkling lights of Rjukan in the valley below, I hoped the driver knew what he was doing as we sped along. The headlights reveal what seemed like a single tracked snow covered road, we are heading  for a ski lodge somewhere in the darkness in front of us, owned and run by an ex Royal Marine, our home for the next ten days.  We were there to learn to ski and survive out in the sub zero Norwegian winter. The ski lodge turned out to be  very comfortable accommodation, built of pine and a very large picture window looking out onto the snow-covered mountains. The lounge had a large blazing fire in its hearth in the evening. Rjukan was famous or infamous for its production of heavy water in WWII that the Germans needed for their efforts to crack the atom. Later sporning the film  “The Heroes of Telemark”.

We were a party of sixteen, four from “C” squadron under the tender care of two Royal Marines. First being instructed in the art of “Waxing” our skis, I found to my surprise they were not flat,  but slightly curved up in the middle. Needing  two waxes one at each end, shone to a gloss and a different type in the middle for grip when the ski is pressed down. The military skis we came to call “Planks” as they were very robust and wide and compared to civilian skis, heavy.

Our first outing was going to be on the flat snow out the rear of the lodge. Being first to finish lunch break and not wanting to look like a fool, I took my skis and walked around the back on the lodge's veranda. Once there laying my skis down with the intention of standing on the snow, then onto my skis. Stepping off sank up to my thighs, learned lesson one. The snow was very deep!

To make the administration easier or possible to appease our Norwegian hosts we were in civilian clothes, although we had our bergens and winter wind proofs with us and  in my case, a duck down filled body warmer made by Georgina’s clever hands. Training consisted of putting on your skis, swinging my bergen onto my back and setting off. At the start almost immediately falling over, then discovering that you cannot just push yourself up off the snow, because your arm sinks in.  

So the routine was take off your bergen, sit on it, stand up, swing the bergen back on for another few metres before a repeat performance. It was exhausting, but slowly we gained distance between falls and confidence as we started  tackling the “Nursery” slopes. Each morning  young Norwegian kids whizzed by on their skis going to school  while we, put to shame, struggled along as best we could.

                                        

As the days went on we gained confidence, learning to master more techniques first mild down hills, then more undulating ground as well as the exhausting herringbone method of getting uphill.  At the end of week one, having the choice of doing the long gentle winding slope down to the valley floor or the steep “Black” run, opting for the latter, found myself hurtling down through and between the pines, ducking under branches and still shaking for some minutes after blasting out into the bright sunshine at the bottom. Not all made it, one braking his ski on a tree, but fortunately nothing else. The ski was repaired with the kit the army provided, that was to come very much in handy later on in the course.

                                

Into the second week, we  followed several cross country routes, in and around the surrounding hills. Stopping in one isolated gap in the forest, found the absolute silence slightly unnerving and was glad to get on my way. We learned how to build snow holes, burrowing into snow drifts, hollowing and forming a ledge inside if possible and towards the end of week two we went out on a two day route that involved staying out overnight. Late afternoon on the first day, with the light and the temperature dropping, we found what we thought was a large mound of snow discovered after several minutes digging. It was just a snow covered mound. The situation started to get serious,  as another “snow” mound also proved to be rock. 

It was now seriously cold and nearly dark.  Someone remembered we had passed a Norwegian hut that the locals used in the summer as a base for hiking and the like.  It was a no brainer. We skied back to the hut finding  the door locked, used the hacksaw in our repair kit, to gain entry into the small but very welcome interior.

Getting a brew on and some hot food, spent a pleasantly comfortable, although cramped night.  The next morning leaving the place clean and tidy, froze the lock back into place and went on our way to complete the circuit. Making the final RV, without revealing our nights accommodation that we thought the others did not need to know. We hoped when the puzzled Norwegians found their lock sawn off on their next visit, they would realise it would have been because of a serious situation and had forgiveness in their hearts

On the last days we had the use of civilian skis, wearing these was  like the difference between wearing boots or trainers, after some practice taking the Norwegian  seven mile cross country ski test. Passing as a sliver standard cross country skier.

Monday morning,back to work.

                                               

                                             

 Arrested

On one of our “working” trips to Germany we had some excitement when Bill Y, my partner from D Sqn and I were arrested by border guards!  Two with side arms drawn, insisted we went with them! (Komm mit uns!).  Escorting back to their guards base. Some snapping and snarling took place in German  at us by the officer in charge. The situation was not helped because at the time it was our practice to not wear any rank, insignia or berets!  We presumed our captors were telling us  (what we already knew), that we were in some sort of prohibited area. We smiled politely and handed over our “get out of jail card” contact details that we had been given at the briefing by a “Colonel Flowers” at 1Brit Corp HQ*  complete with a telephone number. The “GruppenFuhrer” immediately cranked up his field telephone and made the call.  Putting the phone back on its cradle indicated that we were good to go. The two guards escorted us back to friendly territory!  

As has been mentioned, it was common in the field not to wear any rank insignia. For some reason we in “C” Sqn had been issued with U.S. forage caps. This caused problems from time to time.  On one occasion whilst on regimental duties in Germany, going into the nearest army base to POL  army jargon for filling up with fuel. We very often took the opportunity to get some “scoff” in the cookhouse.  Standing at the pumps filling the Landrovers underseat tanks, I could see a diminutive RSM* was making a  beeline for me.  Coming up to look me up and down, obviously disapproving of my lightweight windproof smock and US forage cap, asked “What army are you in?”  Replying respectively,  “British Army sir, he went on the demand for what unit. I replied our standard “Corps Patrol Unit sir*”  I knew the RSM probably had never heard of the Corps Patrol Unit, the non deblume we used when working in small groups.  Not wishing to reveal he didn't know what it was, grunted, about turned and marching off!  Bill, my partner who had come back by that time from a recce to the cookhouse, had a good laugh at the encounter with the camp's non commissioned supremo, then off to enjoy our breakfast.  The mystery remains today, who is  “Colonel Flowers?”  Whoever he was, we still owe him a beer!

• 1 Brit Corps, 1st British Corps headquarters.

• RSM, regimental sergeant major, a very powerful figure.

• Corp Patrol Unit. Because we “worked” directly for the Corps commander, using this title gave us considerable leverage if challenged. 

• Fieldcraft , learning the trade.

Tea, Biscuits and Broken Windows

Not all our activities were in uniform, we role played on occasions, sometimes helping in the “fieldcraft”* training of the security services. Other times testing security of various establishments. This time it was RAF Halton's turn!

Pressing the button to lower the window of my partner Chris’s black Granada car, explaining to the guard at the gate that we were expected.  Both of us “Booted and suited” walked into the RAF Hendons guard room, asking for the duty officer. Producing my fake police ID card announcing we had come to check the armoury.  Explaining to the mystified and slightly alarmed officer that the camp should have had a fax saying we were calling.  Of course he hadn't, so producing my counterfeit fax copy,  explained that we had recently made an arrest and had found a breech block of a submachine gun (s.m.g) on his property. The arrested man claimed it had come from this very armoury. At that very moment, we were  interrupted by Jim coming into the guardroom dressed in a donkey jacket and flat cap explaining he had come to mend the broken window in the library. Through the open door we could see Jims van complete with a roof rack and ladder parked across the road. The now flustered officer asking him if he knew where it was, Jim indicated that he did, knowing that it was he that had broken the widow with a brick the night before, was told to carry on (partial success). We now had one man unattended inside the camp with a van load of god knows what!  A much older and experienced flight sergeant had by this time appeared, looked concerned but could not intervene as the officer unlocked the armoury door, leading us inside.  There we found two rows of SMGs stacked in racks and secured by a chain through their trigger guards.  Explaining to the officer that we needed them unchained as to compare the number stamped on the breech block, with the (fictitious) one on our fax. Once the weapons were unchained, laboriously we took out each weapon, checking its number and replacing it back in place. 

Finishing off our bogus search, we sat down to tea and biscuits. The officer disappeared, the flight sergeant taking over the conversation. It wasn't long before I detected a look of suspicion in his eye, so finishing up our tea, said we had better be on our way, exiting very shortly after, following Jims white van out of the gate towards nearby Wendover.

Later in the George and Dragon enjoying a welcome pint and grinning at each other recounted our experience. Wondering what the station commander was going to say to his boss, who knew the queen was visiting the following week. That three men, possibly armed, had been not only in the camp, but also in the armoury! I don't know where the young officer was posted next, but probably East of Kathmandu! 

 

 The Triangle

The reader might be thinking that my army commitments rolled on one after the other, well to an extent that was true, they did. But sometimes with considerable periods in between before the “triangle” turned again from family and work to the army. In the early years only the minimum required later doing much more. 

The seeds had all been set way back in 1950. When father had moved the family to Leighton Buzzard to take up the position of clerk to the works. Being the youngest did all my growing up there, leaving school at fifteen without any qualifications and

was destined, like my elder siblings, to earn a living in industry in one dimension or another. 

Winning my first  job against a competing school mate to become a “Boy” in the maintenance workshop of a roof tile factory, spending a great deal of time crawling in and around the production line with an oil can, in hand.  Moving later when brother Peter, who had reached the dizzy heights of Lance Corporal in his national service days,  got me a job in an engineering factory.  From there again being lured away to the GPO (General Post Office), by the promise of more money and where this story of “Fought a Million Battles” all started.

In the meantime meeting my one and only love Georgina at our local Saturday night “hop”. The dance had records one week and the “Barron Knights'' the next. Entries costing “half a Dollar” (25p in today's money), or a  Dollar respectively.  Most of my peers like me danced to the popular rock and roll music of the time. 

Usually the girls would all sit on one side of the hall and us boys on the other. So to ask for a dance you had to risk the “walk of shame” if you were refused. No one had any formal dance lessons, so some dances went well and others not quite so.  Leighton was a small market town and us lads knew most of the local girls. I had seen Georgina about, clicking along in her short skirt and high heels. But she never responded to my calls of “Hello darling, what are you doing tonight?”.

 We always thought she was a bit “stuck up”. Nevertheless, seeing her one Saturday night, asked her to dance, she accepted and we “clicked”.  Dancing together the rest of the night.. Joking later with my mate Dave Seravenna that we had tossed a coin to see who had to ask her to danceI and I had lost! 

 She was lovely, beautifully formed with laughing eyes and a ready smile.  Walking her home later she allowed me to kiss her lovely soft lips goodnight. I obviously wanted to see her again! The rest as they say is history, we married in 1965 at  just nineteen. 

L

Len Corbett, who you will remember came into my life when I joined the Green Jackets, worked in the flooring trade. Thousands of houses being built is not a new thing, huge housing developments were going up in the 1960s to accommodate the “London Overspill” as it was known. There was no shortage of work and at Len's invitation joining him to work for Dunlop Semtex, one of the country's major flooring companies.  With my Harris family's practical bent, I soon picked up the basics, working in the trade for many years. First with Len, then later when he was promoted to contracts manager, self-employed. 

This formed the triangle, although I did not realise at the time what was to become the three most important things in my life for many years.

Georgina only recently asked why I never joined the regular army, not having  a ready answer, reasoned that marrying and settling down and the need to earn more money led me to the territorials. Cast the die of becoming a volunteer.

                                  

                                 

  

North of the Border 

                          

Jamie put his hand up, “Yes?” said the boffin from Porton Down. “I've had terrible runs, says Jamie”.  “What pill were you on?” he asked. “Pill A” comes the reply. “That's strange,'' says the scientists that one was a placebo, it was only chalk!

The room full of soldiers collapsed with  laughter bringing the debrief on our field trials to a close. Ten days earlier as part of the regiments annual camp in Scotland, we had been given either pill “A” or “B”, one of which was supposed to give the user protection for a few seconds longer against nerve agents to put his respirator on.  We had as part of our daily routine, to keep a record of our bowel movements and other anomalies while out in the field. Clearly Jamie had either had some bad curries or too many prunes.

We had all been through the weekend NBC (nuclear,chemical and biological) warfare course at Porton Down, a second time for me having been through it with the Green Jackets. We all got the CS gas treatment in the gas tent and lived and slept in our “noddy” suits ( NBC suit) for twenty four hours, hoping we would never have to wear them for real.

We weren't North of the border however to be guinea pigs for the army to test pills on us, something that probably would not be allowed today.  But to exercise against some of the multiple military targets in Scotland that might be attacked if the Cold War turned hot.

As I recall we had a new training major, a regular officer who was responsible for all our training and was also probably earning his own passage up to staff level, had injected new enthusiasm into our activities. On one occasion before a night ” live firing” experience    (using live ammunition), he said we were all going to be terrified.  The exercise turned out to be advancing the wrong way up a knee high barbed wire infested range. While two machine guns firing on fixed lines (mounted on tripods), fired streams of tracer bullets towards us ten or fifteen feet or so above our heads,  it certainly was a new experience. 

                                                

                      

                           

                       Arriving by helicopter to Gairloch head

In Scotland, everything was on a need to know basis, new for us on a regimental level so  it was not until later we learned what others had been involved in. Some had parachuted into the lock and gained entry into a nuclear submarine,  another one of our patrols trained to RV and board a submarine at night.  Using torches with red and green filters on the two boats involved, with a paracord line between them. So the sub could then sail between them, submerged of course with periscope raised and tow them to a point where it was safe to surface. Dave, one of our own, found himself stranded on the casing as the Gemini boat with the rest of his patrol slipped back off the wet hull disappearing into the darkness. He said  later it was the longest and loneliness he had ever felt until the boat came back for a second and as it turned out to be a successful attempt.

Our half troop of eight were tasked with an “attack” on RAF Peterhead, a radar station looking out over the north sea.  We did gain access with difficulty, over the ten foot high fence we could have gone through, as a single wire cut in the right place opens up a hole in seconds  (that sort of thing is not allowed on exercise). But then failed to gain access to an air vent we had seen on the aerial photographs that led to the underground control centre, it was far too small even for a slim body. But any sort of charge dropped down would not have been welcome for real. Also easy pickings for a surprise visit was the huge and vulnerable revolving radar scanner.  Hopefully all these lessons the RAF learned that night resulted in a re-think of their defences. Once the “balloon” went up (the alarm being sounded) it was time to go. The memory of Frank struggling to get over the fence going in and nearly vaulting it going out has stayed with me ever since.  As did our night departure from Gairloch head.

The helipad was in a clearing above the camp in a wooded area accessed via a dirt track. After dark the three tonner transport took us up to meet the incoming helicopter. Growled  its way up in low gear, head lights illuminating the trees either side until entering into the helipads clearing.

As we swung round they fell on a car with steamed up windows. For what seemed an eternity nothing happened. Then a bare arse appeared against the back window as someone tried to get over it into the front without his trousers. Seconds later starting up and roaring off down the track to our assembled jeers and laughter.

These memories are all merging into one after all these years. I think our return journey back to our nearest airfield to Hitchin, RAF Henlow  was by aircraft and a daylight jump. Regardless if it was then or another occasion. Our families forewarned, were there to meet us, a very welcome home coming.  Monday morning of course was back to work!

 Let's get the Hell out of here

We had left the landrover some fifty yards back and started walking along the track in the dark, hopelessly looking for signs that the poachers, who had shot a small herd of elephants earlier in the day, might have crossed on their way back to the Somali border.

Moving off into the bush in the direction they must have taken my heart stopped for a second, hearing the deep growl of lions. Knowing they were about, it was after all a game reserve but not realising that the pride had moved into our area, was pretty scary. In the darkness it was near impossible to either see or smell them.  The lions on the other hand are quite able  to do both. It was time to go, slipping the safety off on my weapon and kneeling down, back against a thorn bush.  Whispered to the regular who was out with me.  “I have got an idea”.  “What's that?” came the whispered reply. Looking up against the night sky to hopefully silhouette anything approaching us, said “lLt's get the hell out of here!”. We did.

It was the mid 1970s four of us had travelled to Kenya as part of a small  team of 21 to train the soldiers from the Royal Corps of Signals. Over a four week period they would be alternating between us in the Samburu Game Park and the team from 22 on the side of  Mount Kenya.  We were to train them in “combat survival” (survival navigation, traps and trapping) and 22 living and navigating in the jungle. Both giving the signallers part practical and part adventure training.  We had flown down to the capitol on an ancient Britannia with the first batch of signal guys. 

After a night stop in RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus and an evening meal in the mess, complete with white coated waiters, set off after dark again flying south down the Nile Delta towards our destination. Once over the Delta, the captain announced to say that a light aircraft had gone off the radar and we had been requested to investigate. 

The lights were dimmed as we descended.  Because we, on the training team, had binoculars with us and were asked to make our way back to look out of the door portholes to help spot the  downed aircraft in the darkness.  It was not long after the plane had descended, positioning myself in the door and looking out into the night sky as the “Brit” circled, saw a light flashing orange in the darkness. Turning to attract the stewards attention, he was fortunately walking away, looking again realising that the flashing light wasn't from the ground but a reflection of the fuselage strobe light on the underside of the hidden wingtip in the darkness. Swiftly putting  my arm down. Just then a long way down in the blackness a Vairy flair made its tiny lazy parabolic arc in the desert. We  had found them, after making contact, our pilot told us that  the people on the ground were fine but had a minor problem, had landed safely, fixed it and would and would be off again in the morning. We droned on our way south.

Once “in country” we had about a week to wait for the first group to come through so we joined the 22 guys up on the side of Mount Kenya. The first thing that surprised me was how bitterly cold up on the mountain it was first thing in the morning. With a a white frost on everything not under the canopy of the jungle. Our senior rank Alan was a sergeant and me by then a corporal, the other two being troopers, all came under the command of their senior rank, a Warrant Officer class one (WO1).  We were almost immediately put to work, two of us being tasked to do a  “recce” (reconnaissance) for a two day route up and around the mountain for the pupils to follow under their own NCOs. To my dismay, asking Dave the WO1 for ammunition, was told that none had arrived. It was not a comforting thought to spend two days and a night in thick bush, full of elephants, water buffalos and gorillas (although they may have recognised us as a similar tribe), with nothing more than our shirts in front of us.  After discussing the route we set off on the climb out. The day's walking proved to be uneventful, as the light began to fail we backed ourselves into a very thick thorn bush, blocking the entrance with our bergans. I'm not sure what Alan did in the darkness but for me, laid awake most of the night, with my knife drawn, listening to “things” padding  past us in the darkness. During the few days we were temporarily made homeless, as after a huge and sudden downpour of rain washed out a colony of wood ants, (each about ½” long). They came through our basha site, first in a trickle that grew to  a yard wide torrent. We had no choice but to stand aside and watch until the colony finally passed, presumably to a dryer spot.

lp

A few days later we set off for the long ride north to the Samburu Game Park in the north of the country.  We stopped for the night at the little town of Nanuki  situated at the end of the tarmac road, from then there was nothing for hundreds of miles except tracks up to the Somali border. Having a quiet beer in the ramshackle B&B, the night security came by, a very large local gentleman, carrying an equally large lump of wood walked through the bar. He also wore an old British army great coat complete with a toy policeman's helmet, his symbol of power on his head. We all buried our noses in our beers while he stalked past.  After another day driving on terrible tracks, we found ourselves in the Samburu. There we found the advanced party commanded by a Royal Marine, who had named the camp Rorke's Drift, complete with a small staff of regulars in support. Over the next four weeks we got on with training batches of the young signalers. Charged with teaching survival navigation, quite tricky on the equator and animal traps and trapping organised live rabbits for the students as food for the day. There were quite a few white faces in the ranks when demonstrating first how to kill quickly, skin and gut.  After three days the signallers had a two day final exercise before departure to the camp on Mount Kenya. Once one  group had departed and before the next arrived, we had a  twenty four hour break in the luxury of the Samburu Lodge, some twenty miles away. 

The Lodge, very upmarket, was served by a light aircraft  to bring in its VIP guests. We had the luxury of a shower, great food served to our table and a cool beer in hand watching a leopard come for its evening meal, feasting on a carcass strung up in a flood light tree the other side of the river, ending the night in a soft bed.

On one rest period we gave up all of this because we had heard that Concorde 002 was in Nairobi where the runway, at 12000 foot high was ideal for high altitude engine tests. We could not miss this opportunity so four of us drove all day and through the night to get to the airport. Arriving there about nine in the morning we found the aircraft surrounded by Kenyan armed guards. Being in uniform ourselves we brazenly walked out across the tarmac, feeling very exposed, straight past the guards whom we ignored and up to the aircraft.  Underneath we found the chief test pilot John Cunningham and some technicians in discussion. When he saw us coming he just said “Morning, have a look around lads, just don't touch anything”. 

 All the final exercises were notional escape and evasion ones across the area, with a few of the base guys as the hunter force. On one of the occasions we had a garbled radio message to say someone was down with heat stroke  but they could not give us their position. We split into two groups, climbed two nearby hills and then radioed the patrol to fire a flair. This allowed both our groups to take bearings and triangulate where the casualty was. All  four of us then set off on what was to be a twelve hour cross country night drive through thick bush, up and down ravines and over rocks and boulders.We reached the group the next morning to find they had no water left but on inspection found, still had found still had loads of foot powder. Cooled down with water and rested, the casualty soon recovered and we brought him back to base. Arriving there we saw that all the  green paint had been stripped off  the front end of the rover. 

On another occasion going down to the river to see a returning signals patrol with the O.C. saw to our alarm a crocodile under the bank, a round of 7.62 seemed to sort the problem allowing the group to cross safely and in record time.  Sadly, a few weeks later we came across a small herd of elephants that had been machine gunned by Somali poachers and  the ivory taken. We offered to help the hopelessly small and poorly armed band of rangers to track these people down, having done a tracking course down in New Zealand, (Georgina, would never have believed that I was a trained tracker as now I cannot even find my own socks). This led us to the night's excitement with lions and of our five weeks away.

We did hear later that the Kenyans had got themselves a poacher.  For us, back to  Blighty and work the following Monday.

                                                             l

                                             Kenyan termite mound.

  WOII

By 1979 I had reached the dizzy heights of Warrant Officer class two (WOII), at the time I was very proud and honoured to be promoted, becoming one of the  youngest WOII in the regiment and quite possibly the SAS group.

Looking back at the squadron, I must have been desperate to choose me  from amongst so many of my capable peers, but they had and with my promotion came the position of Squadron Sergeant major. Over the next two years I became very involved in the organisation of any squadron activities, responsible for discipline and working with and reporting directly to my  “Boss”, Bill.

That year we went to America,  this was my first visit.  We were a mixed troop from “C” and  the other “out” (outside London) squadron “D” in Portsmouth. Joining the 11th Special Forces in the huge Pennsylvania forests, handling US weapons and equipment. Patrolling with our US colleges against our “enemy” some US Navy guys. Some of the Americans seemed very fit and capable, others leaving us slightly puzzled asking ourselves, are these really “special forces?”. On one occasion being shown how to strip down and reassemble an M60 machine gun, the demonstrator tried and failed, to put the working parts back in upside down until Dave took over showing the embarrassed American the correct way.  

                            Dave shows how its done           Brit army meets navy SEAL

There were plenty of opportunities to parachute using the American T10, larger than ours and the Americans jumped from 1200 ft as opposed to our 800 for training and as low as 400 if required. We had a competition to see who could land closest to a marker on the DZ, we all failed miserably, none of us landing closer than fifty odd yards with the unfamiliar equipment. 

Jumping from a helicopter four each side, feet on the skids, The `Boss”was first, me second then the remaining two on our side of the aircraft. The approaching the  DZ the noise and wind inside the aircraft made Bill think that the shouting and arm waving from the jumpmaster meant go!  Immediately disappearing from view, nearly following him the cry of anguish stopped me, realising that the gesticulating and shouting was not the signal to jump. Circling around we could see that Bill was floating down towards a lone tree. If he tried to steer away or not we never knew, but land in the tree he did.

We all jumped a few minutes later, and found Bill having an argument with a medic who had arrived in an ambulance demanding that he lay down on a stretcher to be taken away and be examined for injuries he patiently did not have. In the end condescending to at least get in the ambulance for a check over and ride back, all to our amusement.

                                                               “Lema” Troop

Leaving a few days later, flying from Pease Air Force base in Maine. The Hercules climbed its way out, we settled down for a long and noisey flight across the atlantic. Shortly after levelling off, smoke started to drift into the fuselage, this caused quite a bit of alarm, we had no parachutes and even if we did we were by them quite away from the coast.

The crew man started urgently clambering about shining his torch into the dark recesses  inside the aircraft.  We rapidly started losing height being told that some of the lagging around trunking that bled heat from an inboard engine, had caught fire. Presumably the heating was shut down and shortly after we found ourselves alighting in Gander Newfoundland.

For the next few days we amused ourselves by going for runs along the pine lined roads and playing cards in the evening until a spare arrived three days later, only then continuing what was an uneventful flight home.  Bringing to an end my penultimate foray to forgeign fields. Next Monday, back to work.

My second visit to America came a year later. Between the two, a group from 11SFG had been with us in Scotland. When their Lieutenant after a late arrival at an RV, telling me he had never experienced sun, rain and snow all in one day, saying “ My boys are fit and tough, we just didn't expect this”. Back again in the U.S with the 11th Special Forces Group in Pennsylvania, the local police chief in a briefing warned us about going down into the “combat zone” in nearby Boston. 

This was reinforced when two of the guys invited me to go into town for a beer. First agreeing, but later seeing them putting their 9 mm automatics in shoulder holsters, deciding that perhaps it wasn't such a good idea after all.

The Americans as hospitable as ever arranged for us to fire their weapons, an amazing range from all over the world.  Some types we had never seen before, spending time on the ranges using what they call C4 (Plastic explosive) and their communication equipment, that we found light years behind ours.  LecturesIn the hot airless lecture room we endured some awfully presented lectures, many found it almost impossible to keep awake, myself  included, perfecting the art of resting my chin in my hand, pencil in the other, notebook open, resting my eyes.  

We had each evening off, two of us going by mistake into a “black” bar, could almost feel the hostility, until we ordered a beer. Confirming the barman's question of  “ Are you guys from England?” the hostility for the most part dissipated, nevertheless we didn't overstay our welcome!

The base bar had permanently low lighting, so regardless of what time you went in, it always seemed late evening and leaving after a beer or two emerging into bright sunshine was always startling. One night there was a “wet T-shirt” competition. It was all fixed of course, on appeal for lady volunteers from the crowd a lovely young woman immediately stepped up onto the stage amid cheers and laughter. With encouragement from the crowd others soon followed until five or six had joined her. We were in the front row and decided we would vote for the most buxom lady, after each pouring of beer, the one with least cheers being eliminated, until two were left, our buxom favourite and unlikely winner and the lovely stooge. Cheering our loudest for our choice, the compair pretending not to see or hear us, looked out over the assembled audience declaring the stooge the winner.

The final two day exercise involved some training on the technique  of “Hot extraction” ( lifted out from very dangerous or difficult situations), where the helicopter came with a line and harnesses lowered . The troops on the ground, four being the maximum, put on the harness as the chopper lifted up and away as soon as possible. A slightly hairy experience swinging about on the end of a rope hoping you had clicked all the buckles in place.

                                                

The jump in that night from a C128 a sort of twin engine Hercules, landing in some sort of boggy grassy DZ, got down low so as to silhouette my half troop (eight men), in the darkness to see where they were, only to see clouds of mosquitoes around each one. Knowing that they must be the same around me and my sweat soaked jungle fatigue top, would be like a magnet. We  also had two rather disgruntled 22 blokes attached to us. They didn't seem very happy having to be under the command or with a TA unit, making them independent lead scouts and later rear guards, as we withdrew from the target attack, VIP snatch exercise, resolved their problem. The “attack was the first major one within my sole responsibility. Inheriting it  by virtue of my  being the senior rank. 

The plan and dry training runs through the day, all going wrong in a night full  of dazzling trip flares, muzzle flashes and exploding thunderflashes. Learning the lesson that  one of the first casualties of a contact is always the plan.   We never used “hot extraction”, but once back in camp, and my shirt off, I could see dozens of bites across my back and arms. The American medic came around, showing him my bites he assured me they had just the stuff. Expecting some magical solution to my discomfort, I was disappointed when he produced a large bottle of calamine lotion! 

We were  due to fly back by RAF VC10 but on arrival in Washington found our seats had been taken by some VIPs who had priority, being  told to wait until further orders.  Making use of the next three days hanging about was able to see the White House and visit the spectacular Smithsonian Museum.  New orders never arrived, talking to our colonel back in England we decided the only thing we could do was to catch a civilian flight,  Some standby seats came up and shortly after we flew home in two groups, finally arriving back in the UK a week later than expected Our colonel later very sportingly reimbursing us from his own purse.  Monday morning, again back to work.

A Little Or a Lot

A TA soldier could just do just the minimum required, or get involved full time and some did. We were all  paid on the pro rata scales and a once a year bonus. In the early days the £100.00 was quite sufficient for me to buy a “new”second hand car. Most volunteers who had completed selection, continuation and para course however were very committed.   I found this increasingly so as my rank and responsibilities grew over the years.  

                                          

Weekend training might include tactical landing strips, starting with a lecture, then under RAF supervision and using the RAFs local training field. Laying out of a flare path 1200 by 150 ft for the Hercules to land on.  Waiting after dark, torch in hand for the aircraft to appear out of the darkness, its wingtip almost sweeping over your head as it landed on the grass strip. Then running like hell as it turned, to run up its ramp into the dim red lit inside of the fuselage, before taking off back to RAF Lynham.

          Mortar training                       Winner “Falling plate”*

On other weekends introduced to the basics of explosives. With both the standard NATO charge or improvised devices using such things as a wine bottle to make a hollow charge that could incredibly, send its concave bottom into a molten slug that penetrated the armour of an old conqueror tank. Ring mains using a  “det” cord that burned at 24000 ft per second. Time pencils the colours remembered by the acronym to this day of “British rail will get you back”*. Pull, pressure and release switches and so on.  At the end of the weekend almost came unstuck on the short test,  as my maths let me down. 

The answer to the question of what is the quantity of plastic explosives needed to cut through steel, is arrived at by using a formula. Knowing the fraction based formula but not having a grasp on fractions. My answer,“P for Plenty”, got me a pass.

Adventure and fitness training very often in north Wales were often the subject of a lot of weekend training.  This would consist of another late night arrival this time in LLanberis, where we had the use of a room in the back of the local pub. A full days walking the next day, that always included the peak of Snowden. Ending with riotous nights and climbing out of the back window, after hours back to our quarters.  Sunday morning  aways a fast ascent up the Snowden light railway track and back, clearing away any headache. Before returning back to Hitchin and home. Stopping for an all day breakfast on the way.

Small groups of the regiment very often took part in much longer one off exercises. These were in addition to the annual “camp” and very often as part of a much larger NATO exercise. We also took part in exchange visits with foreign armies and on occasions joined our regular regiment. Specialist teams at home and abroad were dispatched to teach skills that any particular units needed training. As was role playing for people from the security services as part of their “field craft” training.*

From time to time  becoming involved in operational matters that come under the “need to know rules” and are not covered in these pages.

Those of us who were married, balanced family, army and work year in and year out.  Not all partnerships survived t

What a Pigsty!

Slowly crawling my way to the edge of the wood, I looked down on the small German hamlet below me.  At first all looked quiet, scanning with my binoculars, I saw a man standing at the corner of one of the outbuildings having a smoke. Almost at the same time realised he was standing under the edge of a large camouflage net that stretched up to the building's eve. Looking behind him, more nets, a lot more. In fact most of the buildings were camouflaged to some degree. We had found it!  An “enemy” divisional HQ.

That night we went in close to have a look around, careful not to alarm any senteries and confirming what we had found. Getting straight on the “net” (radio) reported the location. At first light two Harriers jets shattered the morning quiet, one after the other blasting over our heads and the hamlet  in a simulated air strike, putting  division headquarters out of the exercise

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                                        .Last light squadron briefing

Acting as “orange “ (exercise enemy) forces had given us quite a lot of freedom, our brief to seek out “blue” (NATO) headquarters,  nuclear delivery systems and other assets for air strikes. The division HQ was a definite feather in our caps.

Two nights previously standing in the edge of a wood alongside a track that led to a field workshop, we had found . Two German officers coming out in their jeep stopped right alongside me to confer, standing watching with interest as they talked, the jeep engine gently burbling, becoming distracted.

Then without warning an M113 (a large tracked armoured personnel carrier), came up behind them, without stopping, crashed through the wood where we were standing. Reeling backwards very nearly finishing up under its tracks as it slewed  onto the road  and sped off at full throttle. A very close shave.  

  

We had also spent several days living with a load of pigs in an outbuilding of a farm,  road watching and reporting back on vehicle numbers and types from the loft above. 

The pigs, all in large square pens, would stand up with front legs over their gates as we passed to and fro on the ground floor. At night in torch light it was like Dante’s Inferno walking between them, instinctively keeping your arms by your side, I'm sure, if dragged in you would be breakfast. The stench was awful and on occasionsI could not help retching. We couldn't go out in the daylight, but opened one of the large doors a fraction to sit and breathe clean air. Bringing a smelly end to my last time with the squadron in the field.

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                 EndEx ( end of exercise) and last annual camp with the Squadron.

 Completing the Circle

With my compulsory two years coming to an end as Sergeant Major, new horizons and pathways started to appear. It seemed light years before when the new boss by then, Frank, had been one of those sat on their bergens at the Taff Trail RV where I had also failed on my first selection.

The process of the next senior NCO to be promoted and take over was well underway.  For me a position at “group” was offered that would mean transferring from Squadron to our HQ in London.  This was heading up a new cell looking at options for “offensive opps” (offensive operations) against, at the time, our major adversary the Warsaw pact armies.

The idea looked very interesting but leaving the squadron and travelling to London on a regular basis was not. As there is only the  entitlement for one WO2 per squadron, the alternative was to stay with the squadron and to run our end of the selection process but at the reduced rank of sergeant.

The move to selection was probably for the best because of the previous year's deployment to Germany. We had gone into the field with ten days of all the paraphernalia that a patrol needs to operate. Resulting in each of us having massively overloaded bergens.  After the drop off, the weight of our bergens forced us to take turns to sit on the floor, put on the shoulder straps then being hauled up by two other members onto our feet. 

Towards the end of the exercise on the exfiltration out that night, we had to cross a small river, looking at the map there was a tiny mark on it that signified a footbridge. Weighing the risk of using the bridge or going through the process of making a proper river crossing. Slipped out of my bergen going forward in light order to have a look.  Satisfied that the tiny bridge was completely deserted returned to the waiting patrol. Then instead of going through the usual routine to stand up with two helping, I simply swung the bergen up on my back. Almost immediately I felt an intense pain in my spine. Realising I had injured myself but at the same time having the responsibility of leading my patrol back to friendly territory, carried on. The pain in my back did not seem too bad, being well warmed up after the long walk to the river crossing. But once I cooled down and sat still for some time, it became extremely uncomfortable. Getting back to base after the pickup and going to see our M.O, (medical officer) should have been my first priority but for some reason never gave it a thought and struggled on sorting things out ready to travel back.

Arriving home the injury was far too painful to work, being self employed meant no work no pay.  So urgently seeing an orthopaedic surgeon privately, an xray and the surgeon confirming he could see a slipped disc. The solutions offered were either to wear a corset or have two vertebrae fused together. Neither of these filled me with enthusiasm.

Over that weekend my squash partner called to ask why our scheduled game was off, advising me to see Mr Triance, our local Osteopath. Giving him a call and explaining the situation, he opened up his surgery for me the next day, massaged and manipulated my back and with a final twist and clonk that made me grunt, put my spine back together. Told to take it easy for a few days, was soon back at work*.  But the risk of further injury made the decision to join the training wing the right one at the end of my tenure.

So in 1981 joined the “Wing” to take the ten C squadron recruits who had signed up for the next selection. The whole regiment had a massive 273 recruits, the biggest ever that year as a result of the publicity surrounding the raid on the Iranian Embassy. This huge number had  already been whittled down from an even larger number in interviews and medicals. Only eleven were to pass, two from “C” Sqn.

The huge number that started our biggest ever selection course ever, meant that us staff had to start with quite large numbers to look after. 

All the selection courses had a Warrant Officer class one in command (WO1), as well as several other regulars. During that time it was my privilege to work with some very notable characters from 22, several losing their lives later in the terrible night helicopter incident in the Falklands war.

By the time of our first visits to the Brecons and the first conducted walk, my party was down to a dozen or so. Having crossed the stream on the series of rocks that had now been placed as stepping stones, where I had the “Welsh wax”  experience many years earlier,  directed them on up the “Fan”. Bringing up the rear saw very shortly after that one was already limping and did not look like he was going to get to the end of today's “tour”. Overtaking them, pressed onto the memorial of little Tommy Jones*.  Stopping, the group started to come by and our lame recruit was now limping on the other leg.  As he came up to me, enquiring why the leg, was told he couldn't limp on one leg all the while!  Needless to say, he failed.

It was always very important to keep an eye on how your group was doing or how someone looked when he came into an RV you were manning. All three of the regiments have had fatalities over the years. The last two from heat stroke and a regular officer coming back to take over a squadron had sat down in the area we all called the “moon country”, near the Roman road track junction in the Brecons. He had sat down to rest at night, fell asleep and never woke up dying of hypothermia. 

My personal experience and a brush with hypothermia was on a particularly bleak fitness weekend in North Wales, all of us were very wet with  a bitterly cold wind cutting across the “Pig track” we were climbing. Joe, the regular PSI to our 63 signals (SASV) squadron, started talking about toy train sets, realising he was starting to suffer Hypothermia stopped and got out of the wind, helped him into dry clothes and a sleeping bag. The added threat in these situations is that we were all probably near the danger line. After a short break and a brew that we all enjoyed in the lee of the ridge and a change of some wet to dry clothes with Joe’s rapid  recovery we carried on to complete the planned walk.

On occasion selection was taken in different parts of the country, one in my time in the North Yorkshire moors. Although not the Brecons the moors can be just as bleak and unforgiving as the mountains of Wales. There was another fatality when a recruit went missing. Later his bergen turned up downstream in the “Beck”.But his body was never found. Although not privy to the full story, it can be assumed the police became involved and followed up with his family. At the time it was thought he had got into difficulty when crossing the stream, lost his balance and bergen, perhaps knocking himself unconscious.

 

By the time the third selection course was coming to an end, starting to feel I had read the book, seen the film and got the T-shirt and looking ahead could not see myself becoming, as some were, permanent selection jockeys.  Decided to have a look around to see  what else was about.. 

 A Spanner in the Works

That something turned out to be 118 Recovery Company Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers. ( REME), Vaguely knowing  them through a mutual friend in the Royal Anglians, who also used the drill hall in Clare St Northampton. Calling  them with a view to doing something completely different, was immediately offered the position of company Sergeant Major with promotion immediately back to WO2. How could an offer like that be turned down? So In due course transferring from  SAS (v) to REME( v) a few weeks later. The Northampton company was one of two, the other being based in Corby, both part of a much bigger support battalion.  REME history goes back to the second world war. By 1942 the need for specialist units was becoming urgent to take pressure off the need for replacements wherever possible.

The modern TA unit has very large eight wheeled crane equipped vehicles.

Life in the REME was totally different to that in my former home. Gone were the casual  first names used in the squadron, there were of course exceptions, such as the O.C. who are usually called  “ Boss” except on formal occasions. In the 118 It was always either sir from below sergeant or sergeant major from an officer. There were other percularites  in that there were two WO2s, myself responsible for discipline and making sure l that all the background support was in place. 

The other WO2 was an artificer, a senior mechanic responsible for the vehicles, crews, technical training and the like.

One of 118s main roles in a war fighting scenario would be to keep the main supply routes (MSRs) open, clearing wrecked vehicles, repairing in situ if possible,  or recovery if more work was required. Each recovery truck had a four man crew. This gave me some scope to inject some other interests into the company's drill nights and weekends. In the fluid situation that would occur near the FEBA (The forward edge of the battle area), they might easily find themselves cut off  without their vehicle. 

Introducing evasion and survival navigation skills,  were all greeted with enthusiasm. 

Competitive weapon training in teams and not too heavy handed parades and drill. (Something I had not had much practice at myself!). Everything went down well.  The guys were basically mechanics but really seemed to enjoy the new angle to their REME soldering. 

But making no pretence that I knew anything about recovery or fixing lorries, not to treading on anyone's toes, made sure we rubbed along oaky. Over time I came  to know both the regular captain and staff sergeants well,  both of whom seemed very happy with the new broom that had swept through the company. 

A photograph from my scrapbook

That year the Company went to Folkestone for its annual camp. The training much of it already decided before my time and bizarrely did not include their vehicles.

Apart from my duties there was very little to do, so I was very much my own boss. Once morning muster parade was over and the guys dispersed to their duties, very often I would go out for a run or join in their training, without interfering but passing on any tips that might be helpful and carrying the company's heaviest weapon on the march and shoots.

The company's sergeants mess enjoyed its formal functions, dress code being enforced, something that was not my scene but was expected to attend. My position was quite an isolated one, the essential camaraderie all part of what had been the norm was, to me, missing and clearly in my mind my time in the territorial army was drawing to a close. The Falklands war had by this time been fought and won.        Still self-employed in the flooring industry subcontracting to a Bedford company,  who had won a contract to install flooring at the new airfield accommodation on the island's RAF Mount Pleasant. I was asked to join the five man flooring team for the six month contract. Took a leave of absence from 118, kissed Georgina goodbye and in early spring 1983 left for the ten thousand mile trip via South Africa to the Falklands.

Whilst there our flooring work rapidly caught up with the construction of the accommodation being erected on the site.  As a result we had a fair amount of free time. So often going out with my camera and on weekends going further out into the “Campo”. Having a mine threat map borrowed from an army connection on the island was able to move about with quite a high degree of safety.. Exploring Mount Pleasant itself and later teaming up with another Territorial to go as far north as Top Mallow, near the northern coast.  Meanwhile keeping in touch with Georgina through phone calls and later micro tapes sent via the military postal service, to our local radio station. They not only broadcast them but sent me blank ones back for more! The six months dragged on, finally arriving home that summer

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Returning  to 118, any spark that was left had by that time gone. Resigning in 1984 having served as a territorial fifteen years and 147 days.*

As part of my experiences, I obtained  my army records, they proved disjointed and took some time to unravel the approximate dates and places I had served. Listed under Medals and decorations were the expected “TAVR Efficiency medal'' , the word “Foreign “ that I assume refers to my various parachuting and course awards for other armies I had served with, but to end the award of  “Gallantry”. Is entered! 

I have no recollection of such dedes,  I can only assume it was for eating a second portion of “Rocky” Blakes curries!

As for the veterans of “C” Squadron, there is still great camaraderie as in any close knit group with social spins off that survive to this day.  A walking group started in 1995 after Bill and I bumped into each other many years after leaving the TA. We had coffee and catching up found we both still walked.  Bill with another group and myself as a footpaths guide for the county. 

From these small beginnings we gathered through the contacts of our old quartermaster sergeant Colin, squadron members from our  “era”. Starting to meet once a month to walk routes all over our part of the country. 

 At the turn of the century establishing a new 196 mile coast to coast route “ The Hobblers Way” (registered on the “Long Distance Footpath Site)

Social get-togethers of course, and family days as well as the annual reunion for all the  SAS regiments in the Brecons.

             The Hobblers                                                The “TA100”

 

        

                                              Remembrance Sunday 2020

 Records and documentation.

Having received  the records of my service. I have compiled a list of dates and a small sample of some of the  records forwarded to me. They have taken some deciphering as the date of being updated was not  in some cases some time after the event, or do not correspond with other entries.

1st Selection   dates as      02/03/68 ( failed)

Joining the Green Jackets  07/05/69

First promotion to  L/cpl      01/08/70

Second  Promotion to Cpl   24/08/71

2nd Selection                       24/09/71 (passed with loss of rank)

Promotion back to  L/cpl      01/04.72

Promotion to Cpl                  04/03/74

Promotion to Sgt                  08/12/75

Promotion to WO II              01/12/79

Voluntary revert to Sgt         8/12/80

Transfer to 118 Rec Coy      30/06/83  with the rank of WOII

Resigned                              24/10/84