We heard a noise behind us and turned to be confronted by an intelligent-looking character with silver hair and piercing blue eyes. It was the squadron commander, known, as we later found out, as the Duke. ‘Welcome to B Squadron, lads – come into the office.’
We followed the Duke into his office, and as he sat down behind his desk I was intrigued by the difference between the interest room and this room. Not a photo anywhere – just curtains, dark-blue curtains covering every wall from corner to corner. I wondered what secrets were concealed behind them. I was soon to find out. After a short welcoming speech, the Duke pushed back his chair with a sudden clatter, stood up and drew back the blue curtain to his immediate right. There, pinned to the wall, in full technicolour, was a map of Muscat and Oman, a little-known country at the southern tip of the Arabian peninsula. The word ‘SECRET’ was stamped in large red letters just above the Straits of Hormuz. I recognized the map immediately. I’d sweated in that region for nine months with the Royal Engineers back in 1968 constructing roads and helipads at places like Nizwa and Bidbid.
The Duke began his briefing. It was a broad outline of the task ahead. When he had finished, I could feel the excitement welling up inside. At last I was going back. My first operation too! I could hardly believe my luck.
A strategically vital campaign was being mounted against Communist insurgents. After the fall of Aden and success in Vietnam, Communist ambitions were high. Some said it was part of a worldwide conspiracy. There had been a deep-rooted fear of Soviet expansionism ever since the Red Army, our allies during the Second World War, suddenly shattered all semblance of co-operation by sweeping though the whole of Eastern Europe as far as Berlin – to impose their own, iron-fisted political philosophy on the countries cowering in their wake. The Communist wave was again gathering momentum in Arabia. A breakwater had to be built somewhere to smash its force.
It was hoped that the breakwater would be Dhofar, the southern province of Oman, immediately adjacent to Aden. It was a medieval region, isolated from the more prosperous and advanced northern states by a 400-mile-wide desert, which rose up at its southern tip into a huge plateau called the Jebel Massif – a natural fortress some 3,000 feet high, nine miles wide and stretching 150 miles from the east down to and across the border with Aden, newly named the People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen.
Because of its wild terrain the Jebel had fallen easy prey to the Communists. For us, it was not ideal as a theatre of war owing to its remoteness and the fact that so little was known about it. Hours spent by the intelligence boys in ‘the Kremlin’ back in Bradbury Lines, poring over military reports, literary works and travel accounts, had done little to dispel the aura of mystery surrounding the place. However, the British government believed it was critical to halt the Communists’ advance here, before they could seize the one jewel in Oman’s crown: the northern coast of the country beyond Muscat called the Musandam Peninsula, dominating the Straits of Hormuz, a major political and economic flashpoint in the Arabian Gulf. It was through these straits that the bulk of Middle Eastern oil flowed daily to ensure the continued running of the free world’s economy. If the Communists captured this vital terrain, they could hold the whole of the Western world to ransom by threatening to block the flow of oil and thus cause a mortal thrombosis in the heart of the Western economy. We simply could not afford to fail – the stakes were too high.
Since early 1970, small SAS groups supported by Firqats – bands of local tribesmen loyal to the Sultan of Muscat and Oman – had established a few precarious toeholds on the coastal plain immediately facing the Jebel. Operation Jaguar, the mission I was about to take part in, would be the first operation to attempt to establish a firm base on the Jebel to stem the relentless advance of the Communist forces. B Squadron and G Squadron 22 SAS were to support two companies of the Sultan’s Armed Forces, along with a pioneer platoon of Baluch Askars – tough little fighters from Baluchistan – and five Firqats of Jebeli tribesmen; approximately 750 fighting men in all. We were to seize an old SAF airstrip called Lympne, which was situated on top of the plateau. This would give us an airhead capability in the east.
The night of 1 October 1971 was chosen. The Khareef monsoon, which covers the plateau with cloud and mist from June until September, would be finished, and that night there would be no moon to betray our presence. We were to climb to the top of the Jebel Massif in full battle order and seize the airstrip by first light on 2 October. Enemy forces in the area were unknown. They were rumoured to number over 2,000. That meant we would be outnumbered by at least three to one. Into the valley of death rode the 750, I thought – only we would be struggling in on foot. And as for the People’s Front for the Liberation of the Occupied Arabian Gulf or, as we knew them, the Adoo – no wandering band of vagabonds, thieves and bandits these! They were brave and cunning fighters, ruthless in pursuing the aims of their political masters, skilled tacticians, their leaders having been trained in Communist countries abroad, and armed with the latest Chinese and Soviet bloc weapons: Kalashnikov AK-47s, Simoney semiautomatics, RPG-7s and 82mm mortars.
The Duke finished his briefing, and the blue curtain swished smoothly back along its runners to conceal once again its veiled secrets. He glanced at the door through which the squadron sergeant major had just entered and, with a final nod of head, the meeting was terminated. We followed the SSM next door into his office, where he briefed us on a move to the army training area at Otterburn. Here we would take part in fire-and-movement exercises as part of a shake-out before going to Dhofar.
The discomfort of the parachute seat of the Hercules C-130, which had taken off from RAF Lyneham earlier in the day, produced a sudden spasm of cramp in my thigh, waking me with a jolt. After a quick shift of position to ease the pain, I checked my watch. In less than thirty minutes we would land in Cyprus for a refuelling stop before the second leg of the journey to RAF Salalah, in the heart of Dhofar.
I looked up and down the crumpled shapes sleeping around me. There was Fuzz, a wiry character from Oldham with crinkle-cut hair; Roger, a tall, slim, swarthy bloke from Bristol, so skinny you could play a tune on his ribs – but deceptively strong with it; Pete, a veteran of many contacts, a natural comedian – he was on the mortar line and called his mortar tube Winston; and then the three Fijians: Labalaba, Valdez and Sekonia. The British Army had undertaken a recruitment drive in Fiji back in 1961, when the Borneo campaign was first beginning and good jungle soldiers were at a premium. Labalaba, known as Laba, was a colossus of a man, born to be a warrior, a man who seemed to have stepped straight from the pages of myth and legend. Valdez was cast from the same rugged mould, wiry hair and all, a fighter for whom battle held no fears, for whom winning, not surviving, was the all-important goal. Sekonia, known as Tak, was solid and stocky, as sturdy as an English oak and just as dependable in a storm. He had a heart of gold and a deep, mellifluous voice which came right up from his boots. His strong Fijian accent gave the impression he was chewing and sucking the words before allowing them out in wellmeasured phrases. With sideburns more like wardrobes, thick black curly hair and coal-nugget eyes, he was an impressive sight walking down any street. He was to fight alongside me like a brother throughout my career – a rare phenomenon in the SAS where, as a matter of course, team members were changed on a regular basis.
I looked out of the window. We were just crossing the Cypriot coast. It wouldn’t be long before we landed at RAF Akroterion. A voice crackled over the aircraft intercom system: ‘Fasten your seat belts.’ The bleary-eyed sleepers began to stir. An RAF loadmaster struggled over bodies, kit and equipment to take his position at the rear door ready for landing. The C-130 hit the runway with a disturbing thump that shuddered through the plane. The pilot won’t be proud of that one, I thought. We got out of the plane, glad to have the chance to stretch the stiffness out of our limbs, and were taken by coach to the cookhouse while the C-130 was being refuelled.