The Head Shed suddenly appeared from the makeshift operations room in one of the Twynam huts. This is it then, I thought, we’re going for it. After a final check down the convoy, the Duke jumped confidently into the first truck. The Bedfords spluttered into life and a Saladin armoured car took up the lead position to offer some protection against mines. We moved off towards the camp perimeter. Once clear of the camp we immediately swung off the road and started driving cross-country, parallel to the road, so as to avoid the mines, and I settled down to what would prove to be one of the most uncomfortable journeys I had ever been on.
For fifty-odd miles, the arid moonscape terrain of the Negd leading to the Jebel was interlaced by dozens of dried-up stream beds. Each one would cause the truck to lurch wildly like a roller-coaster out of control, alternately twisting my spine with a vicious slewing motion and then smashing my coccyx on the metal equipment box I was sitting on, like a hammer on the anvil. The day wore on. The Arabian sun beat down savagely on men and equipment. My loosely flapping sleeve was worn dark from constantly mopping my brow. A thick layer of fine sand soon covered hands, face, clothing, weapons and kit. It floated everywhere, rising silently between the floorboards, sucked into the rear of the vortex of turbulence swirling behind the charging Bedford, propelled through the canvas sides in thick plumes by the sudden manoeuvres of the wildly bucking vehicle.
Speed was of the essence. No allowance could be made for personal comfort. Some of the lads held sweat-rags over their mouths and noses; others had given up bothering. The dusty sand mixed with the moisture of perspiration to produce a grimy, gritty mess that stuck uncomfortably to the skin. By mid-afternoon I was feeling dog-rough. The heat was getting to me, and the sight of a lad in one of the other trucks vomiting over the side did nothing to improve my morale. I looked longingly at the graded road over to our right; then the mental image of a mine injury to the human body jolted me back to reality. After another age, I glanced into the distance – and at last I could see the mouth of the wadi which signalled the final leg of the journey.
The sun suddenly seemed to lose its fierce, molten-metal incandescence and cool to a mellow golden glow. The desert landscape became sharper, its outlines more pronounced in the change of light. It took on the depth and perspective of an oil painting, rather than the hazy wash of a watercolour with which the noon glare had painted it. It seemed to relax and sigh out the heat of the day and await with a hush of expectancy the magnificent display of the setting sun.
By late afternoon we had hit the wadi and left the boulder-strewn, sand-filled stream beds of the Negd far behind. The going in the wadi bottom was much easier, as the floor consisted of a smooth layer of tightly packed pebbles and small boulders. Ahead of us in the distance the plateau towered formidably. I gazed upwards at the sides of the wadi, the sheer rock faces casting huge shadows across the convoy. It was an immense relief to get away from the oppressive heat of the Negd. With the sun sinking in the west it was getting cooler every minute. I was beginning to feel better. I looked around the truck. Everything was in shit order, sand everywhere. I removed the magazine from my SLR and worked the cocking handle. There was a horrible grating sound of sand on metal. I looked at the round that had been ejected; that too had a fine film of sand on it.
I had just torn off a piece of four-by-two cleaning flannelette to pull through my rifle barrel when the convoy came to a sudden halt. I looked up ahead and saw that the wadi had narrowed to such an extent that it was no longer motorable. ‘That’s it, lads,’ said Jimmy. ‘We’ll have to hoof it from here.’ Shit, I thought, the cleaning will have to wait. I placed the round back in the magazine, placed the magazine on the weapon and cocked the action. Then I took my rifle-oil bottle out of my map pocket and squeezed oil onto the side of the breechblock. That would have to do until we got to the night basha spot.
Word passed down the convoy that the Duke wanted all team leaders for an O group, and the remainder of us were to unload the operational kit. Jimmy grabbed his SLR and belt kit and disappeared over the side of the Bedford. By the time the O group had finished and Jimmy had returned, we had sorted the heavy loads out. Most of it was ammunition. I had 400 rounds of GPMG link ammunition wrapped around my body and getting on for 600 rounds in my bergen. Then there were four SLR magazines with twenty rounds in each on my belt, and with the three water bottles as well it must have weighed around 30lb. ‘When it comes to slaughter, all you need is bullets and water.’ Where had I heard that before?
I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and looked at the GPMG tripod. It’s about time I got you ready for carrying, you bastard, I thought. I lifted the tripod so that the legs were vertical. I then gripped the tripod cradle between my thighs and unlocked both front leg-clamp levers. The legs swung forward into the high-mount position, and I relocked the clamp levers. I would now be able to carry the tripod on my shoulders with the front legs resting on my chest and the rear leg training backwards over the top of my bergen.
When Jimmy returned he gave us a quick brief. There was nothing new. It was just as the green slime had said. From here it would be on foot to Mahazair Pools, our night staging post. It was time to saddle up. I was already wearing belt kit and the GPMG link. Next I dragged the heavy bergen onto my back, and finally Lou helped me locate the tripod on my shoulders. As I took the weight, the metal of the tripod cradle dug viciously into the flesh at the base of my neck. Lou said it looked as if I was being strangled by a black octopus. Christ, I inwardly groaned, I must have 130lb suspended about my person.
As I paused to gain my balance, I was suddenly aware that the ghosts of relatives long since deceased were drifting through my mind. My father had told me the stories, many, many times. There was the story of my great-grandfather, who was reputed to be the strongest man in his home town. He worked for the local brewery and often, for a bet, he would pick up a barrel of beer – weighing all of 300lb – and put it on the back of a horse-drawn cart as if it were a bag of sugar. Huge dray-horses would regularly step on his feet and he would remain completely unconcerned, going about his business as if nothing had happened. He was a hard man, who thrived on the rigours of a tough working life. Coming home one day, he slipped and fell, breaking four ribs; his wife wanted to call the doctor but he refused, telling her to get a gallon of buttermilk instead. ‘Blows you out, buttermilk,’ he said, ‘it’ll soon push them back into place.’ And then there was the story of my grandfather building a new garage by hand when he was seventy-two. Forty-two or fifty-two OK, but seventytwo! He tore a blood vessel in his heart in the process, but still lived another ten years afterwards. I had a tradition to maintain, family pride and honour. I took a deep breath, picked up my SLR and began to march.
Leaving the convoy of Bedfords to make their way back to Midway, we strung out crocodile-fashion in teams and started to climb out of the wadi. Within seconds I was soaked in sweat. I wasn’t sure the human frame could withstand such stress. There was so much pressure on all my moving joints that it felt as if my sinews and ligaments were about to snap, like rubber bands stretched too far. I feared my body would end up crumpled in a heap on the ground with the offending tripod on top of me. I staggered along like one of the Saturday-night drunks on Buchanan Street Jim had been talking about during our first meal in Hereford. My worst fears were confirmed when a signaller collapsed under the weight of his radio equipment, and one of the lads in Nine Troop suddenly doubled up, palms of hands on knees, spewing his guts out.