We led off south-eastwards in single file. At first the ground sloped gently upwards, then, gradually, the gradient got steeper and the going got tougher. The weight of the tripod was digging into my breastbone and I was soon bathed in sweat. After an hour, word came down the line to ‘take five’ and the crocodile came to a halt. I removed the tripod and slumped to the ground with relief. Out came the water bottle and I drank greedily. We had been told by the Firqat guides that there was a well four hours’ march from Mahazair where we could refill our water bottles, so I wasn’t too worried about water discipline; three hours to go, three water bottles – no problem. Little did I realize that when it came to distance, speed or direction, the Firqats were notoriously unreliable in their estimates. After about five minutes the column struggled to its feet. I hoisted the tripod back onto my shoulders and plodded on.
We moved onwards and upwards, halting every hour for a water stop. The night was hot and humid, and after four and half hours I had begun to feel very weary. I was down to less than half a water bottle, and still no sign of the well. ‘Take five’ – the words were a blessed relief. I lowered the tripod to the ground, sat down against a large rock and looked at my watch: 0100 hours. Out came the water bottle. I took a swig and it was all gone. That was it. I’d just have to suffer.
We moved off and the pace became slower. The column was growing more and more fatigued and the going was getting even steeper. Then, after about a quarter of an hour, we suddenly came to an unscheduled stop. At last, it must be the well, I thought, and unhitched the tripod once again, sat down and eased the straps of my bergen off my shoulders.
We sat for about fifteen minutes eagerly awaiting the water resupply. When there seemed to be some confusion up ahead, people talking and moving about, it didn’t really worry me.
I was enjoying this long break, feeling the strength seeping back into my weary limbs. Suddenly Jim the Jock, a trained medic, moved up the line and disappeared into the darkness. That was an ominous sign. ‘What’s going on?’ I wondered. I was soon to find out.
The radio just ahead crackled into life and I saw Lou whispering to the team leader. He turned to look at Sean and me. There was a grim look on his face. ‘Ginge’s collapsed with a heart attack,’ he said. ‘Apparently he was carrying too much weight.’
‘How much is too much?’ I wondered, eyeing the tripod and my bergen with renewed suspicion.
I moved forward to see if I could help. When I saw Ginge lying on his back over a rock, I realized immediately what must have happened. When we’d stopped for a break he must have rested his bergen on top of the rock to take the weight off his shoulders – he’d been carrying three large radio sets. The bergen had obviously slipped over the back of the rock, pulling Ginge with it, then wedged itself underneath the base. Spreadeagled over the rock, Ginge, weakened by the effort of the march, was completely paralysed, pinioned by the weight of the bergen, the straps biting into his chest and severely restricting his breathing. The shock had been too much for his heart.
While two men hoisted the bergen back up, Jim the Jock gently eased Ginge out of his straps and laid him down on the ground. With the first two fingers of his right hand feathering his neck, he felt for Ginge’s jugular pulse. He couldn’t find anything. He felt the other side of Ginge’s neck. Still no pulse. Emergency measures were required, and quick! Jim began unceremoniously thumping Ginge’s chest and giving vigorous mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Come on, Ginge, for fuck’s sake. I was silently willing Ginge back to the land of the living as much for the squadron’s sake as for his own. A death or critical medical incident would seriously compromise the operation, requiring a casevac chopper to evacuate the casualty, thus giving away our position to the Adoo.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Ginge’s body jerked under the blows like a comatose psychopath receiving electric-shock treatment. Three minutes had passed and still there was no sign of life. Jim the Jock was getting desperate. He put his hand on Ginge’s forehead. It was extremely hot, seemingly at boiling point. As a last resort, Jim decided to try and bring his temperature down. He undid his water bottles and splashed the remains of his precious supply liberally over Ginge’s head, face and chest. Five minutes had now gone by. Jim prised Ginge’s mouth open and forced the last half-pint down his throat. To everyone’s immense relief, Ginge suddenly spluttered back into life, raising his head in bewilderment. We split all his kit up and spread it out amongst the other team members, ready to move off again. That poor bugger Ginge, I thought, virtually dead one minute and having to resume this ordeal the next. The death march was beginning to live up to its name.
Jim would pay dearly for his generous action by nearly collapsing with heat exhaustion himself two hours later. He had started off the march already half-dehydrated, having contracted some kind of bug at Mahazair Pools that had him vomiting violently two or three times. Seeing how much the other lads were suffering from the heat, however, Jim had decided not to ask any of them for water – they seemed to be in as bad a state as he was. Strict water discipline was part of SAS training and it went against the grain to ask anyone else for any. When Jim began to fall behind the rest of the crocodile under the combined weight of the GPMG, 600 rounds of link, spare barrels, working parts and rations, Arthur Hormby – who was later to make a bid to be the first man to row the Pacific Ocean single-handed, and die in the attempt – came to encourage and remotivate him. He also helped Jim in a more direct way: he took over the GPMG, and Jim carried Arthur’s SLR.
The women of Hereford would be mightily relieved to know that Jim had survived this particular ordeal. Small and stocky, he was not one of the six-foot-six Greek-god iron-pumping brigade. He was, however, not at all perturbed by his lack of height. Quite the opposite – he felt it was a positive advantage: there was less for the enemy to aim at. What he lacked in stature, he more than made up for in impish schoolboy charm. With bright eyes, ragged brown hair the colour of ten-year-old malt whisky, an engaging grin and soft Edinburgh burr, he had the local ladies lining up, curious to know him better. And, being a gentleman, of course Jim was always more than willing to satisfy their curiosity.
It was 0200 hours before we got under way again. As we tunnelled through the night, I did a time appreciation. It would be getting light around 0530 hours; that only gave us about three hours to get into position for the final assault. Looking ahead, I could just make out the dark mass of the plateau against the sky. The cold metal of the tripod cradle dug deeper into my neck, my mouth and throat felt as though I’d been chewing hot ashes, and my knee joints ached and throbbed. But the thought of the Kalashnikov assault rifles waiting up ahead kept me going.
We stumbled on, the stops becoming more frequent. We had to be on that plateau by first light. Maybe they would hit us even before it got light. The Adoo knew the terrain well, and could move over it tactically in complete darkness and in total silence. I tensed at the thought and became more alert. My imagination went into overdrive. I began to perceive outcrops of rock as crouched Adoo waiting in ambush; the rustle of a night animal as an enemy scout scampering back to the main group to report on our movements; vague shapes in the sand as fresh Adoo footprints. I could now understand the reports I’d heard of patrols firing at phantom enemies.