0400 hours. The column began to suffer the first symptoms of heat exhaustion. This was far worse than any march I’d done on selection. I realized now why the training-wing staff had tested us to destruction. This was no place for the weak. The surfaces of my lips, tongue, mouth and throat were dehydrated and cracked like the baked mud of an old stream bed. I wished, illogically, that the Khareef monsoon would return – even though this would have made our progress impossible. I thought of all the stories I’d heard or read of people suffering from extremes of thirst, and what they’d resorted to: castaways on boats drinking fish blood, or their own urine, or even, as a last resort, the seawater itself – although they must have known that this was a completely irrational thing to do and that their thirst would return with redoubled intensity. I thought of all the stories I’d heard from Korea of thirst-parched soldiers drinking water straight from the paddy-fields – even though the fields were liberally sprinkled with human faeces, the only available fertilizer – or slashing open truck radiators and drinking the filthy orange liquid – rust, antifreeze and all.
As we pressed on up the ever-steepening slope, the pace up front unexpectedly slackened. I noticed something metallic glinting on the track – it was a ration-can. Then there was another. Then a block of hexamine, complete with cooker. Gradually the whole track became littered with rations and hexamine blocks. Who could be doing this? Suddenly my foot went down on something soft. It was a large tube of condensed milk. I was puzzled. Only the Firqats were issued with this type of milk. That must be it then. I realized the Firqats were unloading their supplies, that they were on the point of jacking. Well, I though, I’m fucked if I’m jacking. I pushed on with increased determination, stirred to greater effort by signs of weakness in others – just as I had been on selection.
0500 hours. I looked ahead. I could just pick out the great crocodile lumbering up the steep incline. We can’t be far now, I thought. It will be first light in thirty minutes. I watched as the heavily laden figures ahead disappeared over the skyline. This must be the top of the plateau. With great relief I struggled on to the crest. But when I looked over the top, my heart sank with a thump. It was a false crest, and the column was now descending into a wadi. I took a deep breath and pressed on. As I made my descent, the weight bore down even more cruelly on my knee and ankle joints. All I could think of were the Duke’s words at the briefing – we must be on Lympne before first light. I prayed that we would be in a defensive position before the Adoo guns opened up.
0530 hours. As we hit the wadi bottom, the first light of dawn shimmered in the east. I looked around me. We were surrounded by high ground. This was turning into an almighty cock-up. So much for the plans of the green slime. The column was now strung out in the wadi bottom in all-round defence, eyes nervously scanning the high ground, weapons ready for immediate action. The minutes slipped by; the wadi grew visibly lighter. I felt the anxiety gripping my guts. Suddenly a voice mimicking John Wayne broke the silence. ‘We should be on the high ground,’ it drawled. It was Pete from the mortar team, stating the obvious. He carried on up the line, breaking the tension with his performance. When he got to the Firqats, they couldn’t see the joke and thought he was the majnoon.
Jimmy had received a message to the effect that the Firqat guides were not sure of the track up to Lympne. So two members of the mountain troop, Mel and Cappie, had gone ahead to do a recce. We spent fifteen agonizing minutes in the wadi bottom before the breakthrough came: they’d found a small track leading up out of the wadi and onto the top. ‘Saddle up,’ shouted Jimmy, ‘we’re going for it.’ The column was now mobile again, and we started the final steep climb up to Lympne.
0630 hours. At last, with daylight streaking across the landscape, we struggled cautiously onto the edge of the scrub ground that passed for the airstrip. As we proceeded to move tactically, by teams, across the open space, every last muscle was gorged with adrenaline, ready to react at a split-second’s notice. I braced myself for the crack-thump of incoming rifle fire, or the dull thud of a mortar being fired and the swishing noise of the shell falling from high above. To my amazement there was nothing, not a sound.
Inexplicably, we were going to take the position unopposed. It was only later that we discovered the reason: Sean Branson had been detailed to lead a diversionary attack to the south and his decoy had been successful in drawing the Adoo away for just long enough for us to establish ourselves on Lympne. We moved quickly into all-round defence to build our sangar from the loose rocks that littered the ground.
Jimmy had just made a decision on where to build the sangar when two figures suddenly appeared on our left. It was the Duke and Colonel John. I was surprised; I hadn’t seen Colonel John since he had addressed us at the beginning of selection. The two had their heads together for a moment, then the Duke turned and said to Jimmy, ‘I want your team on the high ground over there.’ I looked where his finger was pointing. It was way over on the left flank, possibly an hour’s tab away. Extreme exhaustion and intolerable thirst swept over me once again as I dragged my heavy load back onto my shoulders.
‘Why do they call Major Perry the Duke?’ I whispered to Lou as we trudged off.
‘Because he keeps marching us up these fucking big hills and marching us back down again!’ came Lou’s caustic reply.
We toiled onwards in sullen silence, with Jimmy leading us past the other members of the assault force – some of whom were well on their way to completing their sangars, which made me feel even worse.
It took us nearly an hour to reach the high ground. By the time we had completed the short steep march to the top, and thankfully lowered the bergens and equipment to the ground, it was just 0815 hours. The death march had lasted over twelve hours. Each man in his own way had come as close to expiring as Ginge had; each man’s thread of life had been frayed through until all that remained were the flimsiest of fibres, held together by the extremes of endurance.
And still there was no time to rest. When we had a job to do, everything else, even bodily needs, took second priority.
We started building a sangar, wrenching the boulders out of the ground with our bare hands, stacking the rocks in a rough circle until we’d built a dry-stone wall three feet high and eight feet in diameter. Next we had to mount the gun. The tripod already formed a triangle with its legs. All I had to do was unlock the leg-clamp levers, lower the whole tripod until the cradle was just clear of the sangar top, then relock the clamp levers. The cradle was then levelled and the front mounting pin withdrawn. Sean had already serviced the gun for mounting, with the gas-regulator correctly set and the recoil buffer fitted. He now inserted the rear mounting pin into the body of the GPMG, lifted the gun into position on the cradle slot projection and pushed it fully forward, locking it with the front mounting pin. All that remained was to open the top cover, load a belt of 200 rounds, cock the action and apply the safety-catch.
As the top cover closed with a metallic click we heard the first helicopters arriving with the back-up force. It was a marvellous sight from our dominant position: lift after lift of helicopters and Skyvans bringing in more companies of SAF, artillery pieces, mortars, ammunition, rations, the remainder of the Firqat Khalid bin Waalid and – last, and most importantly – water!
Amidst all the hustle and bustle of the airlift, I didn’t notice the figure approaching in the distance. Then a movement caught my eye, and I turned to see a giant shape bounding up the rear slope of our position. As it approached nearer I could see it was Laba. He must have had 500 rounds of GPMG link wrapped around his muscular frame, and in his right hand, supported by a sling, he carried a GPMG as though it was a green-slime pointer. In his left hand and on his shoulder I saw salvation: two five-gallon plastic jerrycans of water. We encouraged him over the last few hundred yards with shouts of, ‘Come on, Laba, we’re pissing fresh air here’ and, ‘Hurry up, Laba, my mouth’s like the bottom of a parrot’s cage.’ When he finally appeared at my side, perspiring profusely, I could have hugged his sweaty bear-like frame. More of a master of understatement even than the Brits, he said only four words before disappearing again down the slope to return to his own position. ‘Here’s your water, lads.’ It was like giving caviar to pigs. We filled our mugs again and again and greedily gulped down the tepid liquid. Iced champagne never tasted so good.