‘Squad shun, stand at ease, open order, march!’
He was using the textbook method, straight from the Guards drill depot at Pirbright, namely EDIP – explanation, demonstration, imitation, practice. The Firqats were perfect mimics. By the look of them they were enjoying every minute of it. Their brown faces cracked into broad grins beneath their chequered shamags. After an ambitious attempt at a general salute/present arms, Laba dismissed the squad amid wild applause from the Firqat sangars.
It had been a brief moment of relief in a tension-filled day, a crazy interlude – but not altogether unexpected from a man who, when walking over zebra crossings, would often exclaim, ‘Now you see me, now you don’t!’ and whose party piece was eating cigarette sandwiches – literally consuming half a dozen cigarettes between two slices of bread. This impressive demonstration of a cast-iron Fijian digestive system gave rise to the rumour with which the lads used to tease Laba, namely that his great-grandfather had eaten Captain Cook! They were closer to the truth than they realized. During one particular drunken binge, when the alcohol had well and truly loosened our tongues, Laba claimed he was a blood-brother to the British missionary fraternity. When challenged on this rather startling claim, Laba revealed that his greatgreat-grandfather had roasted John Wesley during a hangi and then eaten him. Not satisfied with the main course, he had gone on to eat Wesley’s leather boots, marinated in coconut juice, as a sweet.
Over the next seventy-two hours we continued to consolidate on the Jibjat position. Skyvans, helicopters and Caribou transport planes airlifted in defence stores, ordnance, water and rations. It was then decided that the whole force would be split into two fire groups. The first fire team, which became known as the East group, would probe deeper into the eastern area.
It didn’t take long for them to attract trouble. It was a fierce, determined attack. As late afternoon slipped into early evening, from our position we could see the eerie display of gracefully arcing tracer standing out sharply in the failing light, a son et lumière of life and death. It was the beginning of six days of desperate fighting. The combined strength of two half-squadrons was unable to prevent the Adoo from getting to within grenade-throwing distance, and the East group suffered the consequences accordingly. Steve Moors became the first SAS man to be killed in action by direct gunfire during operations in Dhofar.
Meanwhile, back on Jibjat with the West group, we had been employed on clearing patrols round the area. On one such patrol was heard the greatest misjudgement since Chamberlain waved his piece of paper in the air and proclaimed the immortal words ‘peace for our time’. We had just come under fire from an Adoo patrol and managed to get the SF into cover. I closed the top cover on a belt of 200 rounds, and as the gun hammered out a burst of fifty rounds, a movement to the left caught my eye. A figure sat cross-legged out in the open, totally unafraid, totally convinced of his own immortality.
It must be the squadron headcase, I thought. No soldier in his right mind would expose himself in such a deliberate way, with the lead flying viciously overhead.
‘This is the biggest non-event of the year!’ shouted the headcase.
Suddenly a round zipped by and hit him in the leg. He moved with an agility that defied description, and in such a state of panic that he burned his arm on the hot metal of the GPMG barrel, before coming to rest among the empty shell-cases that littered the ground behind Sean and me. With a pained expression on his face he pointed to the injured limb. I ripped at his OGs and exposed the wound. To my amazement, it was not the entry wound I’d expected. Luckily for him it had been a spent round, and there, just visible below the skin, I could make out the dark-brown shape of a 7.62mm short, an AK-47 round. It had hardly drawn blood. I held the leg as a shell dressing was applied. We waited for the firing to die away and then, with the help of Pete from the mortars, carried the first SAS casualty of Operation Jaguar to the airstrip for casevac. Some non-event, I thought!
Colonel John and the Duke now set their sights on yet another move further west for us. They particularly had their eyes on an Adoo area known as the Ain waterhole. A probing patrol on 6 October had resulted in two Adoo killed, one Firqat wounded, and Steve from call sign 21 having to control the mortars onto an Adoo Guryunov heavy machine gun to cover the withdrawal.
The advance on the Ain waterhole began on 9 October. We arrived in the area in the early morning without making contact with the Adoo. That was the first stage. The second stage wouldn’t be so easy. We were on high ground dominating the area of the waterhole. To our front was a huge horseshoe of high ground which formed a natural amphitheatre. Most of the high ground was hidden by thick thorn bushes, ideal cover for a waiting enemy. The waterhole itself was about 600 metres away, at the far end of the U-shape formed by the legs of the horseshoe, which opened up towards us. The plan was straightforward. The mortars, call sign 25, and the SF team, call sign 26, would hold the high ground and give fire support if needed to the three action groups, call signs 22, 23 and 24, and the FKW, call sign 21. These four call signs would advance tactically into the bowl and secure the waterhole.
The legs of the tripod made a metallic clunk as they hit the stony ground. I made a quick adjustment to the mount position and tightened the locking levers. I levelled the cradle and locked off. Next I centralized the deflection and elevation drums, then fitted the gun, pushing the front mounting pin home until the locking stud clicked into position. Sean now flicked up the rear sight-leaf and set it on the 300-metre graduation, laying the sight onto a rocky outcrop on the tree-line by use of the deflection and elevation drums. Finally the legs were sandbagged and the sight rechecked. The master blaster, as Sean had christened the SF, was now ready. Jimmy had found us an excellent concealed firing point with panoramic views of the whole area. If a firefight developed, we would have a grandstand view.
The discussion began just before the FKW were due to begin their descent into the bowl. One party wanted to mortar the high ground and fry the tree-line with a mixed-fruit pudding before the call signs moved off. The other party insisted that time was running out and that every Adoo in the area would be homing in on the waterhole if we didn’t make a rapid move to secure it. A tricky decision. So a compromise was reached. As the FKW, followed by call signs 22, 23 and 24, moved off, Derek, the boss of the mortars, silently registered the high ground, marking possible Adoo firing points on the plotter board.
I closed the top cover of the gun on a belt of 200 rounds and Sean cocked the action. The safety-catch remained at ‘fire’. The atmosphere in the sangar was tense. It didn’t seem right leaving the high ground when the tree-line remained uncleared. Sean sat with his index finger feathering the trigger of the gun. Lou scanned the area with a pair of binocs. Jimmy sat by the radio. The whole area was quiet and still in the early-morning sun. The only sounds were the rustle of clothing and the clink of equipment as the call signs passed close to the SF sangar heading down towards the waterhole.
I reached for the spare binocs and focused in on the FKW as they skirmished forward in an extended line. They had gone about half the distance to the waterhole when suddenly they began dropping to the ground and adopting the prone position. Several of them lifted their arms and waved the action groups forward. This wasn’t in the plan. The FKW were supposed to go all the way. It was their tribal area, their waterhole. They should be taking the position to boost their morale. By now the action groups were cautiously moving through the line of Firqats.
A high-velocity round cracked overhead, shattering the still of the morning. My ears rang as it passed close by. There was a split-second pause, then the whole of the high ground erupted – AK-47s, RPD light machine guns and somewhere a heavy machine gun hammering out its deadly rhythm. A stream of green tracer floated high over the mortar position, harmlessly disappearing at 1,100 metres – the tracer burnout point.