Soldier 'I': The Story of an SAS Hero

I looked past Roger and through the front door. The pilot of the casevac chopper had his arm out of the cockpit window and was beckoning me towards him. The rotor blades thudded above my head as, doubled up, I ran quickly towards the cockpit and stuck my ear into the open space of the window. It was a struggle to make sense of the pilot’s words through the noise, like trying to have a conversation with a loomoperator in a clatter-filled weaving shed. ‘Go and check the bodies in the rear!’ he shouted slowly and deliberately, his face an inch from my ear. ‘Confirm to the loadmaster which bodies belong to the BATT.’

I didn’t relish the task. Moving carefully along the side of the Huey, I came to the passenger compartment. The sliding door was already open and the loadmaster was kneeling. He nodded grimly at the recumbent shapes in the back and said nothing. There were six bodies covered by blankets on the stretcher racks. This wasn’t going to be easy.

I started with the three racks to the rear. Bending down, I pulled the blanket off the body on the bottom stretcher. The man looked as if he had been hit by a large piece of shrapnel. One ear had been ripped away and the side of his head was caved in. But his facial features were intact and he was clearly a Gulf Arab. I covered him quickly with the blanket and moved on.

The body on the stretcher in the middle was also an Arab. He looked about seventeen. His head was uninjured and his eyes stared back at me with a glassy expression. A cold shiver ran up my spine and I threw the blanket back over the staring eyes. Give me combat any time, I thought as I stood up to look at the top stretcher.

I peeled the blanket back nervously, wondering what horror this one concealed. The man lay face-down, his right arm crooked upwards, his forehead resting on his wrist. The face was obscured. I swallowed hard and grabbed the arm. To my horror it felt solid. The flesh was as cold and rigid as the barrel of a GPMG. The hair prickled on the back of my head. I paused a moment and tightened my resolve.

Then, with both hands gripping the elbow, I levered the whole body upwards and over. I was sledgehammered by the shock. I stared at the face. Even with part of the chin shot away and with sweat, blood and grime matted down one side, I would recognize those dark contoured features anywhere. It was Laba.

I finished checking the other three bodies as quickly as I could and scrambled out to suck in some fresh air. It was now 1230 hours. I had been on the go for seven hours solid. With the sharp taste of bile still in my mouth and the stench of death in my nostrils, I stared out over the plain of Mirbat, smouldering and broken, like a fire-ravaged pine forest. I watched a column of grey smoke slowly rising from above the fort, unsure whether I was glad to be alive or not. It was a day I would never forget, a carnival of carnage; a lifetime of experience crushed down into a few hours. I stared out over the flat expanse of Mirbat plain.

Photo Insert 1

^{The perimeter fort at Mirbat. The coastal town’s first line of defence, it was initially manned by just twenty-five Dhofar Gendarmerie and one Omani gunner. (Jason Jones Travel Photography/Getty)}

^{Operation Jaguar. The first campaign for a newly badged SAS trooper.}

^{Changing the clutch on a Land Rover, Mirbat 1972. The battle was fought a week after this photo was taken.}

^{On patrol in Dhofar, 1971.}

^{Mirbat plain as it was at the time of the battle. At left is the battleground, with the perimeter fort most clearly visible. On the other side of the town the G Squadron reinforcements landed by helicopter, about 3kms inland, and advanced around the back of the town to relieve the Batt House and the Mirbat forts. This photo was taken from a Skyvan resupply aircraft in 1974. (Brian Harrington Spier)}

^{An officer in the sangar on the roof of the Batt House, in a 1974 photo taken before the British withdrawal from Oman. The .50-calibre machine gun position was on this wall in the foreground, and the Jebel Ali can be seen in the distance. (Brian Harrington Spier)}

^{The view from the Batt House to the perimeter fort, where the twenty-five-pounder lay. This is the 500-metre run that Mike Kealy, Tak, and Tommy all made under heavy enemy fire to keep their single artillery piece firing. The gun pit was Laba’s stand-to position, where he raced as soon as the first Adoo mortar shells exploded. (Brian Harrington Spier)}

^{The front of the perimeter fort. The remains of the twenty-five-pounder gun pit can be seen in the foreground. During the battle, the heavy wooden door behind was locked, denying Tak entry. (Jason Jones)}

^{The battleground of Mirbat. The Batt House, and the Wali’s fort surrounded a small cluster of buildings, including a school, a mosque, and a clinic run by the BATT medics. The wadis provided some cover for those dashing to relieve the fort, which lies to the north-east. (Brian Harrington Spier)}

^{Looking over the battleground, towards the Jebel Massif. The Jebel Ali, the hill on which the Dhofar Gendarmerie picket was killed, is to the left, off the edge of this photo. (Brian Harrington Spier) Jaguar, Dhofar 1971.}

^{Labalaba during Operation Jaguar, Dhofar 1971.}

^{Labalaba’s posthumous Mention in Despatches. Many believe he deserved the VC.}

^{Labalaba’s grave. The hero of Mirbat is buried in St Martin’s Church, Hereford, under the winged dagger of the SAS and the harp and crown of the Royal Irish Rangers. Left to right: General Service Medal; Falklands Medal with rosette; SAF Campaign Medal; Victory in Dhofar Medal. The Accumulated Service Medal, for 1,000 days in a combat zone, has since been awarded.}

^{Left to right: General Service Medal; Falklands Medal with rosette; SAF Campaign Medal; Victory in Dhofar Medal. The Accumulated Service Medal, for 1,000 days in a combat zone, has since been awarded.}

^{The sins of Soldier I! Pete Winner’s Regimental Conduct Sheet.}

10 Belfast

The night sea was waveless but full of motion, crawling and glinting like a swarm of bluebottles on a cowpat. Faintly flashing lights gathered around the harbour, a handful of frozen sparks kindling brighter as we drew nearer. A depressingly heavy rain slanted through the sky and hissed onto the ferry foredeck. 1974. What a start to the New Year! It was enough to make even the most resolute of resolutions slide into the sewers with the next pint of beer or evaporate into thin air with the next cigarette.

I looked out over the dark water that separated us from the port. In my mind’s eye, all I could see was the flat, smouldering expanse of Mirbat plain. The battle of Mirbat was a hard act to follow. Had it really been just two years ago? I felt dull. After the adrenaline high of Dhofar, the monotony of routine training and tours of duty was beginning to take its toll. Maybe, just maybe, this trip would be the breakthrough back into real action. We didn’t expect to come face to face with the enemy in open battle; we were too tightly bound by the restrictions. And yet, here, anything could happen.