Mac’s arrival in Aden in 1966 for his second tour of duty in South Arabia would have blown the mind of any man, regardless of experience, regiment, or strong personal qualities. He was met by the infamous John Buchan AFM, DSO. Buchan was waiting for him at Khormaksa airport, not in the arrival’s lounge, as one would expect, but on the tarmac at the bottom of the Britannia aircraft steps. Buchan did not offer introductions, unless his “follow me” could be classed as an introduction of some form. In ten minutes, the crazy fun began when John Buchan, or JB as he was known, spun round and raced through the lounge, straight through immigration & customs, with a wave of his hand to the duty officers, with Mac in tow, dragging along his kit, plus rifle, ammunition, and parachute.
All the Britannia passengers were military personnel, and most had cross-decked from the VC10 ‘moon ship’ from the UK to Bahrain, as was the normal practice. Everyone called the VC 10 the ‘moon ship’ because it brought out to the Middle East white humans with white knees called ‘moonies,’ because were not suntanned.
Because the shuttle had only a third of its normal passenger capacity, the passengers during the short journey carried all their personal kit and suitcases on the aircraft. Loading bay facilities were full of more important and much needed items for the camps in Aden, such as Tenants beer cans (with gorgeous, nubile models printed on the sides) mail from families and newspapers.
“Get in and hold tight, Watch and observe for Grenadiers. You’ll see a large hotel called the Red Sea on the left- opposite is a block of flats on the Ma’alah Bandar turning. Watch them for snipers. Questions when we arrive at Steamer Point. Understood?”
“Understood.”
With that, he leapt the long wheel based Land Rover forwards with a screech of burning, acrid smelling, smoking tyres. He drove like a madman but expertly and with complete calm. Mac knew this display was for his benefit, and did not mind. A fairly comprehensive and detailed briefing about JB had come his way before leaving the UK from Harry Smith, his Aden post predecessor.
Buchan’s appointment in Aden was Officer in Charge of the RAF Steamer Point Fire Section, Station Ground Defence Training Officer, Station Security Officer, Station Bomb Disposal, and Demolitions Officer during bomb scares. If time allowed, the Army Bomb Disposal Teams were called in, but JB appeared to want to do everything himself. He was old for his rank of Flight Lieutenant, and highly decorated. His courage was beyond question, though bordering on that of an impulsive, irresponsible madman. He had blasted many people of high rank in the past and this was still happening in the present, so much so that promotion was out of the question. JB didn’t give a shit about anything or anybody.
One small example of his attitude to rank and position came when a staff car carrying Arab dignitaries pulled up outside the fire section gates and the occupants went into the RAF Police and Special Branch HQ across the road.
JB saw the vehicle and shouted “Corporal Carmichael, go and let that posh car’s tyres down.”
“Yes, Sir. You are aware it’s a VIP car and there are some Arab bigwigs with it?”
“Their hard shit, Corp. Do as you are told.”
“Right away, Sir.”
All his staff knew better than argue with JB. If they did so, they would suffer. He was vindictive and carried a grudge forever.
The Arabs finished their visit and returned to their car to find he tyres flat. At first, they were confused, then angry. JB casually strolled up to the gate and looking at the Arabs, shouted to Sergeant Brooks over his shoulder.
“Sgt Brooks, it seems these dim-witted fucking Arabs and their driver can’t read the ‘No Parking’ sign we’ve displayed in four languages. They’ve blocked the fire engine entrance and now, if there’s a bomb or a fire, we can’t make our exit to deal with it. I wonder how many poor innocent people could die, including Arabs, because of these thoughtless, selfish morons?”
With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, with the stutters, screams, and gesticulations from the irate Arabs bouncing harmlessly off his back.
Twenty minutes later there was a telephone call telling JB to report to the Station Commander immediately. JB climbed in his long wheelbase, which was rigged with crash bars for ramming small roadblocks, and shouted. “In for a penny, in for a pound!” He drove at speed out of the compound, ramming the front near side of the staff car knocking it out of the way. Half an hour later he came back (by now the remains of the staff car had been towed away) with a huge grin spread all over his face.
“I enjoyed that Sgt Brooks, but it will cost me some money I’m afraid, at least a round of drinks in the Officers Mess and two for the Station Commander and his wife.”
<><><>
Back to Mac's arrival.
They approached the Red Sea Hotel at a fast rate of knots, and all Mac's concentration was on the block of flats opposite, scanning for snipers. Suddenly, JB swerved right, across the central reservation, and into the road at the side of the flats that ran through the Ma’alah Bandar. This side road joined the major road called the Ma’alah Main near Tawahi on the road toward Steamer Point. Huge signs were displayed in English and Arabic on each side of the road and on awnings stretched over the top of the track, stating that this route was strictly out of bounds to all traffic, including military vehicles.
To top this off, ‘Danger Mine’ signs were everywhere. JB simply smashed his way through, knocking over old corrugated iron sheeted ‘Kochi huts,’ (temporary Arab dwellings) bins, and anything else he could use his roadblock crash bars on with good effect. He was laughing a maniacal scream of a laugh as he wrought this destruction.
“Watch out for crowds of kids.” He shouted over the roar of the engine, swerving to the right in order to deliberately knock over a bicycle parked at the side of the track.
“The terrorist uses kids as a cover for grenade attacks. There’s a crowd of kids; we slow down for them. The kids all hit the ground; a grenade comes from behind them. Motto? Run the kids down. Kill the grenadier behind them. Understood”?
“Understood.”
This little revelation was not news to Mac; his brief from Harry included this terrorist ploy, and it had been used on six occasions, killing four British soldiers and injuring eight. As they continued on JB’s stock car racing practice circuit to Steamer Point, Mac, even though very entertained by JB’s antics, had time to reflect on why he was sent here and what he had to do in the future months ahead. He had a licence to ignore politics and protocol, plus military rules and regulations, and employ the terrorist weapons and tactics against the terrorists themselves, using ‘Misinformation and Psychological Warfare’ to it’s and his maximum potential. Why he was here was caused by a short but recent history of political events, which would lead to the British military withdrawal from Aden.
Aden is situated on a peninsula at the southern entrance to the Red Sea, between Arabia and eastern and north-eastern Africa, and acted as a commercial station for neighbouring states. It gained even more commercial importance after the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 and as a result of oil discoveries in Arabia and the Persian Gulf. The superb natural harbour was thought vital to safeguard the sea routes to trade in India and the Far East. Aden was at the centre of the British Colonial trading system. Ships stopped there for fuel en route between Europe and these eastern trading ports. It was still a loyal imperial outpost in 1953 when the newly crowned Queen Elizabeth paid a visit during her world tour.
During the 1950s, Aden became the busiest port in the world after New York. Another great boost to its trading potential came when BP Oil refineries were built in Little Aden, located on the West Side of the bay to process oil from the Gulf. The British enjoyed the good life in this little Rahj. Pampered by Arab servants and catered for by Indian traders, they felt safe in their imperial backwater. Throughout the 1950s, when the British Empire was being dismantled, Aden’s economy boomed. As a free port, it was raided by thousands of cruise ship tourists from around the world. Lost in time, British rule continued in the old colonial style.
Around Aden colony, was a wilderness larger than England and Wales, called the British Protectorates and ruled by feuding tribesmen. When the British grabbed Aden there was had no interest in these lawless territories, other than as a defensive zone.
Tribal rulers such as the Amir of Bahrain were persuaded to sign ‘Treaties of Protection’ and to accept British political advisors into their sheikhdoms; the few British to enter this medieval world could do little to change it. General Sir James Lunt, Commander of the Arab Army from 1961-64, gave an example of this backward place in the arrival lecture.
When he was coming back from a visit ‘up country,’ he arrived at a village and heard a scraping and clanging noise at his feet. Looking down, he saw an iron grill embedded into the ground with a blurred human face pressed against it. He asked his Arab hosts who the man was, and they were very evasive.
General Lunt ordered the man released and upon coming out of his dungeon, he saw a man dressed in ragged shreds of clothing, caked with filth and excreta, a beard down to his knees, finger and toe nails like eagle talons, and exceedingly emaciated. Sir James asked how long the man had been down there and nobody could remember. Apparently, he had been shackled, hands and feet, and these shackles were now thick in rust, and he'd been imprisoned many years before and had been there ever since. Sir John ordered the shackles to be removed and the man set free. Far from being grateful for Sir John’s intervention and his release, the man complained profusely that he wanted to go back, because if he were free, nobody would give him food anymore. Such was the law in this backwater as late as the early 1960s.
In the Protectorates, approximately half a million people scratched a living from the soil. Unlike their neighbours in Saudi Arabia, their leaders did not have oil revenue. Britain bought them as allies for a few rifles and a small amount of money. The Aden Protectorate Levies were formed; a small Army of Arabs under British Officers brought the British and the local Sultans into closer alliance.
The colonial power also had a more modern system of controlling the tribesmen: Air Power Policing or APL. If a village or a Sultan caused any trouble, leaflets were dropped from aircraft, warning them they would be bombed and at what time, if they didn’t hand in hostages to prove their good behaviour in the future. If this instruction was not complied with, they were bombed. They were ordered to move everybody plus their livestock out of the village, and at the precise time, the village would be bombed into oblivion. This was found to be an excellent, fast, cheap, and cost effective way of controlling a large number of people spread out over a large, almost inaccessible area of land.
Aden became self-governing in 1962 and joined the Federation of South Arabia (FSA) in 1963. The FSA linked the feudal sheikhdoms that were lying between Yemen and the coast with the urban Aden Colony. Opposition to the British presence increased after the Suez Operation during November 1956.
Nasserism emerged via inflammatory broadcasting on radio Cairo and later, to a lesser extent, from regional broadcasting stations, such as Taiz in the Yemen. For the first time, Arabs had an outspoken leader, speaking for all Arabs, against colonialism and supporting nationalism everywhere throughout the Arab states.
This antagonism toward the British increased with the establishment of the Middle East Command Headquarters on the colony of Aden. The Sultans were so extremely worried by the increase of nationalist propaganda from Radio Cairo that they were persuaded by the British to join a Federation of South Arabian States. In 1959, this Federation was established, and eventually, most of the Sultans joined.
Britain built a ‘Whitehall in the sand’ and palaces for the Sultans. In the new Federal Capital Aden, the Sultans performed a charade of parliamentary government. One of the few Sultans with a formal education acted as their spokesman, Mohamed Farid, Federation Foreign Minister, 1962-67. When he was questioned by ITV on his thoughts on the Federation, he said something to the effect of, "Before the Federation, we Sultans had a system that worked. The tribal leaders elected our Sultans and that, by Western concepts, may not be democratic, but, by our concepts, it was, and it worked. We believe it is no good trying to adopt the Western system in our country, as it has failed in every country in the world, and led to nationalists calling for freedom from your colonialist rule. If I am wrong in my words, ask yourself, where has your Empire gone?"
Wow! Did he pack a punch?
The absence of elections and the autocratic rule of the Sultans did not allow us, or the Sultans to understand the depths of nationalist feeling among the people in the New Federation. Saleh Musleh, a prominent NLF guerrilla leader said to Mac, "The Sultans were our enemies. The imperialists set up the Federation. We felt nothing had changed since their ancestors had signed the protection treaties with the British colonialists."
In Aden, prosperity had attracted a huge influx of immigrant labour from all over South Arabia. They joined trade unions that took up the Nasserite anti imperialist cause and opposed the Federation with strikes and demonstrations. The authorities ignored the nationalists and gave full backing to the Sultans and the Federation. The British military was really very short sighted in those days and seemed incapable of reading the writing on the wall.
An Army led coup overthrew the hereditary ruler of the Yemen, the Iman, in 1962 and was backed by Egypt. The new republican government of Yemen initiated revolution by its brothers in the South. Aden and the Federation did join in, and the battle against colonialism began. There was now an undeclared war, involving two colonial powers: Britain, against Soviet backed Egypt, with an horrendous battle ground of pure desert, sand, silt, lava, and volcanic remains, criss-crossed with deep wadis and mountainous territory, with peaks of up to 9000ft. Britain backed the guerrilla royalist Army of the deposed Iman, as did Saudi Arabia. This Army was supported by mercenary troops, mostly comprised of so called ex SAS ‘veterans,’ operating out of bases in the Aden Federation.
The British had two problems to contend with: putting down the tribal uprising in the Radfan, adjoining Yemen; and highly organised urban terrorism in Aden Colony itself.
In July 1964, Harold Macmillan set 1968 as the year for the Federation’s self-government, but with a continuing British presence in Aden. This statement helped to accelerate the nationalist cause to push Britain out by military force. Yemeni, Egyptian, and Adeni nationalists, as well as paid mercenaries continued bringing weapons, mines, explosives, and grenades across the border for the use of border tribesmen, who viewed guerrilla warfare as a way of life. These ordinance items were mainly ex British equipment that had been left behind when the British evacuated the Canal Zone, Egypt in late 1955.
Later on in the struggle, when more Aden terrorists received Marxist guerrilla training by the Soviets and Chinese, more and more high tech Soviet weaponry began to appear on the scene.
The emergency was declared in December 1963, coinciding with the new outbreak of severe fighting in Cyprus, which tied up Middle East resident garrison troops. An attempt to subdue the Radfan was made by a force of Arab Federal Regular Army battalions, supported by British tanks, guns, engineers, and other specialist corps. It failed, at the cost of five dead and twelve wounded.
As soon as this force withdrew, the tribesmen moved back into their old stomping grounds and carried on, attacking traffic on the Dhala road that links Yemen and Aden. The Federal government asked for additional British military aid, and they were supplied with a mixed force of Brigade strength and support aircraft.
These force’s rules of engagement forbade them to bomb or attack areas containing women and children, so they dropped leaflets warning the local nationals to move out of harm’s way. They could retaliate with maximum force if the troops came under fire.
The Paras and Marines carried out this latter job to great effect. At the time of Mac's arrival on the scene, the British government had announced its intention to withdraw from Aden in 1968, breaking their previous promises to maintain a military presence after independence. As a consequence of this political blunder, or gaff, as it has been called, the narrow streets of the Aden townships were the scene of a bloody civil war between the National Liberation Front and the Freedom for the Liberation of South Yemen.
Britain was between the two factions and under attack by both. These two antagonists were trying to prove to the local populace who was the strongest, and who should be the party to rule Aden. Even though the British had said we were pulling out, they wanted to claim that they threw the troops out instead.
In this war, soldiers were killed in a land that was no longer of any interest to Britain, and for reasons that no one in Britain could understand.
On the plus side, because the Aden colony townships were small and in close proximity to each other, surrounded and dominated by overlooking volcanic high ground, they were easily controlled by troops and air support. Only a limited number of troops were needed for normal battalion internal security duties. It gave the British an ideal training ground to practice special operations tactics and new weapons and the individual’s various skills. New technology was given its proving base here. Intelligence gathering techniques were a top priority, and combined service SOGs were tasked with that side of the game, and issued with all the new night surveillance equipment and specialist cameras, bugging and tracking devices that the military may purchase. They found an operational test bed with them.
Mac's job as a TWATT member (Terrorist Weapons and Tactics Team) was another embryo organisation to develop in this theatre. One can imagine the piss taking they received from other Special Forces with a name carrying that sort of abbreviation.
It was fun in a way when you met someone, especially a supercilious officer who asked, "What are you?"
You would reply, "I’m a TWATT."
On actual operations, they learned the job, tested equipment, and produced brilliant results. They were allowed access to SOG information, which was invaluable as a tool of war. So too were the SAS (Keenie Meeni) squads, the most dangerous job of all. These very brave men lived as Arabs among the Arabs. They dressed in Arab clothing and were armed only with their Browning High power 9mm pistols, rooting out and eliminating terrorists in their own back yards. The rabbit warrens and Kochi’s were behind the main road running by the sea. Here, the terrorist felt safe and ruled supreme. They were in complete control of their own area of terror.
Many tales have been told about these silent, crazy men and quite rightly so. They deserve it. Consequently, because of this ‘use’ of the war, a lot of original anti terrorist ideas were welcomed from even the lowest ranks and were tried in a true combat situation. Some paid off, some didn’t, and some had hilariously funny results.
Finally, after a few more Daytona 500 like occurrences involving many cursing Arab taxi drivers; who were also infamous for their ‘one arm out of the window’ driving, JB pulled up in the Steamer Point fire section yard.
He sat behind the wheel for a few silent minutes then said, "Welcome to my empire. You’ll find I’m strict but fair, and I will listen to ideas. Just don’t try to be too clever, or I’ll screw your arse so far into the ground even ants will look down on you. Do I make myself clear?”
Mac grinned, “Yes, Sir. Would you brief me as to what you feel my duties are? I want to get started and make the time go by quicker.”
“Your job is to be part of the GDT Section. You will run the Cemetery Valley CQB (Close Quarter Battle) weapon ranges. You will lecture on the military situation in South Arabia to all new arrivals to the colony, including turn around battalions. You will lecture and demonstrate captured terrorist weapons and the tactics behind their use. You will keep abreast of all newly found arms caches and liaise with the brigade ATO (Ammunition Technician Officer). With the ATO, you will devise methods of combating the weapons you encounter and, if possible, turn the tactics used in their employ back on the terrorist himself. Is that clear? Have you any questions?”
“Just one, Sir. Who am I answerable to? You? Brigade Major? Senior ATO? Just so I don’t make any chain of command balls-ups, you understand. It’s a little confusing at the moment. I received a briefing in the UK outlining my duties; you read me another set of instructions. Nobody informed me about CQB ranges or history lectures, so who is my boss?”
“I am. You report everything to me. I take it up the chain of command. In that way, you have a buffer and shield between you and some of the supercilious bastards at Command HQ. They are a right toffee nosed bunch of twats up there I assure you. Is that clear enough for you?”
“Yes, Sir. For now. When do I start?”
“Straight away. Follow me. I’ll introduce you to the team.”
With that, he heaved himself out of the Rover, and started walking down a long concrete yard, passed the two large fire engines and the crash rescue Land Rover. Home made wooden shacks appeared around the edge of a wide area of sand forming some semblance of a training area, with one large marquee in the middle.
This area took Mac by surprise, because it couldn’t be seen from the road. Behind it was a sheer volcanic cliff face, and this cliff curved, forming a semicircle of protection against prying eyes. The boundary not covered by the cliff was enclosed in barbed wire, eight double rolls of Danet Razor Edge. Quite a fortress. Three separate training groups were at work on weapon training. One element was carrying out dry runs on different firing positions: lying, kneeling, and standing with the Lee Enfield Mark 3 Rifle. A second was carrying out stoppage drills with the 303mm Bren light machine gun, and a third group was involved in the load/unload and firing positions with a collection of Mark 2, 3, 4, and 5 Sten guns.
The instructors were all stripped to the waist, dark skinned and sun-tanned, and wearing green bush hats and desert canvas boots. They looked exceptionally fit and were screaming instructions like madmen at the luckless trainees. The trainees themselves were obviously new arrivals. They had sickly white skins compared to the instructors, and were made up of males and females of all ranks of the three services.
“Why are they training on these obsolete weapons? Don’t we have any SLRs (Self Loading Rifles) or Stirling submachine guns here?”
Mac believed the training weapons being used had gone out of service years before.
“Steamer point is an RAF station, with RAF Headquarters and Administration setups covering all three services posted here, command pay accounts, hospital and maintenance units are all combined service organizations, for example, but run by the RAF. The RAF is still issued with old Second World War, and pre Second World War weaponry. Everybody posted here has to carry out their own unit guard duties, including a station guard duty at least once a month. Station policy is to train the new arrivals on the weapon they will use when on guard. They then carry a card saying they are competent to carry that weapon. They have to fire a set practice every three months to keep this card stamped, signed, and up to date. If they fail to do this, they are charged and fined. That means we keep the Cemetery Valley Range open every morning of the week from 7 a.m. till 1 p.m. We may fire as many as one hundred and fifty people every morning. Can you see now why we need you on the range?”
“Yes, Sir, but if I’m on the range everyday, how do I fit the other jobs in?”
“You lecture to new arrivals on the history, terrorist weapons, and tactics on Monday and Tuesday mornings. Then you’re on the range the rest of the week. Your dirty tricks stuff comes in the afternoons and night. You’ve no time off here my old son.”
“Those three instructors, is that our full complement?”
“Yes. The fire section is a separate entity, fully manned by RAF crews, but on top of their usual work, they run the Arab labour force. We have to employ the bastards, because of political agreements, so we give them all the shit jobs, such as putting up barbed wire fencing, cleaning fire engines, and a dozen other jobs.
“I’m surprised we have Arab labour in this terrorist hot bed when we’re involved in fucking them up. Surely they won’t work with my side of the schedule?”
“You have two levies that help out on the range. Corporal Carmichael, filing magazines, opening ammo boxes, and cleaning weapons, closely controls them. You’re to busy running the show for those type of things. You must concentrate on running the different weapon firing practices."
“These two Arab weapon experts we’ve trained, they go back to their Arab Quarters and run night classes on weapon training for their friends, I suppose?” Mac couldn’t help sounding just a little sarcastic at this news.
“You’ve a lot to learn about this rat hole. Everybody here is your bloody enemy, the local Police, Customs officers, Federal Army, they’re all climbing on the side of the NLF (National Liberation Front) who are appearing to be stronger than FLOSY (The Front for the Liberation of South Yemen). If they don’t they’re dead. Your two men are FRA. The bloody British government has put us in a terrible, impossible situation we’ll be lucky to survive, let alone win. I’ll introduce you to Hugh Boyle. He’ll update you on all the devious, underhanded skullduggery called politics that’s going off here, and something we can do fuck all about.”
Hugh was a fit, tough, experienced character, full of a broad calm and peace, which possibly came from his upbringing in the Western Isles at Benbecular. When he spoke, his voice was deep but profoundly clear and concise in its punctuation and sounding vowels. His handshake was strong and positive, something Mac looked for in introductions. He hated insipid, limp handshakes, and carried an instant distrust for people who had them. He normally found people’s character reflected their handshake. He instantly liked Hugh.
“Welcome! I won’t ask if you’ve had a good trip. I’ll bet you a tenner the last three miles on Buch’s dodgems were the best.” With that very true remark, he grinned, shrugged a follow me sign, and headed for the opened marquee in the dust bowl centre.
“Sgt, Boyle. I’ll cover your duties. It’ll keep my hand in weapon-wise. Fill Mac in with everything you know and two hundred percent of what you don’t know. Take what time you need.”
Buchan wheeled out the tent like an imitation of some glamorous Sheikh from ‘Arabian Nights.’
“Ah-hem! God help the poor, wee trainees with that bastard loose on them.” Hugh laughed a loud, raucous explosion of sound, seemingly far too loud for his size. Mac soon noticed his thoughtful ‘ah-hem’ came out as the sound of a throaty cough, screened behind the back of his hand, and was a habit that indicated that he was thinking of, or considering an answer to any question, or contemplating what he was going to say.
“Ah-hem, I heard you were coming about two months ago, and no bullshit, it was great news. We need your know-how here on the terrorism side. All the team are slightly pissed off that you have to be included in the defence training side. We’re so pushed, though, that’s the only way out to keep the station personnel able to draw and use weaponry on guard. I’m sorry.”
Mac’s brief had stated Hugh was a straight to the point merchant, so this introduction and compliment didn’t surprise or embarrass him in anyway.
“It did give me a bit of a kick in the balls when the Buch told me about ranges and lectures, but I can see the need, and I don’t really mind, as long as I can get the other side of the job done with satisfactory results. I received a brief in UK but I’m going to drain your mind of everything you know about this fucking place during the next few days, especially now I’ve found out that I have to teach all new arrivals the military history of the bloody place. Are there any more surprises like that waiting for me?”
“Ah-hem. No. You lecture in the main lecture rooms above station HQ. I’ll take you to see the place shortly. You have all the training aids you need for the history side, maps, news reports, and intelligence daily data tickertapes, OHPs, (Overhead Projections) DeBrie 16mm projector, Pathe News clips about Aden that’s made the world news, and the station library WRAF girl keeps these updated. Ah-hem. You have the new arrivals for history on Monday 7 a.m. till 1 p.m., then your own terrorism thing on Tuesdays, same hours. You’ll have a mixed bag, both genders, of all ranks and services, possibly one hundred per week. The station supply lecture room cleaners and personnel will lay the room out with chairs and so on just as you dictate. You also have secure lockup facilities for your equipment downstairs in the Station Orderly Room. Is all clear so far?”
“Yes. No problems, but Hugh, just spell out to me why the powers-that-be want new arrivals filled in on the history of the region. They are here to do their own particular work. They follow orders on security as they change day-by-day. Why this emphasis on fucking history?”
“Ah-hem. We only assume that somebody up there in the command ‘gin palace’ has had a dream that everyone will be better little sailors, soldiers, or airmen, if they know why our Arab neighbours fucking hate us and are trying to kill us! Who knows?”
“I can see the need for terrorist weapons and tactics for all ranks, especially with them all doing their own individual unit guards and searching Arab workers on the way into work. They’ll be able to recognise even small parts of a device if the Arabs try to smuggle them inside their compound, and then assemble the parts together later into a complete bomb.”
“Mac, you’ve got it in one. Ah-hem. Your side of the work is very necessary. The history might be interesting, though its value is doubtful, but ours is to do and die and all that shit. Come with me and I’ll show you our private club. We’ll have a cold drink.”
Hugh stood up, knocking over the folding flat table they had been sitting at. With a grin, he bent down and pulled a small tape recorder bugging device from the underside of the table held in place with tape. Putting it close to his mouth he let out a high-pitched whistle, then a scream, and then put the device back, and put the table upright. “Ah-hem. That should blow the Buch’s eardrum out when he decides to listen to that. He wears earphones to listen to his baby bugs. He plants them everywhere to see if people are breaching security regulations. I knocked the table over because he sometimes plants spray bombs to test for alertness. The only problem with them is you can’t get the spray off and it stinks to high heaven. What a screwball he is. Have you met one like him before?”
“I can’t say that I have. Thank fuck. I’m a great believer in the word called ‘trust’ when it comes down to your own men. If I find him fucking me about, he’ll have bloody problems on his hands, like real booby traps not bloody pretend ones.”
Mac was pissed off with these new revelations of Buchan’s character. He had once laid an officer out unconscious who he caught trying to catch sentries out at night. That type of stupidity takes the men’s eyes off the real ball and doesn’t help at all in real situations.
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While they were talking, they had been walking past the back of the homemade wooden buildings between the barbed wire and the volcanic cliff face, and Mac couldn’t help notice the large numbers of crows perched in the nooks and crannies of the gnarled, blackened rock. He mentioned this to Hugh, and was led into a world of observation of which he had never even dreamed.
“They’re clever bastards. Look at them sitting there, all silent, not one bit of noise out of the lot of them.” Hugh had taken Mac into one of the shacks backing up to the cliff, and they were observing the crows through a screen of brown Hessian cloth that acted as a combined window, fly net, and sunscreen.
“Ah-hem. Just keep quiet, and you’ll see them in action.”
They stood in silence for about fifteen minutes, when a starling landed on the barbed wire between the building and the crow’s cliff. It hopped and stared about in a nervous bobbing manner, and then just, as suddenly as it arrived, it flew off. Over the next ten minutes, there were a few more starling sorties following the same pattern. There was still not one sound or movement from the crows. Mac now began to see what was going to happen. The starlings wanted to feed on the figs and attendant insects, all in profusion in the trees growing over and shading the shacks. Soon, about fifteen birds had lined up on the barbed wire, ready to begin a massed feeding foray into the trees, where, no doubt, they would be joined by the rest of the flock, when – Bang! It happened.
As though actioned by a starter pistol, the crows launched and dived on the starlings, screaming like Stuka dive-bombers. It was murderous. The victims, trapped between the cliff and buildings with the crows diving from above had nowhere to manoeuvre. A full body impact behind the stabbing beak of the crows and there was soon a ripping, tearing, noisy feast in progress. These crows were savage. Over the weeks, Mac saw them feast on many different varieties of pray, including an injured cat.
“Here we are at the ‘Exclusive Club,’ ah-hem, our very own private bar, with the coldest, cheapest, largest range of beer in Aden. Officially open with barman from 1300 hrs till our senior member on the night decides to close. Guests by invite only, except females, they are welcome all of the time.”
It was a large building, made up of two adjoining rooms, each one big enough to hold three full size billiards tables. One room stepped up above the other, contained wicker armchairs with matching tables.
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The lower room held the bar running the full length of one side, whilst at right angles to it was a huge aviary forming the outer wall, full of hundreds of tropical birds, dozens of the beautiful creatures were brought in by visiting aircrew from around the world. The collection must have been worth thousands of pounds in those days.
“Mac, this budgie here is called Whisky. Watch this.” Hugh held a glass of whisky up to the wire netting separating the birds from the bar, tilting it inwards slightly. A yellow breasted, blue winged male strutted sideways across one of the many perches, tweeting and nibbling at different females, he spotted the whisky glass and immediately flew down, settling on the glass rim, and began to drink.
After a few good swigs, the character flew back to the perch, mounted a female, gave her a good fettling, and then flew back to the glass for a pit stop. Mac could not believe his own eyes. This drunken, rampant, buggering budgie (it tried to mount males on some occasions, probably too drunk to tell the difference), performed the drink and screw operation nine times in succession.
Two WRAF Corporals on leave were club guests for a day and claimed they watched him perform twelve times in quick succession. Eventually, on this Mac debut, after the last drink, this fantastic, epic, bird just managed to land on a lower, nearer perch, and finished hanging upside down, grasping the perch with one foot and fell asleep. What a character. He made a repeat performance at least twice per day.
“Ah-hem. Our section owns the club it is famous throughout Aden. It is secure, with armed guards on the section perimeter towers at night. Gate guards check all entry. We let our own section invite their own guests, as many as they like. We keep our profit margins low, and sell our drinks cheaper than the NAAFI. The bar staff are from the fire section personnel on a rota basis, and they get paid for their work. We never have a shortage of volunteers if one is off sick or something. Ah-hem, every member can buy and wear the club tie, which is dark blue with a single white logo of the ‘Saints’ top hat, monocle, and bow tie. At the end of a member’s tour of duty out here, we present him with a silver tankard engraved with his name and the same logo and the dates he was with us. Can you see why we’re so popular?”
“Too true I can. If the work setup is as well organised as this, I’m going to have a good time here. That’s if I manage any time off, which seems very fucking doubtful.”
After a couple of ice cold drinks in the club, Hugh took Mac to his accommodation to give him the chance of a shower and settle in before beginning work on the ranges the next morning. His hopes of a good posting rose again when the Land Rover pulled up outside a normal looking service three-bedroom house, surrounded by alfalfa grass lawns, and bordered with geraniums and bougainvillea flowers. The house was part of a crescent of similar houses and within the secure confines of the camp itself.
“Here we are Mac, your humble abode, ah-hem, compliments of the RAF Officers married quarters. You are now in a place called Tarshyne, overlooking Telegraph bay, and the Cable and Wireless Complex. Because of the emergency, many married families have gone home to UK and not been replaced because of our impending withdrawal, so the quarters are vacant and used as SNCO single barracks. A good break for us, what?”
“It sure is for me, old mate. Things look more rosy every minute.”
“Ah-hem, come and have a wee look at the view.”
They walked into the back garden and found it terminated about thirty metres from the house in a steep cliff. This cliff was crisscrossed with footpaths, twisting their way down and leading into a large circular bay. Surrounding the bay were volcanic cliffs on three sides and the other opened out into the Indian Ocean. Large radio masts crowned the top of the cliffs as part of the Cable and Wireless Communication Centre HQ.
“One warning for you about this place Mac, ah-hem, if you go swimming, watch out for sharks the Sassenachs, an officer’s wife was taken by a Great White in this bay and she was only standing in about nine inches of water. An Arab fisherman tried to beat the thing off her with a boat oar, but it was too late to save her. The poor wee soul died. Secondly, keep well away from the radio masts if it looks like a storm, they attract lightening bolts by the dozen.”
Suddenly, the place doesn’t seem so rosy after all, mused Mac.
The married quarter was of standard design found in Middle East areas. All had high ceilings with large bladed fans in every room. No carpets, easy to mop tiled floors, spacious and lightly furnished with the basics, but with a monstrous sized fridge freezer. The whole structure was cool, and easy to clean, essential factors in a place where temperatures soar into the high nineties, and hundred plus degrees during the summer season. All the windows had fly and mosquito screens, as did the door porches. Curtains were surplus to requirement. The kitchen was equipped with a cooker, washing machine, toaster, electric kettle, and fruit juicer, so there was no need to go out to the mess for meals if one didn’t feel like it. Everything was in the home. From the sitting room balcony, there was a great view of the Steamer Point football pitch and sports track. By leaning out from the balcony a little, one could see a panoramic view of the sea running into the port of Aden and the P and O Shipping Lines HQ at Tawahi.
A large, semicircular shark net enclosed the small bay in front of the Steamer Point NAAFI, which had a white sand beach running down to the clear crystal water. A small metal jetty ran from the beach and into the sea for some fifty metres, and this was full of budding deep sea fishermen, after Leopard Ray or Shark for the dining room cooks to make into a fish and chip supper for them.
I can put up with this, was the predominant thought when Mac finally crashed on the bed and fell instantly asleep.
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Bang, bang, bang!
“Morning master killer trainer.” Mac was sent bolt upright in bed by this 0500 hours start to his day. “Chi, master, Chi, here now, you drink hot.”
Standing by the side of his bed, carrying a big brass jug, nearly as large as himself, was a four-foot tall, black-skinned, nubian-featured Arab boy, with a shock of pitch black hair and a grin that spread right around his face, exposing large pure white molars. He was dressed in a one-piece white Galabia come Futah, held in at the waist with a rope belt, from which hung a dozen or so green tin mugs.
“Chi now master. Your Dhobi boy ‘Aiwa’ here every day with chi, and take washing, clean very good, make very good starch, keep master clean, very smart master, clean boots every night, master very big man, I keep master very smart.”
While he was talking, he poured a large mug of tea, and was ferreting around among Mac’s kit to find dirty clothes to take away to wash.
“Aiwa take clothes to laundry for Dhobi every morning, bring back clean and starch every day five o’clock with afternoon cold lemon drink. You like this master? You pay Aiwa one Dinah every week, for chi and lemon and ten piasta every piece of clothing wash. You like?”
“I like, but first I question. How did you get in my house and my room?”
“Master Dhobi man has key all houses. Give keys to Dhobi boys when come to work in morning. Take keys off Dhobi boys when go home at night.”
“Your master Dhobi man, is he soldier?” Mac didn’t like the idea one little bit that somebody had access to troop’s accommodation in this fashion, especially in a theatre of terrorist activity that was escalating every day that passed.
“No master, Dhobi master is Mr Patel, the Pakistani master of all the Chi and Dhobi in all the camps in Aden. Mr. Patel, he very big man. Very much money. Pay English government much money.”
“Okay, Aiwa, you keep me clean with my washing. What day do I pay you?”
“You pay me one Dinah start of week, like now, you pay me Dhobi everyday five o’clock when I bring and you see it is good and clean and good starch.”
“That means I have to carry many piastas every day. Why don’t I pay you Dhobi once per week?”
“Maybe terrorists kill master after two or three days and Aiwa no get paid for Dhobi. You pay every day.”
“Okay, that’s fine by me.” Mac thought what an honest, straightforward, no nonsense, little Arab bastard this boy Aiwa was. Mac liked him.
He also decided to make a thorough check on Patel and his organisation; maybe a fresh mind here may spot something wrong that others had missed by their familiarity with the day-to-day happenings.
After morning ablutions were over and he was ready for the day, Mac headed up a very steep, winding hill, toward the Sgt’s Mess and breakfast. The hill was known as Barrack Hill, and did contain troop’s barracks, Sgt’s Mess accommodation, Public Building and Works HQ and right at the top was the RAF Steamer Point Hospital. The back of this hospital gave a tremendous view down the volcanic cliff face leading to the white Arab dwellings of Tawahi. Unfortunately, it also gave a panorama of the poverty, the corrugated tin and cardboard box Kochi dwellings scattered up the hillside, with their rivers of open sewage flowing down toward the hard surfaced roads in the town ship below. Between these temporary dwellings were passages no wider than three feet to traverse one’s way through them. Accurate navigation through this Arab quarter was nigh impossible, because the layout-changed everyday with some dwellings erected and some disappearing. This was the rabbit warren of terrorist activity, from which they would attack targets in the main streets and commerce centres bordering the harbour. This area was soon to be the nightly haunt of Mac and his crew.
The Sergeant’s Mess at Steamer Point was a large, double story structure, with the usual Mess facilities found in all Messes on the ground floor. It sported a huge upstairs bar and dance hall instead of the usual accommodation, although the dance hall was not used for its original purpose, due to the shortage of women of SNCO rank and the exodus of married families.
Mac discovered that the room was now famous for indoor rugby matches between visiting messes. The accommodation was adjacent in single roomed; one story barracks, protruding like fingers at ninety-degree angles to the main building.
The kitchen was staffed with Arab cooks, under the supervision of an English Sgt Mess Steward, with a Cpl assistant. Food was self-service, and as much as one wanted, though lacking in choice somewhat in comparison with other messes. There was always plenty of fish of various types, caught by the members themselves in Aden harbour. Another unusual item often on the menu was Gazelle and Ibex mountain goats that were shot by Army crews moving north up the Dahla road to the Radfan, and by helicopter crews on the way to the up country airstrip at Thurmier. A good breakfast of eggs, sausage, beans, and fried bread washed down with another mug of tea, set Mac up for the start of what was to become the five times per week shooting gallery mass shoot.
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As per pre-arrangement, Hugh turned up at the mess with the unit Long Wheelbase Land Rover to collect Mac. Hugh never took breakfast himself, he felt he was putting on too much weight, therefore he subjected himself to a diet of one evening meal, mainly steak and about seven pints of lager per night.
First port of call was the armoury. Hugh walked up to the small wire screened window of the duty armourer and handed over his service identity card. A few seconds later, the sounds of locks and bolts being removed from a side door heralded the appearance of an RAF Policeman and a bloody great fearsome looking Alsatian dog that kept a mean eye on Hugh’s balls.
“Yea, Dina ha tae be bothered with these wee canine ladies. They’re well trained to kill Arabs but not us wee Englishmen.”
It was a mark of Hugh’s apprehension at the presence of the beast that he broke into his Highland lilting dialect.
“I’ll be taking the usual range detail please, ah-hem.”
“Sign here mate.” came the voice of the still invisible armourer behind his screen, as an A4 sized document was passed through the aperture.
Hugh read aloud, “Twelve SLRs, Twelve 303 Enfield, 6 Smith and Wesson 38mm, 6 Browning High Power 9mm, 2 Greener 16 gauge, 4 Shotguns 12 bore, 4 mk2, 4 mk3, 4 mk5 Sten guns, 6 Stirling SMGs, 6 Bren 303mm LMGs, 6 CS Grenades, 6 Smoke grenades. Ammunition, all weapon types in full sealed containers, count and sign for on return and acceptance of used empty cases. One pack of fire control orders Rules for Engagement Aden. One pack new weapon authorisation cards. One-pack pens. Two unit stamps and inkpad. One first aid pack. All correct. Thanks a lot.”
With that, Hugh signed the form, and signalled Mac back to the Land Rover. The RAF Policeman was opening a side gate to the armoury compound. While they drove through, Mac observed two more dog handlers watching them with the animals straining at their leashes. Hugh drove up to a large metal door just starting to open, allowing two men to push out a four-wheeled trolley full of the weapons and ammunition.
Loading the Land Rover was a second security check; Hugh ticked off another list called ‘Weapon complete and cleaned,’ as the men loaded them on the Rover, after presenting the weapon for inspection by Hugh and Mac.
“We do this every range practice, ah-hem. After firing, we clean and well oil all weapons. On return, these men clean again and dry off excess oil before we collect them. The weapons are rotated with others every seventh range to even out wear and tear.”
Everything loaded and forms signed, Hugh drove out of the armoury compound, leaving the mean eyed police dogs looking pissed off because they had just lost some humans to chew.
Cemetery valley was so called because it housed an Arab burial place from as far back as anyone Mac met could remember. The graves themselves were really shallow scrapes in the volcanic rock, with a cairn of volcanic stones on top. They were carelessly constructed, and it was a common occurrence when driving to the range in the mornings to disturb the ‘piard’ (wild) dogs away from the graves, carrying bones in their mouths.
On the few occasions when heavy rain fell, some of the bodies were washed down the valley into the shopping streets of Tawahi. The dogs numbered hundreds and lived in the nooks and crannies of the ‘Shamsan’ volcanic mountain at the head of the valley. They were a bastard enemy, in their own right, when one was on patrol at night. Not only did they ‘pack’ attack, but also the noise they created virtually made covert operations impossible.
One of Mac's first decisions was to take out his crew with 16 gauge guns and eliminate the dogs on the western side of Shamsan, which overlooked his main area of operations. These animals were clever. After a couple of days being shot at, they moved to the eastern side of the mountain, which was fine with Mac. However, he and his crew still carried silenced pistols in case of ‘Pack’ attack at night.
On the way to the firing point, Mac saw the laundry facilities owned by our Mr. Patel. There were huge, clothes lines full of sheets, shirts, shorts, trousers, towels, and any other washable material items stretching for at least three miles. Twenty-foot diameter concrete bowls built from the ground was the start of the wash. They had wood, lava, and gas fires burning underneath them, heating the boiling soap and water they contained. The finest fuel used in these washing boilers was crushed volcanic Magna, reheated with a gas lance until it was glowing red liquid, giving off tremendous heat. Once melted, it could be left heating the troughs for hours. To reactivate it oxygen lances were pushed in the base of the fire, and, in no time, it was melted lava again.
It was very rare to see any new material added. It seemed to last forever. Into these boiling cauldrons, everything was thrown in, after sorting. Underpants in one, whites in another, colours in another, and so on.
After boiling, they were hung on an aerial conveyor belt running under recycling water to rinse. It seemed that all the people from the Indian sub continent and Pakistan were employed at this establishment, but Mac discovered, as part of his investigations, that Patel had to employ 50% of his workforce from the Arab NLF HQ to keep his contract. What a security thorn for Mac to try to pull out of the British backside.
The range consisted of a 25 metre firing point and twelve metal target holders in the ground. All firing was done on figure targets, normally number twelve’s. There was no backdrop to catch the rounds after they passed through the targets, just a few boards and a scrape of earth and stones. Most bullets just ricocheted their way from stone to stone up the slope of Shamsan Mountain. The whole setup was one of complete well-organised, rule breaking efficiency.
Weapons were laid on the firing point, at the ranges the men may be expected to fire them. A brief appreciation without presenting argumentative pros and cons was as follows: Smith and Wesson revolvers 10 metres, Browning High Power 15 metres, SMGs 20 metres, Rifles, Brens 25 metres. All the weapon magazines, except the 38mm revolvers and 303mm Enfield rifles, were pre loaded to lend speed to the operation. A folding flat table and chair was situated at the entrance to the firing points, and this was the domain of Cpl Carmichael.
When a person arrived at the range, his service identity card and weapon proficiency card were checked. Both carried a photograph, and these must match. The service identity card was handed back, whilst the weapon proficiency was held back for a unit stamp and signature on completion of firing. The person for qualification had their name, weapon, and the date entered into a large foolscap sized book.
They were then allowed to enter the range to the back of the firing points, carrying with them the appropriate magazine or number of rounds for the weapon they were due to fire. It was nothing short of a mass conveyor belt, but it worked. The station could maintain its security requirements with everybody carrying out their fair share of duties and maintaining high standards of weapon safety. Not one man was charged with accidental discharge of a weapon during the last two years of the emergency. Personnel only fired the weapons they would carry on duty. For example, Officers fired the 38mm revolver. RAF police and some Warrant Officers, plus Army Officers, fired the 9mm Browning. SNCOs fired the various Sten SMGs, as did RAF driver trade group. Junior ranks fired 303 Enfield or SLRs if they were Army. Ambush teams fired the Bren LMG, and Riot Control Teams fired under CS gas and Smoke concentrations, wearing their respirators during the last half-hour of the daily range.
There were a few exceptions to the normal weapon allocations, mainly the Internal Security Special Patrol Teams who operated in the Arab Kochi’s at night. These characters fired everything, including captured terrorist weapons such as Kalashnikovs AK47. Then, of course, the specialist units took over the range in the afternoons to carry out their own thing, without any spectators. SAS ‘Keenie Meenie’ teams were shooting their particular style of double tap close quarter combat practices nearly everyday, with a variety of weapons.
Hugh had a style of his own when it came to giving men incentive to fire well and with enthusiasm. Even though it was a range shoot, he managed to create an air of authenticity in the practice, as though the men were actually defending themselves against a terrorist attack. Everybody stripped to the waist, wearing just shorts, bush hats, and desert Bondoo boots. Even senior officers were briefed by their aids about these uncompromising actions, which took place everyday in Cemetery Valley.
One day, Mac witnessed a slight hiccup take place, not because of a failure in safety procedures, but because of a combination of fair skin, freckles, and sunshine. Admiral Sir Michael Le Fanu was affectionately called ‘Ginger’ by the men, because of his very ginger hair. He and his staff came to the range, displaying all the rank emblems, medals, and gold braid. This led to the much-talked about incident-taking place.
“Good morning gentlemen. Welcome to the range, ah-hem. You will notice everyone here has removed all clothing displaying rank or other awards. You will remove your jackets and other symbols of rank and position now!”
He waited whilst the reluctant party removed their clothing.
“That little action makes us all the same: a human body with human strengths, weaknesses, housing fear, bravery, and all the many other little things that make us the most complex but effective animal in the world. When we are stripped down to the basics, we are not mentally conscious of being protected by the abstract power that our uniforms displaying rank afford us. We are aware of being vulnerable. We are bodies that can feel pain, get shot, and die, or we can kill the murderer first. When we are dead, we will decompose. Ants and flies will creep into every orifice of our bodies, lay their eggs, and their young maggots will eat us until we are nothing but bleach white bones without marrow. We will never see our loved ones again. We are nothing. We do not exist. We must train hard to prevent this from happening. We must kill the terrorist and his employees first.”
Hugh coughed behind his hand, his sincerity in what he was saying, and the emotion in his voice was mesmerising the shooters. You could see them physically change into a potentially aggressive person, rather than someone having to fire his three monthly range.
“This state of affairs, gentlemen, is brought about by the terrorist. He avoids placing himself in danger if he can. He very often uses children to do his dirty work. He will give a nine-year-old Arab boy a gun and a nine pence value 9mm bullet and says ‘Shoot a white man’. He explains to the boy that a person with a lot of badges on his clothing, or people around him protecting him, or one who shouts, points, and gives orders is an important person, therefore a better person to shoot. He explains that the boy can earn two Dinah for shooting the important ‘master’ instead of the one Dinah for a normal man. Did you know you are valued at 5000 Dinah, Admiral? We have to work especially hard to stay alive, don’t we? No going around patting kiddies on the head out here, Sir. They might fucking kill you!”
Hugh had a way of his own, and he didn’t give a shit what rank to whom he was talking. His facts were correct, and it was his job to make people aware and help keep them from falling into a terrorist trap.
“Ah-hem, we cannot effectively train against these types of attacks apart from maintaining our vigilance and never trusting children, any children, regardless of age. Although this goes against our nature. The terrorist knows this and that’s why he employs them. He knows our weaknesses. The bullet fired by this boy is travelling at the same muzzle velocity as the one fired by our terrorist and will do us the same amount of damage. The only little thing in our favour is the boy is, more often than not, less accurate.
"The daily incident reports are full of shooting attempts, missed targets, and child arrests, with them carrying the weapon. Are there any questions so far? No? Fine, let’s continue.
"The attack we are going to train against today, is the increased number of professional assassin incidents. We know that there are at least three of these bastards operating in the townships of Crater, Ma’alah, and Tawahi. We know the weapons they use and the weapon movements. This information comes from the Special Branch. It has been put together with the knowledge of the places they have killed and resultant forensic tests on the bullets and cartridge cases. We also know the modus operandi of these budding ‘James Bonds’ and their days are numbered, but you have to be aware of how they attack and what you must do about it, in case you bump into them before our boys have eliminated them. One of them, we believe, is an East German; so don’t trust any Arian looking Kraut. The other merchants are Arabs, sent to the Soviet Union or China, and trained to fuck us up. Their technique for assassinations is to head kill. The first indication you may get of your death is seeing an Arab with a gun pointing at your head. This is how they are trained to kill. Your instant reaction if you are lucky enough to observe the attack, or if a buddy yells, ‘target,’ you drop below the terrorist point of aim. Do not forget, he is frightened. If he is aiming at your head and you disappear from his line of sight, he is confused. He is concentrating on your head when, suddenly, it disappears. Drop gentlemen, below his line of sight. He then has to correct his point of aim. We do not allow him the privilege of the easy, calculated shot, with all the time in the world to steady himself for the kill. He has been trained to work this way; it is the Modus operandi they use.”
While Hugh was making this psychological and mental build up in the men's minds, he was walking around casually, with a 9mm Browning high-power pistol in a holster on his right hip.
"Notice those six targets behind me? Imagine they are the enemy, and now watch this.” With that statement, he'd turned around the 180 degrees, dropped onto one knee, and fired at all six targets inside six seconds. He then stood up and casually placed the browning back in its holster.
"What I've just shown you gentlemen,the the enemy can do, you must be able to beat him, and can you do that now? No? You will be able to by the time when you have finished with me today. Let us go and look at the targets”. They walked down the range together, and stood in front of the six figure targets, each target had a single shot in the belly button.
"That is what we must do, gentleman, place every shot in the centre of the main target mass. In this way, we are giving ourselves the biggest possible target. This should ensure our opponents are hit, and the enemy will die. What’s more, he knows he is going to die when you hit him in the stomach, but it will take him a while and give us a chance to interrogate him and find out where he got his weapons from, who he worked for, and anymore information that we need. This will not cost us any money for a hospital bed for him; we need them for the British soldiers. When a man is hit in the centre of the stomach, he knows he's going to die. He is in terrible pain. If you offer him skilled medical aid and the promise that we will make him better, he will talk his head off. That is not cruel, gentleman, that is fact.”
For the next twenty minutes or so Mac and Hugh tutored the shooters on the move, the need to shoot up the length of the body, because it gave them the approximate 5' 6” height of the man to hit, instead of the 18” width of his body to hit if they traversed across the body. They all quickly achieved the two handed triangular firing position, and, after firing a few Close Quarter Battle Practices, they were hitting targets in the centre of main target mass in less than a second. They were amazed at their own progress, but were continuously spurred on to better results by the amazingly enthusiastic Hugh and his war chant, which he had them all shout while they fired the two shot double tap practice.
“You are firing two shots at a time at a Golly. You are trying to hit him in the area of the balls or just above. For the first two shots, shout ‘Gol’-‘ly’ to the rhythm of your firing. For the next two shots, shout ‘Bol’-‘locks’. Got it? First shot shout ‘Gol’, second shot shout ‘ly’, third shot shout ’Bol’ fourth shot shout ‘locks’. Rhythm men. Let’s practice, ‘Gol-ly Bol-locks’. Again, ‘Gol-ly Bol-locks’. And again, ’Gol-ly Bol-locks’, and again ‘Gol-ly Bol-locks’. That’s good rhythm men, rhythm, come on my lovely Golly Bollock hunters, shout, louder...louder!”
It was epic. Everyman on the firing point and the spectators behind were screaming at the top of their voices, “GOLLY BOLLOCKS!” to the rhythm of the shooting. Talk about Mass Hypnosis! The Admiral Commander in Chief and his staff were screaming loudest. It was at this time that Mac noticed the Admiral was turning a definite shade of pink. At first, he put this down to the exertion he had been involved in, but then realised that him being ginger haired and very light skinned, he was probably beginning to get sunburned.
“Are you feeling okay, Admiral?”
"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you, Staff.”
“Be careful of the sun, Sir. It can catch up with you very quickly; before you realise it, you could be badly burned."
“I am beginning to tingle a bit. Maybe you'll give me permission to put my shirt on again?"
“Of course, Sir. Put your shirt on now.”
That was it, and that was the mark and the calibre of the Admiral. He was very badly burned by teatime of the same day. His brigade Major came down to the Cemetery Valley Range with a letter for the staff.
The Admiral had written:
Let no one blame you for my condition, especially yourselves. I should have known myself that I was beginning to burn and told you as such. You're doing a brilliant job there, and must have saved at least battalion strength of lives with your very effective and irregular style of training. Thank you very much. I’ll come for some more ‘conditioning’ soon.
Signed, Le Fanu.
How many Senior Officers would have thought and gone to that sort of trouble?
He was a great man.
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CHAPTER 20
Today was to be a special day. While Mac had been in the UK having his brief about the job from Harry, he had been given two large rectangular boxes that Hugh had asked for. It now came to light that these boxes contained the little Golliwogs one used to find on the side of Robertson’s Jam. These had been requested from Robertson without any explanation as to their use, so they were very good to send them really.
Now, the idea behind this silliness was simple. They were intended to be a morale booster for the men who had to keep coming onto the range and qualify on their weapons. Once they had passed their shooting qualification, they would be given one of these little Golliwogs to stick on a material wrist band and wear it as if it were a marksman’s badge. The badges would be signed on the back by Corporal Carmichael, and carry the letters QGH standing for ‘Qualified Golly Hunter.’
They were an instant success, and everybody wanted one. There had never been so many volunteers for range practice in history. Considering the number of people who attended the range everyday, it did not take long to see hundreds of people walking about with Golliwogs strapped to their wrist.
Some do-gooders among the Headquarters personnel were frightened of what the Arabs would think about this new British emblem of ‘lethality’, and tried to have the practice stopped, even issuing threats of formal disciplinary action against Hugh and Mac if the issues continued. They were all politely told to ‘do their worst and fuck off’. It was also believed then and still that somebody with mega power was backing the practice up behind the scenes. Buchan possibly, or Le Fanu? Who knows?
Taking into consideration the heat, the dust, and the sweat caused by the horribly humid climate, Cemetery Valley was a place of many good memories. One could wonder how many men out there now reading this story will have kept their little Golliwog. There must be literally thousands. The original supply of two boxes had 1,000 Golliwogs in each. These were used and the re-supply was tenfold. Thank you very much to Robertson’s Jam. All of these badges were issued to men who had actually fired on the range and qualified; no one received one for nothing!
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One morning, when they were on Valley Range, came the Cur-rump, Cur-rump of mortar bombs, exploding and spreading across Aden peninsula. This
