Delta Force (4 page)

FOUR

IN MALAYA, THE
Communists, known as the MRLA (Malayan Races Liberation Army), retreated into the jungle and in June 1948 began a campaign of full-scale violence. They had been unable to gain power by political means and now tried to seize it through terrorism. A state of emergency in Malaya was immediately declared. During the early stages of the crisis the MRLA, using tactics based on terror, met with considerable success. They followed the advice of the ancient Chinese general Sun-Zu, “Kill one, frighten a thousand.”

The war rapidly escalated from isolated acts of terrorism to jungle battles between guerrilla bands and regular British Army units. Conventional military measures met with failure. The jungle, which covers four-fifths of the Malayan peninsula, simply does not lend itself to set-piece battles.

Recognizing by early 1950 that this strategy was not working, the British authorities decided to isolate the guerrilla force from the civilian community. Spearheaded by the SAS, small-size units penetrated the jungle, there to live like the enemy, moving freely from base to base, solving their own supply problems, and hunting down the guerrillas on their own terms.

When Britain moved Malay toward independence, the guerrillas lost their monopoly on nationalism. Deprived of their main sources of supply among the villagers—and losing their appeal among the people as a whole—the MRLA dwindled to a few hundred stragglers who hung on deep in the jungles of the north. In 1960, the Emergency was officially ended.

The SAS operation I was part of was to occur along the Thai-Malaya border. This was an area still inhabited by small guerrilla bands. It was going to be more than just a routine exercise. The old blokes in the regiment thought that because there was a chance, however slim, of getting a kill, this would be a very good training operation.

The regiment flew to Butterworth, which is across the strait from Penang in northern Malaya. I debarked with my troop, wearing complete British jungle kit. As we went through the terminal to get on the small planes that were going to ferry us to our base, Peter Walter came up to me. “Don't say anything, Charlie. There's some chap here asking questions about you. With your accent you're sure to give yourself away. For God's sake, let me do all the talking.”

I caught a quick glimpse of an American embassy type up from Kuala Lumpur talking to Peter. I kept moving and didn't breathe freely until I was aboard the ferry aircraft and Peter had come up to tell me he had taken care of everything. I didn't ask how, and I didn't care. All I wanted was to get into the jungle.

We were flown to an old Gurkha camp carved out of the jungle a few kilometers from Gerik. The area had a few rubber plantations and one or two hard-surface roads. Some of the regiment had spent time there during the Emergency, and I could tell they were feeling good about being back. One was the Scotsman Harry Thompson. He told me many stories about fighting in these jungles. In February 1958, hard on the Malacca Strait Coast, in the state of Selangor, Harry Thompson had led D Squadron in a hunt for two guerrilla bands led by someone known as “the Baby Killer.” After nearly three exhausting weeks in the Telok Anson swamp, Thompson and his squadron finally cornered and captured the notorious terrorist. By then the men were suffering from their extended period in this huge swamp, and Thompson himself was walking on infected and ulcer-covered legs. No question he was an old hand. I had a lot of time for Major Thompson. A few years later, in Borneo, Harry Thompson would become second
in command of the 22 SAS Regiment—and tragically die there in a helicopter crash.

In the morning, bright and early—the Brits were great for starting before first light—we packed our Bergens and were picked up and driven down to the river, loaded onto boats, and taken to the training site. There we were met by Sergeant Major Ross and the other instructors. We then marched forty minutes into the jungle, where we prepared a bivouac for that night. From piles of old parachutes we were expected to make hammocks. I'd frankly forgotten how, so one of the sergeants who was helping gave me a hand. You take three silk panels and sew up the edges, making sure you don't cut the shroud lines that attach the canopy to the pack tray. Then the shroud lines are braided, like a little girl's hair, and these are used to tie the head and the feet of the hammock to the holding trees. All this, including hacking out of the jungle a spot you could call your own, took no more than a couple of hours.

The following morning we were told we were going out on a land navigation exercise in groups of four. Sergeant Major Ross and I were paired. Ross had the reputation of being an outstanding navigator, and I'd liked the way he handled his job in the Brecon Beacons. I was to learn years later that Gloom, after leaving the SAS, took his own life. This morning, however, very much alive, he was in his element.

We started moving through the jungle and pretty soon began to climb a large mountain. Sergeant Major Ross pointed out game trails and places where elephants had come through. I learned you could usually find water along these paths where it collected in the deep footprints left by these huge animals.

For the first hour Gloom did all the navigating, explaining to us the terrain features we should be looking for. In jungle as heavy as we were in, it was hard to know where we were. The trees were so large that two men could barely join hands around them. Landmarks were difficult to see, so we were told to look for ridge lines or the tops of hills matching the contour lines on our maps. Streams were another matter. Sometimes we'd cross one and it wouldn't be on the map. Then there was the one on the map that had dried up and was no longer a part
of the terrain. So it was a matter of keeping up with the contours and shooting azimuths and back azimuths. This was tough jungle. The leeches were very bad. There were more leeches in Malaya than I'd seen, or was to see, anywhere in Southeast Asia.

Following land navigation we did Immediate Action Drills (IADs). The Brits had had a lot of experience fighting the CT in Malaya, so they were good at this. We learned how to set an ambush, what to do if a troop ran head on into the enemy or into their flank, and how to respond if attacked while in bivouac. Drills for every eventuality existed. At first we walked very slowly through these drills. Gradually we got to go faster and faster and finally ran them with live ammunition. I'd never done this in the States. It was great!

Afterward, Sergeant Major Ross informed us that the next day, in pairs, we would navigate through the jungle, arriving at various RVs where vehicles would pick us up and carry us back to Gerik. I selected a trooper named Kilpatrick, and he and I spent the rest of the daylight hours choosing the route we would take. I didn't think it made any difference. I said to myself, “Knowing Gloom, hell, they're all going to be tough!”

We were released, and Kilpatrick and I took off. All day we climbed up and climbed down steep jungle ridges. There seemed to be an endless row of ridge lines, and much of that hot, steamy day we spent on all fours, pushing and pulling, sliding down one side of a steep river valley and struggling up the other. We went as hard and as fast as we could. When darkness fell and we still hadn't hit the RV, we continued to move even though there was a rule in the SAS, because of the danger, not to march at night. For another hour and a half we plodded on. We were bound and determined to make that damn pickup point. Finally, figuring out we were serving no purpose at all, we stopped and hung our hammocks. I didn't sleep very well that night. I know Kilpatrick didn't either. Next morning we got packed up and started moving before dawn. The first light was kind of smoky. We had moved no more than 200 yards through the jungle when suddenly we came out into a rubber plantation. We traveled for another half
hour through the rubber trees before we struck a tarmac road. We'd been so close the night before, yet so far away.

We sat for ten minutes before we realized, “Hey, ain't nobody coming to pick us up now. We missed the truck last night. We better get moving.” So we started walking, knowing we had another ten miles to hike. An old truck came along, which we hitched a ride on and rode the rest of the way to Gerik. In camp we learned we weren't the only ones who'd missed the RV.

Although others were still out in the jungle, I was sent off again immediately. As I walked into camp, Peter Walter came up to me and said, “I've got an aircraft waiting for you. You must get cracking. Get your gear, your troop is waiting for you. Straight away, get moving, right, right, right, and by the way, here's a beer and a sandwich.”

The dense jungle canopy was a rich dark green, and I thought how beautiful it looked. A 2-engine aircraft flew me into a small grass strip that had been cut out next to a border security outpost along which a broad muddy river ran. I was taken to a big open-sided pavilion near the river. It reminded me of being a kid again, going to a church picnic.

I looked real bad. I'd changed my torn uniform for a new one back at Gerik, but my face and arms were cut up and there was dried blood all over me. Kilpatrick and I had busted our asses. I smelled bad and hadn't shaved in days. I began to get my kit together to shave and wash down in the river. Lance Corporal Scott said, “Begging your pardon, sir, you don't want to do that. What you want is to build up a good crust all over you so that even the bloody mosquitoes can't bite through. And, for God's sake, don't shave. That just gives the blighters more places to eat you.” I said to myself, These guys don't understand hygiene. I whipped into this river and swam around a while, then washed all the crap off me and got a good close shave. When I dressed I felt great. The troops didn't say anything.

“Darky” Davidson had returned from the school he'd been attending and replaced Gypsy Smith as my troop sergeant. After I had cleaned up, he called Three Troop together in order
to explain the next drill to the lads. Rations were issued and everybody began to load their Bergens with just enough, but not too little. We had to bear in mind that once we left this site we weren't going to get any more fresh food for ten days. I could take as much of anything as I wanted. All I had to do was carry it. There were also the loads that had to be carried for the wireless operators who were carrying the field radios. That night I slept on the wooden boards of the pavilion. Putting my head on the Bergen like it was a saddle, I slept very well indeed.

Next morning we got cracking. Since the packs probably weighed sixty pounds apiece, including ammunition, we helped each other put them on. You had to kind of lean over to carry it. We carried our weapons in our hands. No one in 22 SAS was ever allowed to sling his weapon on his shoulder. In fact, slings were not items of issue in the regiment. Experience had shown that in an ambush the time it took to unsling a weapon cost people their lives.

As we began to move out, the Malayan Security Police contingent, who the Brits sarcastically called Brylcreem Boys, quit right there. They were sweating already and weren't going to go any farther. They were obviously unfit. This was not too great a loss as we still had with us several Sarawak Rangers from Borneo who acted as trackers.

At first we paralleled a stream. Then we began to climb. There wasn't the trace of a track. We moved from rock to rock, holding on to trees and vines so we wouldn't fall. The people at the head of the column had a tough go as they were blazing the trail. They cut through thickets of bamboo, scrub, rattan, and thorn. We got fairly high up the first day and we stopped early. That was the rule. We needed two hours of daylight to set up camp in the jungle.

I looked around at the men as they came into the camp site. Dressed in battered soft jungle hats, sweat-soaked shirts, torn and stained pants, they looked like anything but members of an elite military unit. The first thing everyone did was light up a cigarette. In the jungle, where you could only carry so many, they were at a premium. If someone ran out, nobody
would give him another. It was his tough luck. The next thing you did before setting up camp was to check your feet. Then there were the leeches. I'd go to my mate and he'd take his cigarette and begin to burn mine off. When I was clear I'd do the same for him. Often the leeches had gotten through your torn bush jacket and pants, and where you'd brushed against a tree you'd have mashed them. It wasn't unusual to have bloody socks from busted leeches. There might be fifteen or twenty of them on you. They're about an inch and a half long and a quarter of an inch in diameter, all filled with blood. Once you'd checked every part you could see, you'd bend over, spread your cheeks, and your mate would check that you hadn't any stuck up there.