Spider Shepherd: SAS: #2 (9 page)

‘Poor sods,’ Geordie said with feeling. ‘Catterick’s a shit hole at the best of times, but in winter it’s the arsehole of the world.’

After completing the other tests, the candidates did the doko run, sprinting and scrambling up the steep slopes, indifferent to the magnificent backdrop of the Himalayas. Many collapsed as soon as they reached the finishing line.

‘When do they find out if they’ve passed Selection?’ Jimbo said.

‘Not until later,’ Gul said. ‘There is such pressure to succeed and the price of failure is so high, that some young men have killed themselves after failing. So rather than risk of them throwing themselves into the gorge, we wait until we can break the news in a slightly safer, more controlled environment.’

The applicants were sent off in batches and after watching the first two groups, Jock suddenly said, ‘I’m going to see how they measure up.’ He stripped off his jacket, grabbed one of the spare weighted packs and joined the next group as they began their run up the hill. He trailed in half way down the group and returned, mortified to his friends. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, drenched in sweat and still struggling to regain his breath. ‘They would all pass the SAS Selection course easily.’ He paused. ‘Though I would have beaten them all, of course, if it hadn’t been for the altitude.’

‘Yeah, yeah, the altitude,’ Geordie said, rolling his eyes. ‘That and a dozen beers and a five course dinner last night. That's what you get for being bleeding greedy.’

With all the candidates now sitting in rows back on the sports field, the Gurkha recruiters conferred and then began calling out the numbers of the successful ones.

‘I hate this part,’ Gul said. ‘I can’t stop myself thinking about the heartbreak for those who aren’t called. The lucky ones will be on their way in a few hours; they’ll be issued with their kit and measured for their “mufti” - the civilian suits we wear when off-duty and off-base. But the rest have to go back other villages and dash the hopes, and probably break the hearts, of their families.’

An officious looking Nepali was addressing the crowd through a megaphone. After thanking the candidates, the recruiters and seemingly, everyone else who happened to be in Pokhara that day, he ended by calling on Gul to stand up. The ovation their friend received almost but not quite, drowned out the Nepali’s next words. ‘And please show your appreciation for our British friends from the famous SAS Regiment for coming to Nepal to show solidarity with Gul, as he sets out on his new chosen career path in politics.’

There was a thunderous burst of applause, but the SAS men remained in their seats, with faces set like stone. ‘Bloody hell, we’ve been set up,’ Shepherd said. ‘Gul, did you know anything about this?’

There was a flash of anger in Gul’s eyes. ‘Of course not. I’m hurt that you should even think that I would be party to this.’

‘Then I apologise,’ Shepherd said, ‘but I can tell you the Military Attaché is not going to be too thrilled by this. He says that we can’t be seen to be playing favourites. I’m sorry Gul but I’m afraid it means that we’re going to have to keep our distance from you from now on. I hope you understand.’

‘Of course, my friend, I completely understand, and I can only apologise for the incident. I’m sure the gentleman meant no harm. He was just pleased that you were here. It’s an honour and he wanted to share it, I’m sure.’

They parted firm friends and went in search of Dai Evans - “Taff the Rope”. They soon found his hotel, in a run-down area of the city. ‘Not exactly salubrious, is it?’ Jimbo said as he took in the crumbling plaster and sagging timbers of the low-ceilinged room that served as reception, bar and restaurant for Evans and whatever other guests there might be.

Evans was sitting at the bar with a glass of beer in front of him. He was a man of indeterminate age, with grey hair, washed out blue eyes and a face tanned like shoe leather and so lined and wrinkled that he could have been any age from forty to seventy. He broke into a broad smile when they introduced themselves. ‘I thought I’d dropped off the Regiment’s radar,’ he said. ‘But you’ve managed to track me down. There really is no escape, is there?’

‘So why are you called Taff the Rope?’ Jimbo said climbing onto a stool and waving a barman over. ‘You a hangman then?’

‘Not quite. In my squadron, among others, there was Taff the Pill, who was a medic, and Taff the Valve, a signals technician. I was a climber so they called me “Taff the Rope”, but the nicknames always wound up getting shorter and shorter, so in time, Dai Evans aka Taff the Rope, became known simply as The Rope.’

‘So what’s your story?’ Geordie said. ‘How do you come to be living in this…’ He paused, groping for a tactful word. ‘Erm, this boutique hotel in downtown Pokhara?’

Evans laughed. ‘Boutique as in “The Pits” you mean? Well, I was raised in the valleys of South Wales and like every other male in my valley, as soon as I was old enough, I left school and went straight down the pit; I don’t ever remember any other possibility being mentioned, that was just what we did. I was a strong lad so before long they made me a tunnel ripper, all hand work with pick and shovel, driving tunnels through solid rock. It nearly killed me at first but it gave me the upper body strength that I’ve never lost and that in turn helped me to become a good rock climber.’

The barman plonked bottles of Carlsberg down on the bar and the men grabbed them.

‘The colliery would probably have been the story of my life,’ Evans continued. ‘Twenty years hewing rock and coal, and another twenty wheezing and coughing my way to an early grave from emphysema. But then I discovered that my childhood sweetheart was having an affair with a clerk on the local council.’ He shook his head as if still unable to believe it. ‘I mean, I ask you - a steelworker, a farmer, another miner, fair enough, but a bloody milk and water pen-pusher on the council, that was really adding insult to injury! So I thought sod this for a game of soldiers, I’m not hanging around here to be humiliated. I’m going to join the army, see the world, and get as far away from Wales as I possibly can. So I took a bus to Cardiff and enlisted in an English Infantry Regiment.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘Big mistake. I only found myself being posted to bloody Brecon, didn’t I? I could practically see my home from there. But while I was serving there, I saw some mysterious soldiers who kept themselves to themselves, away from the others in the camp, and who were attempting a mysterious quest known only as “Selection”. I decided I’d give it a go. I was naturally lean and mean, and highly motivated to get out of Wales, and to my own, and probably everyone else’s surprise, I passed the mysterious Selection and found myself as one of the youngest ever members of the SAS Regiment.’ He raised his bottle and Shepherd clinked it with his own. ‘A few weeks later I was in Malaya, working deep in the jungle chasing the last remnants of the Malayan Emergency. Now that was different to the valleys, I can tell you.’

‘Malaya?’ Jock said. ‘Bloody hell, Taff, that was back in the 1960s, wasn’t it? How old are you exactly?’

‘It was the late 1950s actually, but like I said, I was one of the youngest back then, and anyway, don’t you worry, I could still beat any of you to the top of a rock face with one hand tied behind my back.’ He paused and his stare challenged them to disagree. ‘On my way back to the UK with my squadron we found ourselves in Oman, involved in what later became famous in the Regiment as the Jebel Akhdar campaign. For an ex-coal miner to find myself at the top of a ten thousand foot high peak was unbelievable. The views, the clean, clear air and the sense of being almost literally out of this world had a profound effect on me. From then on I was absolutely addicted to climbing. As the SAS began organising itself into troops with various methods of entry into a battlefield, I managed to wangle a position in Mountain Troop. I did every climbing course the military had to offer including the Royal Marines and the RAF Mountain Rescue Training Courses. I spent every spare moment in North Wales at Capel Curig, climbing with the best civilian climbers in Europe, including some who had been on the Coronation climb of Everest in 1953, the first ever successful summit ascent.’

He sipped his beer before continuing. ‘I was so passionate about climbing that I even managed to persuade the SAS Head Shed to send me to train with the French and German military regiments in the Alps, and I kept on and on at them until finally they agreed to finance the long and very expensive training course for me to qualify as an Alpine Guide. But at that point - Sod’s Law - I found myself falling out of love with everything I was doing. Every climb was becoming more and more technical. All I was doing was putting up fixed lines so that non-climbers could carabiner onto the rope and get over the highest cliffs and mountains. I put in place hundreds of fixed lines for the SAS so they could take men and equipment into and across terrain where the enemy least expected them to be. But then, at the point where I had achieved my greatest skill-set, I found…’ He paused, then took a long pull on his beer. ‘I dunno, I suppose you could call it a religion of sorts, but I came to believe that every climb and every mountain should be treated with respect and should be climbed without any artificial aids. So without even realising it at first, I had become a free climber.’

Shepherd had been studying the man as he spoke. Physically he was pretty short and wiry, but the most notable thing about him was the cross-hatching of scar tissue on his hands, arms and legs, so dense that there was not an inch of skin visible that did not bear the white trace-mark of a scar.

Evans intercepted his gaze. ‘Not pretty are they? he said. ‘But I’ve come to like them. They’re souvenirs of my climbs and every one tells a story to me.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘You must know a lot of stories then, that’s for sure.’

‘I’ve climbed more than my share of mountains, that’s true. I never wear gloves or shoes when I’m climbing, but use my extremities - hands, feet, fingers and toes - forcing them into cracks in the rock and using them as anchors or bracing points while I pull the rest of my body upwards to the next hold.’ He paused and gave a rueful smile. ‘As you may have noticed, once you wind me up and start me going, I’m capable of talking non-stop for hours at a time. Let me get some more beers and then you can tell me about yourselves and what brings you to this beautiful lost world of mine.’

After a long night of non-stop talking they persuaded The Rope to take them for a few days recreational climbing in Western Nepal. ‘You’ve missed the best times of year for trekking here,’ he said. ‘Spring is the time for rhododendrons - the colours of the flowers in this pure air and dazzling sunlight, under a sky so dark blue it looks almost purple, are absolutely jaw-dropping, but the clearest skies of all and the best views of the Himalayan peaks, are found after the monsoon in October and November. However, we’ll make the best of it while you’re here, though it’s a shame you can’t stay a bit longer. We could do the Annapurna Circuit, one of the world’s great treks, or even climb the mountain itself, though it has the worst fatality rate of any, even worse than Everest itself. About one in four of the people who attempt to summit Annapurna die in the attempt.’

‘We’ll pass on that one then,’ Jock said. ‘If I’m going to die I want it to be with a gun in my hand, not freezing my tits off on some godforsaken mountain summit.’

‘Fair enough,’ The Rope said with a smile. ‘But apart from Annapurna, another two of the world’s ten highest mountains are also right on our doorstep, Dhaulagiri  and Manaslu, along with some of the best rock-climbing you’ll find anywhere, so we’re not short of other challenges. Dhaulagiri is my favourite, it’s name means “dazzling white, beautiful mountain” in Nepali. It’s the most striking and solitary of all the Himalayan peaks, rising almost sheer.’

‘That doesn’t sound too great either,’ Geordie said. ‘Maybe we should just stick to rock climbing and trekking!’

‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Mate, mountains kill people,’ said Geordie.

‘Not if you know what you’re doing, and you treat them with respect,’ said The Rope.

‘That there’s the problem,’ said Geordie. ‘You know what you’re doing. You’ve had a lifetime acquiring the skills. Me, I’d just be a dead weight on the end of a rope.’

They set off later that morning, driving west with The Rope navigating. The dirt road they were following, flanked by Himalayan Wild Cherry trees, climbed steadily higher, through dense thickets of rhododendron and, higher on the slopes, stands of blue pine. Eventually, well above the tree-line and still climbing higher, it dwindled to a rock-strewn track and then petered out altogether by a police post near the head of a long valley.

‘We’ll use this as base camp,’ The Rope said. ‘You can use the police communications system to keep in touch with the embassy and the Head Shed in Hereford, and if you leave our rations with the Nepalese police, they’ll turn them into delicious curries for us.’ He smiled. ‘The crime rates are pretty low around here, so they’re glad of something to do and a few dollars won’t go amiss with them either.’

Shepherd had brought a climbing rope for each of them, much to The Rope’s disgust. They also had a carabiner on their belt kits. The Rope had nothing but a pouch of resin attached to his belt. ‘So,’ he said, surveying their climbing aids and making no attempt to hide his disapproval, ‘we can be reasonably confident that we have Health and Safety covered, can we?’

‘And what exactly do you do when you fall?” asked Geordie.

The Rope grinned. ‘I don’t.’

‘Well there’s always a first time,’ said Geordie.