The Sixteen (27 page)

Once we’d stopped walking, the cold began to penetrate and we were very glad of the canvas from the truck, which we pulled around us as we settled down to wait.

I
t was bitterly cold through the night and I lay awake for much of the time, gazing at the clear sky watching the stars, but at some point dozed off into a fitful sleep. A rustling sound in the reeds woke me and I opened my eyes to broad daylight. Glancing at my watch, I saw that that it was 0630, the sun was already high in the sky and the air was hot and humid. Nearby the others were still sleeping and I shook Chalky who was nearest to me by the shoulder. He woke and sat up rubbing his eyes.

‘Still here I see, Geordie? The crocs didn’t get you last night then?’ he said dryly.

‘You’re having me on, aren’t you?’

‘No, seriously, Geordie, there are salt water crocodiles all around this area.’

I wondered if that was what the rustling sound in the reeds that woke me had been and quickly looked around.

‘Why didn’t you say something last night?’

‘You wouldn’t have got any sleep if I had done, now would you?’

‘Yeah, but I might have been asleep “permanently”.’

Dynamo and Spot were awake now, too.

‘We’ve still got a little way to go to the pick-up point, we might as well head off there now before it gets any hotter,’ Spot said, checking our bearings.

As we trudged for a short while through the tall grasses and reeds, parting them before us, we disturbed thousands of flies and mosquitoes and they were becoming a real nuisance as they buzzed around our heads. I kept looking around for any signs of crocodiles but luckily saw nothing. Spot in the lead held up his hand and stopped us.

‘The ground’s too swampy to go any further.’

He was right. As we’d walked, the marshy ground had gradually become softer and wetter; my feet were now soaking and I was pleased I’d coated them in veg. grease before we’d left.

‘You’re right, the hack could get bogged down in this lot. We’d better stay back there where the ground’s a bit firmer,’ Chalky agreed.

We retraced our steps to the small spot where we’d spent the night. It was slightly firmer and drier than the surrounding area and, hidden from view by the tall reeds, we sat chatting, eating a few dry ‘dog biscuits’ washed down with lukewarm water from the canisters we’d brought with us.

‘Ken should be here any minute,’ Chalky said, scanning the horizon with his binoculars.

‘Shh, listen!’ Dynamo urged. I strained my ears and could just
make out the sound of the hack although I still couldn’t see it. ‘There, there he is!’

Almost as he said the words, we saw the helicopter heading straight towards us from the west. It flew in right over our heads, its downdraught bending and parting the tall reeds and grasses, then abruptly turned and landed just a few yards away. We threw off our makeshift canvas coats and, picking up our bags, ran straight towards it and jumped in.

‘What the hell are you doing over here, you should have been half a mile west of this point?’ Ken said. ‘You’re lucky I found you straight away.’

Before we had time to reply or even sit down the hack was back in the air again and heading straight out towards the sea. Ken turned to look at us and gave us the ‘thumbs-up’ sign.

Chalky did the same back to him and shouted, ‘Mission accomplished!’

Ken headed 140 miles east from our pick-up point, back to the fuel dump, where we refuelled and set off again without a hitch. We then flew NNW again back towards Cyprus where about twenty miles south of the island there was to be a boat waiting to pick us up.

We flew, skimming the waves once more, for just over an hour when Ken pointed ahead. Spot and I immediately picked up our canvas holdalls and strapped them across our backs like rucksacks, putting our arms through the handles and securing them across our chests.

Then we fastened two ropes above the doors on either side of the helicopter to balance our weight and at the given signal from Ken, abseiled down. The hack sped towards a small boat nearby as Spot and I hung just feet above the sea.

The boat was a blue-and-green cabin cruiser, which raced
along underneath the helicopter in a cloud of white spray and downdraught. Spot and I dropped onto its deck and seconds later the other two came down directly behind us. Immediately the hack turned away eastwards and disappeared.

I didn’t recognise the guy on the boat. It wasn’t Lynch, but it was obvious that the other three knew him well, although no one spoke much as we sped off towards Cyprus. About three-quarters of an hour later, they dropped me off at a quiet beach a few miles outside Dhekélia while they went off with the boat. I had no idea why they did this but obviously, they had their reasons – I didn’t ask and they didn’t offer an explanation.

‘Just walk along the narrow road leading off the beach towards a junction, and then keep out of sight until we arrive with the jeep, Geordie,’ Chalky told me.

When they collected me, I’d be taken back to the old hangar where I could leave the holdall and change back into my regular uniform.

Crossing the beach, I found the dusty track leading from it and made my way along it to the junction where Chalky had told me to wait. I sat by the side of the road. It was late morning now and scorchingly hot; I was parched and concerned about the effects of dehydration. Ken had given us some sandwiches in the helicopter, but the damn things had been dry and tasteless, leaving me hungry and, above all, thirsty.

The cream they’d put on my face and hair to darken them was now uncomfortably itchy, but I couldn’t risk scratching in case any of it came off. I was hot, tired and dirty and badly in need of a shave. Not too far from where I sat, I saw a gang of workmen, which seemed to be made up of soldiers and some locals. They appeared to be laying drains or mending the road and behind them stood a refreshment tent.

I suspected that some of the guys might be from 524 Company, but didn’t recognise any of them. Although I knew I’d been told to stay out of sight, I was so damned thirsty that I could barely swallow and was beginning to feel light-headed. I hoped that the tent would be empty, as they all seemed to be working on the road, and decided to risk going inside to get something to quench my thirst. Carefully hiding my holdall under a small bush near to the junction, I sneaked around the back of the tent keeping out of sight of the workmen, then pushed open the flaps and walked in.

The tent was fairly large and directly ahead of me was a table with a bottle of clear liquid standing on it, which I presumed was lemonade, together with a couple of glasses and some empty coke bottles. To my left was a canvas partition, which restricted my view of the rest of the tent and I couldn’t hear anything due to the racket from a damn generator standing not far away outside.

I didn’t have any money on me and as there didn’t appear to be anyone about, I decided to pinch the bottle of clear liquid.

As I got near to the table, I looked to my left around the end of the partition and saw several British soldiers dressed in work fatigues standing drinking at a long table, which was covered with empty bottles and glasses, as were several other tables nearby. Unfortunately, they were inside taking a break and as soon as they became aware of me, the atmosphere instantly changed and became hostile. The general hum of conversation ceased and they all stared in my direction.

One tall, overweight soldier glanced over his shoulder at me then turned around and picked up a cola bottle from the table.

‘What the f***ing hell do you think you’re doing, you cheeky wog bastard? Why are you in here?’ he yelled at me aggressively, brandishing the bottle.

In my desperation to get a drink, I’d completely forgotten the way
I was dressed and how I would look to them! Another two standing at a nearby table began to move towards me, one of them holding a crowbar in a threatening way. I knew these guys weren’t going to let me out of this tent without serious trouble! They obviously thought that I was a local and as such had no business in a British servicemen’s refreshment tent. The recent terrorists’ activities on the island that had caused the deaths of several British servicemen and civilians, and especially the bombing of a crowded NAAFI, had seriously soured relations between the armed forces and the locals.

Oh hell, I thought. I shouldn’t have come in here!

I couldn’t speak to them to let them know that I was actually British too, it would have simply drawn further attention to me and how could I explain the way I looked and the fact that I was dressed in ordinary trousers and a white shirt?

Suddenly, matters were taken out of my hands as the tall soldier rushed towards me, the now-broken cola bottle in his outstretched hand and I instantly reacted without thinking. I was still wearing my sash, my hand hit its quick-release and it shot into action, smashing the bottle in his hand and catching his leg on the back swing. He instantly dropped onto one knee groaning, as I spun around and broke every bottle and glass within range on the nearby tables. The guy with the crowbar and his pal immediately backed off with looks of horrified and shocked amazement on their faces. I let the belt recoil back around my waist and secured the safety catch with one touch.

The tall guy on the floor was screaming his head off in agony and I was furious with myself for reacting the way I had against British soldiers but I’d felt that I had no choice. If I’d spoken to them, I would have given the game away. I quickly turned around and left, grabbing the unbroken bottle of clear liquid from the table by the tent flap on my way out.

On reflection, I realised that none of them would have realised exactly what had happened because it had all been over in a flash. The time between my releasing the sash and replacing it had been so brief, I knew that they’d only be aware of a swishing noise followed by bottles and glasses exploding all around them as if by magic, just as I had been when I’d first seen it used on the turnips. Besides, as most of them had instinctively ducked to shield themselves from flying glass, they wouldn’t have a clue how I’d done it, but it would certainly give them something to talk about later!

As I swiftly left the tent, I took a large swig from the bottle I’d grabbed. But instead of quenching my thirst, to my horror the clear liquid immediately burned my throat and took my breath away. Ahead of me, I saw the jeep standing waiting at the junction and I ran towards it, collecting my bag from under the bush before I jumped in. When I looked back, no one had followed me out of the tent.

‘Jeesus, what was in that bloody bottle?’ I gasped, spluttering and grabbing at my mouth and throat, which both felt as though they were on fire.

‘What the hell’s the matter with you, Geordie? What’s this?’ Spot said, snatching the bottle from me.

‘You daft sod, you’ve just had a swig of one hundred per cent proof vodka!’ he spluttered and then burst out laughing. ‘Now you know what it’s like to drink liquid paraffin! How the hell did you get this anyway? You were supposed to stay out of sight, young man!’ he said, still laughing as he threw the bottle away.

‘I was parched and didn’t have any money, there wasn’t anyone around so I just grabbed the first thing I saw from that tent over there,’ I explained.

I couldn’t tell them what had really happened, I was too
embarrassed. I’d never touched alcohol before and I was now more determined than ever that I would never touch the disgusting, foul stuff again!

The jeep bounced off down the rough track and I began to feel ill. My stomach was burning and I felt very sick. The three of them fell about when I explained that I’d thought I was drinking lemonade.

When we arrived back at the hangar, I couldn’t get to the water quickly enough!

We put our equipment away and I changed back into my regular tropical uniform after first taking care that I’d got rid of all of the make-up I was wearing. Four hours later, after some lunch, I was taken back to where my lorry was parked. Once again, all the paperwork was in order to confirm where I was due to be picked up by the working party’s truck.

I’d been away for less than two days and, apart from the usual banter, no one on the truck took the slightest notice of me, let alone suspected that I’d just been all the way to Cairo and back!

A
fter the tension and excitement of our operations, camp life was difficult to take. As in all army camps such as this, soldiers generally endure long periods of relentless boredom, broken only by routine daily tasks. This largely depended on what you were consigned to do. Outside working parties for instance, mainly consisted of digging latrines, putting up marquees or building roads for other regiments. While those who remained back at camp were generally assigned to tidying the place up or work in the cookhouse, which meant endlessly peeling potatoes or cleaning dixies, the only exceptions being those assigned to guard duty.

Outside working parties would usually have a corporal in charge of them and those who remained in the camp would be under the command of a sergeant. As a result, it wasn’t easy to ‘disappear’ without someone noticing unless you were sent out of our camp on detachment to another. Due to the nature of our regiment, this
often happened, sometimes for a couple of days but often for weeks at a time. Other than being off-duty, the hours spent travelling between the camps was the only time when a regular soldier would possibly have a period without someone of rank being there, until they arrived at their assigned camp, where once again someone would be in charge of them.

On the occasions when I was sent on detachment, I presumed that this had to be arranged by someone of seniority who could fix it so that the camp I was supposedly assigned to would not be expecting me, thereby making it possible for me to ‘disappear’. I believed that these orders would have to come from somewhere to my CO specifically asking for me to be assigned to these detachments, otherwise my camp would naturally send whoever was available, not me specifically. And I often wondered what the reaction to this by the officers and NCOs at 524 Company must have been. Having said this, I’ve seen better-organised building sites than the British Army, so it possibly wasn’t so difficult to arrange after all!

I constantly wondered about the logistics of this and felt that there had to be someone at my platoon who ensured my name was regularly put onto the list of off-site workers. It could have been the CO or perhaps he knew nothing about it, maybe a junior officer or even a sergeant compiled the working party rosters. I hadn’t a clue whose job it was to organise these lists but I knew that someone had to be given orders regarding my whereabouts. It was the only explanation I could come up with but, obviously, I couldn’t ask anyone about this.

And I would often look at some guy or other, an officer or NCO, and wonder whether they had something to do with it, if perhaps they were the one who organised it. Two officers in particular were quite pally with me, Captain Myers and Lieutenant Stevens, and
they, for some reason, always seemed to take a keen interest in what I was doing, but then they were also fairly friendly with most of the men, so whether they had any knowledge of what I did or not, I never really knew. Then there was this sergeant called Lupton, who had a peculiar way of walking as if he had springs in his heels. He always seemed to be near the gate whenever I arrived back at camp and always made a point of speaking to me.

‘Enjoy yourself, Geordie?’ he would ask me. ‘Had a good holiday?’

He always seemed to single me out but I think that was just his way of being reasonably friendly towards me; again he never really gave me any reason to suspect that he knew anything about my whereabouts out of the camp.

Ken had warned me at my initiation into ‘The Sixteen’ that from that point onwards I shouldn’t think too much about the organisation of things, or ask too many questions. He knew that I would be curious and want to find out more but advised me that it would not be in my best interests to try, that I should just accept the ways things were.

At first, I couldn’t fathom out why ‘The Sixteen’ would recruit someone from a general working regiment such as mine rather than from an ‘active’ regiment, but all I was ever told was that it would have been virtually impossible to organise if I’d been in any other. In time, of course, I realised that the way in which my regiment operated totally suited their purposes but I never found out whether I would have still been recruited if I’d been in another outfit or whether they’d only looked for likely candidates in regiments like mine.

Another thing that really baffled me was how my death would be explained if I was killed on a mission, miles away in another country, or wherever it happened. What explanation could be
given if I was supposed to be on detachment at another camp yet that camp had neither documentation nor knowledge of my being consigned to them?

But then, I supposed, someone like me being found out of uniform, miles from my unit, would probably be easy to cover up by claiming that I’d gone AWOL and was a deserter. Nobody would suspect anyone from my type of unit as being part of any special force.

Ken was right, I shouldn’t think about it too much, it was too mind-boggling, and I wasn’t going to come up with any answers, so eventually I tried to give up thinking about it, it was pointless wasting time trying to fathom it out. It was obvious that the powers-that-be knew exactly what they were doing and had every angle covered.

Even so, it was difficult sometimes not to wonder about it all. They had encouraged me to think differently, for myself, to question everything and to only believe half of what I saw or heard. They had educated me and I’d changed drastically as a result. I’d grown up and the shy, stammering eighteen-year-old had disappeared along with his innocence. For all I looked much the same physically, inside I was a completely different person and even my strong Geordie accent was quickly disappearing.

When I first got back from Beirut – it’s difficult to explain exactly how I felt – it had been so exciting and I couldn’t believe what we’d just done. As Spot had said, something incredible was happening to me. I believed that nothing was beyond our capabilities, there was nothing we couldn’t do, no task we couldn’t handle. With my combat skills and all of the other tricks they’d taught me, I truly believed that nothing could touch me. So, when I returned to camp it felt as though I was walking into a graveyard, everything was so deadly quiet, everyone just lounging around.

It was much the same after our Cairo mission, and for several long months afterwards my life settled into periods of mind-numbing boredom at camp or undetected periods of intense training and practising with Dynamo, Chalky and Spot.

I lived for the time I spent with them, and crazy as it may seem, I believe I was becoming addicted to living on the edge. Looking forward to the excitement and adrenalin rush of the risks we took was the only thing that made the long, boring chore of life around the camp in-between times bearable.

Although I knew I was now a very different person, I still had to pretend to be unchanged when I was with my pals in 524 Company. I didn’t find this too difficult, as I would sometimes be with them for only an hour or so in the evening before they went off for a drink to the NAAFI. However, it was more awkward if I was sent out on detachment with them and was around them for a greater length of time.

During these periods, I would frequently go with them to the NAAFIs at other camps and often found it difficult to restrain myself if they got into any trouble, which happened quite regularly, as it was generally considered an amusing pastime by other regiments to ‘take the Mickey’ out of the Pioneer Corps.

On one particular occasion, just before my first job up in the Troodos Mountains, a few of us were on detachment working at another camp and decided to visit their NAAFI. This consisted of a large tent about thirty by seventy feet, with a bar, tables and chairs that was frequented by lower ranks and some lesser NCOs. The bar had a jukebox and besides beer and soft drinks it also sold hot dogs and light snacks. Some of the larger camps had several such marquees.

Generally, people bought their drinks and went outside but on this occasion the tent was especially crammed with upwards of
sixty personnel from a number of different units and regiments, including RAF, marines and some Americans. Apparently a few of the records on the jukebox had recently been changed by some Greeks and word had spread around that they’d managed to get a copy of a record about the late Buddy Holly, ‘The Seven Stars’. This had been banned by his mother after his fatal aeroplane accident, and naturally, because it was banned, everyone wanted to hear it. The Greek blokes had pressed several numbers on the jukebox so we had to wait until these records played through before the banned record came on.

As usual, I was drinking orange juice, unlike my pals and the majority of those around me. As the evening wore on and the beer flowed a disagreement broke out between one of my pals and some RAF personnel, sitting at a table behind us. It was obvious to me that something was about to happen but, despite my efforts to try to calm the situation down, my pals continued to swap verbal insults with the guys on the other table.

I just wanted to get out of the way and avoid any possible trouble. ‘Look, come on you lot, let’s take our drinks and go outside,’ I said.

They were playing dominoes and didn’t want to leave.

‘No, just stay here, forget about them.’

‘Come on, Geordie, have another coke.’

‘Aw, don’t worry about them, we can handle them.’

‘They’re just a bunch of poufy Brylcreem Boys, anyway!’

The guys at the other table didn’t let up either, as more people crammed into the hot, smoky marquee.

‘Hey, where’ve you left your f***ing pick and shovel, chunky?’

The insults were coming thick and fast and I knew that things were quickly going to get out of hand.

I was trying to concentrate on what my mates were saying to me
while at the same time keeping an eye on what was happening at the table behind us. Suddenly, one of the RAF blokes stood up and grabbed a nearby fire extinguisher, brandishing it above his head. It was obvious to me that he intended to bring it down on the head of my pal, who was sitting next to me with his back turned. Swiftly standing up, I disarmed the RAF guy, cracked him across the jaw with the fire extinguisher and let him fall to the floor.

There were several corporals and some sergeants in the tent, and as I didn’t want any trouble, I quickly propped the extinguisher against one of the tent poles, grabbed the guy, dragged him back to his table and flung him into his seat.

‘And don’t you lot get any bright ideas, either,’ I said, leaning across the table to warn his mates. ‘Otherwise I’ll stick my pick right where it hurts!’

I quickly sat down again, hoping that in the smoky crowded tent my actions had been too quick for anyone to see what happened properly. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the case.

‘Whoa, what are you on, Geordie? I’ve never seen you do anything like that. I didn’t know you had it in you! Give us a swig of what you’re drinking, mate,’ the guy sitting next to me said and slapped me on the back.

‘I didn’t do anything, I just helped him back to his seat,’ I said, trying to make light of the situation.

‘Helped him back to his seat?’ one of my other pals, exclaimed. ‘Nearly put him through it you mean!’

As he was sitting across the table from me, he’d watched the whole incident and immediately began to tell everyone what he’d seen.

‘He was like a bloody robot, honestly, you should have seen it!’ he went on. ‘I’ve never seen anyone move like that, show us what you did, Geordie.’

‘Don’t be daft, stop bloody exaggerating,’ I told him. ‘I didn’t do anything, he was drunk and overbalanced when I made a grab for the extinguisher. He must have hit his head as he fell.’

But the guy was nowhere near as drunk as the others, and was far from convinced by my explanation. He shook his head and kept on saying he’d never seen anything like it. Luckily, none of the others had really seen anything, there had been too many people around and all they’d been aware of was just a bit of a commotion behind them. Besides, they were so used to my general lack of involvement and avoidance of trouble that they all considered me a bit ‘soft’. Unconvinced by the guy across the table’s explanation of my involvement, they quickly lost interest in the whole thing and went back to their dominoes and drink.

‘Don’t be daft, there’s no way Geordie could have done that.’

‘Nah, he’s just a lucky bugger, the other guy was pissed!’

The image that I was so careful to project of myself as being shy and quiet had helped me to bluff my way out of a potentially difficult situation. It also helped a lot that I’d always been a bit of a loner, normally keeping myself to myself, trying not to attract too much attention. Years of stuttering had seen to that.

What’s more the atmosphere in the tent was still pretty tense and it was obvious that it was going to get worse with the amount of beer that was being drunk. Besides, it was stifling, as more and more people shoved their way inside and the air became thick with smoke, and heavy with the smell of beer and perspiration. It wasn’t too difficult now to convince my pals to go outside, it was much too crowded in the marquee. My training taught me that I always needed to be in a position where I could see exactly what was going on all around, so I was glad when they agreed to come with me.

We moved well away from the entrance to the marquee and
sat on the ground with our backs against the piles of sandbags surrounding it. Although there was a lot of activity going on around the camp, compared to inside the marquee it was fairly peaceful. The light was just beginning to fade and the air was calm and relatively cool. We sat with our drinks listening to the records playing then voices began shouting excitedly: ‘This is it, this is it!’ Everything went quiet as the long-awaited record began to play.

‘Look up in the sky…’ As the gentle melody began, we settled back to listen to the softly singing voices. The song was full of emotion, in remembrance of the pop stars who had lost their lives on the ill-fated flight – Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens.

‘…They’re shining so bright, from Heaven above.