As the team’s demolition expert, Pete Welsh was placed in charge of their single crate of mixed explosives, mostly of the plastic type such as RDX and PETN, along with both kinds of initiator: electrical and non-electrical, with the relevant firing caps and time fuses. As signaller, Terry was not asked to depend on his Celtic clairvoyance but instead was given an A41 British Army tactical radio set, which weighed 11lb excluding the battery and was carried in a backpack. Each of the men was supplied with a SARBE (surface-to-air rescue beacon) lightweight radio beacon to enable them to link up with CasEvac helicopters should the need arise.
Having been trained in first-aid and basic medicine, each man in the patrol was obliged to carry an individual medical pack that included codeine tablets and syrettes of morphine; mild and strong antiseptics (gentian violet and neomycin sulphate); chalk and opium for diarrhoea and other intestinal disorders; the antibiotic tetracycline; and an assortment of dressings and plasters. However, as the team’s medical specialist, more extensively trained with the US Army’s special forces at Fort Sam, Houston, Texas, and Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Alf was in charge of a comprehensive medical pack that included all the above items, but also a greater selection of drugs and dressings, as well as surgical equipment and a dental repair kit.
‘I wouldn’t let that butcher near my mouth,’ Pete said, ‘if my teeth were hanging out by the roots. I’d rather pull ’em myself.’
‘Any more sarcastic remarks,’ Alf retorted, ‘and I’ll practise my surgery on your balls instead of your teeth. I’m pretty good when it comes to the cut and thrust, so don’t cross me, mate.’
‘Another mad doctor,’ Pete replied. ‘We should call you Sukarno.’
As the team’s linguist, Dead-eye carried the lightest load. But once in the jungle, which was usually known by the native word ulu, he would compensate for this by being out front on ‘point’, as scout – the most dangerous and demanding job of them all.
Sanderson, as their guest, or rather guide, carried only his personal weapons and kit.
Kitted out just after breakfast, the men were then compelled to spend the rest of the long, hot morning on the firing range, testing the weapons and honing their skills. This was not as easy as it sounds, for the heat soon became suffocating, sweat ran constantly down their foreheads and into their eyes when they took aim, and they often choked on the dust kicked up by the backblast of the weapons. On top of all this, they were tormented by the usual swarms of flies and mosquitoes.
‘I give up,’ Alf said. ‘I can’t even see along the sights with these clouds of bloody insects everywhere. Let’s just call it a day.’
‘Get back on your belly on the ground,’ Dead-eye said. ‘And don’t get up till I say so.’
‘Yes, Sarge!’ Alf snapped.
They came off the firing range covered in a fine slime composed of their own sweat and the dust. After a refreshing shower, they washed the clothes they had used on the firing range, hung them up to drip dry in the still-rising heat, dressed in their spare set of olive-greens, then hurried to the mess for lunch. This was followed by an afternoon of lessons about the history, geography and culture of Borneo, with particular emphasis on the border between Sarawak and Kalimantan, where most of their operations would take place.
By the time the lessons had ended, in the late afternoon, the men’s clothes had dried and could be ironed (which they did themselves), then packed away in the bergens. When their packing was completed, they had dinner in the mess, followed by precisely one hour in the bar, which ensured that they could not drink too much.
Back in the spider, or sleeping quarters, each man had to take his place beside his bed, while Dead-eye inspected his kit and weapons, ensuring that no bergen was too heavy and that the weapons were immaculately clean and in perfect working order. Satisfied, he told them to be up and ready to leave by first light the following morning, then bid them goodnight and left the barracks.
When Dead-eye had gone Terry exhaled with an audible sigh. ‘Blimey!’ he almost gasped. ‘That Sergeant Parker scares the hell out of me. He’s so bloody expressionless.’
‘A born killer,’ Alf said gravely.
‘Heart of stone,’ Pete added.
‘He eats new boys like you for breakfast,’ Alf warned. ‘I’d be careful if I was you.’
‘Aw, come on, lads!’ Terry protested, not sure if they were serious or not. ‘I mean…’
‘Never look him directly in the eye,’ Pete said firmly.
‘Never speak to him unless spoken to,’ Alf chipped in.
‘If you see him take a deep breath,’ Pete continued, ‘hold onto your balls.’
‘He’ll bite them off otherwise,’ Alf said, ‘then spit them out in your face.’
‘Leave off, you two!’
‘It’s the truth,’ Pete said.
‘Cross our hearts,’ Alf added. ‘Old Parker, he’d cut your throat as soon as look at you, so it’s best to avoid him.’
‘How can I avoid him?’ Terry asked. ‘He’s our patrol leader, for God’s sake! I mean, he’s going to be there every minute, breathing right in my face.’
‘And he does so hate new troopers,’ Pete said. ‘You can take that as read.’
‘You poor bastard,’ Alf said.
Terry was starting to look seriously worried when Alf, able to control himself no longer, rolled over on his bed to smother his laughter in his pillow.
‘Night-night,’ Pete said chirpily, then he switched out the lights.
At dawn the next morning, after a hurried breakfast, they were driven in a Bedford RL 4×4 three-ton lorry to the airfield, where they transferred to a stripped-out Wessex Mark 1 helicopter piloted by Lieutenant Ralph Ellis of the Army Air Corps. Some of them knew Ellis from Malaya five years before, when he had flown them into the Telok Anson swamp in his Sikorsky S-55 Whirlwind.
‘You men haven’t aged a day,’ Ellis greeted them. ‘You always looked like a bunch of geriatrics.’
‘Listen who’s talking,’ Pete countered. ‘Nice little bald spot you’ve developed in five years. Soon you’ll be nothing but ears and head while we remain beautiful.’
‘The girls still love the pilots,’ Ellis replied. ‘They don’t view us as hooligans in uniform. They think we have class.’
‘And what’s this?’ Alf asked, poking Ellis in the stomach with his forefinger. ‘A nice bit of flab here.’
‘It’s the easy life the bastard lives,’ Pete informed his mate. ‘He’ll soon look like a cute little blancmange with a billiard ball on top.’
‘Very funny, I’m sure,’ Ellis replied. ‘Just get your fat arses in the chopper, thanks.’
‘Yes, mother!’ Alf and Pete replied as one, grinning wickedly as they clambered