‘They look like ordinary drums of aviation oil.’
‘That’s just what they are – drums of Avtur. But we dissolve polyurethane in the Avtur to thicken it up a bit; then we seal the drums, fix Schermuly flares to each side of them, fit them with cruciform harnesses and roll them out the back of the Skyvan. They cause a hell of an explosion, lads. Lots of fire and smoke. We use them mainly for burning fields that look like they’ve been cultivated by the adoo. However, if help is required by you lads on the ground, but not available from the Strikemasters, we use the Burmail bombs against the adoo themselves.’
‘Why are they called Burmails?’ asked Andrew, a man with a genuine fondness for words.
‘“Burmail” is an Arabic word for oil drums,’ Whistler told him. ‘Thought by some to be a derivation from Burmah Oil, or the Burmah Oil Company.’
‘What’s it like flying in on an attack in one of those bathtubs?’ Gumboot asked with his customary lack of subtlety.
‘Piece of piss,’ Whistler replied, unperturbed. ‘We cruise in at the minimum safe altitude of 7000 feet, then lose altitude until we’re as low as 500 feet, which we are when we fly right through the wadis on the run in to the DZ. When those fucking Burmail bombs go off, it’s like the whole world exploding. So anytime you need help, just call. That’s what we’re here for, lads.’
On the second day Lampton made Ricketts drive them out to the Salalah plain, where they saw Jebalis taking care of small herds of cattle or carrying their wares, mostly firewood, on camels, en route to Salalah. This reminded the troopers that life here continued as normal; that not only the adoo populated the slopes of the Jebel Dhofar and the arid sand plain in front of it.
That afternoon the group arrived at the old walled town of Salalah. At the main gate they had to wait for ages while the Sultan’s armed guards, the Askouris, searched through the bundles of firewood on the Jebalis’ camels to make sure that their owners were not smuggling arms for the adoo supporters inside the town, of which there were known to be a few. Eventually, when the camels had passed through, the soldiers’ papers were checked, and they were allowed to drive into the town, along a straight track that led through a cluster of mud huts to an oasis of palm trees, lush green grass and running water. They passed the large jail to arrive at the Sultan’s white, fortified palace, where Lampton made Ricketts stop.
‘When Sultan Sa’id Tamur lived there,’ Lampton recounted, ‘he was like a recluse, shunning all Western influence, living strictly by the Koran and ruling the country like a medieval despot. Though his son, Qaboos, was trained at Sandhurst, when he returned here he was virtually kept a prisoner – until he deposed his old man at gunpoint, then sent him into exile in London. He died in the Dorchester Hotel in 1972. A nice way to go.’
‘And by reversing his father’s despotism,’ Andrew said from the back of the Land Rover, ‘Qaboos has gradually been finding favour with the locals.’
‘With our help, yes. He’s been particularly good at increasing recruitment to the army and air force. He’s also built schools and hospitals, plus a radio station whose specific purpose is to combat communist propaganda from Radio Aden. He’s trying to bring Oman into the twentienth century, but I doubt that he’ll get that far. However, if he wins the support of his people and keeps the communists out of Oman, we’ll be content.’
‘Our oil being protected,’ put in Ricketts.
‘That’s right,’ Lampton said. ‘Wait here. I’m going in to give Qaboos a written report on recent events. He likes to be kept informed. When I come out, I’ll give you a quick tour of the town.’
‘It’s more like a bleedin’ village,’ Gumboot complained.
‘It might be a village in Devon,’ Lampton said as he got out of the vehicle, ‘but here it’s a town. Relax, lads. Put your feet up. This could take some time.’
In fact, it took nearly two hours. While Lampton was away, Ricketts and the other two had a smoke, repeatedly quenched their thirst with water from the water bottles and chajugles, and gradually became covered in a slimy film composed of sweat and dust. Already warned to neither stare at, nor talk to, the veiled women who passed by with lowered heads, they amused themselves instead by making faces at some giggling local kids, giving others chewing gum, and practising their basic Arabic with the gendarmes who were indifferently guarding the Sultan’s palace, armed with .303 Short-Magazine Lee Enfield, or SMLE, rifles. When Lampton emerged and again offered them a quick tour of the town, they politely refused.
‘We’ve seen all there is to see,’ Gumboot said, ‘and we’re frying out here, boss. Can we go somewhere cooler?’
Lampton grinned as he took his seat in the Land Rover. ‘OK, lads. Let’s go and see some of the BATT handiwork. That’ll take us along the seashore and help cool you down.’
He guided Ricketts back out through the walled town’s main gates and down to the shore, then made him head for Taqa, halfway between Salalah and Mirbat. The drive did indeed take them along the shore, with the ravishing turquoise sea on one side and rows of palm and date trees on the other. A cool breeze made the journey pleasant, though Ricketts had to be careful not to get stuck in the sand. Also, as he had noticed before, there were a great many crabs, in places in their hundreds, scuttling in both directions across the beach like monstrous ants and being crushed under the wheels of the Land Rover.
‘I get the shivers just looking at ’em,’ Gumboot told them while visibly shivering in the rear of the Land Rover. ‘I’d rather fight the adoo.’
‘There’s a BATT station at Taqa,’ Lampton said, oblivious to the masses of crabs, ‘so you can see the kind of work we do there. You know, of course, that the SAS has been in Oman before.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Gumboot said to distract himself from the crabs. ‘But then I’m pig-ignorant, boss.’
‘I know they were here before,’ Andrew said, ‘but I don’t know why.’
‘He’s pig-ignorant as well,’ Gumboot said. ‘Now I don’t feel so lonely.’
‘It was because of Britain’s treaty obligations to Muscat and Oman,’ Lampton informed them. ‘In the late 1950s we were drawn into a counter-insurgency campaign when the Sultan’s regime was threatened by a rebellious army of expatriate Omanis from Saudi Arabia. As their first major move against the Sultan, they took over the Jebel Akhdar, or Green Mountain, in the north of Oman, and declared the region independent from him.’
‘Which did not amuse him greatly,’ Andrew said.
‘Definitely not,’ Lampton replied. ‘We Brits were called in to help. When British infantry, brought in from Kenya in 1957, failed to dislodge the rebels from the mountain, D Squadron and A Squadron of 22 SAS were flown in to solve the problem. In January 1959 they made their legendary assault on the Jebel Akhdar, winning it back from the rebels. Once they had done that, they implemented the first hearts-and-minds campaign to turn the rest of the locals into firm supporters of the Sultan. Unfortunately, with his medieval ways, Sultan Qaboos’s old man undid all the good done by the SAS. Now Qaboos has another rebellion on his hands.’
‘Which is why we’re here,’ Andrew said.
‘Yes. What we did in 1959, we’re going to have to do again twelve years later: engage in another hearts-and-minds campaign, while also defeating the adoo on the Jebel Dhofar.’
‘What exactly does a hearts-and-minds campaign involve?’ Ricketts asked him.
‘The concept was first devised in Malaya in the early 1950s and used successfully in Borneo from 1963 to 1966. It’s now an integral part of our counter-insurgency warfare methods. Its basic thrust is to gain the trust of the locals of any given area by sharing their lifestyle, language and customs. That’s why, for instance, in Borneo, SAS troopers actually lived with the natives in