He nodded at Sergeant Lampton, who took over the briefing. ‘The firqats are irregular troops formed into small bands led by us. Many of them are former adoo who sided with Sultan Qaboos when he deposed his father and started his reforms. As they know the adoo camps and bases, those particular firqats are very useful, but they aren’t overly fond of the Sultan’s regular army and, as Captain Banks said, they can be very difficult to deal with. For this reason, part of the work of the BATT teams is to be seen doing good deeds, as it were, in the countryside, thus impressing the firqats with our general worthiness and strengthening their support for the Sultan. So it’s imperative that you learn exactly what the BATT teams are doing and how they go about doing it. Therefore, for your first week here, you’ll be split up into small teams, each led by a BATT man, including myself, and given a guided tour of the area, plus special training relating to warfare in this particular environment. At the end of that week, the assault on the Jebel will commence. Any questions?’
There was a brief silence, broken only when Ricketts asked: ‘When do we start?’
‘Tomorrow morning. You have the rest of the day off. As the sun is due to sink shortly, it won’t be a long day. Any more questions?’
As there were no further questions, the group was disbanded and went off to the open mess tent to have dinner at the trestle tables. Afterwards they returned to the NAAFI tent to put in a solid evening’s drinking, returning at midnight, drunk and exhausted, to their bivouac tent. After nervously shaking out their kit to check for scorpions and centipedes, they wriggled into their sleeping bags for what was to prove a restless night punctuated by croaking frogs, irregular blasts from the 25-pounders and attacks by thirsty mosquitoes and dive-bombing hornets. Few of the men felt up to much the next day, but they still had their work to do.
For the next five days, Ricketts, Andrew and Gumboot were driven around the area in Lampton’s Land Rover, with Ricketts driving, the sergeant beside him and the other two in the back with strict instructions to keep their eyes peeled at all times. To ensure that they did not dehydrate, they had brought along a plentiful supply of water bottles and chajugles, small canvas sacks, rather like goatskins, that could be filled with water and hung outside the vehicle to stay cool. Just as the Bedfords had done the first day, Ricketts always drove alongside the roads, rather than on them, to minimize the risk from land-mines laid by the adoo.
The heat was usually fierce, from a sky that often seemed white, but they gradually got used to it, or at least learned to accept it, and they frequently found relief when they drove along the beaches, by the rushing surf and white waves of the turquoise sea. The beaches, they soon discovered, were covered with crabs and lined with wind-blown palm trees. Beyond the trees, soaring up to the white-blue sky, was the towering gravel plateau of the Jebel Dhofar, a constant reminder that soon they would have to climb it – a daunting thought for even the hardiest.
As they drove through the main gates that first morning, the big guns in the hedgehogs just outside the perimeter fired on the Jebel, creating an almighty row, streams of grey smoke and billowing clouds of dust. Just ahead of their Land Rover, a Saladin armoured car was setting out across the dusty plain, right into the clouds of dust.
‘The adoo often mount small raids against us,’ Lampton explained. They also come down from the Jebel during the night to plant mines around the base or dig themselves in for a bit of sniping. That Saladin goes out every morning at this time to sweep the surrounding tracks, clear any mines left and keep an eye out for newly arrived adoo snipers. The same procedure takes place at RAF Salalah, which is where we’re going right now.’
Reversing the same three-mile journey they had made the day before, when they first arrived, with the Land Rover bouncing constantly over the rough gravel-and-sand terrain beside the dirt track, they soon passed the guarded perimeter of RAF Salalah, then came to the main gate by the single-storey SOAF HQ. Their papers were checked by an Omani soldier wearing the red beret of the Muscat Regiment and armed with a 7.62mm FN rifle. Satisfied, he let them drive through the gates and on to where the Strikemaster jets and Skyvan cargo planes were being serviced in the dispersal bays encircled by empty oil drums.
‘Stop right by that open Skyvan,’ Lampton said. When Ricketts had done so, they all climbed down. Lampton introduced them to a dark-haired man wearing only shorts and slippers, whose broad chest and muscular arms were covered in sweat. Though he was wearing no shirt, he carried a Browning 9mm high-power handgun in a holster at his hip. He was supervising the loading of heavy resup bundles into the cargo bay in the rear of the Skyvan. The heavy work was being done by other RAF loadmasters, all of whom were also stripped to the waist and gleaming with sweat.
‘Hi, Whistler,’ Lampton said. ‘How are things?’
‘No sweat,’ Whistler replied.
‘You’re covered in bloody sweat!’
Whistler grinned. ‘No sweat otherwise.’ He glanced at the men standing around Lampton.
‘These bullshit artists have just been badged,’ Lampton said, by way of introduction, ‘and are starting their year’s probationary with us. Men, this is Corporal Harry Whistler of 55 Air Despatch Squadron, Royal Corps of Transport. Though he’s normally based on Thorney Island and was recently on a three-month tour of detachment to the army camp in Muharraq, he’s here to give us resup support. As his surname’s “Whistler” and he actually whistles a lot, we just call him…’
‘Whistler,’ Andrew said.
‘What a bright boy you are.’
Everyone said hello to Whistler. ‘Welcome to the dustbowl,’ he replied ‘I’m sure you’ll have a great time here.’
‘A real holiday,’ Gumboot said.
‘You won’t be seeing too much of Whistler,’ Lampton told them, ‘because he’ll usually be in the sky directly above you, dropping supplies from his trusty Skyvan.’
Grinning, Whistler glanced up at the semi-naked loadmasters, who were now inside the cargo hold, lashing the bundles to the floor with webbing freight straps and 1200lb-breaking-strain cords.
‘What’s in the bundles?’ Rickets asked.
‘Eighty-one-millimetre mortar bombs, HE phosphorus and smoke grenades, 7.62mm ball and belt ammo, compo rations, water in jerrycans – four to a bundle. Those are for the drops to our troopers at places like Simba, Akoot and Jibjat, but we also have food resup for the firqats out in the field, since those bastards are quick to go on strike if they think we’re ignoring them.’ Whistler pointed to some bundles wrapped in plastic parachute bags for extra protection. ‘Tins of curried mutton or fish, rice, flour, spices, dates, and the bloody oil used for the cooking, carried in tins that always burst – hence the parachute bags. As well as all that, we drop the propaganda leaflets that are part of the hearts-and-minds campaign. It’s like being a flying library for the illiterate.’
‘Whistler will also be helping out now and then with a few bombing raids,’ Lampton informed them, ‘though not with your regular weapons, since those are left to the Strikemaster jets.’
‘Right,’ Whistler said. ‘We’re already preparing for the assault on the Jebel.’ He pointed to the six 40-gallon drums lined up on the perimeter