Guerrillas in the Jungle. Shaun Clarke

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СКАЧАТЬ stores. There they were given a selection of small arms, including the M1 0.3in carbine with 30-round detachable magazines, which was good for low-intensity work at short range, but not much else; the 9mm Owen sub-machine-gun, which used 33-round, top-mounted box magazines, could fire at a rate of 700 rounds per minute, and was reliable and rugged; the relatively new 7.62mm semi-automatic SLR (self-loading rifle) with 20-round light box magazines, which had yet to prove its worth; and the standard-issue Browning 9mm High Power handgun with 13-round magazines and Len Dixon holster.

      When the weapons had been distributed among the men, each given as much as he could carry, Lorrimer pointed to the Bedford truck parked near by.

      ‘Get in that,’ he said. ‘After the weather in England, I’m sure you’ll appreciate some sunshine. All right, move it!’

      When they had all piled into the Bedford, they were driven straight to the firing range, where they spent the whole afternoon, in ever-increasing heat, firing the various weapons – first the M1 carbine, then the Owen sub-machine-gun and finally the unfamiliar SLR. The heat was bad enough, but the insects were even worse, and within an hour or two most of the men were nearly frantic, torn between concentrating on the weapons and swotting away their tormentors. When they attempted to do the latter, they were bawled at by the redoubtable Sergeant Lorrimer. After two hours on the range, which seemed more like twelve, their initial enthusiasm for the sunlight, which had seemed so wonderful after England, waned dramatically, leaving them with the realization that they had been travelling a long time and now desperately needed sleep, proper food, and time to acclimatize to this new environment.

      ‘What the fuck’s the matter with you, Trooper?’ Sergeant Lorrimer demanded of Pete Welsh.

      ‘Sorry, boss, but I just can’t keep my eyes open.’

      ‘A little tired after your long journey from England, are you?’ Lorrimer asked sympathetically.

      ‘Yes, boss.’

      ‘So what are you going to do in the jungle, Trooper, when you have to sleep when standing waist-deep in water? Going to ask for tea and sympathy, are you? Perhaps some time off?’

      ‘I’m not asking now, boss. I’m just having problems in keeping my eyes open. It’s the sunlight, combined with the lack of sleep. We’re all the same, boss.’

      ‘Oh, I see,’ Lorrimer said. ‘You’re all the same. Well, that makes all the difference!’ He glanced melodramatically around him, at the other men lying belly-down on the firing range, half asleep when not being tormented by mosquitoes and other dive-bombing tormentors. ‘Need sleep, do you?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes, boss!’ they all bawled simultaneously.

      ‘If you sleep before bedtime,’ Lorrimer explained, ‘you’ll all wake up in the middle of the morning, so you’d best stay awake. On your feet, Troopers!’

      When they jumped to their feet, shocked by the tenor of Lorrimer’s voice, he ran them a few times around the firing range, which was now like God’s anvil, and only let them rest again when at least one of them, the normally tough Alf Laughton, started swaying as if he’d been poleaxed.

      ‘Get back in the Bedford,’ Lorrimer said, addressing the whole group. ‘You’re just a bunch of pansies.’

      Breathless, pouring sweat, hardly able to focus their eyes, they piled into the Bedford, were driven back to the armoury, lined up for what seemed like hours to return their weapons, then were allowed to make their own way back to the barracks. There, in a state of near collapse, most of them threw themselves down on their steel-framed beds.

      No sooner had they done so than Sergeant Lorrimer appeared out of nowhere, bawling, ‘Off your backs, you lot! You think this is Butlins? Get showered and change into your dress uniforms and be at the mess by 5.30 sharp. Any man not seen having dinner will be up for a fine. Is that understood? Move it!’

      They did so. In a state of virtual somnambulism, they turned up at the crowded mess, where Sergeant Lorrimer was waiting to greet them.

      ‘Spick and span,’ he said, looking them up and down with an eagle eye. ‘All set for scran. OK, go in and get fed, take your time about it, but make sure you reassemble back out here. No pissing off to the NAAFI.’

      ‘The day’s over after din-dins,’ Dennis the Menace said.

      ‘It is for the common soldier,’ Lorrimer replied, ‘but not for you lot.’ He practically purred with anticipation. ‘You lot are privileged!’

      They soon found out what he meant. After dinner, which few of them could eat, being far too exhausted, they were marched back to the barracks, told to change back into their already filthy drill fatigues, then driven out of the camp in a Bedford. A good ten miles from the camp, in an area notable only for the anonymity of its jungle landscape – no towns, no kampongs – they were dropped off in pairs, each a few miles from the other, none having the slightest clue where they were, and told that if they wanted a good night’s sleep, they had to make their own way back to the camp as best they could. If they were not back by first light, when Reveille would be called, they would be RTU’d – sent straight back to Blighty.

      ‘Do we get even a compass?’ Boney Maronie asked. He and Pete Welsh were one of the first pairs to be dropped off.

      ‘No,’ Lorrimer replied. ‘What you get is the information that the camp is approximately ten miles north, south, east or west. The rest you have to find out for yourself. Have a nice evening, Trooper.’

      ‘Thanks, boss. Same to you.’

      In fact, all of them made it back, though by very different means. Boney Maronie and Peter Welsh marched until they came to a main road – an hour’s difficult hike in itself – then simply hitched a lift from a Malay banker whose journey home took him straight past the camp. Dennis the Menace and Dead-eye Dick had checked the direction of their journey in the Bedford, so they simply used the moon to give them an east-west reference and used that to guide them back the way they had come. After a walk that took them well past midnight, they came to a kampong where the headman, obviously delighted to have a chat with strangers, gave them dinner then drove them back to the base, depositing them there two hours before first light. Alf Laughton, dropped off with a recently badged trooper, formerly of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers, became disgusted with his young partner, deliberately lost him, then waylaid a passing cyclist, beat him unconscious, stole his bicycle and cycled most of the way back. Just before reaching the main gate of the camp, he dumped the bicycle and walked the rest of the way, thus ensuring that neither the assault nor the theft could be traced back to him.

      Others did even worse than Alf Laughton and, being found out, were RTU’d, as was Laughton’s unfortunate young partner.

      The rest, getting back successfully without committing any known criminal act, collapsed immediately on their beds and slept as long as they could. The ones who had the longest sleep were Boney Maronie and Pete Welsh, who had managed to get back two hours after leaving, earning almost a whole night in a proper bed.

      Few others were so lucky. Typical were Dennis the Menace and Dead-eye Dick, who, having not slept since leaving England nearly twenty-six hours earlier, managed to get two hours sleep before Reveille, at first light. After that, the whole murderous routine was repeated again – for seven relentless, soul-destroying days.

      All of this was merely a build-up to Johore, where, so Sergeant Lorrimer assured them, the ‘real’ jungle training would СКАЧАТЬ