The Galilee Legacy
By
Mervyn Finch MBE
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2003-9 by Mervyn Finch MBE
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author.
Smashwords Edition
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Author’s disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents mentioned in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Although the British military units mentioned are real, none of the events mentioned and described actually happened. The author has the utmost respect and admiration for these military formations, having had the honour to serve with them during the period of the initial deployment of BRITFORLEB to Beirut during February 1983.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events is entirely coincidental.
To my wife Rhona, my son Lee, and daughter Susan
A special thank you for all those who made it possible:
Lesley Anne Airth
Debbie Schryer
Allison Gibson
Stephanie Macaulay
Mike Smith
Charles Simpson
Bill Bawden
Sam Khatib
Michelle Gagnon
I would like to thank those professional and brave men who were deployed with British Forces Lebanon (BRITFORLEB) during 1983 for giving me the idea. The men of C Squadron, 1st The Queens Dragoon Guards and the support element personnel of HQ BRITFORLEB. Although we have long since moved on, some of them are still friends to this day.
Glossary of Terms and Acronyms
There is a glossary of terms and acronyms to help the reader understand the military and regional colloquialisms. This list can be found at the rear of the book.
Paper edition:
ISBN: 0968994032
Layout by Michelle Gagnon
Cover artwork by Merv Finch
Other works by the author that are available on Smashwords and through the author’s website at http://www.mervynfinch.com/:
The Pledge--A thriller set in Ottawa, Canada and Europe in the present day.
Warro--The Early Years (part one of an autobiographic trilogy).
Warro Yo--Twenty-two Years (part two of an autobiographic trilogy covering his service in the British Army).
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mervyn Finch, MBE, was born in Wolverhampton, England, in 1951. He was one of fourteen siblings in a working-class family. Merv left school at the age of fifteen to find work as a trainee carpenter, before signing up in 1970 for service in the British Army. He spent twenty-two years as a telecommunications specialist in the Royal Corps of Signals. He served in units as diverse as Maritime, Armoured, Tactical Air Support, Special Forces, and with the only tactical electronic warfare regiment in the British Army. He attained the rank of Warrant Officer Class One, and was awarded the prestigious “Member of the British Empire” (MBE) medal by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II in 1988.
On retirement in 1992, and after a short, if somewhat colourful, career in Technical Surveillance Counter Measures (TSCM) with a security consultancy firm in the south of England, Merv worked for ten years as a technical trainer and training instructional designer with a well-known telecommunications equipment manufacturer.
Merv is married, has two adult children, and now lives in Canada, where he has just attained citizenship and started his own business (www.course-we-can.com).
Other works include:
The Pledge--A thriller set in Ottawa and Europe in the present day.
Warro--The Early Years (part one of an autobiographic trilogy).
Warro Yo--Twenty-two Years (part two of an autobiographic trilogy).
1
The headmaster of Mountjoys School greeted the new arrivals with his usual demonstration of enthusiasm. It was the beginning of the autumn term and the summer holidays were over. It was Monday, September 2, 1963. For most of the new arrivals, their first impressions were that the school was a dank and depressing place that smelt of mould, damp plaster, and sweaty gymnasium changing rooms. The main assembly hall and all corridors leading off it were wood-panelled and echoed with the sound of boys talking, laughing, and reliving their summer holiday adventures. Now and again they could hear adult voices chastising in the distance, calling for order or threatening a boy for misbehaving.
Mountjoys School, Herefordshire, England, was a place of learning and boarding for lower upper class and upper middle class boys. It was a place where military officers or senior civil servants sent their young male offspring to get a structured and consistent education. It was also a place where expatriates and foreign parents could deposit their children and know that they would be safe and well looked after while they pursued their careers or followed their dreams. Except for the youngest grade, most of the boys had been there a long time or at least had attended the previous year’s terms. So nothing was new, nothing was scary or threatening anymore. On average, the boys were happy, and the parents who were dropping their children off for the first time could see this in the faces of the veterans. This made them feel easier about leaving their sons in the custody and safekeeping of Mountjoys.
Within one hour, all the parents had left and the new arrivals were left on their own with the headmaster in the main assembly hall. Mr. Peter J. Winters, MC, welcomed them again now that they were on their own. To the new arrivals he seemed like a nice man, a man who was approachable and not threatening like some headmasters they had known before coming to this school. He appeared to be very smart and well groomed. They began to feel at ease the more he told them about the history of the school and what its past student achievements had been.
After fifteen minutes of delivery and after asking the gathering of boys if they had any questions or issues, he asked one of the staff to take the boys to where they would be accommodated and to help them settle in before lessons began. The boys were led away to their respective dormitories by Mr. Yates, their housemaster.
Their first port of call before they went to their new rooms was to collect bedding from the school linen store. Having to carry their luggage and an arm full of bedding was not the easiest of feats, but they managed. Mr. Yates arranged them into an orderly file, and led them through the school to their new dorms. Most of the boys were sullen and unhappy about being separated from their families. Their shoes click-clacked on the hard parquet flooring as they shuffled along after the teacher. The school was a large complex of red-brick Victorian buildings, with large ornate windows and towers. It seemed as though they had been walking forever when they came upon the dorm room marked “Shakespeare.”
There were ten boys to a room. Each bed space had a metal framed bed that accommodated a stripped mattress and a single pillow. Next to the bed was a small locker with a simple bedside lamp balanced on top. Next to this stood a cheap plywood and pine wardrobe where all their possessions would be secured for the next four years.
One of the new arrivals was a boy called Thomas Carlisle. He was a brooding lad of thirteen years and three months. When the housemaster pointed to his bed space, he looked disdainfully at his neighbour in the next bed space who was a boy of Middle Eastern appearance. Carlisle was the son of a retired soldier. Unfortunately, his mother had recently died after a long and painful fight against cancer. His father thought his son should get the education that he himself had never had.
Jock Carlisle, Tom’s father, was a long-time friend of the headmaster of Mountjoys, having served together in the same regiment during the Second World War. Jock had been Lieutenant Winters’s patrol signaller, driver, and medic. Jock knew that his son would receive a fair and decent education in his old boss’s school. Since retiring from the army and not long after his wife’s premature death, he’d managed to secure a job in the Middle East. His employer was a UK-based oil company that needed someone of Jock’s background to manage security at one of its Omani petroleum-processing complexes. Jock knew that Tom needed stable schooling and a secure environment to continue his personal development. He elected to send Tom to Mountjoys after some very deep and careful soul searching.
Tom had not been happy to receive the news that he was to leave the school where all his friends were. He missed his mother very much and he’d only just started to get to know his dad. Now he was being sent away. Needless to say, Jock Carlisle had despatched a resentful and bitter son to Mountjoys.
During their short journey to the dormitory, Thomas vowed to one of his newly introduced class members that “he would not stay more than a week in this dump, you mark my word. My dad will come and get me out of here and I’ll be overseas with him soon.”
No sooner had the housemaster left the room, the boy in the next bed space attempted a heavily accented introduction to Tom. “Hello, I am Jon Kazzi,” he announced, with a friendly smile on his olive-skinned face.
Turning on his neighbour venomously, Tom replied, “Fuck off, you Pakkie twat!”
Smiling cordially, and trying not to let his temper get the better of him, Jon tried again. “Ah, you are obviously not English. Let me try my greeting a little slower for you. H-e-l-l-o, m-y n-a-m-e i-s J-o-n K-a-z-z-i.”
Tom glared back and questioned sarcastically, “Oh, Kazzi? That’s a wog shit ’ouse, ain’t it?” The rest of the boys in the dorm erupted into fits of laughter.
Tom only saw the flash of a bronzed forehead in front of his face. Then multiple fireworks overwhelmed his vision. This was followed by a burning sensation in his nose. A chorus of distorted noises echoed through his skull. The shock and force of the head butt made him crumple and fall into his bedside locker, smashing the lamp into three pieces. Before Tom could regain his composure, Jon had quickly straddled across him. He began delivering left and right punches to Tom’s head with thunderous force. Tom’s head shook with each blow. Numbing pain coursed through his face as he received each cracking punch. Luckily, however, he managed to recover enough to jerk his knee with such force into the middle of his assailant’s back that he dislodged him from his position of superiority. Jon was catapulted off Tom and into the locker in one jarring movement.
With tears of anger and pain running down his cheeks, and mixed with the blood from his nose, the boy from Hereford scrambled to his feet. He lashed out with his foot at the now-prone assailant, catching him in the stomach. Jon exhaled a deep rush of air as the wind was kicked out of him. He fell back and up against the bed in disarray. Tom was out for blood, because he could now see he had the advantage. The boys in the room cheered and screamed their encouragement for the local boy to “Do the wog in!” Picking up on their encouragement, he caught hold of Jon’s black curly hair with a tight grip. He pulled his head round so that he could deliver a blow to even the score. His fist smashed into Jon’s mouth, splitting his lip and dislodging two teeth in the process. Tom rained down blow after blow. Blood splattered over Jon’s chin and onto his shirt in red streaks. It was from that point that Tom remembered no more of the fight.
After hearing the ruckus from the other end of the corridor, the housemaster had quickly returned. He had struck Tom from behind with the flat of his hand, knocking him off Jon and over onto his face. Tom came to his senses as he was being dragged out of the dorm by the teacher. Glancing over he noticed that the “Pakkie” was in the same predicament as himself. The tutor was shouting and venting his anger on the two individuals who had dared to fight in his dormitory. He ranted and raved and growled at them that they were on their way to the headmaster’s study to be disciplined. The teacher gripped them strongly and ushered them quickly through the corridors, their feet hardly touching the floor as he whirled and whisked them along in his haste to get them chastised. Doors opened and inquisitive young heads peered through the gaps to watch the two offenders disappear around the corner.
“Well, do I need to ask who started it and why?” The headmaster’s voice boomed across the desk. “Not that I am too concerned about the answer. The fact that you dared to brawl in my school is justification in itself that you both be punished. No one fights in my school unless it is controlled aggression in the boxing ring.” He paced up and down in front of them for about a minute, thinking and growling in anger. Then he continued, “Your punishment shall be that you will volunteer for the boxing team and the school Army Cadet Force detachment!”
Stopping in front of them, he faced the two boys who were staring down at their feet. He shouted at them, “Look at me when I am addressing you!” Together, they jerked their heads up and locked their eyes with his. He carried on, “By joining these two teams, you will have whatever desire to fight or inflict injury on others channelled into disciplined and controlled aggression. You will learn that it is not normal to fight like animals, like primitive morons. You will learn that fighting is only a last resort when all efforts at talking and discussion are exhausted.”
The headmaster had spent the early war years as a platoon commander in the Staffordshire Regiment. He later volunteered to serve in the Special Air Service (SAS) Regiment when they formed up and began to recruit. He was one of the founding members, having been actively deployed on many missions in the North African desert and southern Italy. Prior to the war he was a mathematics schoolteacher and naturally came back into the profession at the end of hostilities. He was a keen advocate of fitness and was proud of the school’s own Cadet Force. He was a strong disciplinarian, but did not believe in corporal punishment or beatings of any kind. His way of dealing with problem boys was to put them in an environment where they would end up relying on each other. This would further help with the bonding he felt was necessary for all young men at this early age.
In this particular incident, Winters correctly guessed that because Jon Kazzi was of Middle Eastern origin, there were racial overtones to the dispute. He had to stop this, because bad publicity over such matters would be counterproductive for the school. This boy and many others from that part of the world would bring much-needed revenue to the school. He must make sure that no other such incident would occur again. After issuing his punishment he dismissed Jon, but retained Tom to try to gain a personal insight into his attitude and behaviour.
“I know you do not want to be here, boy. I also know that you were responsible for that fight with Kazzi.” He looked at Tom and asked, “Do you know where Kazzi is from, Carlisle?”
Tom shook his head and replied, “No, sir. I don’t.”
“He’s from the Middle East, lad. A country called Lebanon. Do you know where that is?” he asked as he glanced over from behind his desk.
“No, sir. I’m sorry, I don’t,” Tom replied sullenly. He had decided to be respectful in the hope of minimizing the damage when his father was notified of the incident. He loved his father and certainly didn’t want to upset him at this early stage in his new education. Although he wanted to be back with his father and friends in Hereford, he knew he would have to try and see this out, no matter how much he hated being there. He also knew his dad was leaving for Oman on the Wednesday, and he couldn’t very well go along with him. There was no one back in Hereford who could look after him, so it was a hopeless situation. In the short time between being hauled into the office and now, he had made up his mind that he should try to achieve something, rather than getting the hell out of there as he had hoped earlier. He wanted to make his father proud of him.
Winters replied, “I thought as much. Well, it is situated on the eastern shores of the Mediterranean Sea, just above Israel, and it is probably the biggest business and commerce centre of the Middle East. So is the city that Kazzi hails from. Beirut is its name. Have you ever heard of Beirut, Carlisle?”
“No, sir.”
“It is a beautiful city, with grand buildings and parks. It is the Monte Carlo of the Middle East. It is the centre of all commerce for that region. Before you vent your frustrations and fascist leanings again, you should know that Kazzi is like you, Carlisle, he’s British. In addition to that he is Lebanese. He has what is known as ‘dual citizenship,’ so in a way he has more than you, both in background and culture.” Mr. Winters pressed home his personal address. “You will find me a fair man, lad. A man who does not suffer fools gladly, either. At the moment you are giving me the impression that you are a fool, and I will not suffer you, Carlisle. So if you create any more trouble within these walls,” he glared into the boy’s eyes, “you will regret it, lad. Do you understand me?”
The boy got the message. “Yes, sir, I understand,” he mumbled.
“Am I making myself absolutely clear?” Mr. Winters raised his voice to emphasize his veiled threat.
“Yes, sir, very clear,” Tom replied curtly.
The headmaster continued. “I am aware, from your father, that you objected to coming here and that you may be a problem. Well, be that as it may. If you abscond from these premises or create any further trouble, I will not hesitate to expel you from the school. The repercussions would be that no other private school would want to touch you. Your father, as you are aware, is a very dear friend of mine from the war years. He has just retired from the regiment after giving them twenty-two years of loyal service. Any money he has managed to save during that time is now going into your education. Your father has instructed me that, should you not co-operate or participate in the learning process or activities of the school, I am to inform him immediately, at which time he will come to the school to ‘sort you out’ as he put it. Does this mean anything to you?”
The threat and the mention of his father struck home. Tom’s dad was a hard man who didn’t stand for any messing about. Jock Carlisle was a disciplinarian who made sure that all around him knew their station in life and never questioned his orders. His son was no exception to the rule. Tom knew exactly what the headmaster meant with this second question.
“Yes, sir, I understand,” he replied.
“Good. I see we both have an understanding now, don’t we? We both know that Thomas Carlisle is going to work hard and play hard in this school and not be a bigot or racist in any way or form, don’t we?”
Tom nodded in acknowledgement.
The headmaster then dismissed the boy under the charge of his housemaster. The latter was not of the same ilk as Mr. Winters and proceeded in batting Tom around the ears as he dragged him back to his dorm.
Once Carlisle had been marched out of his office, the headmaster thought he would look into the personal files of the two boys so he could get a better insight into their personalities. He usually did this for all new arrivals within the first two weeks. He then, as a matter of course, went around meeting the pupils individually. From the pen picture and the personal meeting, he usually managed to form a good impression of what the child was like as a person and what he would be like as an adult. Having spent a long time prior to the war teaching, he had got to know the workings of the young mind. Added together with his experience in the army during the war, he also saw what young minds matured into. After serving with some of his former pupils and seeing how they performed under pressure, he noticed that very few personalities changed between that of an adolescent and adulthood. He was convinced that the personality and morals of a man or woman were established during their early years and not through gradual maturity. He was also convinced that youth needed role models and should be taught and shown what respect is.
He opened up the bundle of school reports that had been despatched by Thomas Carlisle’s previous school. He read the academic markings for his generic studies: English--Excellent; French--Excellent; Mathematics--Good; Geography--Excellent; History--Good; Religious Education--Fair; Sports and Athletics--Exemplary. He then read the Pen Picture and General Report: Thomas Victor Carlisle. Thomas has, during his time at this school, demonstrated that he values a deep loyalty to those whom he deems as his friends. Thomas is pedantic, but endearing all the same. He can become somewhat frustrated by his peers when they do not demonstrate the same level of attention to detail as himself. He has an overpowering desire to succeed and win at whatever he does. Whenever he is given a job to do or project to work on, he goes out of his way to ensure it is completed within the timelines and usually above and beyond the levels of expectation of his tutors. He loves sport, in particular Rugby Football and Cross Country Running. Thomas also has a tremendous sense of humour that has been known to get him into trouble. His sense of fun and witty, fast tongue indicate that he is an intelligent boy. Given the right incentives and guidance, this young man will go far.
The headmaster smiled. “Yes,” he thought, “I will make sure this young man does go far.”
He then opened Jon Kazzi’s report from the Beirut Lebanese Anglican School. Although it was somewhat sparse in detail, he still managed to ascertain that this boy was uncannily similar in aptitude and had almost identical personality traits to Thomas Carlisle. “Yes,” he thought again, after reading the second report. “This young man also will go far…”
2
“What a horrible, scruffy bunch of individuals I see before me!” screamed the Permanent Staff Instructor (PSI) sergeant. “How am I to make soldiers out of such a pathetic example of humanity, eh?”
None of the boys answered; they had been told to stand at attention, only speak when spoken to, and then retort with the correct response. Sergeant Batt (the boys referred to him as “Ding”) was not a man to fool with. He had spent the fifties and the early part of the sixties in the regular army. His military career had been cut short through injuries received when his patrol was ambushed during active service on the Malay Peninsula. On his return to his native county of Herefordshire, the only employment he could find was agricultural or labouring. Then, by luck, he read in the local newspaper that Mountjoys School was looking for a Cadet Force, Company PSI. He applied, got interviewed, and was offered the job by the headmaster, Mr. Winters. This was a job he enjoyed tremendously because it gave him the chance to pass on his skills and knowledge to young, eager minds. The salary was meagre, but it managed to sustain him and his wife, Jo.
The Mountjoys Cadet Force Company numbered about 100 boys. Their ages ranged from twelve to sixteen years. Most were “volunteers” who had been conscripted after committing minor transgressions within the school. Each was required to complete at least four terms as a trainee. The retention rate, however, was surprisingly high. Most of the boys remained in the cadets at the end of their committal. By being in the Company, they had the chance to get out and away from school. Most weekends, they’d go into the countryside somewhere and play at soldiers. Otherwise, it was normal studies and boring extramural activities such as model making, art, or music that were imposed upon them. The retention rate was understandable.
Jon and Tom had been volunteered along with another ten boys, all of whom had been disciplined for fighting or other minor offences. It was the first Saturday morning after their encounter with the headmaster. Together, they were paraded on the school playground (during cadet time it was referred to as “The Square”). Each cadet was kitted out in ill-fitting, post-World War II battle fatigues. These garments were leftovers from some long-forgotten campaign. The heavy, itchy clothing smelt of sweat and mothballs and gave the wearer an uncomfortable feeling that someone had, at some time, either died in them or just rotted away. Some of the tunics had repair holes in the chest or abdomen region. This further added to speculation that they had been issued to regular army units on the D-Day landings. Tom reasoned that, if regular army soldiers used them, then they must have been a regiment of midgets or dwarfs. Rumours were rife as to the possibility of having haunted kit. This, no doubt, would have a detrimental effect on the wearer’s life expectancy, especially at the hands of “Ding-Batt.”
Sergeant Batt stood erect and domineering in front of the boys as he continued his welcome. “Good morning, volunteers of Zulu Section. Welcome to your basic training term. We in the school Cadet Force greet you and wish you a pleasant time.” A smile spread across his face and his eyes flashed from one recruit to another as he continued. “Although you be boys, from now on you shall be treated like men and be expected to behave like men. Do you understand me?”
Together they replied, “Yes, Sergeant!”
“I can’t hear you!”
“Yes, Sergeant!” The reply came louder this time.
Basic training of the new cadets began in earnest that first weekend. The twelve members of Zulu Section were taught at a hectic pace. The new recruits didn’t have time to get bored or wonder what was next, because the busy training schedule ensured that no time was wasted.
On the Saturday morning, along with the other cadets, they did two hours of drill, followed by map reading or, as Ding-Batt called it, navigation. At times the drill proved to be too funny and sometimes too complicated to comprehend. Even though he was usually serious, Ding-Batt could be extremely funny with his comments and suggestions. The boys all respected him and, in a masochistic way, they liked him, too. In the afternoon, they were taught field-craft and the basics of tactics. In the evening, they were taken on a route march of five miles. This culminated in a camp and bonfire rendezvous, where they ate heartily, sang songs, and listened to their PSI tell them war stories or, as Ding called them, “When-eyes.” He’d start each tale with, “When I was in . . .” or “When I served in . . .”
The cadets awoke early on Sunday morning to the sound of the sergeant’s voice booming out across the field where they were camped. They started the day with physical training. This consisted of running around the field at the double. Then, they were arranged in squads of twenty and made to follow the physical routine demonstrated by the senior non-commissioned officer (SNCO). Jon thought they must have looked comical from a distance, all bowing, swaying, and jumping in unison. After an hour of hot, exhausting exercises, they were divided into two large squads. Ding commanded the first squad and the other squad was commanded by one of the older cadets, who followed up behind. They were marched back to school.
After attending a late morning church assembly, the boys were paraded on the square for the last time. Eventually, Sunday lunch was upon them and so was the end of training. They were exhausted, but everyone had enjoyed the weekend’s experience. They had certainly shared many laughs at the expense of everyone involved. Sergeant Batt was an excellent instructor and he knew exactly how to keep the boys interested. This was the start of a series of interesting activities and training sessions that would eventually culminate in the end-of-term exercise.
Jon and Tom kept their distance during both school activities and cadets. In the evening recreation periods they avoided each other’s company, too. Each would seek solace with his own clique of friends, rather than tempt another conflict. They even avoided eye contact, let alone invading each other’s space. Everyone recognized that they were the best of enemies and the situation should be left that way.
Academically, both were exceptional students. Jon demonstrated a natural ability for mathematics and science, and Tom excelled in English and geography. Both boys did well in languages. Jon progressively improved his French, while Tom concentrated on Arabic and Spanish. Tom’s father had advised him that Arabic or Spanish would stand him well in the future, so Tom chose both languages. He found he struggled with the guttural aspects of the Arabic dialect, but worked hard and improved quickly.
On the cadet front, each demonstrated a natural ability for soldiering. Both began to enjoy the difference between academics and the physical and demanding work of military training. Sergeant Batt was a good instructor and he trained them well. By the end of winter term, Zulu Section had successfully conducted their “pass-off” parade and all had qualified to be assimilated into their respective platoons in the school force.
The force was named B Company of the Herefordshire Cadet Force. It now numbered 140 cadets, which was an extremely good attendance compared to other schools and boroughs that sponsored a cadet contingent. The headmaster had instructed Sergeant Batt to place Jon and Tom in the same section within 1 Platoon. This was done as requested, and both of them joined the platoon at the beginning of the 1964 spring term.
Because they were still fairly new, their elders and the more senior members of the platoon treated them with contempt. The platoon cadet sergeant was a sixteen-year-old boy named Simon Hill-Brooks. He was the son of a low-level British diplomat who was stationed in some foreign country that had a name no one could pronounce. Simon had been at Mountjoys for over five years. He had been a member of the Cadet Force since he arrived, and as such, prided himself on his senior appointment within the school force. However, his promotion was merely a time-served honour, rather than a reflection of his ability: Simon couldn’t make decisions and had difficulty with some of the basic military skills in which he was expected to demonstrate leadership. Unfortunately for the other boys, he was also an arrogant bully who kept a tight rein on the boys under his command. Sergeant Batt was well aware of his personality, but hoped that the responsibility of command would shape Simon into a better person.
Training for the boys of 1 Platoon was extensive and the complexity increased throughout the early spring months. By the end of spring, most had improved their skills and military bearing. The aim of the extensive training was to prepare the boys for a large Cadet Force exercise that would take place in the latter part of July. This exercise was called “Summer Saunter.” It was an escape and evasion exercise that would test the boys’ survival skills and navigation abilities.
There was a lot of speculation regarding what the exercise would entail. Sergeant Batt had given them an outline briefing about what to expect, but they were still waiting for the official operational orders that the colonel was working on. Mr. Winters still retained his commission and served as a colonel commandant of the County Cadet Force. He was the organizing officer, and he and Sergeant Batt had been working out the details and logistic requirements since they were tasked to run the exercise by the Birmingham-based regional Cadet Force headquarters. They put together an extensive training programme to ensure the young men of the force would be prepared for whatever was thrown at them during the exercise.
Their training schedule began in April. The first weekend away from the school, Sergeant Batt took the boys on a survival course. From Friday evening until Sunday morning they lived outdoors, learning how to live off the land. They were taken to the Welsh mountain area of Brecon; the drop-off point was the Storey Arms public house. The quaint Welsh pub stood at the side of the main road that ran down the valley, which cut between two large mountains called Fan Fawr and Pen y Fan. Upon their arrival at the drop-off point, they were instructed to secure their gear and make sure their footwear was snug and comfortable. The boys didn’t have a clue where they were. It was getting dark when they arrived, and Sergeant Batt moved them off at a brisk pace for a three-mile walk to the lie-up position (LUP).
The walk into the LUP was steady and not too stressful. The weekend was not going to be a tactical training session, but an interesting survival component in their instruction. Their “bashas” (an expression used by Ding-Batt to mean “shelter”) were quickly erected. They were simple, canvas-sheet shelters that had been dyed green and black by the boys during one of their art periods. Once the shelters were constructed, the boys placed their sleeping mats on the ground and then placed their large packs, belt kit, and pouches under the cover to keep them dry. It was quite late by the time they had finished setting up their bashas. It had long since been dark, and the evening was turning into full night. Eventually, they were instructed to get some sleep by the PSI. They didn’t need too much encouragement--within minutes they were all fast asleep.
On the Saturday morning, Sergeant Batt woke the platoon up with a cheerful smile and an encouraging description about what the day offered. “Gentlemen, today we are going to learn how to live off the land. Normally, this would take years to take in, but we only have today and tomorrow morning to do what would take a caveman all his life to learn. Looking at the state of some of you lads after last night’s sleep, you’re half way to becoming cavemen.”
The boys laughed at their appearance and instantly began to look forward to the day’s instruction. Batt instructed them to start by preparing their breakfast. Tom had been the most observant of the boys and had noticed that no rations had been loaded on the truck or issued at the LUP. He was the first to brave the question, “Sergeant, what’s for breakfast?”
Batt responded to the question with a big smile on his face. “Whatever you can find, lad, whatever you can find. But you have just one hour to catch it, find it, or grow it. We start the instructional period at zero eight hundred hours, so you’d better get a grip, eh?”
One of the other boys replied before Tom had a chance to counter his sarcasm. “I’m starving, Sergeant, I didn’t get any supper last night because I was too tired.”
“Tango Sierra,” replied the SNCO. This was another one of his euphemisms, which meant “tough shit.” He then shouted at them, “Get your act together, Gents, it’s going to be a long day, and believe me, it’s going to be a hungry one, too.”
Mumbles of discontent and dissension came from the ranks as they sauntered off to see what they could obtain for food within one hour. Sergeant Batt watched with quiet satisfaction from his vantage point some fifty yards from the LUP. He chuckled to himself as he observed four boys walking in a line upstream in the small river that ran parallel to the camp. Now and again one of them would stoop down, watch the water carefully and then lunge headfirst into the water in an attempt to catch a small fish he had seen. A couple of lads picked at the odd leaves on wild plants and test-tasted them, before screwing up their faces in disgust and spitting out the pulp in rejection. The hour passed quickly and at the end, Sergeant Batt called the lads to order and assembled them in a flat, grassed area that he had selected as his instructional site earlier that morning. Gloating at them with a certain amount of satisfaction, he asked, “Has anyone eaten yet?”
In unison, they replied, “No, Sergeant.”
Smiling, he announced, “Well, I hope you will all be in a position to say ‘yes’ by the end of the day. That, of course, depends on you, because I have brought along no rations; so if you can’t catch or find food, you’re going to go hungry, aren’t you?”
In unison, they replied, “Yes, Sergeant.”
With this, he started the training schedule for the next twenty-four hours.
3
The first lesson in survival that Sergeant Batt gave the boys of 1 Platoon on that Saturday morning was how to make a shelter. He explained that, in a survival situation, you had to make sure you had comfort and shelter from the elements before you even thought about food. He demonstrated how to build one of the easiest and quickest forms of shelter, a lean-to. Within an hour of starting the building project, the lads realized that the key to survival was having a good knife and lots of string or rope. Without these basics, life could prove to be difficult. Fortunately for the boys, Batt had brought a knife and a ball of string along for each patrol of four boys. These were the only provisions he allowed them to have. He also explained that, should they be in a survival situation and should they find plastic sheeting, they would need to secure it for use in making shelter covers or ground sheets, or for lining pits to keep water for drinking.
After an hour, they had all successfully constructed their own shelter. The next priority was warmth. The SNCO demonstrated how to make a fire. The boys were under the impression that making a fire was simple; one just lit a match. Their disappointment became quickly apparent when he informed them that they would not have matches. Skilfully, Batt constructed a small bow from a piece of willow and string and showed them how to light a fire with a small hardwood stick and a softwood base. After Batt’s expert demonstration, the boys went away and made attempts at making their own fires. Within forty-five minutes, each shelter had a fire. Sergeant Batt advised them that they should practise this skill, but not in the dorms of course, which brought a bout of laughter from the boys.
They had shelter and warmth. Now, the next important thing for them to have was water. The instructor advised them that each patrol should split into two groups of two. One pair would be responsible for foraging for enough firewood to last at least twenty-four hours. The other pair would be responsible for obtaining water for drinking and cooking. Sergeant Batt demonstrated how to dig a pit and line it with a canvas sheet. He then handed out one more provision that was very important in survival, a condom, or as the boys colloquially called it, a “Johnny.” To their amusement, each patrol received one Johnny for the purpose of fetching and carrying water. He chuckled while he watched eight boys, one from each shelter, staggering back from the river with the large balloon filled with water. Every once in a while one of them would let go of the end and water would gush out uncontrollably, forcing the wet, bedraggled youngster to go back and try again.
Time flew by. It was noon before the boys realized that they still hadn’t eaten. They were learning a lot, but their receptiveness to instruction was waning the more they thought about food. Sergeant Batt anticipated this and had planned an activity to keep them focused. He announced, “Gentlemen, your next requirement is sustenance. I will now teach you how to obtain food for free!” He stood up and motioned them to the next instructional area. They went down to the river, upstream from where they had retrieved their water. “Listen and learn.” He warned, “If you don’t, you won’t get any sustenance until we return to school tomorrow.”
Their next lessons included how to catch fish using improvised snares and fishing poles, and how to snare rabbits and birds. He did not use any special props or equipment; he used actual materials that he found in the local area. He caught a small brown trout within minutes of casting in his trigger line. A rabbit snare he had set earlier that morning had been triggered and it held a dead rabbit. The boys were taught what wild flowers and plants they could eat safely, such as the leaves and roots of the dandelion. New beech tree leaves made a marvellous salad and proved to be high in vitamin C. He showed them how to dress the fish and how to skin and cook the rabbit. They enjoyed the lesson thoroughly, and by the time he had finished, they were both hungry and keen to practise what they had been taught.
For the remainder of the afternoon, he supervised their foraging and hunting activities. He watched with a feeling of pride as the first lad caught a large trout within seconds of casting in his line. By six p.m., each shelter had a warm fire glowing in front of it, and smoke rose into the late spring evening sky. The smell of cooking fish and rabbit wafted through the small valley enticingly. Cheerful banter ebbed away into the night and before long the campsite was quiet. Sleep soon befell the “survivors” and they dreamed of another day of learning how to live off the land. What they didn’t know was that the next day was an evasion exercise that would bring their personalities to the fore as well as their abilities.
“Wakey, wakey, rise and shine, the ship’s sinking!” Batt shouted at the top of his voice at 5:30 a.m. on the cold, crisp, spring Sunday morning in the Brecon Beacons. “Come on, Gents, let’s get out of our pits, shall we? There’s an exciting day ahead of us and I wouldn’t want you blokes to miss that, now would I?” he taunted them with a big smile on his rugged face.
Without a doubt, very few of them had had a decent night’s sleep. Most were hungry still, because they’d only eaten part of a rabbit, or a small portion of fish, these morsels topped by a soggy, unsalted mush known as dandelion roots. Morale was low to say the least. The cadets crawled out from under their respective field blankets and pulled on their damp, cold boots. Mumbles of discontent resounded throughout the campsite. They looked dirty and dishevelled, due to the residue of smoke and ash from their fires, which in most cases had gone out during the night from lack of attention. It was this sight that prompted the SNCO to instigate a refreshing wash in the river before they did anything.
“Gentlemen, you look like a load of waifs from a Dickens novel. I reckon a good wash and brush up would wake you up and make you reasonably presentable. Don’t you think?” he asked, smiling broadly. The response was exactly as he had anticipated. “Stop whinging and get your bums down to the river and let me see you all have a decent hands and face wash. We are ‘surviving,’ and one wouldn’t expect you to be carrying your toothpaste and brushes. But I don’t want you going back to school this afternoon with breath that smells like a baboon’s bum. So, get yourselves cleaned up and make it toot sweet. Move!”
He enjoyed his job, especially when he was teaching young minds useful information.
When Batt had served in the Malay jungle, he had once been separated from his patrol for five days. He had learned about survival prior to deployment, but more so during that unplanned, on-the-job training session. He learned more during those five days than any classroom instruction could ever have taught. Having the will to survive was half the battle. Being able to survive with skills that you had acquired during training was the other requirement. His role was to provide these young men with the skills. Could he teach them the will to survive? He doubted that, because having the will was a personal thing, and he couldn’t instil that in any man, let alone in a lad less than sixteen years old.
Once they had completed their toiletries, the platoon was formed up again and ordered to go out and forage for food. One fish was caught, but unfortunately the rabbit snares yielded nothing. The lads did manage to dig up enough dandelion roots to feed an army. Fortunately for the boys, Sergeant Batt had brought in twelve live chickens during the night. A quick demonstration on how to kill them was given by the SNCO. He taught them how to skin the bird, rather than waste valuable time and energy plucking it. Each patrol of four boys was given a single chicken. Then, for half an hour, Batt was once again given a comedy show at the boys’ expense. Some were too squeamish, refusing to pull the neck off their prey, and they argued amongst each other. They passed the poor bird from one pair of unwilling hands to another. Now and again, a chicken got away and for a few minutes, and Batt would watch in total amusement as the four young lads chased it around until eventually one of them managed to grab the bird by the legs. Eventually, they all managed to kill the birds and skin them for cooking. Another hour went by while they burnt their respective portions on the re-ignited fires. Complaining as usual, but eating the blackened offerings, the boys finished their breakfast by 8:30 a.m. Sergeant Batt instructed them to douse the fires and dismantle the shelters, ensuring they returned the saplings and branches back to the small copse of trees from where they had collected them the previous day.
At 9:00 that morning, Sergeant Batt gave his last instructional period of the day. Prior to the survival weekend, the boys had all received training on navigation and map reading. The SNCO’s map reading session that morning had one important difference. He explained that in an escape and evasion situation, they would not have the luxury of printed ordnance maps or charts. Using a story from the Second World War, he outlined what prisoners had to do in Germany when they planned to escape. Having had a brief exposure to real maps, prisoners had attempted to quickly copy the map to the best of their ability. He gave a demonstration on how it was done. Using a handkerchief, he quickly sketched the main features of the map of the Brecons. Drawing with a soft pencil, he sketched the contours and shape of the prominent hills. He copied the curves and twists in roads and rivers, streams and re-entrants. Where there were buildings or pylon lines, he rapidly annotated the map accordingly. Within five minutes, he had created as good a copy as could be expected.
The next part of the instruction was to give each of the boys a piece of paper and a pencil. To each patrol, he gave a map of the area they were in. Timing them, he gave them five minutes to draw their own interpretation of the topographical map. Upon completion, he looked at each one quickly to see if there was a semblance of commonality between the real map and the sketch. Unfortunately, there were few that could be used as navigation aids.
Sergeant Batt looked at his watch and noticed it was 10:30 a.m. The morning was fast approaching afternoon and he needed to get a move on. He then gave them a briefing regarding what they were going to do for the last part of the day. “Gents, in fifteen minutes you are each going to be part of an evasion exercise, called exercise Short Hop. I will once again give you access to the map. Each patrol leader will be given a piece of linen and a pencil. Each patrol will be given a destination to head for and a compass to help you navigate. You will not mark your map copy with that destination, but commit it to memory. I have enlisted the services of a local Territorial Army unit to help in searching for you. They will not show you much leniency and they might get a bit heavy so to speak. So do not get caught. The distance for your ‘run’ is only four miles. Not far, I admit, but it will be enough to test your navigational and evasion skills.
“Remember, keep low, use cover, and move quickly. Each patrol commander will have the honour of copying the map and carrying the compass. Don’t forget, you are a team, so make sure you work as one. Share decisions and agree together on routes and all courses of action. Any questions so far?”
One lad put his hand up and asked, “What if we get lost, Sarge? When is our cut-off time before we try to find a telephone?”
Batt replied, “I will cover that in a minute. Any questions about what the aims of the exercise are?” There were none.
“Right, the patrol commander will also be given enough change and an emergency telephone number should you get into difficulties. A medic and I will also be driving along the main road at intermittent periods. We are exercise directional staff and should not be viewed as hostile. We will be in this Champ ambulance.” He pointed to the vehicle that had just arrived at the campsite, complete with a driver medic. “The area of operation is not too hazardous, and as long as you stay within the valley and head towards your RV, you should have no problems. You will each be given a full water bottle and a bar of chocolate that will last you through the exercise. No more food or water will be given. Any questions so far?” None were asked and he continued with the briefing.
At the end of the briefing, all patrol commanders were asked to report to Sergeant Batt to receive resources and rations. Jon and Tom’s patrol commander was Cadet Sergeant Simon Hill-Brooks, and he reported to Batt along with the others. There were four lads in the Hill-Brooks team, Jon Kazzi, Tom Carlisle, Daniel Wernick and of course Simon. Simon, like the other patrol commanders, had five minutes to copy the map and memorize the final RV. He picked up the change and telephone number, four bars of chocolate and four full water bottles. When he returned, he distributed the rations amongst the patrol. Just before they departed, he called the others over for a team briefing. In his posh, public school accent he addressed them.
“Right you lot of oiks, I am in charge here and don’t you forget it. I have been in this force for four years now, and I know my stuff. What I say goes and if any of you think otherwise, you have got another think coming. Okay? Do we understand?” Hill-Brooks arrogantly berated them. He made no attempt at showing them the map or indicating to them where they were going. All he cared about was that he had to establish his appointment and position within the patrol.
Tom, who like the others was instantly annoyed by his attitude, asked him a question. “Where the bloody hell are we going, Cadet Sergeant?” There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “We know you’re in charge, after all you’re a bloody sergeant, aren’t you? We may be just ‘Buck-shees,’ but we need to know where we are, where we’re going, and how. So would you mind doing us that honour first, Cadet Sergeant?”
Hill-Brooks took an instant dislike to the new member of his platoon. Carlisle’s attitude rubbed him up the wrong way. Lurching forward, he grabbed Tom by the lapel of his tunic. “Don’t fuck about with me, you common little shit. I’ll take you to where we have to go and you can just wind your neck in and shut up, or I’ll punch your fucking face in. Understand me?”
Tom decided to err on the side of caution. He nodded and looked away disdainfully. He didn’t want any hassle, after all; he had only just joined the platoon after basic training.
Simon pushed him back into the gathering of the others in the patrol, half answering Tom’s question. “We are going to a place called The Storey Arms. It’s a pub . . . right? The one we got dropped off at last night. If the hunter force catches you, you do not, I repeat, you do not tell them that or anything other than your name. Okay?”
They nodded in agreement, but each one would have dearly liked the opportunity to have had a look at his sketch map for their own peace of mind. This was not to be the case, because Sergeant Batt blew his whistle and instructed the first two patrols to depart. He warned them not to bunch together, because the larger the group, the easier it would be for the hunter force to detect them.
They didn’t know that the hunter force wasn’t going to be deployed until noon and was limited to two sections from the mortar platoon of the Royal Welch Fusiliers. The hunter force was equipped with three Champ light trucks. They had been given an area of operation that restricted them to a square mile in the middle of the valley that the boys were supposed to pass through. In theory, if the patrols avoided the road that ran down the middle of the valley between the release point and the final RV, they should have no problems avoiding contact.
Hill-Brooks’s patrol was the sixth to be despatched. During the map sketch session, Batt had pressed home that they were not to go out of the valley at any time. The Welsh mountains could be a cruel and dangerous place to be in any season, and for that reason the boys were told not to go too high. Unfortunately, Batt had not accounted for Simon’s poor navigation and leadership. Soon after the four boys had left the despatch point, the patrol leader started to show signs of incompetence. They had only been running for about half a mile when he ushered them into a meadow at the side of the road. He hurried them all over to a line of hawthorn bushes that formed a hedgerow on the far side of the small meadow. Simon told them to get down and keep still. He fumbled in his pocket for his sketch map and pulled it out. He took his compass out of his map pocket and laid it on what he thought he had drawn as his “northings” line.
Unfortunately, he had totally failed to annotate any “northings” or “eastings.” Within half a mile of leaving the safety area, he had become disoriented. He turned the compass line-of-march arrow towards the assigned RV. He folded up the map and crouched under the cover of the hawthorn, then turned around until the needle pointed to the north. He assessed that the “march” arrow was telling him which way to go. The other three members of the patrol continued to be left in the dark. They didn’t know where they were, or what the lay of the land looked like. They just knew that they had to get to a pub called the Storey Arms. Hill-Brooks confidently pointed in the direction that the compass told him to go. He pointed straight up the side of the valley and towards the mountains that he had been told not to go near. “Follow me men, we go this way.”
Gingerly they picked their way through tussock grass and gorse bushes, climbing higher and higher. Gradually, the hedgerows gave way to wire fences, which soon diminished the higher they climbed. Now and again they would disturb grazing sheep that were scattered intermittently across the mountainsides. The weather became colder and the wind started to pick up. Banks of mist drifted past them, interspersed by drizzle. They had been walking for about an hour and had covered about 1 1/2 miles when Jon challenged Simon from the rear of the patrol. “Hey, Cadet Sergeant, why are we climbing so high? Shouldn’t we be following the valley and walking in that direction?” he queried.