of sunshine and happy, smiling people. Paradise on earth.’
After turning off the road to Salalah, the truck bounced and rattled along the ground beside a dirt track skirting the airfield. About three miles farther on, it came to a large camp surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, with watch-towers placed at regular intervals around its perimeter. Each tower held a couple of armed SAF soldiers, a machine-gun and a searchlight. There were stone-built protective walls, or sangars, manned by RAF guards, on both sides of the main gate.
‘This is Um al Gwarif, the HQ of the SAF,’ Sergeant Lampton explained as the truck halted at the main gate. A local soldier wearing a green shemagh and armed with a 7.62mm FN rifle checked the driver’s papers and then waved the Bedford through. The truck passed another watch-tower as it entered the camp. ‘Home, sweet home, lads.’
Had it not been for the exotic old whitewashed fort, complete with ramparts and slitted windows, located near the centre of the enclosure and flying the triangular red-and-green Omani flag from its highest turret, the place might have been a concentration camp.
‘That’s the Wali’s fort,’ Lampton explained like a tour guide. ‘That’s W-A-L-I. Not wally as you know it. Here, a Wali isn’t an idiot. He’s the Governor of the province. So that’s the Governor’s fort, the camp’s command post. And that,’ he continued, pointing to an old pump house and well just inside the main gate, beyond one of the sangars, ‘is where our running water comes from. Don’t drink it unless you’ve taken your Paludrine. There, behind the well, to the right of those palm trees, is the officers’ mess and accommodations.’ He pointed to the lines of prefabricated huts located near the Wali’s fort. ‘Those are the barracks for the SAF forces. However, you lads, being of greater substance, are relegated to tents.’
He grinned broadly when the men let out loud moans.
As the Bedford headed for the eastern corner of the camp, Ricketts saw that many of the SAF men were gathering outside their barracks, most wearing the same uniform, but with a mixture of red, green, sand and grey berets.
‘The SAF consists of four regiments,’ Lampton explained. ‘The Muscat Regiment, the Northern Frontier Regiment, the Desert Regiment and the Jebel Regiment. That, incidentally, is their order of superiority. While in the barracks, they can be distinguished from each other by their regimental beret. However, in the field they all wear a green, black and maroon patterned head-dress, known as a shemagh. As it’s made of loose cloth and wraps around the face to protect the nose and mouth from dust, you’ll all be given one to wear when you tackle the plateau.’
‘We’ll look like bloody Arabs,’ Bill complained.
‘No bad thing,’ Lampton said. ‘Incidentally, though there are a few Arab SAF officers, most of them are British – either seconded officers on loan from the British Army or contract officers.’
‘You mean mercenaries,’ Andrew objected.
‘They prefer the term “contract officers” and don’t you forget it.’
The Bedford came to a halt in a dusty clearing the size of a football pitch, containing two buildings: an armoury and a radio operations room. Everything else was in tents, shaded by palm trees and separated by defensive slit trenches. One of them was a large British Army marquee, used as the SAS basha, and off to the side were a number of bivouac tents.
The rest of the Bedfords had already arrived and were being unloaded as Ricketts and the others climbed out into fierce heat, drifting dust and buzzing clouds of flies and mosquitoes. Once the all-important radio equipment had been stored in the radio ops room, they picked up their bergens and kit belts and selected one of the large bivouac tents, which contained, as they saw when they entered, only rows of camp-beds covered in mosquito netting and resting on the hard desert floor. After picking a spot, each man unrolled his sleeping bag, using his kit belt as a makeshift pillow. Already bitten repeatedly by mosquitoes, all the men were now also covered in what seemed to be a permanent film of dust.
Even as Ricketts was settling down between Andrew and Gumboot, Lampton came in to tell them that they only had thirty minutes for a rest. ‘Then,’ he said as they groaned melodramatically, ‘you’re to report to the British Army marquee, known here as the “hotel”, for a briefing from the “green slime”.’ This mention of the Intelligence Corps provoked another bout of groans. When it had died down, Lampton added, grinning: ‘And don’t forget to take your Paludrine.’
‘I hear those anti-malaria tablets actually give you malaria,’ Bill said.
‘Take them anyway,’ Lampton said, then left them to their brief rest.
‘What a fucking dump,’ Gumboot said, lying back on his camp bed and waving the flies away from his face. ‘Dust, flies and mosquitoes.’
‘It’s all experience,’ Andrew said, tugging his boots off and massaging his toes. ‘Think of it as an exotic adventure. When you’re old and grey, you’ll be telling your kids about it, saying how great it was.’
‘Exaggerating wildly,’ Jock said from the other side of the tent. ‘A big fish getting bigger.’
Ricketts popped a Paludrine tablet into his mouth and washed it down with a drink from his water bottle. Then, feeling restless, he stood up. ‘No point in lying down for a miserable thirty minutes,’ he said. ‘It’ll just make us more tired than we are now. Half an hour is long enough to get a beer. Who’s coming with me?’
‘Good idea,’ Andrew said, heaving his massive bulk off his camp-bed.
‘Me, too,’ Gumboot said.
The rest followed suit and they all left the tent, walking the short distance to the large NAAFI tent and surprised to see a lot of frogs jumping about the dry, dusty ground. The NAAFI tent had a front wall of polyurethane cartons, originally the packing for weapons. Inside, there were a lot of six-foot tables and benches, at which some men were drinking beer, either from pint mugs or straight from the bottle. A shirtless young man smoking a pipe and sitting near the refrigerator introduced himself as Pete and said he was in charge of the canteen. He told them to help themselves, write their names and what they had had on the piece of paper on top of the fridge, and expect to be billed at the end of each month. All of them had a Tiger beer and sat at one of the tables.
‘So what do you think of the place?’ Pete asked them.
‘Real exotic,’ Gumboot said.
‘It’s not all that bad when you get used to it. I’ve been in worse holes.’
‘Who else is here?’ Ricketts asked.
‘Spooks, Signals, BATT, Ordnance, REME, Catering Corps, Royal Corps of Transport, Engineers.’
‘Spooks, meaning “green slime”,’ Ricketts said.
‘Yes. You’re SAS, right?’
‘Right.’
‘They’ll keep you busy here.’
‘I hope so,’ Andrew said. ‘I wouldn’t want to be bored in this hole. Time would stretch on for ever.’
‘At least we’ve got outdoor movies,’ Pete said, puffing clouds of smoke from his pipe. ‘They’re shown in the SAF camp. English movies one night, Indian ones the next. Just take a chair along with a bottle of
