A young Sappers experience of up-country
Aden 1966/67
By Pete Salisbury (Sapper)
30 Field Squadron 'Dirty 30' Royal Engineers

"On the 12th October 1966, I made my way to RAF Brize Norton to meet up with the Squadron for the flight out to Aden. I was standing in the queue for a meal in the RAF canteen when someone said, "Hi Pete, how’s it going?" It was one of those coincidences, as there standing behind the counter serving was David Rowe, an old friend of mine from the village back in Cornwall, who was now a cook in the RAF!

A couple of hours later, on a cold wet night, the Squadron flew off on a British United aircraft to Aden, via Malta.

Aden, in South Arabia.

It was quite an 'interesting' flight in that as we flew over Switzerland we hit clear air turbulence and there was no warning of this. The captain had actually been talking over the intercom telling us that out of the port side we could see such and such a mountain and out of the starboard side when suddenly the aircraft fell out of the sky. The air hostess, who was pushing a little trolley around, was thrown all over the place, cans of drinks and pastries filled the cabin, and overhead lockers deposited their contents onto the soldiers below. We fell for what must have been hundreds of feet. We finally hit bottom and being in the window seat I watched as the wings bent upwards – I felt surely they must snap. It was by fixing my eyes on those little words 'Rolls Royce' I could see displayed on the engines that stopped me dying of fear.

Within a few minutes order began to return, and a cleanup took place. No one had physically been harmed but I decided there and then I did not like flying I can tell you, and with individual future flights during which a window cracked over Iran, a wing touched the runway on landing at Luton, and a fire broke out on landing at Kai Tak, I’m definitely not keen.

The aircraft came to a halt on the airstrip at RAF Khormaksar in Aden, the doors opened and a blast of searing heat hit us. It was in the high 90s, which was one hell of a contrast to the weather we had just left the previous evening.

Herded onto guarded buses, we were driven from Khormaksar to our base a few miles away. The sun was overpowering and a heat haze rose off the tarmac road as we drove along. We passed many military vehicles with very alert armed soldiers on board vigilantly looking up at buildings they passed. We had to remember this was an 'Active Service' area and many British soldiers had been killed here. We were shown to our Nissan huts, which would be our accommodation for the next week. Each hut had a massive four-foot diameter fan built into the wall at one end, which was a totally ineffective attempt to cool the furnace of corrugated iron down, and all it achieved was to blow hot air. The showers were served with two pipes; one buried a foot underground, which was designated the 'cold' and the surface-laid one the 'hot' – no need for a boiler room.

We would be here for a week to 'acclimatize' before being sent the seventy miles up-country to Habilayn, by the Yemen border, where we were to relieve another Engineer squadron.

We received quite a few briefings as to the situation in Aden. It had been a British colony for a long time but the nationals were clamouring for independence. There was a terrorist faction called FLOSY (Freedom and Liberation for Occupied South Yemen) who were fully supported from the Yemen. They were a nasty bunch and not averse to booby trapping children’s dollies, then at night sneaking past sentries, cutting a little hole in the security fence and placing them in the back gardens of the married soldiers' quarters. Next morning little Mary goes out to play, finds a pretty little dolly, and picks it up and that’s the end of that child.

Then there was the FNG (the Federal National Guard) who were more or less supposed to oppose the FLOSY, but could swing either way.

So we were told in short; don’t trust anyone!

It was hellish the first few days. We were taken out on runs through the sand, carrying our rifles and copious amounts of drinking water to replace the gallons we were losing in sweat. It was a chargeable offence to get sunburnt, as it was classed as 'self-inflicted wounds' and it was quite usual to see Sappers, obviously walking about in great pain, who had been badly burnt because they thought the sun was no hotter than a summer's day in Britain but who had not reported sick as they didn’t want to be charged.

After our week's acclimatization we were ordered onto open three-ton trucks which had a layer of sandbags on the floor. We sat back to back with our weapons loaded and nervously vigilant looking out of the sides of the uncovered wagon. We set off in convoy with armoured vehicles at the front and back for the seventy-mile desert journey up-country. Going through the streets of Crater we could see the Arabs were none to friendly towards us, standing and staring with ill-disguised hate as we passed them. This idea was reinforced when the leading Saladin armoured vehicle hit an anti-personnel mine, which apart from blowing off the front tyre, frightened the crap out of us. We had arrived.

Almost four hours later, being driven along bumpy tarmac roads through treeless desert with the sun beating down out of a cloudless sky, we drew into Habilayn, a base camp from where we were to construct the 'Dhala Road Spur' ostensibly to allow the locals to get their goods to market, but in reality a way of getting troops into the northern parts of Aden and near the Yemen to quell dissidents.

It was as we were about to draw into camp that our convoy was halted by a line of soldiers shuffling across the entrance, each with some injury or other. At least three with blood soaked bandages around their heads, others on crutches, another two carrying a blood-soaked man on a stretcher. What the hell had happened here we wondered as we fell silent in respect of whatever catastrophe had occurred, surreptitiously craning our necks to watch this very sad procession.

Two minutes later all was revealed as the 'injured' suddenly started to hoot with laughter. Turned out it was the traditional way each unit welcomed their relief unit; this was 36 Engineer Regiment who would shortly be on their way back to England. Bastards.

Our home for the next six months was one of the small marquee tents that had room for eight of us. On the outside a five-foot wall of sandbags had been built all the way around leaving a gap for the entrance. Inside, another sandbag wall had been built around three sides of each bed space. (The beds were just camp beds and in fact after a while they become quite comfortable, moulding to the shape of the body. Six weeks later the QM had, after considerable effort, managed to get traditional steel beds with latex mattresses sent up from Aden and, guess what, a lot of blokes did not want the bloody things, as the camp beds were too comfortable).

At the end of the tent, opposite the entrance, was an underground bunker called a 'funk hole'; a scooped burrow five feet deep with boards across it with a layer of sandbags on top and just enough room for the occupants of the tent to squeeze into. This was supposed to be used if the camp came under attack, and that was pretty often.

One of the downsides of up-country Aden (was there an upside?) was the flies, not just little ones, but great big bluebottles. I suppose having the base dump just half a mile away did not help the situation. Come mealtimes, it was a usual routine when the plague of flies were at their worse, to collect your meal on your tin plate, and sit in the mess tent with a mate. He would cover his own plate with a piece of cardboard whilst he used his hands to wave away the flies who were trying to get onto your own food, stamp it with their feet and vomit into it - as flies do. Then you’d return the favour as soon as you had eaten. Unsurprisingly we had a lot of stomach upsets in Habilayn.

We had only been there a day and were still settling in when we had our first attack. This proved to be unusual as it was during the day and it seemed most attacks on the camp were during the night. Anyway there was an explosion from the edge of our complex and a short exchange of fire, and that was it. This had happened so quickly no one really knew what was going on, and we shortly learned that a 'Blinderzide' (a kind of rocket) had been fired at the camp from the north somewhere – the Yemen border was only a couple of miles away – and someone must have sneaked down. One of the sangers (fortified look-outs) had fired a few bursts into what they supposed was the general direction from where the rocket had come and peace had returned.

No harm done.

However, it appeared that when the explosion had occurred one of our officers, whom we called ‘Hairy-Fairy’(he had large side-burns and was, shall we say, effeminate in his demeanour), had leapt into an armoured vehicle, a Saracen, closed the doors and refused to let anyone else in. Mutterings of "cowardly tosser" spread around the camp like wildfire, sentiments it seems that reached his own ears within an hour or so. It was pitiable to watch, but he called the Squadron together and attempted to bluster away his actions as totally normal and he had not refused entry to anyone, although his Driver and Radio Operator countered this later. Sad bastard.

It was to be three days before we were due to start where the other Engineer regiment had left off, which was enough time to get stores unloaded and try and get used to the sun. During the day we wore desert boots but after work I had taken to wearing flip-flops as your feet did not sweat so much. It was the evening of the second day that something occurred to make me change my mind and go back to good old trusty thick boots.

The sun had just set and I had picked up a towel from my bed and was on my way to the showers, which was a tin shed with a large square tank on the roof complete with some six metal roses.

Because that area of the camp was not illuminated, I would carry my torch with me. I was near the showers when my arm caught a sandbag on the corner of one of the tents and the torch, still on, fell to the ground. I looked down and thought I could see something moving in its beam. Closer examination and I recoiled, for in the beam I could make out about a dozen scorpions scampering around. I must admit I felt pretty vulnerable tramping around in my flip-flops. A quick flash of the torch showed there were dozens of the little buggers all over the place – "Sod this!" - about turn and deftly stepping over and around the insects made my way back to the tent to put my boots on.

As I had mentioned earlier, we were up here to build a side road off the Dhala Road that was to be known as 'The Dhala Road Spur'. Whilst the road was being constructed from the main road a troop of Sappers were about four miles further on across the open desert, building a large reinforced concrete crossing in a wadi (dried up river bed). This was timed so that when the tarmac road reached the wadi it would be able to connect with the, by now completed, crossing.

But because only the Engineers used this unconnected section it meant a daily sweep with mine detectors to enable the team to get to their construction site. This was an onerous task that meant going at walking pace, wearing a set of sweaty earphones and swinging a Mark 7 mine detector back and forth in front of you for hours in temperatures that often reached 130 degrees. Behind would be the armoured vehicles grinding along carrying the rest of the troop.

A certain nonchalant attitude arose after a few days when nothing was found. Then one late afternoon a Saladin armoured personnel carrier drove haltingly in through the camp entrance with one of its six wheels ripped off. We watched as the dazed and injured occupants staggered off to be whisked to the Medical Centre. It transpired that the vehicle had exploded an anti-tank mine in a section of desert that the minesweeping man had just swept clean a few minutes before.

It turned out that this was not the result of a bad sweep by a sweaty and exhausted Sapper but that the terrorists had buried their mines below the detecting reach of the Mark 7 detector.

We were then issued with a new American design, which detected down to about five feet and in this instance a number of mines were discovered by the provision of a LWT (Light Wheel Tractor) that accompanied the sweeping team and would scoop up any suspicious detection signals.

This worked well for a couple of weeks, when actually an LWT, making its way along the swept track lost a wheel and the operators life when another mine was detonated. A full investigation was carried out and via interrogation from terrorists who had been caught in the area and sent down to Aden, we learned that they were aware that our detectors could penetrate deeper and so consequently had laid their mines deeper.

Of course this affected the performance of the mine, as these were of the type that worked on the 'inverted diaphragm' principle. Imagine something like a small dome, press on the top hard and long enough and the dome will invert – turn inside out. Put something under the dome that will strike a detonator when the dome turns itself inside out and you have the basic principle.

But being buried so deep it meant that it would not be the first heavy vehicle to go over the mine to detonate it, as the vehicle would simply make an impression in the recently excavated ground. The wind would refill this depression with sand, and when another vehicle went over it, another depression formed in the ground. Meanwhile, the pressure was transmitted further down as each vehicle passed over the surface, until the diaphragm flipped and twenty pounds of high explosive detonated.

Being so deep the result is not so catastrophic as if laid near the surface but would still kill any driver not protected by armour. It also did not differentiate between friend or foe as a fully loaded off-course Arab truck, with its full compliment of women and children and livestock just happened to be the sixth or seventh vehicle resulted in a number of deaths.

It was because of this constant battle with these mine-laying locals that it was decided to transfer men working at the ramp site by helicopter. This would cut down the time required for the daily sweep.

We, the workers at the ramp site, looked forward to this changeover – a nice safe flight as opposed to a two hour walk or ride in a closed armoured vehicle that might just go 'pop' at any moment. However, it was not all delight, in fact it turned out the daily rides were more hazardous than surface travel across the desert.

The first morning we were by the side of the camp waiting for the chopper to arrive from the RAF strip just down the road. Hearing the blades cutting through the air we picked up our bags and piled into the open door as soon as it landed. No sooner had we sat down and away we went, just missing the top of the tents. Just a few minutes later and we were into the wadi with massive high sheer cliffs on each side. The pilot began to swing from side to side with the blades seemingly only inches from the cliff edges, and he certainly seemed to be enjoying himself as he had a manic grin upon his face. Must admit it terrified the life out of us.

The worst time was when the larger chopper had gone to the ramp site with most of the men and we had to wait for another smaller helicopter, a Sioux I think. This pilot would fly along the floor of the desert missing the few stunted bushes that grew there, until he came across the advancing tarmac strip – now abandoned for the night by the 'road section'. He would skim along at 120 knots (137 mph?) just inches from the road surface and in fact he would have to go up to get over prostrate 40-gallon oil drums, which I later measured at twenty-three inches. Come back mine sweeping all is forgiven.

Up at the ramp site we had erected a small marquee, which served as a place of shade and somewhere we could knock up our midday meal – usually a can of soup and bread. When we arrived there each morning our first duty, before we started work on the ramps, was to check the area for booby traps. It was also here our local labour force would meet us to be given their instructions.

It was not long after we had started to use this as a daily base camp that we noticed that one of two of the young Arabs had black marks across the back of their necks, and upon enquiring through the translator it transpired that these marks were the result of parental care by which a hot metal bar – a poker – was applied to the base of the neck if the youth complained of a headache!

We always carried a first aid box to the site that contained aspirins, so we started giving a couple to anyone who claimed they had a bad head. Fair enough, it might have stopped the ritual of burning the son's head, but we were running out of pills. It may sound terrible but in the end we were reduced to placing an aspirin into the open hand, closing the hand around the pill and consulting your watch for 30 seconds. Every time the complainant enthusiastically insisted his headache had lifted. Marvellous placebo effect!

Quite often the locals would bring us in a beautiful juicy melon that was much appreciated. It was unusual but we were never attacked at this ramp site – we learned that they thought as we were building a road and would be kicked out of Aden in a year or two why hassle us? – it was most certainly to their advantage.

It was our habit to drop into the armoury prior to heading for the ‘ramp site’ to help ourselves to pocketfuls of 7.62 and 9mm rounds, and this was not frowned upon by senior ranks. During our midday break at the site we would use these bullets up in recreational shooting. A couple of times we would make up a ball of plastic explosive – about the size of a tennis ball - and push a couple of detonators into it with a number of 9mm rounds. Placing it in a crevice a hundred yards across the gorge we would take pot-shots at it, trying to see if an exploding bullet or detonator would set off the explosive, but it never did. We just seemed to break the ball into bits whenever we had a lucky shot.

The army, being what it is, was beyond belief, as when a sentry on the roof of the concrete block guardroom let off a single solitary round accidentally into the deserted hills that he was given seven days nick in the same guardroom! It was quite hilarious as the guardroom had been built in a hurry and it was discovered that it was impossible to put a bed into the tiny space that served as a cell, so the poor bloke had to sit in the cell all day and at night was permitted to go to his tent and sleep on his bed – ensuring he returned to the cell first thing next morning.

Although we were Engineers, one of our regular duties was to guard the main camp. This took the form of doing 'stags' (tours of duty) in the perimeter sangers. We reflected what the Scots Guards officer had said to us on the occasion of our 'pep talk' on arrival at Habilayn. "If an infantry man is told to cross from one position to another, he instantly does it. If an Engineer is told, he will stop and ask why- that’s why you Sappers will never make good infantry, because you get shot waiting for an answer." I suppose really this was a kind of compliment.

All around our camp a ‘bund’ wall of sand and rock had been dozed into position, which was about six foot high and helped as protection if any terrorist wanted to take a pot-shot at us. Twenty yards further out was a minefield surrounding the camp on three sides, about a hundred yards deep, which was supposed to stop the Arabs sneaking in too close. At each corner of the camp were the sangers, which were about ten foot square, built out of sandbags and covered in corrugated iron and the roof was also sandbagged. In addition four-foot wide by one-foot high slots were built in so we could peer out into the desert.

Usually six of us would be on duty in each sanger; two actually inside on lookout – although more often just one – whilst the remaining four or five slept on folding camp beds just outside the sanger entrance.

One of the few consolations, maybe the only one, was to see the spectacular sunrise we had in South Arabia. During the night the eyes would get tired with the constant peering and as dawn approached and the gritty feel of long-tired eyeballs came, you could marvel at the ever-changing reds and golden yellows as the sphere of the sun began to rise above the eastern horizon. The solitude, the absolute silence, the crispness of the air, belied the change that would occur within hours as we were blasted with 136 degrees.

Before we went on duty in the sanger we would receive a briefing from 'Fort Knox' the control centre in the interior of the camp. This one particular evening we had been told that an SAS patrol would be returning to camp, coming down the north road from Yemen at exactly 02.00. This was an arbitrary figure; if the patrol were early they would sometimes wait hidden until the time, or radio through to 'Fort Knox' to say they were coming in early or indeed late – this was to ensure trigger-happy sentries did not start shooting, as the usual orders were we were to open fire on any movement outside camp after 18.30.

We were detailed to the northeast sanger, and made our way there, going via the armoury to collect magazine boxes and the cookhouse to collect the insulated urn of tea. At the lookout we would test the telephone to 'Fort Knox' and sort out the stags, usually two hours on and four off. That night my stags were 18.00 to 20.00 and 24.00 to 02.00.

At 18.30 we would have the 'DF' (Defensive Fire) for fifteen minutes. This was the period that we were permitted to fire our weapons out into the desert. A curfew was in position at 18.00 so if anyone was outside that was their problem. 'Fort Knox' would advise us if we were allowed to do a DF, as sometimes a patrol would be due and obviously in that instance no DF was permitted in that sector.

Being Engineers, it was only occasionally we could fire our weapons so the DF was a treat. In the sanger we were armed with a GPMG, a heavy 50-calibre Browning machine gun, plus our own 7.62mm SLR (Self Loading Rifles). I had learned on my small arms instructor's course how (although not really allowed) to make the single shot SLR into an automatic and firing that out of the sanger was rather interesting. Usually we ‘shot up’ the sand filled oil drums that were three hundred yards up the road by the dump, and it was extraordinary how a single round could make a heavy item like that move.

I was due off stag at 02.00, which was the time the SAS patrol was due to return while the rest of the blokes were outside snoring their heads off. I had shaken awake my next two reliefs five minutes earlier and returned to the slot and continually kept watch towards the north. It was a brilliant moonlit night, and I could see clearly at least 500 yards up the road. I could even make out the wire holes in the angle-iron pickets that designated the edge of the minefield, some 50 yards away to my left.

It was now 02.00, and my watching increased in intensity, my eyes did not move from the road. They must be late. When suddenly my heart stopped as a hand tapped me on the shoulder and a quiet voice asked, "Any chance of a cup of tea?" There behind me stood four men, their faces smeared in camouflage paint, a broad grin shown by their teeth. "Where did you come from?" I asked nervously. One of the men indicated out of the sanger slot and pointed to the road. "We came in by the ditch that runs down the side of the tarmac in the shadow thrown by the road" he explained. Fumbling behind me in the gloom I found the insulated tea container and let them help themselves to a drink. "Thanks pal" they said as they quietly slipped off into the gloom. Outside my reliefs were still fast asleep on their camp beds.

A month later and I was once more on duty in the northeast sanger. Again we had been warned that a patrol would be returning, this time at 03.00. As I had missed the last one I angled to be on the 02.00 to 04.00 stag. Nobody complained as this was one of the worst ones as two hours after finishing stag we would be coming off duty to start normal works.

I must admit, standing there with my fellow sentry in the dark, leaning against the sandbags scrutinizing every little shadow out there in the moonlight was tense, intermittently glancing behind into the darkness of the sanger, half expecting the patrol to be standing there looking at us.

It was fast approaching 03.00 and with increased intensity we both strained to catch a movement, but none came. Then at 03.10 I could make out 'something' half a mile up the road. A cloud slowly moved across the moon, and a few minutes of relative darkness before we could see again.

Five hundred yards away I could clearly see a column of six men. At this juncture our orders were to inform 'Fort Knox' that a patrol was returning, A quick crank of the field telephone and after giving the number and direction. the message was passed.

Four of the patrol were some way in front of the other two, and something was not quite right, as they were not walking normally, but in slow motion with a great over-exaggeration of each movement with their arms moving very slowly up from their waist to above their heads. To us two young sentries it was hellishly macabre to watch this sight as it moved closer.

A few yards behind the leading four were two men and slung between them was a pole upon which hung a large wrapped form. Each of these two men had cloth across their mouths, which testified that they were most likely bringing in a body.

Slowly the file of men moving at their unearthly pace passed on down the road to the right to disappear from view as they entered through the main entrance and it was some time before my spine stopped tingling.

We learned later that if the SAS had an exchange of fire with the terrorists any Arab and indeed friendly forces that were killed, were brought back, either for identification or homeward transmission or burial in Silent Valley, the War Cemetery down in Aden. The explanation of the 'ghost walk' was that the Arabs were aware that patrols returned down the north road and had begun putting trip wires across attached to an early version of a 'Claymore' (a mine that blew bits of scrap iron in a particular direction).

All SAS had a price on their heads. News had come back from Yemen that two of their number had been captured. Their hands had been tied behind their backs, they had been castrated, and their genitals stitched to their mouths – the greatest humiliation to an Arab – and left to die in agony. A final indignation was for them to be decapitated and their heads displayed near Qizan.

I know that the night after this news reached Habilayn there were a couple of fatalities among the local Arabs who were out after curfew.

Another time on duty in the western sanger, which looked out over the protective minefield that was laid around us, we had a very scary time about 04.00. Two of us were doing our usual stint, whilst the rest slept on the camp beds outside. It had been a quiet night, although there was no moon there was still sufficient light from the brilliantly lit stars to be able to see the immediate area out through the sanger openings. We were just leaning against the sandbagged wall, totally bored when suddenly what sounded like a stone rattled against the corrugated wall outside.

We were instantly alert, and we listened intently. Nothing. We thought it might have been a stone falling out of a sand bag on the roof, but then again, a while back, a grenade had been tossed into a sanger. We waited, but no explosion came and we calmed down a bit.

Ten minutes later; ‘thud!’ and what sounded definitely like a stone or something similar again hit the outside wall.

We woke the rest of the guard and they soon congregated inside the sanger. Another thud "There’s definitely someone out there," said someone. "Wonder if it’s a patrol pissing about?" said another. Our corporal picked up the field telephone and contacted 'Fort Knox'. After explaining the situation, he put the handset down. "They say all patrols are now in, so we have permission to open fire."

We stood there, three to an opening, cautiously peering out.

Suddenly without warning ‘something’ came flying into the sanger, hitting one of the blokes on the arm, and without a word we stampeded out of the door, expecting an explosion. None came. Someone gingerly shone his torch into the sanger, which lit up a fair sized stone lying on the earthen floor.

Cautiously going back in, the corporal shouted out of the sanger opening, "Show yourself or we’re opening fire." No reply. Still not sure if this was a 'come-on' by terrorists to get us outside, the corporal gave us the go ahead to open fire. We started firing our SLRs, directly towards the area from where we thought the stones were coming and we also fired the .50 Browning.

The rest of the night there were no repetitions of stones arriving into the sanger.

As dawn arrived the corporal made his way over the bund wall and down the area in front of our sanger, as he thought he could see a dead child’s body, but on closer examination it turned out to be a dead baboon, and in its hand it held a stone – even the animals did not like us.

A number of occasions found me on duty when we were fired on from the surrounding jebels. These rather lively exchanges came from about midnight to three in the morning. The first we would know about it was seeing tracer bullets arcing into camp from the hills. Our first duty would be to take a compass reading on the point of fire and then to contact 'Fort Knox' and tell them its location.

I remember one night. All was quiet as we lay sleeping on the camp beds by the sanger entrance. 'Boom'! A mortar landed a hundred yards away outside the bund wall, convulsing the ground with its concussion and throwing debris over the sanger and us. Instantly six wide-eyed Sappers were huddling in the sanger. "What the fuck was that?" We stared into the desert trying to ascertain where those mortars or whatever were being fired from.

The telephone rang and it was 'Fort Knox' wanting to know what we had. A flash in the hills, a ‘crump’ as it landed nearer. we were trying to take a reading, shaking hands and befuddled minds fumbled with the prismatic compass, waiting; another flash '120 mills'. Then, "Hello 'Fort Knox' this is Alpha sanger, possible mortar flash at 120 mills, 2002 metres." The telephone clicked off.

A minute or so and we heard a 'boom' as an outgoing shell whizzed over our sanger, with a brilliant flash followed by a dull roar in the hills. Silence returned.

It was now coming up towards Christmas and New Year. The Intelligence people had sent up a warning that we were to expect a large attack from FLOSY about this time, taking advantage at a possible lowering of vigilance during this Christian festival. A few weeks prior a notice was posted in the mess tent asking for volunteers for sanger duty over this period.

After seeing the 'devil may care' attitude of our camp inmates on such occasions as a simple birthday where it was typical to witness a drunken celebrate marching around camp completely naked with a beer bottle balanced on his head and a camp bed strapped to his back, I decided, as a non-drinker, the safest bloody place over Christmas and New Year would be inside a sanger, so I volunteered.

Christmas Eve arrived, and apart from the Sergeant Major giving us a visit at 02.00 with a steaming mug of tea, nothing happened. I also welcomed the New Year in the northeast sanger, listening to the drunken debauchery coming from the mess tent. Again a quiet night with not one hint of trouble.

Every now and then the rebels would break the night's peace by dropping rather large mortars directly into the camp, followed up by about ten minutes withering fire. This was answered within a minute or so by the sangers or if a position had been identified, by a shell or two from the artillery. After some fifteen minutes of an exchange, quiet would descend and everyone would get back to sleep.

If we were not on duty our instructions during a night attack were to leap off our camp beds and slide down into the 'funk hole'. However, over the time I had been up-country and by talking to the local Arab camp workers (who reckoned that Nasser was number one, and English number twenty) it seemed as though the rebels were not too bothered by ‘us’, the Engineers – after all we were building them a nice new road, which would be theirs after the Brits had been kicked out. No, they were more interested in knocking off some of the other military units we had at Habilayn.

This, at the time I was there was the Irish Guards, or Scots Guards, which were ostensibly here to protect us. It was quite comforting in a way to know that these rebels knew the layout of the camp, that the 'nasty' Brits with the guns were to the south end of the camp and the ‘nice’ boys (us) were at the northern.

It was quite seldom that a mortar landed in 'our' part of the camp and after many attacks I ceased leaping out of bed and sliding into the 'funk hole'. Instead I would lay back and listen to the orchestration of the ‘crumps’ and ‘cracks’ of high-velocity bullets as they passed between the hills and the camp. It did cross my mind that if a three-inch mortar had landed anywhere near the 'funk hole' it would be obliterated anyway, but at least here on my camp bed I was surrounded by a wall of sandbags, so it was not bravery on my part.

Getting more and more inquisitive during one of these firefights, 'Frenchie' Stewart (who had an English father and a Seychelles mother) and I quickly made our way down the darkened tent to the entrance. Outside, away from the muffling effect of a double skin marquee, the sounds of outgoing shells were much louder. The camp lights were still on, which was strange, as during an attack these lights should be extinguished by the duty sergeant shutting down the generator.

Growing even bolder we climbed upon the sandbagged sides of the tent to get a better view.

'Frenchie' walked along the wall to the far end and without a word we clambered up the tent canvas until we were sitting, one on each end, upon the ridgepole about fifteen feet up. Gave us a grand view, as we watched the tracer going out from the northeast sanger with tracer coming in and hitting the centre and south of the camp.

The lights were still blazing. We detected a movement from the Sergeants' Mess and watched incredulously as a sergeant, on all fours, crawled out from under the entrance flap and painfully slowly, obviously in extreme fear, made his way, still on his knees to the generator, about thirty yards from our viewpoint.

We watched as he eventually got there, and then in panic pulled the voltage increase lever, forcing the machine to rev up to such an extent those light bulbs began to blow. It must have been only seconds later that we looked back up to the Sergeants' Mess to see the SSM come hurtling down the path towards the gennie where the hapless Sergeant lay in shock. In one continuous movement the SSM gave him a smack in the face, threw the quivering bloke aside and shut down the roaring generator.

'Frenchie' and I watched in the dimness trying to fade into the canvas as the SSM dragged the man to his feet and shook him violently.

With my stomach churning and wishing I wasn’t here, the worst happened. We were spotted by the SSM. I suppose two unnatural lumps on a normally smooth ridgepole silhouetted against the star lit sky was not exactly something that could be missed.

Dropping the man where he lay, the SSM sped over to the base of our tent, telling us to get down.

"Don’t say a fucking word about this" he hissed, and even now so many years later I remember that murderous look he gave us. "Report to me at 08.00" and he was gone. We immediately clambered down and got back into our tent, as our fellow campers were just emerging from the 'funk hole' unaware we had been outside as we usually just lay on our beds during an attack. I lay awake till the early hours pondering on what we had seen whilst our fellows slept away unconcernedly.

As dawn broke and I lay listlessly on my bed I suddenly noticed that the tent canvas had little tears a few feet blow the ridge, and on later closer examination showed them to be bullet holes. That was the last time 'Frenchie' and I ventured up on to the tent during an attack.

Reporting to the SSM next morning we were given a right bollocking for not being in our 'funk holes' during an exchange of fire. He made no mention of what we had seen, yet he knew we had been witnesses. We were not to be charged. (later we thought this might be because it might have come out in front of the OC the fact that a senior NCO had acted like a coward and been knocked about by the SSM).

Nevertheless, we were to report to the SQMS for the next four evenings, from 18.00 to 22.00.

Our task for those sixteen hours was to excavate a hole three feet across and three feet deep in the stores compound, use a wheelbarrow to lug the spoil to an area by the northeast sanger, dig an exact sized hole then tip the excavated soil from the first hole into this one, and yes, you’ve guessed it, take the spoil from the sanger hole and fill up the stores compound hole.

'Frenchie' and I were not allowed to work together, each to his own hole, and the SSM had even devised a separate route for each of us. Totally pointless, but we kept our word, and no one ever knew we had a coward in our midst, and yet that particular sergeant still unashamedly gave the impression he was brave and fearless, but we knew.

Another 'interesting' event occurred near midday when a large explosion ripped the mess tent apart, blowing to pieces about thirty chairs and tables. Luckily no one was injured but it would have been a different story ten minutes later as the dinner queue formed.

At the time of the explosion three of us were in the process of building the OC’s 'desert rose'. For those not familiar with the niceties of desert camp life of the 1960’s, a desert rose was constructed by digging a three by three foot hole, holding a six foot length of scaffold pipe at an angle in the hole whilst it was back-filled with rocks and sand. Weld a funnel to the end and you have a urinal; a desert rose.

Unfortunately at this time our OC was a bit of a 'short arse' and the only way he could use this particular rose would have been by standing on a banana box. As he considered it would be demeaning to an Officer Commanding he refused to use it and demanded we sort it out. Our idea was to cut off a certain length of pipe and weld another funnel on.

We were working away when I caught out of the corner of my eye in a gap between the walls, a brilliant flash followed immediately by a shock wave that knocked us over. The explosion had been about fifty yards away, and I remember bits of steel and charred canvas raining down but apart from still ringing ears, we were uninjured.

All pandemonium broke loose. It was unusual for an attack to take place during daylight, and, although everyone’s instructions were to head directly for the 'funk holes' but no one did, and instead we all headed for the mess tent to have a look.

Gradually the dust and sand settled so we could take stock of the damage. As I said no one was hurt, just a big hole in the ground situated just inside the edge of the tent with bits of chair and tables everywhere.

The OC was pretty satisfied it had not come from the hills. There were patrols out there at the time and no suspicious movements had been detected.

The result of his 'process of elimination' was that it must have been the terrorist action of the Somali 'chi boys' (young lads who walked around camp with a kettle of tea, which was much appreciated) and lived in the camp. These Somali were a great bunch, always smiling and totally inoffensive, and how the hell the OC deduced it was them laying a bomb was beyond us, especially as their own quarters were just yards from where the explosion occurred.

Orders were given; a through search of the Somali tents, everything was stripped down, everything opened and examined. Of course nothing incriminating was found and simply ended up with everyone being embarrassed.

It was the next day we found we could lay the blame on the Irish Guards. It turned out that on the day of the explosion the Irish Guards were outside the bund wall, beyond the minefield, firing two-inch mortars out into the desert. It seemed one of these little mortars did not do as it was supposed to; i.e. ‘pop’ followed by a ‘crump’ as it exploded. Instead this one particular missile went ‘pop’ followed by silence.

Little did the Guards know but for some, still unexplained reason this particular mortar went up and turned (broken fin?) and headed into camp, coming down at a fair rate of knots to rip through the first layer of the mess tent's canvas and then due to the angle of the canvas did not explode, but instead lay there on the second layer. Meanwhile the Irish Guards thought they had a dud that hadn’t exploded and continued firing into the desert.

However, this little mortar round was now slowly slipping down the canvas towards the edge of the tent, and when a final breeze came along and lifted the tent's edge, it slipped over the lip and fell point-down onto rock-hard ground and exploded.

They discovered all this when the tent was taken down to be replaced, when a sharp-eyed store man noted strange fin marks and on closer examination of the hole and the tent poles showed shards of a two-inch mortar. Amazing.

It did not always end harmlessly.

We had finished work for the day and were relaxing by lying down on the bund wall watching one of the Guards Regiments firing their Wombat (120-mm recoilless gun) into the hills.

It was about 300 yards between us and the Guards, again on the other side of our minefield. There were some fifteen to eighteen men standing around the large gun. Every now and then they would all stand back. A few seconds later a loud report and a puff of smoke would indicate a projectile on its way to the distant hills. A flash and eruption of sand and smoke shortly followed by a dull rumble as it landed.

A loud report, a puff of smoke, a distant explosion.

"Hello" said someone peering through their binoculars , "Something’s up, they’re looking at the gun. Bloody hell!" was all I heard as a concussion wave hit us. All we had seen was a brilliant white and red flash followed by debris raining down all around, with high pitched whistles as shrapnel flew overhead.

We could do nothing, as between us and the obvious misfire was a minefield, ostensibly put there to protect us from infiltration, but stopping us getting help to them.

The dust settled, and we watched aghast as we began to distinguish broken and ripped apart bodies lying around the twisted remains of the gun. We saw a soldier, his uniform in tatters and afire, running to the right up to the western outer sanger. We watched as a medic wagon drove up from the left, and a few minutes later a helicopter hovered into view to land closely by this Armageddon, loaded stretchers were slung aboard, and the helicopter departed overhead to the airstrip to be immediately replaced by another to collect its load of broken bodies.

Within twenty minutes the area was clear.

We learned it had taken only milliseconds for the gun to blow apart and kill eight Guardsmen and permanently maim a further seven. The reason? Possibly not waiting the required amount of time after detecting a misfire and opening the breach prematurely.

These tragic instances did not only occur to the Brits.

We were there to construct a road and for that we needed gravel chippings. To this end we had two very large rock crushing machines. One, a primary crusher, would accept rocks some twelve inches across and would break them down to fist-sized stones that would be conveyed to the secondary crusher, which ground these down to three quarters of an inch chippings.

The layout of this site for the two monsters was such that a huge twenty- ton dump truck – we had three; 'Faith' 'Hope' and 'Charity' - would drive onto the site and tip its load down onto a conveyor belt. This belt took the stones up some twenty feet where they passed into the mouth of the primary crusher. This took the form of two huge, upright, solid steel, indented slabs that 'rubbed' together breaking the rocks up.

These smaller rocks fell down onto another conveyor belt before being taken up to fall into the jaws of the secondary crusher.

Sometimes, for various reasons, possibly a long narrow rock, would pass through the primary but would be too big for the secondary. This would sit and stop following rocks causing a build-up behind it.

As this process was continuous a cheerful local lad by the name of 'Chico' was paid to stand astride the belt on a small platform, and if a larger rock than was normal came up the conveyor he would tip it off, a job that was well within his strength and ability.

For some unknown reason Chico stumbled, his foot trapped in the moving column of stones, and before anyone knew what had happened his legs were into the jaws. His high-pitched screams above the continuous rumble alerted the operator who shut the colossus down, but with such a large machine it took a while before the jaws ceased.

An ambulance quickly arrived and Chico was taken directly to the airstrip where a helicopter took him directly to the BMH (British Military Hospital) in Aden.

'Fort Knox' contacted the BMH that evening to be told that Chico was stable, but had severe injuries to one of his legs, whilst the other had to be amputated.

This was not the end of this tragic incident. A few months later Chico was airlifted back to Habilayn, where on the first day as he tried on his crutches to cross the busy north-south road to the camp, he was struck by a FNG truck and killed instantly.

We were very sad about this, as although we were in the process of being kicked out of the country, we did have a sort of affection for the locals and they for us. Even now 30-40 years later most Adenese state they would like the British back, no matter how un-PC that is.

Some of the lads would buy a donkey from a villager, which was used as a pet and means to get from one end of the camp to the other, and it was always good to see the appreciation at end of tour when the donkey, much improved, was given freely back to its original owner.

During Ramadan, their period of fasting, the local camp Arabs would be rather lethargic, understandably so as they could not eat between sunrise and sunset. In fact they were very restricted in what they could and could not do under the rules of their religion. We were working in the stores area with two of the locals when they both disappeared. We spent a few minutes tracking them down but found their whereabouts when we noticed cigarette smoke curling up from inside a pile of tar barrels.

We crept up and looked over the top, and we were not prepared for their reaction, as they were absolutely petrified and they pleaded in total terror that we not tell anyone. They said they had broken the laws of Ramadan and could be stoned by the villagers. Well, if transgressing such simple rules could result in death what kind of God did they have. I think my own experiences in the army did actually kick-start my own thoughts on the lack of any God in this world.

One of the incidents I’ll never forget was the occasion we 'assisted the infantry' (i.e. made up the numbers) in carrying out a 'search and find' operation about twenty miles from camp.

In this instance we were taken up the road on trucks and dropped off near the Yemen border, to make our way by foot over the desert terrain. The assignment was to help surround a certain village whilst the infantry went in and undertook a through search for weapons and explosives, as the intelligence coming back indicated this particular village was used as a terrorist base.

After an hour or so we began to draw near this ramshackle collection of stone huts, and in the distance behind we could see another unit closing in.

We drew nearer, being surprised at the lack of movement. Usually children would come running out, inquisitive of strangers approaching. Still no movement. We were motioned to get down as it was possible that an ambush had been prepared for us.

The infantry moved in, dodging from outcrop to outcrop. A short while later we heard the sound of whistles and our officers indicated we were to move in.

Half expecting an ambush from the backdrop of hills, we moved closer until we were some hundred yards from the first building. I was completely unprepared for what happened next. A mangy dog appeared, pulling in its mouth a length of coarse rope with a bundle of sacking attached to the end. My senses reeled as I realised the ‘bundle’ was a child’s body and the 'rope' was its intestines. A burst of fire from my right and the dog was thrown about by a protracted hail of bullets.

We staggered uncomprehendingly into this god-forsaken collection of huts coming upon a pack of three scabby dogs fighting over the body of another dead child. Even with bullets blasting the dogs apart their jaws were in death still trying to rip into this wretched and torn form. I was not alone in vomiting against one of the huts.

Further down the village would come the sound of further withering bursts of gunfire as other units found similar sites.

Apart from the dead bodies of these children we found no one else. We saw evidence of earlier violence, splashes of dried blood against a doorway, and bullet pitted walls. We later heard via the Political Officer that this village had been 'cleansed' by a terrorist faction, who was not aligned with FLOSY, and that most likely the villagers had been taken over to Yemen and after interrogation, killed.

I’ve hated dogs ever since!

One of my jobs, as I was trained in building in reinforced concrete, was to construct the concrete ramps at the wadi to enable vehicles to get off the road and down to the wadi floor before going up the ramp the other side and continuing.

These 'wedges', as we called them, were quite impressive things. Each was about forty feet long. My job was to build the reinforced, steel side wall cages that were constructed in situ, shuttering was placed each side and concrete poured in, resulting in two walls of reinforced concrete eight foot high at the road end, and down to about six inches where it hit the dried-up river bed. The whole lot was about fifteen feet wide.

A base was concreted in, followed by being back filled with boulders and rubble, finally being 'capped' with a reinforced concrete 'lid'. I seem to remember that it was estimated that sixty cubic metres of rock were used to fill the ramp and some seventy cubic metres of concrete, weighing in the region of three hundred tons - each.

Although it was hot up-country and dry as a bone - the com-cen told us the highest recorded temperature was 136 degrees - it did rain once.

One late afternoon an ominous sky, dark and threatening, began to form way out over in the west. The air became very humid, and we could hear the dull rumble of thunder away in the distance. A raising patter on the canvas of our tent brought us out to see this spectacle, as we could see sheets of heavy rain moving towards us across the desert, hitting the bone-dry surface and bouncing waist high.

Within a few minutes we were totally deluged with water pouring through holes in the tents, the 'funk holes' flooded and the well-trodden paths in camp running as rivers.

We stood and watched massive waterfalls suddenly develop on the slopes of the nearby hills, with great cascading torrents of water pouring down onto the plain and we could hear the distant and dull roar of fast approaching water. Up on the bund wall we watched, as in the distance we could see the small stunted trees and shrubs waving madly about as the oncoming torrent began to reach them. The water was unable to penetrate the sun-baked surface of the ground, so every drop that fell was still above the surface.

On the other side of the minefield was a dried up gully, and we watched as the torrent came into view, surging and frothing, carrying trees and other debris with it as it created a whole new river below the camp.

Within an hour of starting, the rain ceased completely, the sun reappeared from the now gone clouds and a thin veil of mist rose off the surrounding desert and the canvas of our tents. Work was started in getting the camp back to order; laying our camp beds on the bund wall to dry, erecting the stores tent that had collapsed under the fall of water, rebuilding a sanger cover that had buckled as the roof sandbags had soaked up a couple of tons of water and bailing out the 'funk holes', although they seemed to drain faster than bailing.

Word came in that some damage had been done at the ramp site and ten of us were detailed to get up there and see what had happened.

A scene of devastation greeted us, a demonstration of nature's sheer power. The ramps – 300 tons each – had been tossed around like toys. One was lying facing completely down stream detached from the roadway, while the other was twisted many degrees off its original position. The river had now passed by and a mere harmless trickle was all that remained. A patrol came back to tell us our twelve-ton road roller was now a mangled wreak lying about a mile down stream. I often wonder if it is still there.

A buzz went round, as volunteers were required to search some caves a few miles away. It seemed that a local shepherd had not returned to his village and the locals had requested help from the military.

Within an hour, just before sundown, fifteen of us were aboard a three-ton wagon, heading out to the west, as special permission had been granted in the area to be outside camp after the DF.

We met up with the local search party at the caves just as the night was drawing in. It was obvious that a rock fall had occurred here very recently, as all around in the fading light I could make out the dead bodies of numerous sheep, trapped and killed by the fall of rocks that had occurred during the recent rains.

Over 24 hours had passed in the desert heat and the already decomposing bodies were distended with the occasional low whistle as a gas-inflated stomach would rupture and fill the air with its putrefying stench.

Night had now fallen and sentries were posted whilst we continued our grim search for the missing man by torchlight, scrambling over huge boulders, peering into nooks and crannies, levering up flat slabs to steal a probing search before it fell back into place. The night wore on.

It was about 1am that I, kneeling and forcing my head into a small opening, shone my torch and recoiled instantly when my beam reflected a dull staring eye some eighteen inches further in. Within minutes the others were peering in, trying to determine if this was a human eye or another crushed sheep. Further examination by the medic, with a much more powerful light, confirmed that indeed this was the missing shepherd.

It was obvious that it would be impossible to move this huge pile of rocks, some of which were thirty feet thick. At least the poor bloke had died instantly.

At about 03.30 we returned silently to camp, having to wait outside the perimeter for clearance to be given before we could enter.

The duty cook had been roused, an urn of tea was provided and thick bacon sandwiches were passed around. We sat upon the sandbagged walls, most of us deep in thought. The moon was up and played its gentle light over the silent, sleeping camp. With a start I came back to reality, realising that the obnoxious smell I could sense, came not from the bacon sandwich but from my unwashed hands. Imagination could only determine what was ingrained upon them, and a through wash and to bed by 04.00 and I was ready for starting a new day at 07.30.

Of course it was not all 'doom and gloom' in South Arabia, and we did had our lighter moments.

On the outside of the bund walls, between the camp and the minefield, our toilets were situated – I use the term 'toilets' in its most vague interpretation, being pretty basic, constructed of corrugated iron sheets around a wooden frame being in the order of ten foot square with a corrugated roof. This was situated over a large pit some ten-foot deep and had some 20 individual 'thunderboxes'.

It was the custom that when we had a replacement Sapper flown in – due to some fatality or other - we would carry out a practical, harmless joke on him. This took the form of the poor innocent man being informed that it was best to use the toilets at dead on six o’clock, as in this way the DF would ensure that any attempt to shoot at the man from outside the camp would be met with return fire. And after all, the toilets were on the outside of the protective bund wall.

We would hang around until the poor lad felt it was safe and he would nip over the bund wall to the bog. Immediately, hoards of expectant Sappers would come out of hiding and after a quick call to 'Fort Knox' the Lancers would roar up to us in their armoured vehicle with their rather large calibre gun.

A few moments of manoeuvring and the vehicle would be positioned up against the bund wall, its large gun barrel poking over and just above the latrine roof.

Inside, no doubt, the poor innocent lad would be going about his business, relaxing in the sure knowledge that if he were attacked the DF would see the foe away.

Meanwhile, behind the bund wall with our hands over our ears we would watch as the commander of the vehicle, a smile upon his face, gave the order to fire.

“BOOM”! the tin lid of the bog would lift a foot or so into the air, the sides would implode temporarily, before returning to its original shape and the roof settled back on its beams.

It was usual, within 15 seconds to find an absolutely terrified young Sapper, trouser-less, scrambling over the bund wall and into camp yelling, "We’re being attacked! We’re being attacked!" It was not until he could make out that we were laughing, that the penny dropped. "You bastards!" was the usual retort before returning sheepishly over the bund to collect his trousers.

Sticking with this lavatorial humour it was the duty of the camp maintenance to keep the flies out of the latrine as much as possible and this was done by pouring in copious amounts of water to encourage breakdown of solids with the added addition of 'Jeyes fluid', a disinfectant. Well, one fine morning the maintenance chaps discovered they had run out of 'Jeyes fluid' and in their unfathomable wisdom tipped a couple of gallons of petrol down onto the water, with the idea that these vapours would evaporate in a couple of hours. Unfortunately they were wrong. About six hours later this bloke went to the bog, sat down to do his business and to pass away the time lit up a fag, flicking the match down into the mire ten feet below. 'Whoomp!' The tin roof and walls of the bog were blown off - the bloke received very bad burns that necessitated air evacuation down to Aden. Often wondered what tale he told people on how he got injured on ‘Active Service’ in South Arabia!

A year or so later after we had gone back to England and Habilayn camp had been levelled and we learned that the latrine had been bulldozed in without a vent pipe – seems it took a couple of months before the methane pressure built up and 'erupted' – that area was a no-go area for quite some time after! [in 1994 at Habilayn, there had been a mighty tank battle between South/North Yemen, and it’s reported, "The ground was littered with empty shell casings and rows of freshly dug graves were to one side. My driver said that 11,000 men had died there."]

Because Saudi Arabia was going through so much turmoil we often caught sight of HM’s Political Officer travelling around the up-country area. His task was to keep his ear to the ground and be in constant touch with the various clan leaders, trying to ensure that where possible they stayed on 'our' side and this was often facilitated with the free provision of weapons (which were usually turned on us later).

It was towards the early part of 1967 when I came eye to eye with the intricacies of politics in up-country Aden. Usually the PO was shunted about by helicopter, as his was a dangerous job and the chances of ambush were very real. But on this occasion his method of transport was to be by wheeled vehicle. He usually had an entourage of FNG bodyguards and a couple of trucks, but for some unknown reason, maybe to placate a clan chief, he was only to be accompanied by one vehicle apart from his own.

I was summoned to the OC’s tent and curtly informed that I was to be part of the guard for the PO – don’t know why, possibly because I’m a biggish sort of bloke and was not too bad with a weapon, but most likely there was no one else available.

We set off from Habilayn at about two in the afternoon, the PO in the front vehicle with his driver and another FNG guard, whilst I was in the following vehicle with an FNG driver and another Brit in civvies.

We left the tarmac road and headed along a dirt track for about an hour, the dust swirling along behind and settling inside the vehicle. We pulled up outside a larger then usual stone building, and clambering out we were met by a couple of Arabs who had AK47s slung across their chest (testifying to their supply from ‘up-north’, Nasser’s land and his eastern European friends) and behind them a better dressed gentleman. The PO and this chap embraced. We were all motioned to enter this building which was very dim, a couple of small glass-less windows allowing very little light to enter.

Following the actions of the PO we sat upon the rush-matted floor whereupon a youngish lad appeared and offered us water.

I was sat next to the Brit in civilian dress, whilst opposite sat the two local blokes cradling their weapons - the FNG escorts who had travelled with us had not entered the room. The PO and this local boss were deep in conversation, speaking in Arabic. I tried whispering to the Brit but was refuted with a frown and an almost imperceptible shaking of the head. I was aware in the dim light that the two evil looking bastards opposite were staring right at me. I thought it best not to stare back, but gave a half-smile and looked away, studying the dirt under my fingernails.

We sat there for quite some time, till my backside was numb. The conversation between the PO and the elder was halted when an order was given to one of the 'mafia' who slowly got to his feet and left the room. A short while later he re-entered along with the young lad and laid a couple of tin bowls upon the floor and a tray with miniature cups and a tall container, which by the smell contained coffee.

The old boy leaned forward and poured the hot liquid into the cups and these were passed round. Next the lid was removed from the tin dish and in the dim light I could make out what looked like boiled rice and lumps of meat. The PO was gestured to eat and soon scooped a handful of rice out of the dish and into his mouth and this was the signal for everyone else to eat. I reached over and was immediately jabbed in the ribs by the PO’s mate. "Use your right hand", he hissed.

I scooped up a reasonable handful, making sure I had some 'meat', be it goat or cow, as after all I had not eaten since midday. As soon as the piece of 'meat' was in my mouth I realised this was NOT what I expected, and my first thought was it was an olive, and I don’t like olives. I looked keenly at the objects on the metal bowl, "Christ", I thought, "It’s a bloody eyeball!" Glancing up I felt the PO’s gaze burning into me willing me to be a good boy and eat it all up. I could sense that all the others were watching me, and this was no comedy-sketch, as we sat here with a powerful leader, with two of his henchmen with weapons. The PO had worked hard, and no way did he want a young Sapper to fuck it all up because he was squeamish.

All this had probably taken only seconds, but it felt timeless. I was aware of this dead sheep’s eyeball in my mouth. Was that a nerve fibre or (as I hoped) a grain of rice? I wanted to swallow it whole but it was too big and I would have to bite upon it. I clenched my teeth and could swear I felt a little liquid exude as I bit. Swallowing, I reached for another handful of rice to help it stay down, and a sip of very strong coffee.

Shortly afterwards we were on our way back to Habilayn and the PO’s assistant mentioned it was not usual to have sheep’s eyeballs, but could not venture a reason why.

Half way through our six month tour we were permitted five days ‘Rest and Recuperation’ (R&R) that was to be taken down in Aden. Not being bothered about going to the city I requested permission to stay in Habilayn, which was granted. Actually sitting in the back of a truck trundling south and then back again and spending two days in transit was not my idea of a break, so, waving my mates off I went back to my bed and spent a quiet R & R reading and lazing in the sun.

A few months after being up-country I was acting as 'shotgun' to a water bowser, as it was our task as Engineers to provide drinkable water and distribute it to the various outposts in the area, we had filled our tanker at Habilayn and were driving along the Dhala Road a few miles to the south to a Military Police checkpoint to fill their water tank.

We had just left the Habilayn area, and were travelling through almost a gorge when up ahead we made out the shape of a military vehicle a hundred or so yards off the tarmac. This was unusual as it was against military orders to leave the tarred road because of the ever-present danger of mines. Cautiously we slowed down as we drew near and could make out that the vehicle was a ten-ton military tipper with its front away from the road, and the tracks in the sand showed that it had weaved considerably before coming to a halt. We tried to contact base by radio to ask if anyone knew of this vehicle being there, but possibly because of the surrounding hills (radio reception was notoriously bad among the jebels) we were unable to get contact.

Thinking that some poor sod might be injured we gingerly made our way along the vehicle's track towards the truck. Coming to the front of the vehicle it was obvious that the driver was dead (I think he was RCT (Royal Corps of Transport)). We retraced our steps back to our own vehicle, the hairs on the back of our necks on end, clambered into our bowser and made our way to the RMP checkpoint as fast as possible where we related what we had seen to the sergeant there. He shot off with an escort back up the road whilst we filled their water tank.

Fifteen minutes later we were once more on the Dhala Road heading back to Habilayn where we shortly came across the scene of earlier. By now there was an RAMC ambulance, which was in the process of loading the body for retrieval back to the medic post at Habilayn. We met the same sergeant to whom we had reported to earlier and he beckoned us over to the truck. First he pointed out a hole, about half an inch across, which had been punched through the quarter of an inch thick steel body of the rear of the truck. He motioned us to climb up upon the wheel and pointed out a similar hole in the front of the tipper section, then opening the cab doors indicated yet another hole through the back of the actual cab and the displacement of the stuffing in the back of the seat and finally a partial hole in the steering wheel itself. The windows were wedged open and thus the bullet that had also ripped into the back of the driver had exited cleanly.

"What sort of fucking gun did that?" said our sergeant. We made our way eagle-eyed back to base.

During our road building, normal camp maintenance went on and if you were not 'out on site' various jobs were detailed out. I remember one 'pain- in-the-arse' job was collecting rocks and laying them along the sides of the paths within the camp, and to make it smart we were ordered to paint same rocks white. Well this looked very nice, but after some pin-point hits from night time bombardment it was pointed out by returning patrols that at night with a full moon our white-painted rocks showed exactly the layout of the camp from the jebels! Next 'pain-in-the-arse' order was to turn all the rocks over to hide the white.

A further job was to keep the paths level and to this end the Pioneers would come trundling around with their knackered old 12-ton road roller. Well one day for whatever reason the Pioneers were not around and I was told to undertake the track maintenance. Not even having a licence to drive a pushchair, I was given a quick tuition by a sergeant with a beard (did not learn till later that Pioneer sergeants are the only ones allowed to have beards in the British Army). He warned me that the gearbox was on its way out and that oil pressure was dangerously high. Great!

Nevertheless climbing aboard I jammed my SLR (we had to carry our weapons at all times) into a hole between the upright for the hood and the seat. Off I set, turning handles to make it go forward and another to make it go back, others to turn, and others to put water onto the wheels to help compact the dirt. Quite exhilarating really weaving in and out of the paths around camp until I hit one of the edging stones with one of my back wheels, and up it went to 'crump' down as it slid off. At this stage my rifle decided to jolt out of its hole and slipped down the front of the wheel and within seconds 12 tons of road-roller went over it. Coming to a halt I clambered down from the beast and discovered that the rifle barrel was bent, which was a certain charge I feared but no, the armourer simply took the barrel off and put another one on and no one was any the wiser.

A couple of weeks later the gearbox on the roller eventually went and permanently disabled the poor driver – there but for the grace…

The conditions up-country effected some people. I remember we were due to receive a visit from some bloody General who was flying into the airstrip at Habilayn and would be doing a tour of inspection. The day duly arrived, the Auster landed and shortly afterwards the General and his 'hangers-on' drove off the airstrip and began the short drive up to our camp. Along the intervening route RMPs were placed every fifty yards as protection, and we were lined up in the open-air cinema area waiting. Suddenly we heard what sounded like a short burst of gunfire, but nothing happened so we presumed it was something else. Anyway, the General duly came into the camp, gave us a short 'pep' talk and was on his way again. It was not until later that we learned that one of the RMPs along the route, had for some inexplicable reason, opened his mouth, put in the barrel of his SMG and blew his own brains out.

Then there was the time we had spent four days building a culvert over a dried-up streambed. We had finished the construction of the six-foot diameter corrugated iron tube and were in the process of backfilling the earth to provide a road across. For this we were using a LWT (Light Wheeled Tractor). We had covered the tube with about a foot or so of rubble but our Troop officer was not happy about the final levelling off, and he wanted the LWT to drag its bucket backwards to give a precise finish. Well, it’s not really recommended to use such a large machine for a delicate finishing off task, but nevertheless he insisted. The second reverse sweep across the culvert resulted in the bucket catching a joint in the corrugated iron and promptly pulling up a bloody great hole into which a ton or so of rubble fell. I tell the truth but this officer took off his beret, threw it on the ground and jumped up and down on it for a good three minutes, saying many a word not normally used by commissioned officers. Unfortunately we all thought it was hilarious.

'Camel Spider'; now that’s a word to invoke fear. These spiders were so-called because during the night they would get onto a camel and, after injecting an anaesthetic into the animal would start to eat it. We were told of one the REME found which when laid on a land-rover wheel, it’s legs still reached the tread. We heard that shortly before we arrived up-country a startled Trooper had discovered a camel spider tucking into the lower jaw of a colleague. We all made sure our mosquito nets were tucked in when we went to bed, I can tell you.

The SAS were often in our camp as our base was the furthest north towards Yemen. All members of HM Forces have a great respect for elite forces and it was in South Arabia that I came to know them better. Their regular tent was next to ours, and we actually shared the same 'funk hole', but I was never to meet them socially, down there. It was quite usual, when I would be lying upon my camp bed reading, that I would hear a scrambling coming from the 'funk hole' and a face would pop up and ask, at least on one particular occasion, "What’s it called when women use electricity to get rid of hairs on their legs?" "Electrolysis" I replied and the face disappeared back down the hole. It seemed crosswords were a ubiquitous method of passing time.

I remember watching them firing three-inch mortars from just outside the perimeter. 'Bang' the mortar would go as it left the tube, to explode shortly after some way in the distance. 'Pop' went the next one – a misfire, as everyone hit the deck, hands over our heads. I glanced up and the two SAS blokes were still standing there, hands on hips. "Where the hell did that one go?" one said to be answered immediately as the mortar round slammed into the ground not a hundred yards away.

Even the simple fact of departing South Arabia was not without incident for some. One chap, who had completed his six-month tour, was shot dead by a sniper as he climbed the steps to his departing aircraft.

We had an Engineer who had completed three tours. He was a ‘dozer driver and over the years had befriended a young local lad from Habilayn who would sit on the dozer with the driver and jump down to open gates. It was on the driver's final tour that he made the mistake of leaving his SMG by his seat when he got off the dozer for a moment and the young lad picked up the gun and shot the driver clean through the head before running off to the hills with his new-found weapon.

Even after leaving Aden the problems were not over. A lot of bad feeling towards Customs and Excise at the UK airport on landing was created when a flight, carrying ONLY severely injured soldiers was held up at the airport for hours whilst HM Customs searched each and every casualty for contraband. Of course nothing was found, which is hardly surprising as the trauma of having one leg or no arms was rather more concerning then trying to sneak in a cheap watch. The Customs lost one hell of a lot of goodwill through that despicable charade and at the time the whole disgusting episode was hushed up.

30 Field Squadron departed in two flights, about four days between each one. I was on the second flight and luck being what it is, Nasser up in Egypt decreed that no British military would over-fly any Arab territories. Well this was one hell of a large area so instead of flying direct to Malta or Cyprus we were forced to do a huge 36 hour detour out to Persia (as it was then). Our inconvenience and frustration was not helped when a cabin window of the Britannia partly blew out as we approached Teheran, and casually this was 'repaired' by stuffing coats into it!

However, the first flight was rather unlucky in landing at Athens early April 1967, which was the same time as the Greeks overthrew their government with a coup. The aircraft was stuck on the airport runway for almost two days before being allowed to continue on to UK. It was very near to a disaster, as with a plane load of squaddies having just spent six months being shot at having to sit in a confined aircraft whilst some greasy burke waved his gun about caused one utterly pissed-off Sapper to attempt to disarm their guard. It was shortly afterwards the aircraft was given permission to takeoff.

Finally on the 13th April I landed at RAF Brize Norton, into what seemed an absolutely freezing day.
 

Click to join