Point of the Spear

By Dave Hayward

Five years after World War II, beautiful and exotic Malaya is torn by rebellion. Corporal John Barr and his men are at the 'point of the spear' as they search for the battle-hardened and elusive communist terrorist forces led by the ruthless Major Goh Chu. Gruelling patrols deep into the jungle-covered mountains of a dangerous land force them to depend on each other for their very lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781623096922

Book preview

Brown

1

The platoon came steeply downhill off the ridge. In the valley the slope eased. It had been a day like all the others – hot and humid; the air heavy and lifeless, foetid with a million years of decay. They were in virgin jungle. Magnificent trees towered above them, the closely woven branches forming a dense canopy no sunlight could penetrate. They moved in a hushed, gloomy light. It reminded Corporal John Barr of a huge, ancient cathedral.

The undergrowth was light and it was easy going. Their feet made little noise on the soft leaf-mould. They moved carefully, quietly, spaced well apart. They did not talk. Dressed identically in filthy, sweat-soaked, uniforms; rubber-soled canvas boots, long trousers, shirts with sleeves down, soft, misshapen hats; only their dirty hands and faces were bare. Each man carried five or six pouches on a webbing waist-belt and a big pack on his back. All held loaded weapons at the ready, not slung, but carried in both hands. The greens, browns and blacks of clothing, equipment and weapons blended with the jungle. There was an air of menace about their steady, silent advance.

Number Ten Platoon of Delta Company of the First Battalion, the New Zealand Infantry Regiment, was at work.

Two Section was leading. The two scouts probed forward, senses alert. The lead scout, Private Archie Kurangi, was particularly good at this – you could almost see his nose twitching like a dog on a scent. The section commander, Corporal John Barr, followed, alert for their signals. Every man searched the jungle as he passed; they had learnt to look ‘through it, not at it’. Each stayed within sight of the man behind – checked with every visual sweep – if you lost him you stopped until he caught up.

The crakk, crakk of rifle fire shattered the afternoon. Two shots – .303, John assessed. Immediately the hysterical chattering of Archie’s sub-machine gun followed. Someone yelled Contact front! and the cry was repeated down the column.

Throwing off packs, Two Section reacted as drilled. Corporal Barr ran forward until he could see the scouts then ducked behind a tree. He could hear the Bren gun team running up on his left, the higher ground, and the rifle group on his right.

Arch? he called into the sudden quiet.

Sentry. He’s run. Track contours the hill.

The enemy fired at the sound of their voices; two rifles, then a machinegun. Bullets crakked overhead or whacked into trees.

Ants! John shouted and Private Anthony Shepperd stood upright and fired the Bren at the enemy position – from the hip, a full magazine of twenty-eight big bullets.

Lieutenant Garth Haswell, the platoon commander, threw himself down beside John.

One sentry, John told him. But now a bloody machinegun.

They’ll try to hold us while they scarper, Haswell panted. He had sprinted forward from his position in the column. I’ve sent Sugar round to the left and Dug’s gone right for the stream. You flush them.

The platoon needed to move quickly. If the enemy reacted in the usual way they would not stay to fight but escape on planned routes to vanish in the jungle. Haswell had sent his two unengaged sections ranging left and right to flank them. Now John’s section had to charge and ‘flush’ them before they could organise their withdrawal.

Rifles move, he shouted.

At his words the Bren team and the scouts fired; suppressive fire to cover the move. The four men of the rifle group charged forward through the sparse undergrowth. John ran hard to join them. Adrenaline surged in his veins. The job of the Infantry – ‘to close with and destroy the enemy’ – hard, dangerous work unchanged for centuries. Whether armed with stone axe or modern rifle the fear-inspired exhilaration was the same. This particular enemy, however, had no intention of being ‘closed with’ let alone ‘destroyed’.

Shots came at them but they jinked and dodged as they ran and no one was hit. After fifteen yards or so, without orders, they stopped, knelt and began a rapid fire at the enemy position. Covered by this, the Bren and scout teams came crashing past on the left. The Bren fired again.

John leapt to his feet and charged on. He burst into a small clearing containing a single attap-roofed shelter. From the far side two khaki-clad figures fired several rapid shots. He heard a sickening slap and Private Mad-Dog Miller went down.

With four rifles firing at them the two terrorists turned and ran. It seemed impossible they could escape the hail of bullets, especially when the scouts arrived and Archie gave them a full magazine. One of them staggered, but they ran on. John took a deep, calming breath, steadied the sights of his rifle on the bulging pack of the last man and squeezed the trigger. The legs stopped running and the terrorist slid along the ground.

Silence descended. There was a burst of firing from the higher ground to their left, but it was short-lived. The entire action had lasted just nine minutes.

Quickly, Two Section and Platoon HQ formed a defensive perimeter around the clearing. The medic worked over Miller. A bullet had smashed his thighbone and his leg had collapsed under him. Running flat out he had crashed into a tree and knocked himself out. The medic thought he’d be OK, provided they got him out as soon as they could.

Sergeant Jim Sharpe searched the camp. From the shelter he collected a few cooking utensils and other items; nothing worthwhile by the look of it. He searched the man John had killed, a messy job. The pack held a large bag of rice and he emptied it onto a groundsheet.

Hey, Archie, look at this, the sergeant exclaimed. Among the grains of rice emptied from the pack two squat 9mm bullets shone in the pale light. You hit the bugger alright.

The small bullets from the sub-machinegun had failed to penetrate the pack. To the running man they would have felt like a hard blow to the back. The single, powerfully charged 7.62mm bullet from John’s FN rifle had punched right through the pack and the man’s body. There was a huge exit wound in his chest. He had died still running.

I knew I got ‘im, Archie cried disgustedly. That’s it! You can stick this bloody Owen gun. I want something that puts ‘em down when I hit ‘em. How about a shotgun, Sergeant?

I dunno, Arch. They jam a lot. I’ll see what I can do though. Guess you’ve earned it.

Many scouts wanted the big Winchester pump-action shotguns despite the problem with cartridges swelling in the damp. Firing loads of big ball bearings, they were lethal at the short ranges of jungle fighting.

Announcing themselves as they approached, the flanking sections rejoined. One Section had seen nothing below the camp, but Three Section had briefly contacted the escaping enemy. A blood trail leading away around the hill indicated they had wounded at least one, but they had taken a casualty themselves. Private John Taatini had been shot in the foot. How that had come about nobody knew, but bullets flew in all directions in a contact and strange things happened.

I tell them to keep their bloody heads down, Corporal Sugar Robinson grumbled to the assembled ‘O’ (orders) group. Never thought to tell Taatini to keep his fuckin’ feet down. Quiet chuckles answered.

Lieutenant Garth Haswell passed the radio handset to the signaller and turned to his waiting NCOs.

Right. It’s straight up to the ridge top. Seems there’s a helicopter pad not far along it. There’ll be a heli there before dark. If we make it Miller and Taatini will go out today. If not, they’ll have to wait ‘til morning. HQ is sending a dog team and we’re to follow up. And yes, Intelligence want the body as well.

John Barr groaned. It would be brutal work getting their wounded up the steep slope – now they also had to lug the dead terrorist.

The identity and status of every communist terrorist (CT) was carefully documented and the intelligence people wanted to know who had been eliminated. They wanted the body – the whole body. John grinned ruefully. It was rumoured that in similar circumstances the Ghurkhas had simply delivered the head and hands. He could understand why.

Yeah, I know, Garth continued. Rifle groups to Jim as stretcher bearers. I’ll take the scouts and you, Dug, and we’ll go like hell for the top and find this pad. John, you lead the push. Sugar, you’re arse-end-charlie. Questions? Right, get to it.

It was bad luck to have two men hit in the brief fight, it was even worse that both had leg wounds and could not walk. Carrying stretchers up a steep, jungle-covered hill was gut-wrenching labour, especially when you were in a hurry. It was hard on the wounded too, even with a full ampoule of morphine in each man. The easiest way to carry the dead CT was also on a stretcher. The difference being comfort didn’t matter to him; he could be tied on.

During the time it took to reorganise and make three sturdy stretchers from fresh-cut poles and groundsheets Corporal Robinson found a small, rotund rifleman forming up with the scouts.

What the hell are you doing, Whetu? he demanded.

I’m training to be a scout, Sugar. This is a good time to get some experience, Private Whetu answered.

The big man stared at the little one in exasperation. Private William (Weta) Whetu gazed back with innocent eyes. A bloody cherub with the mind of a devil, Sugar thought. Whetu was the platoon joker with a genius for mischief and a thousand reasons to dodge work. He’d just tried it on again.

You lying little shit, Sugar growled, towering over the other man. Get over there with the stretcher party before they have to carry you as well.

Unabashed and grinning, Weta scurried away.

Four men carried each stretcher; they were changed as often as the limited numbers allowed. The patient was carried head first; head up-hill that is. In an effort to keep them at least semi-level, the front bearers kept their hands close to the ground while those carrying the rear or foot end held the poles on their shoulders. That was the theory anyway and it may even work on a dry, cleared slope. In practice, the stretchers were constantly bumped, jostled and dropped as the bearers fought for footholds in the greasy leaf-mould or tripped on wire-strong roots.

Throughout the ordeal the bearers still carried their heavy packs and rifles. Battalion Standard Operating Procedures (SOP) forbade weapon slings on patrol; ‘Slings will not be used. At all times weapons are to be carried in both hands ready for instant action.’ Carrying a stretcher required not only both hands, but also every ounce of effort a man possessed; weapons had to be slung. The order simply confirmed the sharp-end soldiers’ opinion that the base-bludgers of Bullshit Castle (aka Battalion HQ) didn’t have a clue. In the absence of proper slings, string or vines were used, but they were poor substitutes. Many platoon commanders turned a blind eye to the slings that found their way into pouches. Ten Platoon was lucky, most had slings.

The packs and rifles of the wounded and dead were carried, in addition to their own, by the few men of Platoon HQ. They and the Bren teams formed a loose protective cordon around the stretcher parties. Over-burdened as they were they found it terribly hard work moving straight up the steep hillside. They were, however, thankful not to be in the stretcher party.

Within minutes of starting, the bearers were drenched in sweat, gasping for breath and oblivious to everything but the need to bear the load and struggle on. Sergeant Sharpe was everywhere, threatening or encouraging by turn. His presence goaded the struggling column on.

Corporal John Barr took a turn on a stretcher. He was a strong man, hard-muscled and jungle-fit, but the backbreaking labour soon reduced him to just another mindless beast-of-burden pressing blindly on.

Corporal Samuel (Sugar) Robinson was a legend in the battalion. A heavyweight boxing champion noted for prodigious feats of strength, he added to his reputation that afternoon. Whenever a stretcher fell behind he pushed aside the two men at its foot, took both poles on massive shoulders and drove upward. With the front men scrambling to remain upright he would drive that stretcher to the front of the column before handing it back. On one occasion when the stretcher containing the dead terrorist twisted from the hands of its bearers and slid back down the hill, he caught it, slung it body and all atop his pack and staggered unaided for a hundred yards before even his great strength gave out.

While his commander raced ahead to find and prepare the landing pad, Sergeant Sharpe drove the platoon onward. Miller’s wound was nasty; the bullet still in there somewhere, probably with bits of cloth and other rubbish as well. He really needed to get to hospital that night. Taatini too, for that matter.

Monsoon season or not, it rains most afternoons on the high Malayan jungle. Right on time the rain began. They heard it coming. First the wind battered the canopy high above. Leaves and small branches fell. The temperature dropped. Like an approaching train, the roar of the downpour moved toward them. Huge drops thundered on the canopy, but no rain fell upon them. After several minutes the water penetrated the mass of foliage and fell to the jungle floor. Instantly they were drenched. The humidity level jumped off the scale. Vapour writhed among the trees.

The steep hillside now ran with water. Wet leaves and mud offered no purchase for their feet. The climb turned from heart-rending effort to a task seemingly beyond Hercules. The young men of Ten Platoon staggered, slipped and clawed their way upward. Sobbing with the strain, they inched their way toward the ridge top.

2

Lieutenant Garth Haswell had good reason to leave his men to their labours and race for the ridge top. The CT would know about the helicopter pad; these jungles were their home. They would also know that if they had hit any of their attackers (they would be hoping they had) the evacuation of casualties would have priority. From painful experience they knew security forces often put a tracker team in to follow up a contact. It was, therefore, reasonable for Garth to assume the enemy knew what he was about. An ambush of an exhausted platoon on the ridge-top track or landing pad was a definite possibility. If Garth could get there fast enough he would beat a potential ambusher to it. At the least, he should disrupt the ambush before it was ready. It was because he might have to fight that Garth took seven men. Men who could have helped carry stretchers.

He pushed hard. Ninety minutes after leaving the clearing the scouts warily approached the ridge-top track. It proved to be clear with no sign of recent use. Leaving Corporal Graven with one of his scouts to wait for the platoon and watch the flank, Garth hurried on. After the hard climb the broad and relatively level track was easy and they were almost running. To relax was to invite disaster and Garth stopped briefly to remind his men of this.

From the ridge they could see the storm coming. It was an awesome sight. Huge black clouds shot through with lightning rolled toward them. The wind struck, whipping hats from heads and stripping litter from the track. Garth could see the wall of rain advancing across the jungle canopy – a giant curtain drawn across the earth.

Before it hit he stopped his men and they descended a short distance off the ridge top. They lay down and placed their weapons flat on the ground. To be the highest point on a ridge clutching a large metal object was asking to be struck by lightning – it had happened.

The rain arrived. Instant waterfall. Hard to breathe. Thunder and lightning crashed and flashed, the air stank of sulphur. They lay miserable, shivering and not a little frightened until the front of the storm passed. Garth prayed the rain would be gone before the helicopter was due; it could not fly in this. They did not stop for long. In the pelting rain they moved on, slipping and sliding on the now drenched track.

The landing pad was in a natural clearing at the highest point of the ridge. The ground fell away all round and, as the storm moved on, the view was magnificent. With no time to enjoy it they searched the clearing for signs of the enemy, found none, and posted sentries.

So far so good, Garth thought. About three hours of daylight left. With him on the pad the helicopter would land – the pilot wouldn’t know how few his protectors were. That would get the tracker dog in and allow him to talk to the pilot. Everything now depended on Jim Sharpe and the bearers. The lieutenant took out his machete and began clearing the bushes and long grass that had grown since the pad was last used. He did not call one of his men to do this, they were better employed as sentries and the activity would help pass the time.

The rain eased, stopped and the sun appeared, already well on its way toward the horizon. Instantly the ground began to steam and the valleys filled with mist. Now it’s a bloody sauna, Garth thought irritably. He worked on.

Away off toward the coast a helicopter appeared like a tiny insect. It headed for the pad, approaching all too quickly. Soon Garth could hear it buzzing like a giant wasp. He had no radio contact with the aircraft but had tied down three bright orange cloth panels in the shape of a ‘T’ as a recognition signal.

When he was sure the pilot would see it he tossed a smoke grenade. For sixty seconds it discharged a plume of yellow smoke that indicated the direction and strength of the wind. Standing with his back to that brisk wind, he marshalled the little Army Air Corps (AAC) Sycamore helicopter onto the freshly cleared pad. As it touched, doors on both sides flew open and two armed men leapt out. They reached back inside the machine and pulled out bulging packs. Last out was a big black Labrador dog.

At a thumbs-up from the pilot, Garth ran to him. Shouting to be heard above the noise of engine and rotors he told the pilot the casualties were not here yet and asked if he would switch off and wait. The pilot, sergeant’s stripes on his flying overalls, looked at his watch, at the now clear sky and sinking sun and nodded. Garth grinned in relief and scuttled away while the helicopter wound down.

He had a quick word with the dog team corporal and sent him to join Private Kurangi. Archie could give him all the information he needed about the contact. The dog, looking eager and excited, lifted its leg on every bush it passed.

The pilot got out, strapped on a holstered pistol and strolled over. As Garth shook his hand he said, I can give you another twenty minutes or so. What’s the delay?

Garth told him of the afternoon’s events. He emphasised that his men would give their all to get their mates to hospital this night. He thanked the sergeant sincerely for waiting – he could easily have refused and flown straight back to comfort and a cold beer.

No big deal, sir, the pilot answered. You’re up so high here I have a clear run home. It’s the pads tucked away in valleys we want nothing to do with at this time of day. He gestured at the mist-filled valleys surrounding them. This one’s a breeze.

After chatting for more than the promised twenty minutes, the pilot looked at his watch and the sky again. The sun was a great red ball balanced on the horizon.

Dug Graven burst into the clearing and ran over. We didn’t hear the heli fly off, boss, he gasped. They’re nearly here. Can it wait?

Garth looked anxiously at the pilot.

Tell you what, the sergeant said. I’ll start up and wait as long as I can. When they get here, get your men aboard. Nothing else, OK? No packs, no rifles and no dead terrorist. If I don’t take the body they’ll send me back in the morning so I can take the equipment and weapons then. He laughed. We’ll both be in the shit, but I’ll blame you, you’re the officer, and say I only did what I was told. What do yuh reckon?

Sergeant, I reckon you’re a bloody beauty and I’ll buy you a beer when we get back. Garth smiled with relief.

And so it was done. The helicopter sat, rotors turning, for five anxious minutes before the bearers appeared and thrust the grateful wounded aboard. It lifted off and away, heading fast for home in the darkening sky. Ten Platoon would not forget that pilot. The next time he visited the Kiwi Sergeants’ Mess he would need to be carried home. Jim Sharpe would see to that.

Although totally spent, the platoon was elated with their success. In the fading light they deployed into a defensive night harbour. Darkness closed in as they prepared the position and erected bashas. Normally no lights were permitted after dark so no hexamine stoves were lit and they resigned themselves to cold canned food again. After consideration, Garth passed the word permitting hidden cookers. With delighted grins his troops set about cooking and brewing – always first priority – a restorative mug of hot, sweet tea.

Garth’s popularity soared that night, but that wasn’t why he did it. He knew how hard his men had worked; what it had taken to get the stretchers up the ridge. And there would be another hard day tomorrow. They needed hot food and drink. Given that and a night’s sleep, their youth and fitness would ensure they recovered quickly and would be ready to go in the morning.

He also knew the enemy would know exactly where they were – the coming and going of the helicopter so late in the day had seen to that – so the smell of cooking and possible glimmer of hexamine stoves would tell them nothing new. And he held an excellent defensive position. He knew just how steep the sides of the ridge were; no one could climb them in the dark without noise. He had two good machinegun positions covering the ridge track and, with these manned all night, the platoon was as safe as it would ever be. They were, after all, trying to find the enemy. If the enemy chose to find them, wasn’t that a good thing? Considering the benefits far outweighed the risks, he made the decision to depart from standard procedures.

Corporal Barr had worked this out for himself and his respect for his platoon commander increased. After cooking and eating that welcome hot meal – a can of Irish stew on a heap of rice – John took his mug of brew and sat on the edge of the clearing above his basha. Here he could enjoy the unfamiliar sight of the stars and feel of the wind. After a year in Malaya he couldn’t remember a night harbour like this. They were usually sweltering deep beneath the jungle canopy in total darkness. Why, it was almost light out here.

John was pleased with the performance of his section and the platoon. The contact had gone well. The enemy, the communist terrorists (CT) of the Perak State Regiment of the Malayan Races Liberation Army (MRLA), were experts in the jungle. Some had been there sixteen years and more, through World War II and all. They were amazingly quick and elusive. To actually kill one in a hidden camp as they had today was good going. Still, after a year on operations, the platoon was getting pretty good in the jungle. Perhaps they would catch more of them now.

He raised his mug for another sip.