Editorial Foreword

What follows is an extract from a Parachute Regiment veteran’s memoir of his time in the Regiment in the 1950s, when he served in Cyprus and Egypt, taking part in the Franco-British attempt to regain control of the Suez Canal from the nationalist leader Colonel Abdel Nasser. This part, about his time in Cyprus just before Suez, is a good example of his style.

The carefully laid-out, half-edited 45,000-word text, entitled simply Suez Diary, was sent to Regimental HQ a few years ago without the author’s name anywhere in evidence. In the manuscript, he does not even reveal with which Battalion he served. It is as if he wished to remain anonymous.

However, there are a few clues that should help us to establish his identity. He states that he earned a Mention in Dispatches for bravery during the assault on Port Said and gives the name of the comrade who earned an MID for the same action, when the two of them gained access to a building by blowing in the wall. There again, the names he gives of other paratroopers decorated with the Military Medal do not appear in The London Gazette, suggesting that he changed their names.

Suez Diary should be treated as a working title. In my editorial opinion, the author’s frequent use of the word ‘circus’ in the context of the Suez Affair lends itself to another title: Suez Circus. This is a book that ought to be published as it would be a must-have on the bookshelves of any student of Airborne Forces history.

The Circus Goes On Tour

A soldier’s story of the Suez and Sinai War, later to be known as The Suez Affair, must begin at the start of the year 1956.

On March 1st 1956, King Hussein of Jordan dismissed General Glubb Pacha, the British commander of the Arab Legion. In response to the crisis the British Government ordered two Battalion Groups of the 16th Independent Parachute Brigade to Cyprus in order to mount an airborne operation into Jordan to protect British nationals.

The 16th Independent Parachute Brigade — Britain’s only airborne force at the time — consisted of: three assault battalions from The Parachute Regiment; the Brigade’s Pathfinder force formed by the Guards Independent Parachute Company; a Parachute Light Regiment, Royal Artillery; a Parachute Field Squadron, Royal Engineers; a Parachute Squadron, Royal Signals; an Independent Parachute Company, Royal Army Service Corps; a Parachute Field Workshop, Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers; a Parachute Field Ordnance Company, Royal Army Ordnance Corps; a Parachute Field Ambulance, Royal Army Medical Corps; and a Parachute Provost Company, Royal Military Police — about 3,500 men in all.

In January 1956, I had been in the army for a year. Having completed my basic training with The Northamptonshire Regiment, I had volunteered for service with The Parachute Regiment. At the time, I had served with a Parachute Regiment Assault Battalion for seven months and suddenly found myself caught up in the making of history.

The two battalions, with supporting arms, left the Airborne Forces base in Aldershot for Cyprus in one of the first major airlifts of the British Army by the RAF since the Second World War. The airlift by RAF Transport Command Hastings transport aircraft and Coastal Command Shackleton bombers flying from Blackbushe airfield went without a hitch despite one aircraft being struck by lightning.

Unannounced — and unwanted by Cyprus GHQ — the two parachute battalions were given an area of swamp in which to make camp. For the next two weeks it rained almost continuously. We lived under makeshift canvas shelters in a field that was completely water-logged. Everything sank into the mud, equipment and clothing were soaked and sleep was an uncomfortable cold wet break from the day.

The latrine areas were unsanitary because we were unable to dig soakaways in the swamp. Brigade Commander General Butler ordered a move before sickness hit the Brigade. The battalions moved to the area of the central plain and on a rocky plateau about ten miles from Nicosia, using our own engineers, our own devices and a great deal of airborne initiative, we built a more comfortable tented camp.

The Jordan crisis quickly died down and was deemed by the British government to be over. Field Marshal Harding, the Governor of Cyprus, seized the chance to use parachute troops in the increasingly difficult and bloody anti-terrorist campaign being waged by the British against the EOKA in the island. The operations were to be carried out in the mountain forests where few if any British had penetrated for years. Within a few days both battalions were committed to major operations in the Troodos and Kyrenia mountains.

Cyprus is a beautiful place, particularly in the two mountain ranges. In the centre of the island, Mount Olympus in the Troodos range rises to nearly 6,000 feet and has sufficient snow in the winter for skiing. Pine forests cover the sides of the steep scree-covered mountains. Moufflon, the wild mountain sheep, can be seen on the higher and more inaccessible slopes. Except for the odd forester or shepherd the forests are deserted.

To the west of Mount Olympus, the Paphos Forest covers the hills as they descend in rolling waves to the sea at the birthplace of Aphrodite. In the centre of the Paphos Forest, Kykkho Monastery dominated one of the few north-south roads. The Greek Orthodox church, steeped in intrigue for centuries, was deeply implicated in support of the Greek terrorist organisation EOKA.

The Kyrenia range in the north, and along the panhandle, is lower but more dramatic. The sharp peaks, rising almost straight out of the sea in places, create a Disney-like effect. The central plain between the two ranges is dry and dusty, dotted with low hills, cultivation, lemon and carob trees. Vineyards cover the lower southern slopes of the Troodos mountains and the Paphos hills to the west.

The mountain roads are narrow and unsurfaced. Hairpin bends, cliffs and steep slopes on each side make them an ideal place for ambushes. Villages cling to the sides of the mountains. An approaching driver can sometimes be seen for half an hour or more, as he winds his way interminably towards his destination, seeming never to get closer.

Only towards the end of the campaign were there any helicopters, and travelling in a vehicle was usually an invitation to be ambushed. Foot patrols stayed out for days and nights at a time. Ambushes would be set at night by likely forest tracks. Suspect villages would be raided by men marching all night over the mountains and arriving before day-break. Boots wore out in a few days on the razor-sharp scree. Hot in summer, bitterly cold in winter, soldiering in the Cypriot mountains was tough and demanding.

Operation followed operation and a successful formula developed. A large area of forest would be cordoned off, which required several battalions of infantry drawn from the county regiments. Men in the cordon had to remain in sight of each other, or at least cover the ground between each other by observation and fire. It was not good enough to have a ring of men with each man on his own. If a group of terrorists attempting to break out attacked a lone soldier they would overcome him, particularly at night.

Once the cordon of troops was in place, paratroopers and commando units would move inside the cordon to seek out and destroy EOKA gangs.

THE CIRCUS ON PATROL

Operations such as this had to be capable of being sustained for days or weeks at a time. Our observation posts and ambushes would be forward of the section or platoon positions, to which we returned to sleep and eat as best we could. We changed our positions only after dark, in case we had been under observation by the terrorists during the day and our position was compromised.

To be effective, a seek out and destroy patrol had to close on the objective as quickly and as quietly as possible. Long approach marches, usually at night, were necessary. Accurate map reading was difficult but vital and the steep scree made quiet movement almost impossible. Navigation had to be good so that a patrol did not wander into another’s patch and be shot for their pains.

A mountain seek and destroy patrol tested the endurance of the fittest. The approach was made at night. Marching at speed across the mountains, surprise being vital, twenty miles or more would have to be covered before the patrol area was finally reached just before daybreak. Everything was manpacked — If you can’t carry it, leave it behind was the motto.

There then followed days of arduous marching and back-breaking toil. Every day the sun beat down through the canopy of the forest above our heads. Sweat soaked our clothes. Sweat rash appeared on any  part of the  skin that rubbed on equipment or clothing. A variety of sores and cuts plagued the body, making equipment straps painful and during each daylight hour, we lost bucketfuls of sweat. To cope with these conditions it was necessary to keep a sense of humour. Unless we were prepared to take care of ourselves, to take regular draughts of salt water and to tend to cuts and sores we quickly became a burden to the rest of the patrol.

Our route lay across the grain of the mountains. The sides of  the mountains were often covered in treacherous scree, making climbing difficult. We climbed each ridge, dragging ourselves up the steep slopes, using hands, feet and knees and every muscle in our aching bodies to maintain balance and keep moving upwards ever upwards. On reaching the top we took up all round defensive positions and carefully checked the surrounding countryside for anything suspicious.

The high point of the ridge gave the chance to check the map in an attempt to establish our position in the forest. Then on again, along the ridge for a little way and down the other side, slipping and sliding on the scree, clutching at bushes and saplings to prevent a headlong fall into the dried-up wadi below. On reaching the bottom, half-dead with fatigue, we had to cross the open space of the wadi one at a time.

This was open ground surrounded by dense vegetation. This was where the EOKA could stage an ambush. This was the killing ground. One by one we dashed across the open space of the dried up river bed, throwing ourselves into the cover of the bushes on the far side. And then, up again, up over the next ridge.

Life on patrol was reduced to physical details: the soft padding of rubber-soled boots on pine needles; the pain from hands and knees cut by sharp stones and of shoulders aching under heavy weights; the warm pleasure at dusk of a heated-up tin of concentrated meat and veg from a 24-hour ration pack; the chance that you might get four hours sleep that night.

Night could be the most terrifying part of ‘mountain bashing’. At night the patrol would place an ambush on a forest track. Two men, positioned in a forward position, to act as a trip-wire, would be relieved every two hours and on the change of guard, we would be left alone — isolated for what seemed like hours. The forest was thick and full of sounds that could stretch the nerves to breaking point. Every movement, every snap of a twig, every animal sound, these caused the mind to imagine terrorists about to break through and knife or shoot you.

Contact with the EOKA usually resulted in a fire fight at close quarters with rifles, automatic weapons, and hand grenades. Unless the terrorists were able to withdraw and melt away into the forest, contact usually resulted in their capture or deaths. The business was by no means one-sided; during an operation we usually took a number of casualties.

Our heaviest losses were suffered during Operation Lucky Alphonse in June 1956 when our total dead amounted to twenty one officers and other ranks. [Editorial note: the final British casualty toll has since been revised to thirty, most of whom were killed by a forest fire. The operation was dubbed ‘Unlucky Alphonse’ and was, by default, an EOKA victory.

When a terrorist group was cornered, usually resulting from an intelligence tip-off a full blown shoot out would follow. Other than that, contact with the EOKA was infrequent, most patrols ending with a simple wireless message to HQ: “November Tango Romeo” — N.T.R. Nothing to report.

Contact occurred almost by accident, a patrol stumbling on an EOKA hide or either side walking into an ambush. When contact was made under these conditions there followed a frantic fire fight amongst the trees, rocks and bushes of the mountainside. Brutal and bloody, over in minutes. A ‘contact with enemy’ in which I was involved, during operation Pepperpot in the Troodos mountains, was typical.

THE CLOWNS’ FIRE FIGHT

The Battalion had been ‘up in the blue’ for about a week. We had patrolled a section of the mountains with no success. Towards the end of that week, we moved into a new patrol area. My job, on detachment to C Company, was intelligence and communications. The company commander had established Company HQ at the end of a mountain track just below an area of the Troodos high ridge.

We set off in a small convoy of four Austin Champ jeeps, each towing an airborne trailer, slowly making our way through the forest down the narrow winding track. My travelling with these vehicles was pure chance. Three of the Champs were carrying a platoon of C Company to its patrol jump-off point. The fourth, which was following the lead vehicle, was being used by the CQMS as the company supply vehicle to pick up supplies from Battalion Tac HQ.

Needing to visit Battalion Tac HQ myself, I had managed to scrounge a lift from Colour Sergeant ‘Wag’ Nelmes, C Company CQMS. Intelligence reports indicated that the EOKA were active in the area and we were expecting one of our patrols to make contact. The track wound along the mountainside, bordered by bushes, small trees and thick vegetation; it threatened trouble round every corner.

About two miles out from C Company HQ, the track went left and we moved delicately and slowly, at low speed, into the bend. A hundred yards of track lay ahead flanked by trees and dense shrub. The leading Champ sped up to the next corner. At the corner, we steered carefully around until a new stretch of track opened up before us, dark and dappled with deep shadows, the trees and bushes encroaching from both sides.

Fifty yards ahead lay another bend in the road, a good place to site an ambush. The wireless operator next to me transmitted his report in a monotone: “Hello, Three Quebec. Over.”. He waited for a response from the controlling station and then transmitted again: “Three Quebec, Roger. November Tango Romeo. Over.”. Back came the acknowledgement: “Roger, out.”.  

We edged our way round the next corner. A slightly longer stretch of road, another bend. Without warning, the Champ up ahead disappeared. A funnel of dense smoke and flame rushed up out of the ground, mushrooming above the trees and then flinging dirt, smoke and jagged iron in all directions. An invisible, howling express train of blast smashed into us. It was like being in a crash with a ghost vehicle.

Our Champ lurched, almost throwing me out, as the driver skidded off the track and smashed into the bushes. I felt the whiplash of saplings and bushes as we crashed to a halt. A sound like hailstones pattered through the trees as the lethal cloud of rubble began to fall back to earth. A lump of stone as big as a golf ball, but not so smooth, bounced off my shoulder, tearing my shirt and skin.

Dust, smoke and charred dirt rained down round us, causing us to cough and retch. As I cleared my head, I become aware of the dry, ripping, crack-crack-crack of automatic fire, through the undergrowth. The leading Champ was on its side, the trailer upside down. The platoon commander travelling in the champ was probably dead. I could see bodies round the vehicle and other men crawling away into the undergrowth.

Colour Sergeant Nelmes, who was sitting in front of me, had collapsed in his seat, apparently dead — He later turned out to be unconscious — and there was nothing we could do for him. The two following Champs had crashed into the trees and bushes on the other side of the track.

Christ! An ambush! Out! Out! We leapt from the Champ, diving for the ground. The terrorists were laying down heavy fire along the track and into the bushes on either side. Fortunately they were shooting high and the shots cracked above our heads, bringing down twigs and small branches. The huge steel hand of fear clutched and squeezed my lungs, heart and throat. I instinctively cowered in a thick clump of shrubs

Platoon Sergeant ‘Pony’ Waterfield called across: “Gordon Bennett! We hit something this time! You OK?”. I yelled back that I could see the lead Champ, the platoon commander was down, could be dead. I added: “Wag Nelmes is dead but the four of us are OK.”.

Pony Waterfield was an old hand from the 6th Airborne Division, a veteran of the D-Day landings and the Rhine Crossing. We lay flat on the ground on each side of the track, hiding in the undergrowth as he explained his plan of attack. His Bren gunners [Editor: the Bren was a light magazine-fed machine gun] would lay down covering fire. On our side of the track, we would move forward to engage the enemy, drawing their fire. Pony would leave two Bren groups to prevent an enemy breakout from their front whilst he circled around their position with the remainder of his platoon to take them from behind.

I crawled over to the other three occupants of our Champ. I knew the wireless operator, ‘Scouse’ Rush a Liverpudlian boxer. I only knew the driver as ‘Taff ’. I started to explain Pony Waterfield’s plan and then noticed that the radio antenna was broken. This meant no help if we couldn’t make contact. We had to get through to the battalion net and I told Scouse Rush to try to put up the wire skywave aerial and to stay with the Champ to try to raise help on the battalion net.Scouse: “I’ll get me f**king tabs shot off!”.Me: “Don’t bloody argue! You have to have some to lose them. You’ve got to raise the battalion net!” .

I finish explaining the plan, ending with: “Any questions? Let’s go!”. I checked our fire power: not very much. This, after all, was the supply vehicle. The driver and shotgun rider had rifles and about seventy rounds each, the wireless operator a pistol and I was carrying a Sten gun with four loaded magazines and a pistol with one spare mag.

Slowly and silently we edged our way from our vehicle. I tried to remember how the road ahead of us was before the explosion knocked us all for six. I thought it turned to the left, in which case, as we moved forward, the road would swing away from us. The enemy ambush position had to be on the bend. My mouth dried up as the realisation hit me. I turned to the other two: “The bastards are on our side of the road. They have to be.”.

Ahead was a rocky outcrop covered with small trees and bushes. Making our way between two boulders the size of small houses, we climbed to the crest of the spur and were astonished to find the terrorists in a group gathered in a gully below, hardly thirty yards away, presumably just about to make their getaway. They saw us as we saw them and dived for cover under a bank. This is a situation we could hardly have dared to hope for. We had them trapped, bottled up in the gully, at close range.

There was a great deal of shooting from both sides. They had a high-spread machine gun down there, which sounded like a power-saw each time it fired. It must have been a Russian job, certainly much faster than the Bren. Every time I thought I saw movement, I fired a burst from my Sten gun. The effect of all this shooting was mainly psychological; there were no indications that we scored any hits. Our two men with rifles were laying down steady fire but we were quickly using up our ammunition. I had emptied my second magazine and had just two magazines left. Then I would have to use my pistol. Still no sign of the phosphorus grenade that would signal Pony Waterfield’s attack.

We had to make a move. Working our way further up the rocks, we tried to flush them out into the fire of the Bren guns. We had better luck than we deserved; our move brought us around and up onto a knoll. From our higher position, the gulley gave them little protection. We opened fire at about forty yards. One terrorist fell and another shouted in English: “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!, and put up his hands. He climbed out of the gully, closely followed by two other terrorists. The sight of these three terrorists walking out with their hands up produces a feeling of incredulous satisfaction. It looked too good to be true. I thought: Christ! it can’t be this easy!

The feeling is short lived. We now did everything we had been trained not to do. We stood up and moved forward towards the terrorists. Even as we moved, a voice was shouting inside my head: something is wrong.  I realised too late: we should not leave cover. Even as I shouted: “Get down!”, machine gun fire ripped across the gulley from a hidden position. In panic we dove for the rocks. Taff , screaming obscenities, fell on top of me then rolled away, clutching his shattered thigh, blood oozing through his fingers.

Pony Waterfield’s section, moving in from the left, opened fire on the three surrendered EOKA fighters, cutting them down., I could see them collapsed on the slope opposite. We still had to dig out the EOKA machine gunners and, feeling a combination  of anger and fear, I emptied my magazine in their direction.

From my position high on the rock, I could see Pony with his section crawling slowly forward but I could not see the machine gun. The EOKA machine gunner could see me though, splattering the trees and rocks around me to prove the point. I slithered further back with the awful fear of being totally exposed, waiting to be struck down in the next second by a burst of fire from a person I could not see.

Crash! One of the terrorists had thrown a grenade in the direction of the other section. I lay with my face buried in the pine needles, feeling numb, waiting for a grenade to come my way. Nothing. Heart pounding,  I moved further over the rock to my previous position. I saw one of the terrorists making a dash out of the gulley. In desperation I emptied my last magazine in his direction. He stumbled, fell, picked himself up and disappeared into the trees.

Another explosion, then another. Pony Waterfield was taking no more chances; he tossed grenades into the hole used by the machine gunners and then charged the position with his section. The enemy machine gun fire ceased. We moved slowly and carefully into the gulley towards the three still lying on the slope where they had fallen. One was groaning and trying to sit up, the other badly hurt but alive. The third had lost part of his head and was definitely dead.

There was nothing further for us to do. We put shell dressings on the wounded and made them as comfortable as possible. Scouse Rush had at last established radio communications with Battalion. C Company were soon on the scene, followed by a section with medics from Battalion HQ. Half an hour later, the terrorists were on their way to prison hospital or the mortuary. Our own casualties  were medevaced to BMH Nicosia.

The incident was over. The fighting took no more time than the story takes to tell. Two Paras had been killed by the  initial explosion. We have suffered five wounded, one of whom is in a serious state. Two Cypriots have been killed, three wounded and one has gotten away. We,  the ‘victors’, are left holding a piece of mountain forest on an unnamed ridge in a country we do not know and care for even less.

Sergeant Pony Waterfield was awarded the Military Medal for his courage and leadership. The rest of us remained in the shadows.

A British serviceman covers EOKA prisoners with a Bren gun