An a-SAS-sin?
I'm in Ipoh, Malaya. It's 1951 and I'm a National Serviceman with the 12h Royal Lancers fighting the Communist bandits.
"Halt!" I shouted. "Halt or I fire!" Drummed into me had been that I had to challenge three times before I fired. So, twice more I shouted it: "Halt, or I fire!" Then I fired three bursts from my Sten gun.
To this day, I keep asking myself, "Was I the first 'friendly' person ever to shoot an SAS man?"
So what was this all about? I was a Paid Lance Corporal (that word 'Paid' was important —ranks below me had to stand to attention and shout "Permission to speak Paid Lance Corporal."). PLC was the highest non-commissioned rank a National Serviceman was allowed to reach in the 12th Lancers!
We were in Ashby Road camp, just across from 3 Commando, elements of 45 Commando and the Gurkhas. We worked closely with them. Then this new lot arrived. They had helicopters! They spoke to no one. Who the hell were they? Being the adjutant's clerk, I was able to pick up information.
In the NAAFI, over the tea, coffee and lagers, I was able to divulge: "They're a mob called the SAS. We're not to mess about with them. Serious guys."
So we let them alone. But then strange things started to happen. Our vehicle park — full of Daimler armoured cars and a gin truck — was broken into night after night. And the gin truck seemed to be the prime target.
Gin truck? Oh, that was a highly sophisticated armoured wireless vehicle. Each night the intruders were getting into it and mucking about with the radio stuff.
Our SSM (Squadron Sergeant Major) was most put out. "It's those new b*******", he said. "That bloody SAS lot. They're just trying us on." And he took action. The security fence around the vehicle park was reinforced. The front gate had an extra steel bar. "Let's see b******* get through that lot!" he said.
In the 12th Lancers, all corporals, paid lance corporals and local lance corporals had to do guard duty. But guard duty of a particular kind. We were called Prowler Guards. Dressed in our jungle greens and armed with a .3.8 pistol and a Sten gun with three magazines of ammo (90 rounds) we prowled the camp at night, ready to deal with any bandit incursions. We were free to roam wherever. I never went near the vehicle park because it was right next door to the regular guardroom.
But on this particular night the sergeant of the guard said: "Jock, have a look at the vehicle park now and again. See those SAS b*******!"
It was around 2 a.m. when I took a look. I heard an unusual sound. Next thing, the gin truck engine started up and the damned thing started driving straight towards the front gate. .. and me!"
So, "HALT, or I fire!" Three times. Fire I did. Three times. But the damned thing kept coming on. I had to dive out of the way. It crashed through the barrier, veered right and went straight up Ashby Road. A very straight road.
There was pandemonium. The regular guard came dashing out. "What the hell's going on?"
"They've got the gin truck!" I shouted. Just then, there was a most tremendous crashing noise. We ran like hell towards the sound.
About 400 yards down the road there was a high brick wall. The gin truck appeared to have turned left off the road and crashed through the wall. I saw a guy being hauled out of the driving seat, obviously badly hurt. He was immediately carted off to the MI room.
I was ordered back to my prowling duties, but told to submit my report of the incident at 0600. This I wasn't looking forward to . . . firing a weapon within the camp was always subject to a most searching inquiry, usually ending up in jankers at the very least! But when I reported back and, having handed in my ammo, I was told I had fired 24 rounds and to forget about it.
"What about the injured guy?" I asked.
"Well, he was in the MI room, but now he's disappeared. They've taken him away."
Just then we heard a helicopter take off.
Our CO demanded an explanation from the SAS camp. They denied completely knowing anything about a guy being spirited away from the MI room. They denied completely that any of their personnel were missing.
Next day, a new gin truck was mysteriously left at our guardroom door.
To this day, I wonder . . . did I actually shoot the guy at the gin truck wheel, wounding him so badly that he crashed off the road? Did I shoot an SAS soldier?
I'll never know.
Bob Gibb, ex 12th Royal Lancers many years ago.
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