By
David Henderson

Cyprus

From Plymouth we made our way to London where we spent a night in a transit camp named Good Street Station. This I was told was formally an unused section of underground line which had been used as an air raid shelter during the war and then transformed into a holding camp by the military for their use in peace time. From there we went on to Stanstead Airport and then flew out on private, chartered aircraft to Cyprus, stopping off to refuel at Malta. This was all heady stuff. You will recall I had only been out of Scotland once before National Service and here I was all in the space of a few days, been to London , slept in an underground shelter, been to Stanstead Airport, flown in an aeroplane to Malta and there was still Cyprus to come.

We landed at Nicosia Airport around mid-day and when the doors were opened on the aircraft the heat of the day and wonderful smells came wafting in adding to the excitement we already felt. I can honestly say I have no recollection of how we were shepherded from the plane and on to the trucks that took us off to our new home. We were otherwise engaged gazing around spell bound at the scenery and sites that surrounded us. As far as I knew nobody in our group had ever been out of Britain before and all of us were entranced with what we saw. It was late winter/early spring back home, which meant cold, wet days and still, long nights, yet here it felt like summer (how hot would it be when their summer arrived). There was no attempt to go into the city of Nicosia itself, instead our convoy made straight for the Troodos Mountains. There was a Land Rover in front, then our two Bedford trucks, both of which were of World War Two vintage, and another Land Rover at the rear.
 

Troodos Tented Camp

The lead and rear trucks both had their windscreens folded forward and hard down on to the bonnets, and a double row of sand bags had been placed over same as protection for the drivers and escorts who sat behind their Bren guns. The finishing touch consisted of further layers of sand bags on the cab floors to protect against land mine blast. Our trucks also had an escort in each cab standing up on his seat with his head and shoulders out of the roof, again armed with a Bren gun. Both trucks had been fitted with a frame rather like a pitched roof that was covered with layers of chicken wire, and this, we were told, was to roll off any hand grenade that might be thrown at us.  We all went very quiet as all this knowledge was passed on to us. This was the real thing we were heading into, and here we were sitting with our kit bags at our feet and not a single bullet in any of our rifles.

The reason for this omission was for our own safety as one part of training we had not experienced was the procedures and safety drills that had to be strictly adhered to when firing from a moving vehicle. Our officers did not intend to let us greenhorns loose with live ammunition just yet. We may have thought we had finished with our training, but as our sergeant put it, "You may have been put through the mill to see how physically tough you are but now your main aim is to hunt down terrorists and keep yourself and buddies alive at the same time."  As a result we spent the first week in Cyprus still training. Our Commando was based at the village of Platres, a former mountain holiday resort, where in days gone by both British managers, officials and wealthy Cypriots would holiday in the height of the summer up in the relatively cool mountain air. Only the hotels had been taken over for our use but road barriers had been erected at the roads with all Cypriot traffic stopped and searched. Patrols around the village were carried out night and day, and the streets were a blaze of light all night long. However, as I said, only the hotels were in our use and the shops had been left open and in their owners control, so all in all it was not a bad base.  We soon learned where to get the best egg banjos fried egg in a bun) and who sold the most potent brandy sour.
 

Mountain Opps

During our time settling in we soon noticed a distinct lack of terrorists. Where were they? The unit was obviously very busy with constant patrols and stake outs but never did we hear of any captures or even any action. The truth was that it was because of this constant vigilance on our part that the terrorist action was so light. When we started to go out with our squad and got to know the older hands better we were surprised to learn that hardly any of them had ever seen an actual EOKA member although as we ourselves were to be soon be involved in , dozens of suspects were rounded up for interrogation but usually released. Our officers were no fools, as they knew that practically everyone in the village was a sympathiser and ever ready to pass on information of our movements.

We were constantly warned not to be too friendly or outspoken with the villagers especially when drinking in the cafes, and on the occasions when a big op was on the agenda, we were banned from entering same.` Unfortunately this only alerted the Cypriots to the fact and one could imagine some innocent looking old shepherd deciding that it was time he did another check on his flock up on the mountain. And so we settled in to a never ending series of night patrols and look outs alternating with daytime stop and search of vehicles at road blocks. It may come as a surprise, but we new lads were a bit put off at this situation. You have to remember that although actually National Servicemen, we had all volunteered for the Marines and although nobody ever made a great show of the fact, we were all looking for a bit of action.

There were some incidents such as the post truck getting shot up. The driver had an amazing escape in this one, as there was a line of bullet holes right down the side of the Land Rover but he escaped without a scratch. Another time a squad was on guard at the radio station on top of Mount Olympus when they heard foot steps approaching their position. They called out the, "HALT" instruction in Greek and Turkish. There was silence then the foot steps began again, the call was repeated with the warning that if not heeded they would open fire, and more silence then as before more foot steps. After more shouting and by this time swearing to whoever it was to stop where they were someone got jittery and let off a shot, which in turn caused a very nervous Bren gunner to let off a short burst. There was now the most hellish screaming and  moaning coming from the front of them accompanied with thumps and bangs on the road surface. The corporal in charge was by now convinced that they had repulsed some form of attack and radioed for help and instructions . He was told to remain in position and await support, which was hastily dispatched from the village. As the trucks approached the front entrance to the radio station the nature of the enemy was lit up in their headlights (a very dead donkey that had been quietly strolling up the road having a quiet munch on the grass at the verge of the road). Lots of red faces from the boys on guard, and a right bollocking for the corporal and compensation to the shepherd for his loss.
 

Platres Road Block / Stop & Search

Another incident that occurred when I was present was a night search of a village. We had information that a consignment of arms or ammunition was hidden at this place and was to be transported out to waiting terrorists at first light.  Naturally we poor sods at the sharp end did not get any more information other than that our unit was to encircle one half of the village and the Gordon Highlanders, who had only just arrived on the island, would cover the other half. Silence of approach is the main factor of any surprise visit and we had practiced this over-and-over many times and had carried it out successfully on several occasions. For this particular one our approach started on the opposite side of a hill to the east of our objective . We had prepared with the usual camouflage to hands and faces, and anything that might reflect light. As well as this we had all checked each others' equipment for anything that clanked or rattled. As our trucks ascended this hill they drove at a speed that allowed us to drop off over the tail gate one by one without the necessity of the vehicles stopping, and anyone listening would not hear a suspicious halt. All went as planned and within three hours of scrabbling through hilly undergrowth we were in position and waiting for the other half of the ring to arrive, (and arrive it did). We could all see the lights approaching, but at first thought it was the local bus that was holding up a line of traffic, and then we thought, "Hold on, the buses don't start at this early hour." Slowly it dawned on us that it was them, it was the Gordons. Off to my right I was aware of raised voices and was told later that it was our CO going absolutely bananas. Somebody, somewhere at main base had not passed on what type of operation this was to our Scottish cousins. We were doing our thing, they were doing theirs and no way was there going to be anything salvaged out of it.
 

Ameandos Asbestos Mine

The show continued, and sergeants could be clearly heard bawling out orders in a broad northeast accent. To my English mates they could have been speaking Hindi. Feet crashed on the road surface, water bottles rattled and engines roared as their trucks were backed off the road and turned ready for the journey back. We all lay in our positions gazing out in wonder at the spectacle that was slowly unfolding in front of us. They were efficient all right, the line was complete in minutes and then they were off down toward the village crashing through bushes with their rifles held at the high port. I have no idea if there was problems with radio contact (you never heard the outcome of high level cock ups) but they certainly took our officers by surprise as it was several minutes before we were told to advance. This was done at a leisurely pace, as by now the village was a blaze of lights and a hive of activity. Any incriminating items were all down some deep well somewhere and it would have taken weeks to find. This may have been a disaster for our lords and masters but for both the Marines and Gordons it was hilarious, and indeed it was possibly the main reason both our units got on so well together. Nothing bonds soldiers together more than watching their officers make an arse of themselves.

Nothing on that scale ever happened again, and in fact by the time the Gordons left Cyprus they possibly ended up with a better 'score' than us.  Indeed, when they took over from us when we went off to prepare for the Suez Invasion, the rumour goes that they sealed off Platres and took the place apart, catching the baker and cafe owner with arms. Although we got on well with the Gordons the same could not be said for our relationship with the Paras. There was, of course, the historic and continuing argument as to which of us were the best and toughest unit (which can be a good thing) and our officers would often use this if we were operating together.  To put it bluntly they were, in our mind, a shower of gun-happy, thick headed lunatics and that was the officers. Best I say no more on this subject as I doubt it will ever be resolved and such is the power of pride in one’s unit or regiment.
 

Governors Guard

We worked happily with other units even the Military Police but that was specifically when we were doing search operations on villages and they would send up a squad of trainee policewomen to assist in searching the women. It was usual for us to get all the old women lined up at the front of the queue ready for the girls to search.  As most of the poorer farming families usually all slept in the same farmhouse (along with all the goats and cows) they had a wonderful full bodied aroma about them. The poor MP females did not enjoy this part of life at all.  And so our happy sojourn in sunny Cyprus continued. As the months went by, the village slowly took on the shape of a camp with first the officers bringing over some of their wives and then two NAAFI girls came out to run the canteen. The first did not effect us much at first as they were housed in another hotel well away from our evil eyes, but the latter caused no end of problems.  The girls were two bubbly carefree types, if a little plain, but with a perfect manner for dealing with the lads and well able to look after themselves. However, as time went by the more and more they became figures of desire with the inevitable jealousies coming to the boil with serious fights breaking out on at least two occasions. The final act that put the cat among the pigeons, however, was information of a supposed attack to be carried out by the terrorists on a married officer's quarter in Nicosia. It never happened but orders went out that all such apartments on the island would now be guarded by British troops at night. Within two days of this being put in place we had a complete detailed list of the best positions to be in to get a good view into our young officer wife’s bathrooms and bedrooms.

We were practically volunteering for night guard duty and to keep the peace the Guard Corporals had to draw lots to see who got the best times to go out. Midnight was always thought to be the best as the Officers Mess closed at eleven o'clock and it usually took them at least an hour to go through their jolly good nights etc. and stagger off to bed with their little bundles of pleasure. But all good things must come to an end, and this one did on the night a particular officer was busy pleasuring his wife on the bedroom balcony when he looked up to find himself face to face with a grinning Marine, rifle in one hand and cock in the other.

The after effects were as follows; the hotel got thicker blinds over the rear windows, and the wife was not seen outdoors for weeks, the Marine got seven days punishment and all the beer he could drink whenever he retold the story in the NAAFI, and as usual the Guard Corporal got a bollocking. But the damage was done as the boys had remembered what their dangly bits were for and even the girls in the canteen, who up till now had been basking in their new found attraction from the other sex, were getting a bit fed up with all the attention. No one can say if there was a meeting between our CO and the cafe owner over the situation but suddenly two girls joined his staff who, by their skimpy clothes and garish make up on skin that was hardly ever exposed to the sun, were not intending to serve behind the bar. Overnight the cafe was bulging at the seams with the owner having to set up a blackboard showing who was next. Those ladies must have had amazing stamina to cope with the demand but as we later heard they also were keeping a score board, but this one was for who could manage to finish off a customer in the shortest time (it was counted in seconds). We spent all our time in the Troodos Mountains except for the occasions we had to go for stores or training to Nicosia.
 

Monastery Watch 

Nicosia was a revelation as to the casual attitude of both the troops stationed there and their wives and families. As I have described before whenever we set out on the road we were firstly armed to the teeth and secondly our vehicles were sand-bagged etc. for added protection. The 'Pongos', as we called them, strolled around, some of them unarmed, as if this was a holiday camp. There were RAF bods out shopping with their wives and kids on Ledra Street, the infamous murder mile, with no thought of danger.  There would be cat calls from other service personnel inferring we were playing at soldiers with shouts of, "Look out boys here come John Wayne and his boys." But who was getting shot? Not us, so I rest my case.

Of course not everything went rosy for us up in the hills. There was the forest fire when many Gordons were lost, and our unit had a helicopter crash when on training. Someone thought up the idea of using the helicopters to drop off men to ambush any terrorists we might be chasing. That in itself was a laugh, as in all our time out on patrol we never managed to flush out a single one. They were there all right, probably in the shape of that shepherd quietly playing his pipes under a shady tree as we went trudging by.
 

Helicopter Training

However, back to training, we would travel down to Nicosia Airport and act as guinea pigs as the RAF boys and our officers worked out ways of loading us on and off the craft and then we would climb aboard and fly off see if their latest idea worked. The Sycamore helicopters we used did not have a very good load carrying capacity as far as troops ware concerned so there was not very many different permutations for us to go through before they hit on the best way to do it. The mountains we operated in were heavily forested and that was where any self respecting terrorist would run to, so the problem was how to get us on to the ground. Our chaps trained in cliff assault, thought our officers, so that is how we will do it, get the pilot to hover over a clearing, chuck out a rope and down we go -- no bother. At this point you would have thought that alarm bells might have rung in the pilots' heads, as after all they were supposed to know how their craft performed in different environments, but no, lots of congratulations all round and off we went back up to arrange a practice run in our own territory. Unfortunately, I myself was not on the first test because a right disaster it turned out to be and I missed out on a lot of action. The equation they had all missed was the difference in air density at sea level where we trained and the mountains where we tested it out.

At Nicosia Airport the pilots could hold the helicopters as steady as they wanted as we dropped off down the ropes but at high altitude it was a different matter. The approach would be fine and hover would be achieved but without warning the craft would drop a foot or two like a stone or swerve off to the side, so any poor sod on the rope at the time was either dropped with a thump on the deck or dragged through the tree tops. But the pilots got the better of the sideway waltzing and by reducing the amount of passengers by one the hover was controlled.

The training of our unit continued and after a few days it was our troop’s turn and off we set to the training area. It consisted of a small field with a surrounding low wall on which we all sat awaiting our turn. I completed my descent with my squad and had just returned to the wall when I became aware of some commotion at the helicopter. Apparently it had come down with the rope trapped under one wheel and its ground crew were signalling the pilot to take off again so they could pull it free. We heard the engine speed up and the craft rose up a few inches but then it went into the most violent sideways vibrations with the pilot being thrown from side to side and trying desperately to keep hold of the controls.

The ground crew flung themselves flat on the ground and as a man we all followed suite reckoning that if they thought they were in danger why wait around to see. There then followed the most hellish series of sounds as the craft thumped down on the ground and then over on its side with the rotor blades threshing and gouging into the ground. We pressed our faces further into the ground as pieces of the blades along with earth and stones screamed over our heads. Slowly all the noise died down until all that was heard was the engine still thumping away, and on looking up we saw the pilot climbing back into the cockpit and turn off the engines. Slowly everyone got to their feet. We all looked around to see if any one had been injured and at first glance and a rough count of heads it appeared that we had all got off without a scratch, with the exception of the CSM who was sitting on the ground close to the wall, which was now all wet with something.

One or two of us started off toward him to check if he was stunned or something. I glanced to my side hearing someone being sick and then a voice choked out, "Oh Christ his legs, where are his legs?". It was true both his legs were gone, and we learned later that possibly a section of blade had hit him flat on with such a force that both sections of his legs had been blasted away and he had simply dropped down to the ground. The wet on the wall was what his bone and muscle had been turned into. I got no further as by the time we had all stood gawping in shock and horror the experienced officers and NCOs had reached him and had him on his back with both his legs in tourniquets.

A rescue helicopter was called up but by the time it arrived it was all over, as he had died in shock. An interesting note. A high ranking officer had came up with the first aid boys and he made the pilot of the crashed craft fly back to base to help him keep his confidence. I think the pilot was held to be at fault, as it appears that on trying to lift the craft he adjusted the blades to give lift before sufficient speed was achieved, thus leading to massive vibrations. And so we experienced our first death, all the more ironic in that it was caused during training and by our own hands. We were all a bit shaken by it and hardly a word was said on our way back to Platres. Our sergeant had the canteen opened after some heated words with the NAAFI manager and we tossed back quite a few beers and Keo brandies but our minds wouldn’t settle and one by one we drifted off to our rooms.

We had also by now heard that we were to go to Malta to prepare for the Port Said invasion.
 

David Henderson