George Barrington Hunter

GEORGE BARRINGTON

HUNTER

JB. Woods

 E- book ISBN: 978-1-4661-7796-3

 The right of JB. Woods to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

All Rights Reserved. No part of this Publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means, or stored without permission of the author / copyright holder.

What other people have said about this book.

T. Donna Robison author of ‘No Kiss Good-bye’ wrote:

I dare anyone to stop reading, walk away, and not die to come back for more! It's awesome! The way he expresses the character's internal thoughts and his subtle humour is magnificent. One example of both is—the bill was going to put him in hock for many years to come but at the same time he took wicked delight in wining and dining her.—That's writing from the heart! I love it.

Kenneth Edward Lim author of ‘The North Korean’ wrote:

Your narrative emanating from George’s sessions with a shrink, is fast-paced, credible and engaging. I couldn’t help but grin at how reality often trumps fiction in entertainment value. Your descriptions are well laid out and unaffected, your dialogue true to character. Your treatment of various settings around Southeast Asia is highly informative. Thank you so much for sharing.

Dedicated to my Dad, Thomas(Gus) Platt, who served 22 years with the Royal Tank Regiment including WW2 and to all serving soldiers of today.

JB. Woods

CHAPTER 1

‘What do you mean? He’s dead!’

I knew he was dead but the finality of those words hadn’t sunk in.

‘He had a ten percent chance, Corporal, and we used all our available antidote.’

—

It was 1966 and I had, more by luck than judgment, been recruited into the SAS. Myself and eleven other guys had just completed a course of Jungle Training and we were sent on a routine mopping-up patrol along the Malaya /Thai border to put into practice all we had been taught in the Jungle Warfare School at Johore Bahru.

It was the second day in and being the monsoon season it had been raining almost constantly, which meant our progress was slow and the curses that accompanied every slip or tumble were many and would have alerted any would be Commie within ten miles.

A company of the Aussie Rifle Brigade were somewhere in the area and when we bivvied in mountainous terrain at four in the afternoon their sign was everywhere. The only thing missing was a message in a bottle.

Thankfully, the rain stopped but the jungle canopy continued dripping with monotonous accuracy down our necks into our already soaked clothing and where the straps from our packs held the wet material against our skin it chafed and made life damned uncomfortable.

I shared a tent with Ginger Howard, a laid back Cumbrian farmer, and Chunky Hunt, a curly haired, five foot, good natured guy. The three of us had become close friends since our enlistment into the regiment. The construction of the tent or bivvy was simple. A supporting piece of twine or creeper was slung between two trees. Two ponchos held together by press studs were draped over in a tent fashion and pinned down with metal spring clips. A third poncho was used as a groundsheet.

Space was minimal. Back packs were stored up by your head with a narrow gap between our bedding for personal weapons and for this exercise we had been issued with the standard 7.62mm British FN rifle. Being the senior rank I bagged the middle berth.