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It's the sweltering tropics of Borneo, 1962. The Cold War is simmering, and in the steamy jungles of Southeast Asia, a tiny rebellion erupts like a firecracker in a monsoon. Indonesia's President Sukarno, with his grand visions of empire, eyes the British protectorates of Sarawak, North Borneo, and the oil-rich sultanate of Brunei.

He doesn't fancy them joining the new Federation of Malaysia, proposed by Malaya's Tunku Abdul Rahman. So, he stirs the pot, arming local dissidents through infiltrated tribes like the Kedayans. The result? A short, sharp revolt that catches everyone off guard – except, perhaps, the unflappable Royal Marines, who turn a hostage crisis into a textbook tale of daring and derring-do.

Our story centres on Limbang, a sleepy riverside town in Sarawak, just across the border from Brunei. It's 8 December, and the rebels – part of the North Kalimantan National Army (TNKU), backed by Indonesian trainers – strike at dawn. They seize key spots across the region, but in Limbang, it's personal.

Richard Morris, the British Resident, and his wife Dorothy are rudely awakened. Richard, a seasoned Aussie who'd served in Sarawak since World War II, had sniffed trouble brewing. He'd even cancelled his kids' Christmas visit from Australia and warned higher-ups, but bureaucracy being what it is, his alerts vanished into the ether like mist over the mangrove swamps.

The rebels drag the Morris's and others – including police inspectors, engineers, Catholic priests, and a fresh-faced 18-year-old American Peace Corps volunteer named Fritz Klattenhoff – into captivity. Richard, bless him, is hauled out in nothing but his underpants, bound with nylon fishing cord, and prodded with a kris (that wavy Malay dagger that looks like it could slice through butter or a bloke with equal ease).

Dorothy, more practically attired, endures bites from every insect in the jungle while guards clutch her arms. They're marched to a clearing, spat at by one particularly charmless rebel (who misses, thankfully), and eventually locked in the local jail. Four Sarawak constabulary officers are killed in the takeover – a grim start.

Dorothy's account, later published in the Royal Marines' journal The Globe & Laurel, paints a vivid picture of their ordeal. Guards glare through the bars like nosy neighbours; whispers of "sunrise" and "shooting" keep them awake. But hope flickers – the local Red Cross, led by brave souls like retired postmaster Inche Omar bin Sanauddin, sneaks in coffee, rice, and bandages.

By 10 December, the guards soften, hinting their hearts aren't in it. Unbeknownst to the hostages, rebel leader Yassin Affandy has scarpered, sensing the tide turning. Still, tension mounts. As Dorothy prays for her distant children, the group huddles in the hospital ward, now their prison, with extra guards and sleepless nights.

Meanwhile, in Singapore, the British response kicks into gear. Two companies of Gurkhas – those legendary Nepalese warriors, fierce as tigers and loyal to the Crown – fly in, securing Brunei Town but stalling at Seria. Enter 42 Commando Royal Marines, fresh from exercises and eyeing Christmas leave. They're put on alert, and by 10 December, Lima Company  – under Captain Jeremy Moore, a Malaya veteran with a Military Cross already under his belt – touches down in Brunei.

Moore meets Brigadier A. G. Patterson of the 99th Gurkha Infantry Brigade at 0600 on 11 December. Perched on his jeep hood, Patterson's orders are blunt: "Your Company will rescue the hostages at Limbang." With just 56 Marines initially (bolstered to 89 with machine gunners and odds-and-sods), Moore has 24 hours to plan an audacious raid.

Intelligence is scant: dodgy maps, one outdated aerial photo, and wild estimates of 30 to 100 rebels armed with police weapons. The hostages' location? A guess – police station, jail, hospital, or residency, all spread out.

No amphibious landing craft? No problem. Moore's team commandeers two rickety Z-craft (pontoon barges with ramps, usually for ferrying gear) from the Brunei waterfront, complete with yellow bulldozers for mud-shoving. Royal Navy minesweepers HMS Fiskerton and Chawton provide comms and crews – Lieutenants David Willis and Jeremy Black (who'd reunite with Moore in the Falklands two decades later) take the helms. Vickers machine guns are mounted forward; backpacks and oil drums serve as makeshift armour.

Moore's plan: Speed and surprise. Sail up the Limbang River at night, beach at dawn, bluff a surrender demand via loudspeaker, then overwhelm if needed. "Overwhelm their positions as fast as possible," he briefs, trusting his Marines' training to outmatch the rebels' shotguns and rifles at close quarters.

They cast off at midnight, guided by local marine director Captain Erskine Muton through twisting, nipa-fringed channels. Engines grind; Marines snatch fitful sleep, weapons clutched. One craft's engine fails briefly – hearts skip – but they're fixed. By 0200, they're in the main river, lurking in shadows till 0430. Then, full ahead into the widening stream, moonlit and exposed.

As dawn breaks, Limbang's lights wink out (routine, they learn later). At 300 yards, movement everywhere. "Full ahead!" The craft surge. Sergeant David Smith booms in Malay: "The rebellion is over! Lay down your arms!" Bullets answer – a hail of fire. Marines unleash hell: Vickers chatter, rifles crack. Two fall dead before beaching; Lieutenant Peter Waters takes a leg wound leaping ashore.

5 Troop storms the police station, Corporal Bill Lester's section mopping up. Sergeant John Bickford and Corporal Bob Rawlinson (wounded but pressing on) lead the charge. The leading craft drifts off – coxswain hit – but Willis rams it back, beaching near the hospital.

Moore redirects reserves: Sergeant Wally Macfarlane's section clears jungle edges, reaches the hospital, then pushes on – only to be ambushed. Macfarlane and two more die.

Amid the chaos, Smith hears... singing? A discordant "Coming Round the Mountain" from the hospital. "Green bonnets are coming!" the hostages warble, signalling safety. Moore confirms: All 14 unharmed, guards fled. 6 Troop secures the station; 4 Troop clears the bazaar, dislodging snipers amid civilians.

By mid-morning, resistance crumbles. Rebels rout, some melting into the jungle. Lima Company holds Limbang, tallying 15 enemy bodies, 50 prisoners (many more die later).

Casualties: Five Marines dead, five wounded, one sailor hit. Police: Six lost.

The Z-craft ferry hostages and wounded back to Brunei, then evacuation to Singapore. Dorothy hands letters for her kids; relief etches faces. Brigadier Patterson arrives, hears the tale. Moore's bar to his MC, medals for others – including Willis's DSC and Clarke's commendation for his impromptu dressing station.

This raid wasn't just a win; it ignited "Confrontation" – four years of jungle skirmishes against Indonesian incursions. Royal Marines, with Gurkhas, bore the brunt: 40 and 42 Commando rotating in, "first in, last out." Junior leaders shone in this shadowy war, honing skills for future conflicts.

What makes Limbang legendary? Sheer audacity. Outnumbered, under-equipped, Moore's men – elite in green berets, forged in Commando ethos – turned barges into assault craft, uncertainty into victory. As Monty Halls notes in his book Commando, it's that unbreakable spirit: "The green beret symbolises so much more." Imagine the lads, post-raid, nursing brews: "Blimey, that was a close one – but we got 'em!"

From Carlist Wars' steadfastness (as I chronicled before) to Borneo's boldness, Royal Marines embody adaptability. Limbang? A reminder: When empires clash in forgotten corners, it's the bootnecks who deliver.