Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq (13 page)

The urgency to get the battle group into action was also reflected at the top, with the CO getting more and more animated in his dealings with the American helicopter crews. Now that the details of the crash were confirmed there was no need to delay entry into Iraq a moment longer - or so he felt. However, the US aircrews, already lacking in confidence in their own abilities, had gone into a sort of collective shock. Four of their number had perished in the crash and they were frozen by fear (I know how it feels, I’ve felt it myself often enough) and refused to undertake the journey into Iraq. For 42 Commando the crash had been a tragedy but it was no reason to delay the commencement of operations. Through the small hours the CO tried every line in the book to cajole and persuade the Americans to fly, but to no avail. Eventually, around 4 a.m., exasperated and angry, he took the unprecedented step of sacking the lot of them and demanding they remove their helicopters from his landing site. The British divisional air reserve was urgently requested and within minutes of the US helicopters departing a makeshift mob of RAF helicopters was on its way north to our position.
(2)

As the first glimmers of dawn brightened the morning sky, a formation of much smaller helicopters appeared on the horizon. The RAF had managed to cobble together seven Pumas (each capable of carrying nine men) and a single Chinook, which could manage upwards of thirty. In a sudden moment of lucidity I realised the huge reduction in carrying capacity meant that numerous men originally earmarked for the first lift would be forced to remain behind in Kuwait. To ensure I was among them all I needed to do was to make sure I was forgotten when the new load-plan was devised. There was no time to waste so, abandoning my bergen, I quietly stole away from the Marines in my stick and made my way towards the group of men furthest from both the Commando Headquarters and the arriving helicopters, creeping up and down the lines in search of an unobserved spot in which to sit myself down and let the morning take its course unhindered. At that precise moment I bumped into the adjutant coming the opposite way at speed.

“Harry!” he exclaimed, brimming with enthusiasm, “The very man!” My heart sank like a stone, for he had that look in his eyes of a man fired up by the prospect of war and I instinctively knew that whatever was to follow would mean trouble. “We’ve almost sorted the new load-plan and we’ve got the whole of J Company sorted out, plus most of the attached ranks too. Just one hitch though: we couldn’t fit you in with the main body of men so you’re in the lead Puma with the snipers - I hope that’s okay?” He didn’t wait for my reply but added, “Problem is, old boy, they’re being inserted to the north of everybody else because their mission is to push northwards on foot through the date palms. The rest of J Company will be going south and east from where the helicopters land. Obviously we couldn’t rely on an inexperienced man to make his way overland and link up with the rest of the company, so we’ve picked you for the job.”

I nearly spat in his eye. Far from avoiding the ride, I was being thrust deep into enemy territory and, unbelievably, I was expected to make my way overland on foot, alone, to link up with the main body of J Company.

“Good man!” enthused the adjutant, “I knew you’d love the idea. Enjoy!” And with that, he strode off towards J Company headquarters.

Disconsolate and increasingly nervous about what lay ahead, I made my way across the sand back to my bergen and sat down in a blue funk. I didn’t have long to worry about the situation though, as the shout went up almost immediately to “saddle up” and climb aboard the helicopters. The lead Puma was, of course, furthest away from us, and I was sweating profusely by the time I reached it - although whether from exertion or fear, I couldn’t tell. The snipers were already there, sitting on their packs and enjoying the warmth from the first rays of sunshine, and a rough bunch they looked too. Already smothered in camouflage cream and sporting the scruffiest clothes I have ever clapped eyes on, they wore the look of men prepared to risk everything in order to accomplish their mission - it’s a look I’ve seen a few times over the years, and it invariably leads to trouble. I introduced myself with a bluff smile and they looked me up and down, presumably wondering why a cavalry officer of all people should be joining them on their flight. I explained briefly and, to a man, they looked even less impressed.

“That’ll be interestin’ for you,” quipped one of them in a northern accent. “At least we’ll be going in pairs - you’ll have to watch your own back I s’pose. Still, it shouldn’t be more than a half mile back to J Company. You’ll just have to hope there’s no jundies between you an’ them!”
(3)

At that moment the RAF aircrew arrived, consisting of a pilot, co-pilot and door-gunner. A jovial bunch, they exuded confidence and were clearly delighted at their elevation from air reserve to front-line flying. I shook them warmly by the hand, delighted that whatever other risks we may be facing, pilot incompetence was not likely to be among them.

“It’s nice to see a British aircrew - and a new helicopter,” I commented, gesticulating towards the immaculate machine, the smart appearance of which was in stark contrast to the corrosion-streaked hulls of the US machines. The pilot’s reply came as a complete surprise.

“Oh, this thing isn’t new at all - it’s just had a recent paint job. In fact it’s ancient,” he laughed. “It’s not even British. It used to belong to Argentina - until it was captured it in the Falklands. One of the spoils of war. Still, give it a British registration number and paint a couple of RAF roundels on it, and no-one’s any the wiser, eh!”

Bemused at the thought of flying into Iraq in an Argentine helicopter, I followed the snipers and clambered aboard, squeezing into a tiny canvas seat alongside the door gunner, who was busily loading a huge belt of ammunition into his machine-gun. For a few moments the only sound was the pilot and co-pilot running through their various pre-flight checks. Then the turbines began to whine and I felt the wind rising as the rotors began to howl above us. I pulled my goggles down over my eyes and gripped my rifle, mouth dry with nerves, and feeling more than a little nauseous. Then we were away, speeding northwards at over 100 knots with the desert flashing by just 20 feet beneath us. Through the open side door I could see the other RAF helicopters close alongside and to our rear, maintaining perfect position in the formation. I glanced about inside the cabin, wondering whether the Marines onboard were experiencing the stomach-churning sense of apprehension that I was feeling. If they were, their faces gave nothing away. Below us, sand gave way to mud flats and then water - we were leaving Kuwait. Sunlight danced on the estuary below, then we were once again flying over mudflats and I knew we had entered Iraq. Below us, the muddy ground was littered with thousands of small craters, which made it look faintly like the surface of the moon.  (I discovered later that these were shell craters dating from the Iran-Iraq war some twenty years earlier.)
(4)
A few moments later the helicopter banked sharply left, the speed fell away, and we came briefly to a hover before landing in the mud. In seconds the snipers were out, pulling on their bergens and moving swiftly away from the helicopter. The pilot gave us a cheery wave, then the engine note rose once more and he was gone. I looked about me, hoping for an obvious route towards the other helicopters which I could make out in the distance. The terrain was almost entirely flat, made up of sand and mudflats crisscrossed by drainage ditches and dykes. A handful of derelict buildings dotted the skyline and to the south east I could make out the pipelines and storage tanks of the oil installations, where 40 Commando was located. A hand slapped me on the back and I wheeled around to see the grinning face of the last of the Marines from the helicopter - the rest of the snipers had already set off towards the palm trees.

“Good luck, Sir,” was all he said, and then he too was gone I felt horribly alone and exposed. In the distance I could hear the heavy rotor blades of the Chinook taking off - the Pumas had already departed. As the beating of the rotors subsided I realised I could hear the sound of distant gunfire coming from the direction of Al Faw town and the oil pumping station where the assault troops of 40 Commando were busy tackling the Iraqi defensive positions, some of which were proving a little more truculent than anticipated. I had barely taken a couple of steps forward when I heard the sound of a motorcar engine roaring along the readjust behind me. A small blue and white car crammed full of jundies was fleeing Al Faw town in an attempt to get away from the onslaught of 40 Commando. Unhappily for me, its passage had not gone unobserved and suddenly bullets were flying all around me from the direction of 42 Commando. I let out a yelp of fright and threw myself face first into the mud, cursing as my smock and webbing became liberally coated in the stuff. Several rounds smashed into the car but presumably none hit the driver for it showed no sign of stopping and tore on in the direction of Basra. I scraped myself out of the mud and trudged on, hoping to find some hard standing on which to clean myself up. There was none, and my bedraggled appearance caused no little mirth when I eventually caught up with J Company. By that time, the company had shaken out into a series of troop formations and was fanning out across the landscape with the express intention of meeting out violence to any Iraqi troops they found there. I tagged onto the rear and fervently hoped that the troops to my front would dispose of any trouble before I became embroiled.

Before long, the bulk of J Company, including the headquarters elements, had made their way to a large road junction which marked the western most boundary of the oil installations and also the boundary of 40 Commando’s patch. The Marines of 40 Commando seemed genuinely pleased to see us, which was unsurprising given the tense night they had endured clearing out Iraqi soldiers from the surrounding area. There were a fair few enemy corpses lying around which bore testament to the overnight fighting, but the area was quiet by the time I got there and it seemed a reasonably sensible spot to settle down and recover my breath, so I accepted the offer of a cup of tea from one of the boys and sat on my pack, content to soak up the sun and let the war take its course for an hour or two. I had barely taken a sip from the mug when the quiet was shattered by a series of mortar bombs exploding next to the position. I dived behind an earth rampart, spilling hot tea all over myself in the process, and listened as several more mortar bombs screamed into the area.  Fortunately for me, their effectiveness was dramatically reduced by the muddy ground, which absorbed much of the blast. Still, with no idea where they were coming from and, more importantly, no idea how many more might follow, I decided it was high time I moved somewhere safer. The heavy bergen cut into my shoulders as I started to trot north, but a bit of short term pain seemed infinitely preferable to being blown to pieces, and I scampered along the track with the aim of being as far as possible from the road junction before the next mortar stomp arrived.

Among J Company’s objectives were a series of crossroads on the various roads and tracks leading to and from Al Faw town and the oil installations. Common sense dictated that any Iraqi armour would be forced to follow the roads, since tanks would quickly get bogged down in the muddy terrain elsewhere. I soon caught up with the rearmost group of Marines, made up of 3 Troop and elements of UMST, which was heading to the smallest of these crossroads, just to the north of the main Al Faw-Basra road, close to the Shat-al-Arab riverbank. As far as I was concerned, the smaller the junction, the less the odds on Iraqi troops using it, plus it was the furthest away from the fighting around the oil installations, so it seemed a sensible destination for yours truly. The downside was that it involved more walking, but working on the premise that sore feet were preferable to being shot, I buried myself in the middle of the formation and trudged north along a dirt track, sweating profusely, for best part of a mile. The landscape remained flat and empty, mudflats and drainage ditches stretching to the west as far as the eye could see, with the exception of a series of large farm buildings situated next to the Al Faw-Basra road, towards which we were advancing. (I discovered later that they were not farms but water desalination plants, built to turn the brackish water of the estuary into drinking water for the locals.) As sweat trickled between my shoulder blades and hot-spots formed on the soles of my feet, I began to yearn for an opportunity to drop my pack. I didn’t need to wait long.

Bam!-bam!-bam!-bam!-bam! A burst of AK47 fire came from an upstairs window of the nearest building, perhaps 250 metres away. Men dived for cover on either side of the track, dropping their bergens as they went, and all hell erupted. Sharp cracks of high-velocity rounds sounded all around as the Marines began to pour rifle fire into the buildings. Mud and earth spattered up around me as the Iraqis blasted away in our direction.

Fortunately for me they were lousy shots and could generally be relied upon to hit anything but their targets - but that didn’t make the experience any less nerve wracking. I lay quivering in a ditch underneath my bergen, hoping their aim didn’t improve. A few seconds later the rifle fire was drowned out by much heavier thumping from our machine-guns.  The increased firepower knocked lumps out of the building, the windows disappeared within seconds, shards of glass spraying left and right, and pieces of wood and brickwork flew in all directions. An eternity seemed to pass (which in reality I suspect was probably no more than a few minutes) until I realised the Iraqis had stopped firing at us. That didn’t stop the Marines though, the gung-ho bastards were still punching holes in the building with everything they’d got. I peered over the top of the ditch to discover that the men either side of me had disappeared -only their bergens remained. The lead sections of 3 Troop were already sprinting towards the buildings in small bounds, diving for cover every few yards in the ditches and dykes that crisscrossed the muddy ground, while their mates continued to riddle the place with holes. Good bloody luck to ‘em, I thought to myself, content to lie in my ditch until the area was declared safe. Just then, somewhat surreally, I caught sight of a navy blue taxicab making its way along the main road towards us. To my amazement, blissfully unaware of the bullets flying around him, the driver turned off the road and drove around the back of the buildings. Unfazed, 3 Troop’s advance continued unabated - they had closed to within 150 metres and showed no sign of slowing. A few seconds passed during which I could see the Marines inexorably closing on their objective, while rifle and machine-gun fire continued to blast away in support. In less than a minute they would be posting grenades through the shattered windows and kicking down the doors. But the glory of a frontal assault was denied them, for just at that moment, the taxicab reappeared from behind the buildings and lurched back onto the road towards Al Faw town, laden with Iraqi fighters. Faced with the prospect of an assault by dozens of highly aggressive Brits and lacking an escape plan, the jundies had simply phoned for a cab to get them out of Dodge. (All credit to them for using their initiative but very low marks for execution; how they ever thought an aging Nissan was going to outrun 7.62mm bullets beats me.) Alongside the driver, three men were jammed in the front, five on the rear seat, and a further two in the boot. Engine straining, the overloaded car tried to accelerate away from the scene and I waited in horror for the inevitable bloodbath that would surely occur once the Marines opened fire on it. It never came. To their eternal credit a handful of the closest Marines sprinted across the mudflats and onto the road, flagging down the car at gunpoint. It screeched to a halt and the occupants - including the protesting cabbie - were dragged unceremoniously out onto the road. It took me a moment or two to work out why their appearance was faintly ridiculous, until I realised that most of them were only half dressed. In desperation they had ditched the majority of their military clothing, presumably in the hope of passing themselves off as civilians. The black boots were a bit of a giveaway though, as were the numerous rifles and grenades in the boot of the taxi. In any event, the Marines wasted little time in searching them and dragged them off to the side of the road, where they were made to sit cross-legged until transport was found to take them to the prisoner of war processing centre, which was conveniently housed in the oil installations. To a man, they looked royally pissed off with the proceedings -I suspect they didn’t realise how lucky they were to be alive and unharmed.