Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq (20 page)

“Ah, Harry, a word,” he began. A sense of foreboding crept over me and I wondered for a moment if this was going to be a ticking-off for pinching a case of beer and getting drunk the previous evening. As it turned out, it was infinitely worse than any reprimand.

“We got a signal last night from Brigade,” he continued, ominously. “As you know, 40 Commando is working its way northwest from Al Faw to Basra.”

I knew this all too well - I had watched their convoys passing my position only a few days earlier.

“Well they’ve been having quite a time of it. Word is they’ve run into a stack of Iraqi armour south east of Basra.” I could see immediately where this was heading and I didn’t like it above half, I don’t mind telling you.

“Of course they’re dealing with it just fine, but the chaps in Brigade Headquarters thought that a bit of armoured expertise might help their cause - might enable them to second guess what the jundies will do with their tanks before they actually do it. At first there was no-one available, until some bright spark thought of you.”

I wasn’t sure whether it was my hangover or simply a rush of adrenaline, but I suddenly wanted to throw up. Choking back the bile, I spluttered, “A novel idea, but I assure you I am plenty busy enough with 42 Commando. It surely wouldn’t do just to punt me across to another unit . . .”

“Decision already made, Flashy,” he interjected. “Not worth protesting now. I suggest you get your bergen packed - an escort party from BRF is on its way and they’ll be ready to leave at 0900.” And with that the cold-hearted bastard strolled off to the morning briefing, leaving me shivering in the frigid morning air.

It took only a few minutes to shove my limited belongings into my bergen and prepare to depart from my luxury accommodation. The combat camera boys, normally among the more sensible souls in the unit, proved themselves to be every bit as insane as their Royal Marines colleagues by being transparently envious of my situation.

“40 Commando’s been having proper fire-fights,” commented the cameraman. “I bet their combat camera team has got some cracking footage. Wish we were going with you.”

I didn’t humour this nonsense with an answer, focusing instead on dousing my rifle liberally with oil. I had last cleaned it before we entered Umm Qasr on the premise that it might be needed. Given the situation 40 Commando were in, it now seemed a racing certainty.

As promised, my escort was ready and waiting by 9 a.m. Two BRF Land Rovers awaited, each one complimented by a driver and a machine-gunner, all of whom had been assigned to get me safely to 40 Commando’s position.

“This could be an interestin’ ride,” commented one of the drivers, a cockney, as I climbed into his vehicle. “Keep your eyes open an’ start bleedin’ yellin’ if you see anything dodgy.” I assured him I would do just that.

“I wouldn’t worry too much, Sir,” he grinned at me. “Since you’re the VIP the other ‘Rover is going point. If we get ambushed, they’ll cop it first.”

His words were cold comfort and I could feel my heart pounding as we left the relative calm of the UN camp.

A few miles north of Umm Qasr lay the little town of Umm Khayyal, a low-rise, mud-brick affair standing rather pointlessly in the desert. J Company had moved into the town a day or two earlier and had been conducting aggressive patrolling ever since, as a result of which the road was deemed relatively safe. Nevertheless I remained on my guard - the area was still a tinderbox and it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the locals turned nasty. But instead of being met by hoards of stone-throwing Iraqis, I was stunned to witness a football match taking place between the men of J Company and a local team which was being cheered on by most of the town’s population. Evidently no strangers to competitive football, the Iraqis scored two goals in the time it took us to drive past; the Marines were evidently taking a pasting.
(1)
The rest of Umm Khayyal passed by in a blur and we quickly left the town, speeding east on the desert highway.

From Umm Khayyal our route took us through an area in which there had been only sporadic patrolling by the Brits -mainly 7 Armoured Brigade, but with occasional aggressive actions from 16 Air Assault Brigade as well. The odd British smash-and-grab raid may have put the willies up the Iraqis but it certainly didn’t mean the area was safe, so I checked that the magazine was firmly housed on my rifle and gripped it tightlyas the Land Rover hummed along the road. At first there was no sign of life bar the occasional curious-looking civilian standing on the roadside but as the miles passed evidence of battle became gradually more visible - Iraqi tanks and APCs lay burnt out on the roadside, some practically sawn in half by the cannon fire from A10 aircraft; others with gaping holes in the side where they had been hit by our own Challenger tanks. Jundie corpses were visible in several wrecks and a couple of the vehicles were still smouldering, so I knew the fighting had been very recent. Far more worrying than the destroyed tanks was the sound of gunfire that could occasionally be heard above the hum of the Land Rover tyres. It was impossible to tell exactly how distant it was, but there could be no doubting that fierce fighting was taking place in the date palms to our north.

Eventually the lead Land Rover turned north along a dirt road leading towards the Shatt-al-Arab river. Thankfully the rough surface didn’t slow down the vehicles much, and we jolted our way across the potholes at speed. Any confidence I had that speed would keep us safe was dispelled in an instant when we ran into an Iraqi ambush.  The air erupted in a cacophony of sound as bullets ripped overhead and into the vehicles. I threw myself into the foot-well, while my driver remained cool as a cucumber, navigating along the track without a hint of fear. In an instant the machine-gunner, standing in the rear of the Land Rover, let fly with a deafening burst of fire. Tracer rounds flew into the undergrowth, while hot brass cases and links from the ammunition belt cascaded into the belly of the vehicle, many spewing into the front and thence onto me in the foot-well. I yelped in pain as a burning cartridge dropped down the back of my neck, and struggled back onto my seat in time to witness a brace of Iraqis being cut down by the machine-gun fire - and good bloody riddance too, I remember thinking to myself.  Several other Iraqi troops were visible and for a moment the adrenaline of battle got the better of me. Foolishly forgetting the perilous situation I was in, I jumped onto the seat and started blasting away with my rifle. In truth, I had assumed the worst was over - most of the Iraqis who had opened fire on us had been slain by the machine-gunner, and I made the naive misjudgement of assuming the rest would flee. I realised the enormity of my mistake when a rocket-propelled grenade flew across our bows, missing the vehicle by inches. The air was once again filled with roaring as a second rocket was launched. This one was better aimed and rapidly found its mark - me. The RPG smashed into my webbing pouches but, presumably because of the soft fabric surface, miraculously failed to detonate. Instead, the warhead ricocheted off, mercifully flying skyward away from the Land Rover. The impact was like a kick in the guts and I was knocked off my feet, screaming, ending up gasping for air on the floor of the Land Rover. For a brief moment the sound of bullets ceased and all I could hear was the din of the engine as we continued to tear along the track. Then the machine-gun began firing again and I realised with a growing sense of horror that far from being out of danger, the Land Rover had slid to a halt and the Iraqis were shooting at us again. AK47 fire began thumping into the undergrowth either side of us, and then I heard the awful smack-smack-smack of bullets striking the vehicle as the jundies improved their aim. Fuelled by the need to flee the scene, I grabbed the dashboard and hauled myself up and out of the foot-well once again. The situation was grim: the Land Rover had careered off the track, presumably because the driver had been ducking the incoming RPG and rifle fire instead of keeping his eyes on the road, and we were wedged in a shallow ditch. Above me the machine-gun was still blasting away, while the driver was frantically wrestling with the gear lever in an attempt to reverse out and get us moving again. Less than 100 yards from the track I could make out the silhouettes of a dozen or more Iraqi troops, all clad in black combat fatigues, blazing away with their Kalashnikovs as they advanced towards the stricken vehicle.

My instinct for self-preservation took over and I was on the verge of leaping out of the vehicle and making a run for it when our cockney driver glanced up at me and yelled, “Come on Sir, get some bleedin’ rounds down! The fackin’ jundies’ll be on top of us in a moment!”

I realised in an instant that he was right, the black-clad devils were approaching fast and despite the best efforts of the machine-gunner they were still getting nearer to the vehicle with every passing moment. I jumped onto my seat and began firing my rifle for all I was worth. I hit a couple of the buggers too, which given the state of my nerves was remarkable - I was shaking like a leaf. Then with a jolt the Land Rover wheels finally gained some traction and we jumped backwards onto the track. Simultaneously I felt an incredible thump in my chest and was blown backwards out of the cab, landing on my back in the undergrowth.

“Christ, I’ve been shot,” I remember thinking to myself, “I can’t breathe. I’m bloody dying.” Sobbing with self pity I closed my eyes and waited for the end, only to be rudely awoken by a punch on the arm and a scream of cockney abuse.

“Bleedin’ ‘ell, Sir, try and stick wiv the agenda will ya?” I opened my eyes, fully expecting to see myself soaked in blood with my innards spread all over the floor. To my surprise there was no sign of any injury, with the exception of sharp pain in my sternum and a bruised backside from where I had fallen from the Land Rover. The only evidence of my being shot was a small hole in the centre of my body armour, where an AK47 bullet had struck the ceramic breastplate - which fortuitously was designed to stop just such a projectile.
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I felt myself being pulled towards the vehicle and realised that the driver had a hold of my smock and, with near-superhuman strength, was dragging me back into the cab. I scrambled to my feet and clambered in, enabling him to leap back into his own seat. Above us the machine-gunner was still blasting away - God alone knows how he wasn’t shot during the melee - but for all his efforts, the Iraqis had closed to within yards of the vehicle. Then with a crunch of gears we were off, careering away down the track and out of danger. Bullets cracked overhead and one or two thumped into the back of our fleeing vehicle, then we rounded a bend, the Iraqis disappeared from view, firing ceased and we were safe, at least for the moment.

For a few moments there was silence, save for the grinding of the engine and tyres, then the driver and machine-gunner burst into fits of laughter. I failed to see anything remotely funny about the situation but joined in anyway, once more playacting the devil-may-care Flashy rather than the terrified wreck I had been a just a few short minutes earlier.

“Bleedin’ jundies couldn’t hit a barn door at twenty paces,” laughed the driver.

“Aye, well, thank God for that!” came the reply from the back, “If they knew what they were doing, I don’t think any of us would still be here.”

They continued chuckling about our narrow escape most of the way to our destination.

The track wound its way through a maze of fields and canals and the scenery became increasingly lush and fertile as we approached the river. Suddenly, without warning, the driver of the first vehicle slammed on his brakes and turned left onto a small track, little more than a couple of muddy ruts in the ground. We followed close behind and I could quickly make out several troop positions partially hidden in the undergrowth. Ahead of us the ground opened out into a flat mud-plain, crisscrossed by tracks and drainage canals. A series of buildings was visible in the distance, although I couldn’t ascertain what their purpose was or whether they were occupied.

“Is this it?” I demanded.

“Yeah, welcome to 40 Commando,” answered the driver, and with that we slid to a halt.

A couple of Marines appeared alongside the vehicle, apparently members of the Brigade Recce Force, since they evidently knew my driver and machine-gunner.

“Captain Flashman, is it?” asked one.

“Absolutely,” I answered. “D’you know where I can find the CO?”

“The CO?” he looked quizzically at me. “I don’t think you’ll find him here, Sir. He’s a few miles behind us. This is D-company, the lead element of 40 Commando. It’ll be the company commander you want. He’s off to a flank with one of the anti-tank teams at the moment but he’s due back here any minute.”

The lead element of 40 Commando. The words echoed uncomfortably around my head. I was exactly, precisely, in the one place I least wanted to be - at the very spearhead of the British assault, with absolutely no method of escape.

At that moment the air was filled with the crack of high-velocity rounds. I threw myself on the ground and scrabbled into a position of safety behind the Land Rover’s rear wheel. On looking up I discovered, rather embarrassingly, that I was the only person present who had sought cover - the remainder of the men had not bothered moving.

“Don’t worry about it, Sir,” said one of the Marines as I got to my feet. “Everyone does that when they first arrive. The jundie snipers are useless - they never hit anything. You’ll get used to it.”

As if to prove the point, another couple of bullets flew uselessly overhead. I ducked instinctively and was far from certain that I would ever be able to stop myself from doing so -the cowardly instincts in me are much too strong for stiff-upper-lipped heroics. In the distance I could hear the staccato bursts of machine-gun fire and the occasional crump of high explosive anti-tank rounds exploding. A battle was being fought, and it wasn’t far away either.

“Ah, you must be the infamous Harry Flashman,” came a voice from behind me. I turned to meet the company commander, a warlike individual sporting chest webbing, camouflage face paint and a huge grin. “I hope you’re looking forward to a spot of tank-killing. There are dozens of the wretched things around here.”