Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq (21 page)
I seized his outstretched hand like a drowning man. The Marines ahead of us might be engaged in a battle, but I maintained a quiet hope that the company commander would stay far enough behind the front line to remain safe. I fully intended to stay with him.
“The CO tells me you’ve spent more time with Brigade than most of the Marines,” he joked. “I’m not quite sure how you’re supposed to assist us, but anything you can do to help clobber these armoured units would be appreciated.”
I made all the right noises, endeavouring to come across in a quietly confident let’s-give-these-chaps-what’s-coming-to-them manner, since this was evidently what he was expecting. Many of the Iraqi commanders - the senior ones at least - had been trained at Sandhurst in the late eighties. Some of their more experienced armoured corps officers had even attended Staff College, in Camberley as it was then, so it was a fair guess that their armoured doctrine would look a lot like our own. In my opinion it was also probable that Johnny Foreigner would do his best to emulate the Brits but not quite get it right - these chaps always seem to lack the killer instinct when it comes to the crunch. I commented as much to the company commander who seemed unsurprised - apparently 40 Commando had been advancing quicker than the Iraqis could fall back, meaning the enemy was in total disarray and unable to form a cohesive counterattack. The result was easy pickings for D-company’s anti-tank crews and for the helicopter gunships that continued to prowl overhead. Another burst of fire rang out as we talked, but the icy bastard didn’t even flinch.
“Anyhow, enough small talk. On with the war!” declared the company commander, signalling an end to our conversation. “We’re pushing on this afternoon and I need to give a set of orders to the troop commanders. No rest for the wicked,” he chortled. “You might as well sit in on the briefing - it’ll give you a good idea of the current situation.”
The current situation turned out to be far from good. Since leaving Al Faw town, 40 Commando had smashed its way across 30 miles of broken country, encountering numerous mechanised and armoured enemy formations en route, plus a fair number of supporting arms, artillery batteries and infantry. Considering the Commando Group was in essence an enlarged battalion -albeit a rather well-trained and equipped one - it was remarkable how far and how quickly they had advanced against such prolific opposition. But success had come at a price. Forced to pull back or be destroyed, many mobile Iraqi troops had retreated in the direction of Basra. Those that failed to move quickly enough had, by and large, been destroyed, but there were plenty of escapees who were now compressed into just a few square miles of countryside. The result was a significant build-up of Iraqi troops and armour immediately to our front, which would have to be destroyed if the Commando was to break through to Basra. With a sinking feeling I realised I had joined the unit immediately prior to a pitched battle. The troop commanders had their blood up, the company commander was raring to go, and I knew enough about the CO to know that having gained this much momentum, there would be no waiting for reinforcements. Instead it would be on-on, all the way to bloody Baghdad if he got his way, and the devil himself could take care of anything that stood in his path. And toiling in their wake, trying desperately to keep himself out of mortal danger, would be one Captain H Flashman QRH.
I have served with a multitude of different regiments and units over the years and in all that time I have never seen one with morale as high as 40 Commando’s that week. Time and again they had proved themselves the better of their enemy and the bloodthirsty buggers were lusting for more. Unhappily for me, it looked as if they were about to get exactly what they wished for. The OC’s orders were for an advance to contact -an inglorious military expression which means we don’t know exactly where the enemy is, so we’ll advance until someone starts shooting at us. In my humble opinion it was little more than suicide, but I kept my jangling nerves under control by telling myself that I would be firmly ensconced in Company Headquarters and therefore hopefully far enough behind the front line to be safe, all things being relative. But even that morsel of comfort was taken away when the OC introduced me to his subalterns.
“Chaps, meet Captain Flashman. He’s from the Hussars, attached to the Brigade to provide us with a bit of much-need know-how on armoured warfare. He’ll give our lead elements a steer on where to deploy our anti-armour assets.” My blood ran cold. “Frankly there’s no point in him being anywhere but up front, since that’s where he can be of most use, so he’ll be chopped around between the various troops depending on who is confronted by the biggest armoured threat.”
My circumstances had been unenviable beforehand, but at this proclamation I almost emptied my bowels where I sat. The OC barely drew breath however, moving on to point out likely Iraqi positions on a series of maps and aerial photographs. His impatient young charges hung on every word, each one eager to make their mark on the war and no doubt hoping for the lion’s share of the action. For my part, I sat in silence, wracking my brains as to how I could extricate myself from the situation. If I could only get a message back to 42 Commando, perhaps I could engineer a recall to Umm Qasr. It was a tantalising thought but there was no obvious mechanism for carrying it out and no time either, since 40 Commando’s advance was scheduled to begin in just a couple of hours.
By the time the orders had finished I had descended into a fit of depression. Unable to make good my escape, I focused instead on filling my belly. The men of D-company proved as adept as any at rustling up hot drinks from nowhere, and I took full advantage by shamelessly scrounging both tea and boil-in-the-bag rations, which were available in abundance. I cleaned my rifle too, conscious that I would probably be forced to rely upon it again before the day was done.
A short time before the advance was due to begin I managed to lighten my load by clipping my bergen to the outside of one of D-company’s Pinzgauers.
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Everyone else did likewise, so that by the time we moved off the vehicles were barely visible, festooned under dozens of packs. I reluctantly took my place with the lead troop, sticking to the troop sergeant like glue, since he came across as a sensible soul who was likely to remain out of harm’s way. I made a point of distancing myself from the troop commander who was bounding around like a hyperactive spaniel and seemed just the sort of chap to run into trouble.
The country to our front was wide open, consisting of tracts of unkempt farmland interspersed with occasional shrubs and thickets. To the north, nearer the river, palm trees were visible and underfoot the going was difficult due to the multitude of irrigation channels. Away from the river the ground was considerably firmer, making for easier patrolling for which I was grateful since my feet were still a little sore from all the miles I had covered with 42 Commando. Vehicle-mounted Milan crews buzzed around to our flanks, busily looking for enemy vehicles to engage, while the bulk of troops moved on foot, advancing inexorably toward the distant buildings. For some unknown reason the sniper fire had halted - I guessed that wherever the sniper was hidden, he didn’t much fancy the thought of facing down a company of testosterone-charged bootnecks. Either that, or our movement had simply taken us out of his field of view. Whatever the reason, I was grateful for the respite, even if it was likely to be short lived.
Our advance continued unhindered for some time and I began to wonder if we were experiencing a re-run of the Umm Qasr walkover. No jundies were visible and there was no sign of movement up ahead. I knew that other companies were also advancing, out of sight on either flank, but since I could hear no firing I reasoned that they too must be having an easy time of it. But the troop sergeant alongside me looked far from relaxed. Given the days of constant action D-company had endured, this was unsurprising, but his tense expression had a marked effect on me and I kept my wits about me. Then, on the horizon, a glimmer of movement caught my eye. I’m not normally one for scaremongering but I was devilish nervous so I turned to point it out to the chaps nearest to me, when a horrifying ripping sound filled the air as a tank shell tore overhead. I threw myself onto the floor and immediately realised just how exposed I was lying out in the open, away from any decent cover. Machine-gun rounds began cracking all around, some throwing up dirt to my front and others smashing into the undergrowth a few dozen yards away. I screamed and buried my head in my arms, fully expecting to die in a hail of bullets. But the burst of fire was short lived and when I looked up I could make a drainage ditch about twenty yards ahead of me, which I wriggled towards it for all I was worth. The more observant or quick-witted Marines had sprinted into it the moment the shells had started flying and were therefore safely out of the line of fire. Only a small number of us had been stranded out in the open, and I didn’t plan to be there long. More tank shells whistled overhead, exploding in the vegetation a couple of hundred metres behind me. As if to spur my progress bullets hammered into the earth just a few feet to my left, their customary supersonic crack leaving my ears ringing. I yelped and crawled instinctively away, moving ever faster towards the ditch, into which I eventually slithered gasping for breath, much like a fox going to earth and, I imagine, with a similar sense of relief.
“I thought you were a goner out there,” commented a Marine as I collapsed at his feet at the bottom of the ditch. “It’s a bloody miracle you weren’t hit. I dunno why you didn’t just jump in here when it started.”
“Damned impertinence!” I exclaimed, but the rebuttal was lost in the crash of an artillery barrage immediately to our front. The enemy gunners had found their range and shells began to pound our position. I buried myself in the bottom of the ditch, chest heaving, listening to the sound of battle unfolding above me. It had taken a few long minutes, but the heavy weapons systems of 40 Commando were now in full voice. Between the exploding artillery shells I could hear the thump of heavy machine-guns clearly audible in the distance, and the occasional earth-shaking explosion meant the Milan launchers were busy too. During a momentary lull in the shelling I stood up in a low crouch and peered over the top of the ditch. I could see now that the Iraqis I had initially spotted were a tank crew. The tank itself was mostly hidden from view inside a large culvert, though its main gun and co-axial machine-gun were pointing ominously in our direction. The Iraqis, at least as far as I could see, had not left their vehicle. This was surely a mistake, as the open landscape meant they were exposed on several sides. Their immobility was the polar opposite of the Marines, whose aggressive advance was clearly visible. Pinzgauers and Land Rovers darted around, their crews blasting away with whatever weapon system was available to them. But the tank wasn’t the only threat, since the landscape had come alive with pockets of Iraqi infantry firing AK47s and rocket-propelled grenades for all they were worth. Their rifle fire seemed woefully inaccurate but the RPGs were better aimed and posed a genuine threat to 40 Commando’s open-topped vehicles.
Rifle bullets were clipping over our heads from several directions and the grim reality dawned that we were almost surrounded by the enemy. The ditch seemed secure enough as long as one kept one’s head down - and I was certainly doing that - but my Royal Marine colleagues seemed far from happy to remain static. The troop commander was out of sight, somewhere in cover on our right flank, but his voice could be heard loud and clear over the radio, urging his men to locate the nearest pockets of enemy and report back to him as soon as possible. To my mind the obvious response to this demand would have been to feign radio failure and remain silent. But the section commander to my left had other ideas and immediately radioed back to say that he had sighted a small group of three or four enemy in a copse some distance to his left. The reply was swift and unequivocal: he was to remain in place until an HMG was brought to bear, then to mount an immediate assault with all the troops available - meaning the eight men of his section, plus the troop sergeant and yours truly.
Artillery and mortar rounds crashed all around and an eternity passed until a small convoy of Pinzgauers came up behind us.
The HMG crew in the lead vehicle wasted no time opening fire on the Iraqi position to our left, leaving the way open for an assault. The section commander gave the order to advance and the Marines began vaulting out of the ditch in their eagerness to close with the enemy.
“It’s suicide - come back you bloody fools!” I screamed, but my cry was lost in another shattering explosion. The Iraqi gunners’ aim had improved; the earth bank of the drainage ditch gave way, chunks of red hot shrapnel whistled past my ears and I was showered with mud and stones. The explosion knocked me unconscious and, when I came round, I found myself flat on my back in the bottom of the trench. Dazed and half deaf, I picked myself up to discover I was alone - the Marines had vanished immediately before the artillery struck and were already closing fast on the Iraqi position. I had seconds to get out before the next Iraqi barrage crashed down, and I wasn’t about to waste them. I scrambled out of the ditch and sprinted after my colleagues with a speed born of sheer ruddy terror. All around me were the sights and smells of battle: bullets cracked left, right, overhead; mortar bombs whistled through the air, exploding nearby; smoke obscured the view across the muddy ground; the smell of cordite was everywhere. Despite it all the Marines maintained their mechanistic, irrepressible advance, sprinting forward in short bounds, taking advantage of every scrap of cover, all the time pumping rifle fire into the enemy position. The .50-calibre heavy machine-guns kept up their pounding of the Iraqis too, spraying chunks of earth and splinters of wood from the undergrowth. The Iraqis were far from done though, and AK47 fire continued to come at us in bursts from positions hidden deep within the thicket of trees. Rocket-propelled grenades screeched out of the woods and across our front, evidently aimed at the vehicles to our flank, but it was to no avail - the Marines reached the trees without losing a single casualty (which was little short of a miracle) and the vicious bastards were mixing it with the terrified Iraqis within seconds. A tiny white flag appeared from a trench to my front but it was far too late, a grenade had already been posted into the position from a passing fire-team and the hapless occupants were blown to smithereens a second later. Theirs was the first trench I came to and despite the blood and human debris scattered around it I dived inside as if my life depended on it.