Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq (26 page)
“Leg giving you gip, is it?” enquired the BGE, his voice full of insincerity. “I have just the medicine.” And with that he produced a half-pint plastic bottle full of scotch which we began drinking before the convoy had even left the camp. I expected it to be a long, hard night and I suspect for the drivers it was. For my part, the whisky numbed the pain in my leg and I passed out, sandwiched between the tailgate of the truck and the hard cases of the RCKs, only to awake when the convoy stopped shortly after first light the following morning.
In the faint morning light, I could see that the entire convoy was precariously exposed, stationary on a thin metalled road which snaked its way across seemingly endless mudflats. The halted vehicles posed an obvious target to enemy gunners so I wandered up the line to find the reason for the delay. It transpired it was one of the attached American soldiers who had caused the problem, by spectacularly falling out of his Humvee.
Apparently the chap was the vehicle’s machine-gunner, perched high on a sling seat poking out of a cupola above the cab. The night’s journey had proved too much for him and he had succumbed to sleep just as dawn was breaking, thereby toppling from his vehicle, injuring himself quite severely in the process. Clearly it wasn’t the finest hour for the US Marines - they’ve no bloody stamina, these Yanks; I put it down to the lack of a decent public school education - and his colleagues were busily assuring their British colleagues that it wouldn’t happen again, while our medics cared for their crippled comrade. Eventually he was either patched up or shipped out (I never found out which) and the convoy started rolling again.
Our temporary destination was only a short distance further along the road. The roar of tank engines greeted us as we rolled into the car park of an abandoned university campus. The place was already a hive of activity so I elected to stay in the truck where I hoped I would remain undiscovered and ignored. My relaxed state was soon ended by an immense crash of artillery, at which point I practically shat myself and dived over the tailgate in a desperate attempt to seek shelter. I needn’t have worried: rather embarrassingly the crash was caused by outgoing artillery shells from a gun-line concealed behind a nearby wall - infinitely preferable to incoming fire, but it gave me a heck of a start nevertheless. I berated myself for failing to spot the difference, but under the circumstances I would have jumped at the sound of a kindergarten cap-gun and in any case half of the Marines made the same mistake, so at least my embarrassment was diluted somewhat.
The artillery fire may have been harmless - although I’m sure it felt very different on the receiving end - but my exit from the truck had been spotted by OC M Company, who trotted over to inform me that he was once again leading the charge into an enemy-held town and just like last time, I had the privilege of accompanying him.
“Stacks of supporting armour this time, which is a bonus,” he quipped. “Obviously none of our wagons are armoured though, so you’ll just have to risk it in a BV. We’re not due to move out until late afternoon - I’ll be giving a set of orders in the lecture theatre at 1400. See you there.” He shot me a wink and disappeared.
I had attended several exercises in which the orders had been given in a lecture theatre - usually at establishments like Sandhurst or Shrivenham, where the instructors monitored every word - but never a live operation. There was a sort of dark irony about the prospect of receiving orders in such a clinical environment. At least, that’s what I assumed until I strolled over to the lecture theatre later in the morning, to discover that it was a dusty flea-pit, in darkness save for the light creeping in from the fire exit doors, inhabited by numerous sleeping Marines and several thousand mosquitoes, as a result of which I didn’t stay more than a few seconds, and even that was enough for me to get bitten several times.
I spent much of the rest of the morning exploring the university campus. A once-proud series of modern buildings, the place had been reduced to dereliction by either the exiting Iraqis or the incoming Brits, or both. Doors were broken, shattered glass lay everywhere, furniture was typically missing or broken, and none of the classrooms looked as if they had been used in months. There was nothing remotely useful left to pilfer, in fact the only thing of interest I stumbled across was an entire classroom full of enormous hand-painted anti-American propaganda posters. Either the students were all passionately pro-Saddam and anti-Western, or the curriculum left a lot to be desired, for although all the posters were unique pieces, the themes running through them were constant and highly inflammatory.
As I climbed the floors of the building I was able to get a better view of the surrounding countryside. Away to the southeast, the sky was darkened by plumes of smoke from several burning oil wells, which made the stark sunshine seem all the brighter in the foreground. The countryside to the south and west was largely flat and featureless, crisscrossed by ribbons of tarmac elevated above the flood plains. And to the north, plainly visible, lay the city of Basra. Thin columns of smoke and dust were visible outside the city centre, evidence that our artillery and air assets had not been lying idle. The university site was several miles from the town so it was impossible to pick out specific landmarks, but I could see the gentle curve of the Shat-al-Arab river and the lush greenery that marked the limits of the eastern suburbs - the point to which 40 Commando were already advancing. The scale of the town was immediately apparent: Basra is a fully-fledged city. If the jundies chose to dig their heels in, we could be embroiled in street fighting for weeks. I shivered and scuttled down the stairs, eager to cadge a much-needed cup of tea before the impending orders group.
Without electric lighting the theatre was too dark to give orders, so OC M Company made do in the lobby. There was no seating and the floor was covered with broken glass, so we stood together in a huddle and listened as he rattled through the details. If his orders for the entry into Umm Qasr had been brief, these were not much more expansive. The upshot of the plan was that we would drive headlong into the centre of Basra, flanked on all sides by APCs and main battle tanks from 7 Armoured Brigade, and seize a series of key crossroads and bridges over the river. Simultaneously J Company would seize the huge presidential palace, which lay just to the east of the town centre, while K Company would come up behind us, sweeping through the southern suburbs. There was very little intelligence about how many enemy troops were located in the town, and even less about where they were likely to be holed up. The threat of ambush was highlighted several times, as was the possibility of de-bussing from the vehicles in order to assault enemy positions on foot. I stood in silence, suffering heart palpitations and chewing my fingernails to the quick. Entering Basra with my cavalry colleagues in a Challenger tank would have been frightening enough, but the idea of offering myself up as a target in a soft-skinned vehicle had my sphincter twitching in terror. No-one else gave the slightest hint of apprehension though so I kept my thoughts to myself.
“We’ll be rolling in alongside a load of tanks and APCs,” stated the OC matter-of-factly. “Flashy - where is he?” He spotted me lurking in a corner. “Ah, there you are. If we get into a punch-up on the way in, we’ll need your input as to how we can deploy the tanks to help sort it out, okay?” I nodded weakly. “There’s a space in the BV behind mine. Stick to me like glue, yeah?”
My throat was dry but I managed to grunt an acknowledgement, and the conversation moved swiftly on to air cover.
An hour after receiving our orders, the BVs and Pinzgauers of M Company began to shake out into a long line outside the university campus. Equally visible and much more impressive were the Challenger tanks and Warrior armoured fighting vehicles of 7 Armoured Brigade, whose massive diesel engines spewed fumes into the air as they jockeyed into position. As instructed I climbed reluctantly into one of the lead vehicles; if it had been down to me I would have been as near the back as possible, but that option had been quashed. No, it was once-more-unto-the-breach-dear-friends for old Flashy, all smiles and bravado, with nary a soul knowing that I was practically vomiting bile at the thought of the peril that lay ahead.
Eventually the BV lurched forward, rubber tracks squeaking on the hot road surface, and we were under way. The Marines in the vehicle wedged open the back door to allow the air to circulate, affording me a first-class view of the enormous convoy which stretched out behind us. The first miles were unremarkable, as we plodded steadily through the barren landscape south of the town. Then, as Basra drew nearer, brown turned to green and a series of small fields and allotments bounded the road on either side. Small dwellings became visible, rapidly followed by larger houses and then streets and cul-de-sacs as we entered the southern suburbs. I braced myself, gripping my rifle across my knees. But instead of being met by bullets and bombs, I was stunned to see groups of civilians waving at us and smiling. As the journey progressed, the groups turned to crowds until, by the time we entered the town centre, the streets were lined with people clapping and cheering our arrival. Children waved tiny home-made Union Flags and Stars & Stripes while their parents applauded and waved to us. All in all it was a very different reception to the one I had been expecting and I’m sure I was more delighted than anyone. I leant out of the open window of the BV and waved back to the crowd, happy to play the role of Flashman the Liberator - just as long as I didn’t have to do any fighting of course.
By early evening we arrived at a large roundabout in the middle of town and our lead vehicles juddered to a halt. First out, despite the obvious risk of snipers from all the surrounding high-rise buildings, were the ITN boys, who rapidly set up a satellite antenna and, despite the incessant clucking of their media minder, were broadcasting news of our arrival to the world within seconds. The OC was also in evidence, wielding a map and pointing to a series of road junctions and nearby buildings. The ground shook beneath my feet as a pair of tanks rolled up alongside, then they were gone, screeching round the corner and tearing lumps out of the tarmac with their tracks as they went. It was a sight that would have made any jundie think twice before starting any trouble, and it made me feel a darn sight better about the situation. I sauntered over to the OC, who was busily directing his men to various strategic points in the vicinity.
“Harry, let me give you a quick heads-up,” he said. “The building to our front will be my headquarters.” He pointed to a sizeable four-story building that was still being constructed. The walls were incomplete and wooden scaffolding shrouded large parts of the facade. It stood on muddy wasteland behind a brick wall, beyond which several constructors’ portakabins had been erected. “We’ve a couple of checkpoints down the road opposite the hospital.” The hospital was a substantial, modern-looking multi-storey building which dominated the local landscape, complete with armies of doctors and nurses coming and going through the front doors and a line of ambulances parked outside. “The rest of the blokes are pushing out towards the river and the main road junctions, where they’ll set up VCPs overnight.”
(2)
He jabbed at the map with a biro. “I’d like you to make your way to this junction, just on the far side of the river, and team up with the VCP there. The tankies will have several of their vehicles up there too, plus another two stationed just across the river in front of the hospital, here,” he pointed on the map once more. “If anything kicks off in the night, you’re to take charge of the local armoured assets and sort it out, okay? Don’t bother getting authority from up the chain - we’ve already got it. But if the place is quiet you can let the tankies go about their business as usual.” I nodded in acquiescence and he was gone, striding off to find some other hapless individual who looked in need of further employment.
I cut across the wasteland outside the construction site that was now the Company Headquarters, hoping to cadge a lift across the bridge from one of the many vehicles outside. Annoyingly most of them were busy finding parking spots so I continued on foot, eager to get away from the nearby buildings, which had still not been searched for jundies. The ground floor of the Headquarters was getting the most attention, since the solid brick walls offered no obvious entry points and the steel doors were all locked and bolted. Groups of Marines began sledgehammering the doors, but they were quarter-inch thick steel plate and not likely to budge in a hurry.
“I say! Need a hand?” I didn’t need to look to know the voice belonged to one of the young tank commanders - the public school accent rather gave the game away. The Marines were quick enough to accept the offer and stepped smartly aside as he ordered the driver to reverse. With a blast of diesel fumes the tank lurched backwards and smashed straight through the wall. Gears crunched and it jolted forward, masonry and plaster dust crashing over the hull as it exited the building. Marines swarmed through the hole in the wall and emerged triumphant on the first floor a couple of minutes later, grinning from ear to ear. The rest of the building was searched in minutes and with no sign of any enemy soldiers the Company Commander wasted no time in moving in.
I left them to it and walked across the bridge to join the squad of chaps at the VCP on the far side - which in reality simply consisted of their BV parked diagonally across the road to block one and half lanes of traffic. Efficient as ever, the Marines had already spread out away from the vehicle and were stopping and searching the few civilian cars and pickups that passed. Warrior armoured vehicles rumbled past several times during the course of the evening, accompanied by a brace of tanks and, somewhat unexpectedly, a Challenger recovery vehicle, sporting a large St Andrews Cross and a crew grinning from ear to ear.
(3)
For the most part the evening was remarkably quiet - evidently most Iraqis had chosen to stay indoors, an eminently sensible decision in the circumstances.