Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq (29 page)

10

The road to Hell is paved with good ideas, so they say. I don’t doubt it for a moment - I’ve borne the brunt of Lord-knows-how-many ill-conceived ideas in my time, the whole messy business in Iraq being just one of them. I can tell you something else from first-hand experience too: the road to Rumaylah is littered with potholes - or at least it was when I travelled along it. As the morning sun pushed the mercury well over the 40 degree mark we lurched and bounced through every damned pothole in Iraq, or that’s how it felt inside the tin box of the BV. I gripped my rifle with my knees and tried to ignore the bruising of my buttocks by stuffing packet after packet of fruit biscuits into my face. The Adjutant, ever happy to be travelling headlong into unknown danger, whistled a cheery tune, while the Marines in the back kept a wary eye out of the grubby windows in case of trouble brewing. The early part of the move was spend crawling through the suburbs of the town, with yours truly making a spectacular hash of the map reading - largely, I suspect, because I was more focused on not spilling a cup of tea which was precariously balanced between my thighs. Fortunately, before it caused any significant problems, my appalling navigation was corrected by one of the Marines who had the foresight to bring with him a hand-held GPS system. Thankfully the navigation was only a belt-and-braces check (at the insistence of the Adjutant) since we were blindly following Recce Troop’s vehicles in any case.  It seemed they knew where they were going, since we negotiated dozens of road junctions and intersections without making a single error. (You may think this unsurprising, since it’s the job of any reconnaissance troop to navigate through new territory, but you’d be amazed how often military pathfinder units stuff things up - especially when it’s a hot environment and the pressure is on.) As Basra receded behind us the country changed to wide open desert, littered with the debris of fighting and the neglected remains of a crumbling oil infrastructure. Burned out vehicles lay in the sand, often with minefield warning signs posted nearby, while aged oil pipelines leaked pools of their sticky black cargo into the desert. The scene was an environmentalist’s nightmare - made more so by the addition of hand-scribbled notices near the tank hulls warning visitors of depleted uranium in the vicinity, left over from the armour-piercing rounds fired by US aircraft. The convoy ploughed on through the heat of the day, following the long, straight desert roads for mile after mile; Rumaylah was further away than I had thought. But eventually a series of oil platforms became visible on the horizon, the road forked, and we drew up outside a large installation.

The place was much bigger than I had imagined - more like a small refinery than a simple separation plant (which goes to show how little I know about the oil industry). Storage tanks and pumps were connected by an incredibly complex lattice of pipe-work, all held together with a steel frame structure which soared fifty feet or more into the desert sky. The centrepiece was a huge chimney, at least 200 feet high, underneath which nestled a series of command and control buildings, most of which were used to house 42 Commando’s Headquarters staff over the ensuing weeks. As the vehicles rattled into the compound it became rapidly clear that there were relatively few buildings compared to the number of people, so the scramble for accommodation ensued almost immediately. I managed to find a quiet spot in the corner of a large room that was full of racks of electronic switches and the like. The concrete walls and floor meant the place was cool and there were no windows, so the only light came via the open doors at either end. I unrolled my bedding and left my bergen on top to prevent the space being purloined by anyone else, then set off on a stroll around the real estate, keen to see what my new dwelling held in store.

The GOSP site was an oblong roughly 300 yards by 500 yards, a fact I ascertained by clambering up the steel staircase of the central chimney. (I had an ulterior motive for this laborious task, which was the optimistic hope that my mobile phone might get a signal from the top. It didn’t, so I returned to earth out of breath and frustrated at my failure to send any more SMS smut to Charlotte W. The randy little slut would just have to wait a little longer for my attentions.) From the summit of the chimney it was easy to make sense of the maze of paths and walkways down below, and I could see that a large amount of the real estate was taken up by buildings apparently unconnected with the oil infrastructure. When I descended I discovered a huge amount of real estate devoted to maintenance - vast hangars full of all manner of mechanical equipment from lifting derricks to welding gear - and even a large laboratory, complete with Bunsen burners and hundreds of sealed jars of chemicals. The small amount of permanent accommodation - most of which had been rapidly seized by the Commando Planning Group -was augmented by numerous portakabin-style huts, all of which were falling down and not fit to house cattle. I poked around inside one or two of them and was surprised to find several ancient photographs of Japanese workers posing with their Iraqi colleagues, presumably taken back in the late 1980s before the imposition of economic sanctions. The place was filthy dirty and reeked appallingly, so I didn’t investigate further but cut across the compound back to my quarters.

I turned in early that night - there was nothing to do to pass the time, and the interminable heat had left me fairly tuckered out. My room was dark and (relatively) cool, and I relished the thought of a decent night’s sleep. Unhappily, Iraq’s numerous pests had other ideas. The hum of mosquitoes was rapidly overshadowed by the scuttling of thousands of cockroach feet as the room came alive. I sat up, disgusted, and switched on my torch, at which the revolting creatures scattered towards the corners of the room - but not before I established that there were, literally, hundreds of them. I’m not a fan of creepy-crawlies in general, and cockroaches in particular make my blood run cold, so I de-camped onto the roof of the building and slept there for the ensuing weeks. It was, at times, windy, wet and inhospitable, but at least there were no bugs.

With little idea of the local area, the Commando quickly pushed out mobile patrols to establish the lie of the land. The fighting companies were all located in nearby GOSPs which gave us control of a wide area almost without leaving the plants. The outlying landscape, as far as one could see from the top of the chimney, was nothing more than barren desert, mile after mile of pale yellow sand which eventually merged into the heat haze of the horizon. The only colour in this bleak landscape was provided by the fertile green banks of a huge man-made waterway, which I think was a canal constructed to connect the Tigris with the Euphrates. Whatever its original purpose it was almost wholly disused by the time I arrived, save for a few native fishermen casting hand-made nets from dugout canoes - all very primitive and unexpectedly serene after the mayhem of Al Faw and Basra. They were friendly buggers too, and I whiled away many hours over the forthcoming weeks chinwagging with them and even casting the odd fishing line, all on the pretence of collecting intelligence for the Headquarters. Most of them were descended from the Marsh Arabs whose habitat had been eradicated by Saddam Hussein many years earlier - the canal was now the only habitable stretch of waterway on which a few families were still able to eek a living.
(1)
If I was expecting a hero’s welcome from them I certainly didn’t receive one; these were inward looking people who were justifiably disinterested by strangers, whatever their nationality. Getting rid of Saddam didn’t matter a fig to them, since not even his departure could bring back their homeland. I knew what would matter to them though - fodder - so I brought it with me by the trailer load. Primitive they may have been but they weren’t stupid, and after a couple of visits and several hours of enduring my broken Arabic, I found myself on friendly enough terms with several of the headmen.

But that was all in the future, and in any case the CO and his Headquarters staff were largely disinterested in the Marsh Arabs since they posed no noticeable threat to the coalition. The little town of Rumaylah, on the other hand, was a veritable hotbed of activity, although no-one could quite work out why. The Humlnt Cell was busy talking to every man and his dog but no clear pattern seemed to be emerging, yet by all accounts the town was a tinderbox and the chaps returning from the place said the tension in the air was palpable.
(2)
Patrols were dispatched there almost by the hour and, inevitably, it was only a couple of days before I was sat at the CO’s morning brief when some bright spark suggested I should join them so that my linguistic skills could be put to good use.

“Capital idea,” agreed the old man, nodding wisely at whichever well-intentioned halfwit had made the suggestion. “Recce Troop is on its way into the town this afternoon,” he added, gesturing towards the patrol roster which was pinned on the wall. “It makes perfect sense for you to join them, Captain Flashman.”

I feigned excitement at the opportunity to get out of the compound and the Staff nodded their approval. The CO didn’t pause for breath and the conversation moved on, leaving me sweating at the prospect of untold dangers ahead.

Thankfully, given the searing heat, at least the Recce Troop boys had the good sense to drive to Rumaylah (it was just over two miles) in Land Rovers rather than make their way on foot. However, like most Marines, given the choice they preferred to do business on foot, so we de-bussed just short of the town and began footslogging through the streets. Perspiration poured down my back, soaking my shirt and causing my webbing belt to start rubbing, while the pistol-grip of my rifle became slippery in my grasp. Unlike Umm Qasr or Basra the inhabitants of Rumaylah shied well away from us. No-one emerged from their doorway for a chat - even the local brats didn’t beg from us, which was unheard of. The chaps grinned and waved at anyone who would look at them but it was to little avail - even the most amenable of the townsfolk would only shoot back the most fleeting smile before darting back indoors or ducking behind the curtains. Shifty buggers, these, I thought to myself, and it ain’t because of anything the Brits have done, of that you can be certain. Someone was causing mischief among them - I just hoped that whoever it was, the Marines got hold of him while I was safely tucked away inside the wire of the compound.

I confess I spent most of that afternoon as nervous as a high-court judge in a West End brothel, and a lot less comfortable too. I had the unnerving feeling that our progress was being observed and spent much of the time looking warily about me, trying to catch a glimpse of fleeting silhouettes on rooftops or in alleyways. I saw absolutely nothing of note and it was only on the route back to the Land Rovers that I began to calm down, when shots were fired up ahead, I hit the deck like a sack of spuds, and the air was filled with the deafening crack of high-velocity rounds and the smell of cordite as the Marines engaged whatever threat had manifested itself. I wasn’t remotely interested in closing with or killing the enemy, and spent the majority of the fire-fight curling into an ever tighter ball in a nearby doorway, almost puking with fear. I have never enjoyed the sensation of being shot at, and after the set-to on the Al Faw my nerves were in a parlous state. Fortunately nothing larger than an AK47 was trained upon us, and all the rounds that were fired in our direction went wide, but the experience did nothing for my nerves. From the speed they moved you never would have guessed that Recce Troop had been on their feet all afternoon (adrenaline is a great tonic) and they swept down the street like a well-oiled machine, leapfrogging from doorway to doorway, blasting away at likely targets, and generally frightening the living daylights out of anyone looking on. By the time they reached the edge of the town, with me panting breathlessly behind them, the enemy had vanished and the place fell silent again. We never did work out where the shots were fired from, so the brief journey back to the Headquarters was filled with wisecracks about the library window and the grassy knoll.

After the quiet of the previous few days the evening brief was once again humming with excitement at news of an engagement, however small. Recce Troop’s commander gave a brief précis of the fire fight, such as it was, and the CO vowed to get to the bottom of whatever was happening in Rumaylah if it killed him. Frankly I wouldn’t have minded if it did, since his demise would undoubtedly have improved the odds on my survival. In the meantime his dirty work was done for him by the Ops Officer, who took it upon himself to attach me to the Humlnt Cell.

“They’re overstretched already, Flash,” he announced to me and the assembled masses. “You speak a bit of the lingo and we know you like gassing with the locals.” There was dutiful chuckling at this from his peers. “You might as well get yourself onto the streets and see what info you can glean for us, yes?” There was no arguing with him so I sat nodding like an ass while the bile rose in my throat and the hair stood up on the back of my neck. The irony was not so much that I was once more being thrust into the thick of the action, but that the unapproachable bastard would cheerfully have gone in my place given half a chance. (Despite being only the same rank as me the Ops Officer was self-evidently the CO’s right hand man and, by the latter stages of the war, was practically running 42 Commando’s campaign unilaterally - albeit with the tacit blessing of the old man; the two of them made a fairly formidable double act.) There was no hope of persuading him to change his mind so I saved my breath and the conversation moved on to other topics.

The Humlnt Cell was a ragtag little group of about half a dozen individuals, both regulars and reservists from several different regiments, who had been hastily cobbled together at the start of the campaign. Some were veterans with over 20 years’ experience (most of it spent hiding behind garden walls in Belfast, I should imagine) and others were wet behind the ears with no campaign experience whatsoever, but with a good grasp of Arabic. Small and disparate the group may have been but there was little doubting that, ever since 42 Commando had arrived in Umm Qasr, they had been among the busiest souls in the battle group. Cajoling, persuading, bribing and I don’t doubt threatening members of the local population, the Humlnt boys had done us proud: it was they who had stumbled across the Spherical Clerical back in Umm Qasr; their sources had fingered dozens of Ba’ath Party activists both there and in Umm Khayyal; and they had done more than most in the struggle to keep Basra under control. As a result they were the darlings of the Headquarters and had a great deal of input into the conduct of operations. That was all very well but the very reason for this success was their work ethic, which to my eyes appeared to involve getting into danger at every possible opportunity, spending their time liaising with the most treacherous people imaginable with few weapons and even less back-up. As you can imagine, given the choice between idling my days away inside the camp or roaming the streets in search of elusive troublemakers, I wasn’t exactly overjoyed at the prospect of my new posting. The move was not entirely without its compensations though: the Intelligence Corps has more than its fair share of women and I had spotted a couple of reasonably attractive young fillies enjoying the hospitality of the Humlnt team on more than one occasion, presumably on some kind of attachment from Divisional Headquarters. I don’t normally socialise with Int. Corps staffers - they’re typically common as muck and have manners to match - but if the opportunity presented itself, I wouldn’t say no to a quick roll in the hay. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t look twice at an enlisted Int. Corps bint, but these were not normal circs and anyway it would beat being shot at on the streets of Rumaylah. I made up my mind to have a crack at one or the other of them at the first opportunity.