Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq (7 page)
My Media Ops comrades had a vague schedule of events worked out but I insisted that before we went anywhere, we should treat ourselves to a slap-up lunch. The camp food was poor quality, repetitive and dull and the opportunity to fill my belly with decent fodder was too good to pass up. We ducked into the Hilton hotel, ordered the biggest steaks in the house, then settled down to enjoy not just the food but also the novelty of clean cutlery, starched napkins, marble floors, the surrounding greenery, and the omnipresent air-conditioning’ Unhappily, Kuwait’s hospitality doesn’t stretch to a decent bottle of wine, so we had to settle for coke, with a crafty shot of Scotch thrown in for good measure by yours truly. I’m sure the serving staff must have suspected us for we were all half-cut by the time we left. The awful thought of being arrested and publicly flogged as a drunken infidel briefly flashed through my mind, followed by the thought that even without the flogging, being arrested would in itself result in a court martial and return to UK in disgrace. Fortunately the waiter had the good sense to turn a Nelsonic eye to our increasingly liquid state and held his tongue. We tipped him handsomely in return.
Bellies full, we set off on a shopping spree of epic proportions. Like most Arab capitals, the residents of Kuwait City are fairly dripping with money and there is no shortage of outlets for them to spend it. We ventured into an enormous air-conditioned shopping mall. The boys scattered into the nearest shops, emerging sometime later with a collection of goodies including new clothes, CDs, personal stereos, and an assortment of cigars and cigarettes which, asides from their obvious value as smokes, would be useful for bartering back at the camp. On the assumption that we were going to war and I might want to preserve some of the memories for posterity, I splashed out on an unfeasibly tiny digital camera, easily small enough to slip into my hip pocket in the event of anything worth recording taking place in the Brigade headquarters. Then it was back to the car and, I wrongly assumed, back to camp. My hosts, however, had other ideas, and we set off south on the highway out of Kuwait City, completely the wrong direction for a return to the Headquarters, changing back into military attire en route.
Our destination, which was only a short drive down the road, was Camp Doha, an enormous, permanent US base, constructed shortly after the first Gulf War, and home to literally thousands of troops. Situated under the smoking chimneys of Kuwait’s biggest power station, it sprawls across miles of desert with lines of steel buildings, concrete missile bunkers, temporary accommodation blocks and countless vehicles of all kinds stretching as far as the eye can see. At first glance the security appears to be tight but, like most American establishments, you can bamboozle the guards with any old ID card and they wave you straight inside. This was clearly not the first visit for the Media Ops team for we didn’t stop once to ask directions, zooming through the maze of roads inside the camp at speeds far in excess of the widely-advertised 10 mph speed limit. On either side of us, parked in precise straight lines, were literally hundreds of trucks, 4x4s, armoured personnel carriers and main battle tanks of all kinds. The firepower residing inside Camp Doha was probably greater than that of the entire British Army - and the helipad was equally imposing, housing several squadrons of Blackhawk and Apache helicopters. The most impressive part was that none of this equipment had been specially shipped to Kuwait for the imminent conflict - it was all permanently stationed there.
The first stop on our Camp Doha jaunt was somewhat unexpected. Instead of visiting the numerous eating venues or the shopping mall, we drew to a halt outside a row of scruffy looking temporary buildings, hidden in the shade of an enormous steel hangar. The Media Ops boys jumped out, pulled a series of large bags from the boot of the 4x4 and disappeared into the nearest hut. It transpired the buildings were home to Doha’s laundry facilities and rather than persevering with the hand washing routine that prevailed at Camp Commando, the Media team had got into the routine of getting their clothes clean courtesy of Uncle Sam. Next stop was the huge shopping mall, where hundreds of overweight, under-employed American soldiers spent most of their free time buying junk food with which to supplement their dietary intake, an amazing feat since their cookhouses already provided meal portions large enough to feed a whole family. It seemed somehow churlish not to partake so, despite feeling overfull from the steak lunch, I bought myself a grotesquely extravagant ice cream and entered the enormous department store that lay immediately beyond the food hall. Were it not for the obvious fact that all the clientele inside were in uniform, we could have been at any downtown US shopping mall. Everything from Harley Davidsons to Hershey bars was on sale inside, augmented by the usual collection of jingoistic paraphernalia that always accompanies the US forces - from T-shirts to tattoo parlours, this place had it all. I suspected that Camp Doha was largely populated by logisticians and headquarters elements who would see out their war without even entering Iraq, but that wasn’t stopping the shopping mall from doing a roaring trade in Gulf War 2 souvenirs - and the fighting wasn’t even likely to begin for several more weeks. Mercifully we stayed in the mall only a short time before retiring to a nearby Starbucks and soaking up some of the late afternoon sunshine whilst supping cappuccinos. I had to hand it to the Media Ops team, their well-worked day trips certainly made a refreshing change from the drudgery of Camp Commando. As the sun set over the desert sands we piled back into the 4x4 and bade farewell to Uncle Sam and his recreational shopping facilities. I made a mental note to remember to bring my laundry with me next time.
That night brought an unusual hum, or rather, rumble, of activity to Camp Commando, as the lead elements of 7 Armoured Brigade rolled into town.
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The first vehicles arrived in the middle of the night, as seems to be the norm with any British military move. During the early hours I became vaguely conscious of the ground vibrating and tracks squeaking but failed to fully wake up or realise the significance of the noise. By daybreak the relative tranquillity of the camp had been shattered by the roaring of large numbers of diesel engines as vehicle after vehicle entered the square in front of the accommodation tents. The loose gravel surface was kicked up into clouds of dust which quickly covered anything and everything not kept under cover. Row upon row of armoured vehicles took up position within the square, eventually forming a rough oblong around which were rolled coils of barbed wire sealing in the vehicles and leaving a single entrance some 50 yards from the dining tent. I watched as two signallers erected a large wooden sign featuring the familiar silhouette of a jerboa and reading “HQ 7 Armoured Brigade - The Desert Rats”. As a cavalryman I found the sight of all these newly-arrived tracked vehicles a joy to behold, even if they were largely made up of rather aged armoured personnel carriers dating from the 1970s. Accompanying the headquarters vehicles would be more cavalry officers and I had little doubt that the social life around the camp would improve dramatically as a result. I spent much of the morning watching the remaining vehicles arriving and looking forward to evenings spent drinking shots of scotch in the company of officers from the Hussars, Lancers, Dragoons and the like. As soon as they had all arrived I made a foray inside the wire and immediately bumped into a couple of chaps from the 9/12th Lancers with whom I had served in Bosnia. I dragged them off to lunch and before long our table had become a proper little cavalry club with attendees not only from my home regiment but also from Sandhurst days. Life really was looking up.
The following morning my spirits were still running high from the combined effects of a day spent in relative civilisation and the arrival of my armoured brethren. I felt myself to be well ensconced in an undemanding and relatively sustainable job which, for the time being, involved minimal time in the Ops Room and maximum time enjoying myself on one spurious mission or another. On balance of course I would rather have been back in merry England but, on the whole, I felt a sense of quiet confidence that I could see out the war in the headquarters without too much drama. I should have known better than to drop my guard but I was utterly unprepared for the next turn of events. Post-breakfast, feeling somewhat bleary-eyed and still clutching a mug of coffee, I made my way over to the Ops Room, primarily to see whether I had any more mail packages from the UK rather than to do any planning work. My pigeonhole was empty so I mooched into the Ops Room to see whether there had been any significant developments during the previous working day. I opened my mouth to say a cheery hallo to S02 Media, who was (for reasons that elude me) manning the central G3 watchkeeping desk, when I noticed a fresh-faced young RTR captain sitting at my desk.
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He spotted me and stood up, looking somewhat abashed. At the same moment, the Chief of Staff appeared at my shoulder.
“Ah, Harry, there you are ...” I wondered momentarily if I had been missed the previous day, then dismissed the thought. “Meet George Thomsett, your replacement.” Young George stuck out his hand which I duly shook. My mind was racing and for one hopelessly positive moment I even thought that this could be my ticket home. But the optimism within me was quickly crushed. “I’ve been looking at the orbat of our two commando units,”
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continued the Chief of Staff. “It seems to me that 42 Commando will be working almost constantly with elements of 7 Armoured Brigade. There’s no-one with particular armoured knowledge within the commando group, and I’m bloody keen that we get them the required expertise quick sharp. You’re the obvious candidate for the post, so we’re sending you there pronto.” My head was spinning and I felt faint. Far from going home, my cosy headquarters job was evaporating before my very eyes and I was to be pushed forward into a fighting unit which would shortly be engaged in the first thrust into Iraq. This was the worst possible turn of events. I was caught completely off guard and momentarily lost for words. I began to mouth a response, but the Chief of Staff beat me to it. “You may be wondering why young George doesn’t go in your place.” Mouth dry, I could only nod in agreement, hoping in vain for some kind of reprieve. “Well, George has spent the last year in 7 Brigade’s headquarters. He knows the ropes, and we need a first-class brigade-level liaison officer. On the other hand, everyone knows your track record, Flash, and there’s no doubting our first choice to go to a commando unit. I can see that you’re raring to go - you’ve probably got your bags packed already, I should imagine!” He roared with laughter and clapped me on the back so hard that I spilled coffee onto the floorboards. I stared bleakly at George Thomsett. Under other circumstances I might have stuck my fist in his face for having the insolence to pilfer my job. But it was hardly his fault that these idiots thought I actually wanted to go to a commando group, back to the kind of lunatics with whom I had barely scraped out of Afghanistan a year earlier. No sooner had I made myself comfortable in the brigade headquarters than fate - assisted by my undeserved reputation for derring-do - had intervened. The Chief of Staff had made his mind up and there was nothing further to be said so, attempting not to show my inner despair, I simply turned on my heel and walked out.
NOTES
1.
With the Iraqi border less than 50 miles away, Flashman was easily inside the range of Saddam’s Scud missiles and the prospect of a gas attack was very real. Most military units encamped in Kuwait experienced at least one false alarm per day during the build up to the invasion. Every man was required to keep his respirator with him 24 hours a day.
2.
The UK (and US) armed forces use a series of alphanumeric codes to denote different job functions. G4 refers to logistics.
3.
Bubiyan Island is situated in the northern Gulf, just off the Kuwaiti coast. Subject to frequent flooding, it is an expanse of sand and mud which never rises more than a few feet above sea level. Being close to southern Iraq, it was used to site the British artillery positions during the initial invasion.
4.
Main Battle Tanks.
5.
Pongo: less-than-affectionate naval slang, used to describe anyone in the army.
6.
Flashman fails to note the arrival of 1 UK Division Headquarters, which took over the reins of the deployment from 3 Commando Brigade shortly before the arrival of 7 Armoured Brigade. Commanded by a 2-star general, the division’s fighting assets consisted of three formations: 3 Commando Brigade, 7 Armoured Brigade, and 16 Air Assault Brigade.
7.
G3: operations.
8.
RTR: Royal Tank Regiment.
9.
Order of Battle, i.e. the manning structure.
4
When S02 Media heard my sorry tale, he was hardly the sympathetic listening ear I had hoped for. He was perched on his bunk, deep in some trashy paperback, headphones in his ears, in a little world of his own when I walked back into the accommodation tent. Seeing my downcast expression he unplugged himself and enquired what was wrong.
“I’m being moved on,” I told him. “Some tosser from 7 Armoured has got my job, I’m being sent to 42 Commando.”
His response was typically bootneck, typically idiotic. “You lucky bugger! Good God, a couple of weeks swanning around here, then off to a commando before the fighting begins. I don’t know what you’ve done to deserve this, Flashy, but there’s plenty of blokes who’ll be gutted to know they’re staying here while you move on.”
The silly thing was that he was absolutely right, there were dozens, probably hundreds, of chaps in the headquarters who would give their eye teeth to be joining a commando group. And despite having all these people to choose from, I was the one who had been picked, probably the only man in the brigade who would have paid good money to avoid the front line. Still, the decision was made now and there was no point letting a fellow staff officer get a glimpse of my yellow liver. I put on an air of resigned determination for his benefit and that of the other chaps in the accommodation tent whom I was certain were eavesdropping.