Chris Ryan (5 page)

we started walking south�wards, down the wadi, towards our emergency rendezvous point. Finding myself at the front, I led the patrol out. Call it arrogance, if you like, but I didn't trust anyone else to go first. Dusk was already coming on, and I was hoping we could reach the drop-off point, less than two kilometres to the south, and put down enough fire to defend ourselves until dark fell � and then we'd have to wait until the chopper came in. Moving out, I kept close in to the left-hand wall of the wadi, because that was the steepest, and in the lee of it we were out of sight of the AA guns. When I turned round, I found that the guys had opened up to a tactical spacing of maybe twenty metres between each; but I was thinking, 'If we have a nonsense here, we want to be tight together.' So I yelled back, 'Close up!' The bulldozer had gone out of sight, but we were moving towards where we'd last seen it. All too soon the wadi began 58 The One That Got Away to flatten out, and on our left a long slope ran up to the plain above. As we came clear of the steep part of the wadi wall, I suddenly saw two Arabs on the high ground above us, guns down by their sides. They were barely 200 metres away, and were standing motionless. There was something oddly inert about their appearance; they showed no surprise and did not move as we walked into their view. Both were wearing dark overcoats on top of their dishdashes (native cotton robes), which reached down to their ankles. Also they had red-and�white shamags done up on top of their heads like turbans. I reckoned they were civilians or possibly militia. `It's that sodding boy,' I said to myself. 'He's run like hell and tipped them off.' `Close up!' I yelled again, because it was obvious the shit was going to go down. Next behind me was Bob Consiglio, and I shouted back to him, 'Fucking hurry! Catch up!' We kept going. But the two Iraqis began to parallel us, moving forward. In case anybody hadn't seen them, I called back, 'We've got two on the high ground to the left, and they're walking down. Keep going.' Behind me everyone started cursing. The tension in the patrol was electric. I felt fear rising in my chest. Afterwards, I realised that the two Iraqis were waiting for reinforce�ments to come up; also, they were probably a bit confused, not knowing who the hell we were. But at the time I was wondering if we could outrun them, or lose them somehow, without starting a firefight. Then I blew it in a big way. I thought, 'I'm going to try the double bluff here,' and I waved at them. Unfortunately I did it with my left hand, which to an Arab is the ultimate insult �your left hand being the one you wipe your arse with. The reaction was instantaneous: one of them brought up his weapon and opened fire. Suddenly he was putting rounds down on us. We swung round and put a couple of short bursts back at them. Both dropped on to one knee to con�tinue firing. As I stood there, I saw Vince take off down the wadi. In spite of the danger, there was something ridiculous about his gait: a pair of legs, going like the clappers under a bergen, and not making much progress either. Contact! 59 `Stay together!' I yelled. 'Slow down!' We began to run, turning to fire aimed bursts. The secret is to keep them short � no more than two or three rounds at a time. Other�wise the recoil makes the weapon drift up, and the rounds go high. We ran and fired, ran and fired. Within seconds a tipper truck with metal sides screeched to a halt beside the two Arabs, and eight or ten guys spilled out of it. Stan also saw an armoured car carrying a .50 machine-gun pull up. Somehow I never saw that; it may have been behind a mound from where I was standing. Some of the Iraqis began firing from the back of the truck, others from positions behind it. It looked as though there were about a dozen altogether. They had automatic rifles � almost certainly Russian AK 47s � and at least one heavy machine-gun. But their fire was inaccurate, and we could cope with them. In my mind they weren't the real threat. What worried me much more was the thought that a bigger force was probably driving round ahead of us, out of sight, to cut off our retreat. Looking back, I found that our guys were running across the open ground, struggling under the weight of their ber�gens. Even though the packs weren't as heavy as before, trying to run with them was a nightmare. At one moment the patrol seemed to converge into a tight group, then we spread out again, some running, others taking turns to stop, turn and put down rounds, then run again. If anyone says he's not frightened in a firefight, I don't believe him. I was shit scared, and so was everyone else. 1 know the SAS has a high reputation, but the guys are not superhuman: they may have enormous courage, but they are subject to the same fear as anyone else. The Regiment's strength lies in the fact that its members are highly trained to control their fear and respond positively to whatever threat they are facing. In this contact, panic threatened. The flow of adrenaline was fearsome: you can do a lot when someone's shooting at you. But then you get desperate for breath, and your chest and stomach start to burn. On we went, legging it up the 60 The One That Got Away slope now, swivelling, shooting at the enemy as they ran back and forth between vehicles. Three times I saw men go down when I fired. One went down behind a mound and never came up. Two others rolled over as they were run�ning. At one point there was a hell of an explosion from one of the vehicles. Green tracer started coming across, whizzing past our heads. I could hear the odd doe, then crack!, then prooh!. We were right in the open, like ducks in the water, with all this shit coming in. Whenever one of us stopped to turn and fire, the enemy seemed to concentrate on him, and we could see the tracer close in on the stationary target. Luckily the Iraqis seemed to have the intention of coming after us. Rather than dropping down into the wadi, and put�ting themselves at a disadvantage, they preferred to stick to the high ground. As the tracer flew, I got out my TACBE, pressed the fit, and began screaming into it, 'TURBO! TURBO! This is Bravo Two Zero. CONTACT! CON�TACT!' Andy was doing the same. He, I and one of the other guys had TACBEs set to American frequencies, so that we could speak to American pilots. The other sets were on British frequencies. Every one of them should have pro�duced an answer within seconds. Every one of us expected to hear a voice come back out of the air � but nothing hap�pened. `My TACBE's fucked!' I yelled to Andy. `Can't get through on mine, either.' `Keep trying.' Then somebody shouted, 'I'm ditching my fucking ber�gen!' Someone else yelled, 'You're fucking right! I am too!' Next second, I was doing it myself, fighting to get the straps off my shoulders. Then I was kneeling by the pack, strug�gling with the clips on the top flap to free my 66. My lungs and heart were bursting, my whole body heaving and shak�ing. I said to myself, 'Slow down, slow down � or you're done for.' I got one clip undone. Just as I reached my hand towards the other, the thing exploded in pieces, hit by a .50 bullet. I Contact! 61 never felt anything � no wind or burn � but if my hand had been four or five inches farther forward I would have lost it. The heavy round put the bergen down flat beside me. I leapt on it, grabbed the 66, whipped it over my shoulder, and started off again. Ahead of me to the right I saw big splashes of soil or rock coming up. I thought, 'Fucking mortars! Now they're firing mortars, and some dickhead has failed to take the pins out of the shells.' That's what it looked like: as if the Iraqis were forgetting to pull out the safety pins from their mortar rounds, so that the bombs were merely kicking up dirt and rock, rather than exploding. What had happened, in fact, was that the AA position had opened up on us, and rounds from those things were coming across as well. By now we were walking. We couldn't run uphill any more. I remember Legs being just ahead of me, in the middle. But as I moved away from my bergen, I was think�ing, 'What is there in there that I should have?' Then I remembered: it was the medic pack. 'Fuck the medic pack!' I shouted to no one in particular. When I'd gone about twenty metres from the bergen I said to Legs, 'Have you got the radio?' `No,' he gasped. 'I had to leave it.' `Fuck it,' I said. 'Keep going.' But then, suddenly, I thought, 'Jesus! My hip flask! The hip flask that Jan gave me for Christmas. Bloody hell � I'm not leaving that. The rest of the stuff is military kit, but that's mine.' I don't know what happened. The sensible thing would have been to leave it behind. But something clicked, and without hesitation I ran back down the slope. As I reached the bergen, I thought, 'You idiot � you're going to get shot now.' I bent down, my back to the Iraqis, and I was thinking, `You're not going to be walking far at all, because there's going to be a round come through you any second.' I imagined parts of my chest hurtling out in front of me, and wondered what they would look like. Would my clothes tear apart, as in a movie, and bits of flesh and bone fly out? But I stuck my hand into the top of the pack, found the flask, brought it out, stuffed it into a trouser pocket and started forward again. 62 The One That Got Away By then I was finding it hard to walk. My breath was roar�ing in my throat. I had the sensation of suffocation. Never in training had I pushed myself so hard. I seemed to be going through the movements of breathing but getting no oxygen in. Yet fear was driving me on. Then we were probably out of range, too far to have any real chance of dropping more of the Iraqis; but the occa�sional guy would still turn, put rounds down, and look to see where his mates were. The whole scene was becoming sur�real. People didn't seem to be heading in any particular direction; they were weaving back and forth in front of each other, like eddies in a stream. I remember seeing Bob, who was behind me and lower down, throwing a couple of white phosphorus grenades to get some smoke up, and thinking, `You brave bastard!' I looked at Legs, and saw tracer going across the top of his head. Knowing that tracer flies higher than normal rounds, I couldn't understand how the other stuff wasn't hitting him. I thought, 'He's going to get it here.' Then I wondered if the Iraqis were firing all tracer, instead of one round in five, as we would. Then the stuff was coming past us. Andy and I were walking up together, and tracer was flying between us, rounds right between the pair of us. At last we got over the top, into dead ground, and col�lapsed on to the deck. Andy gasped, 'Fucking hell! I don't know how we managed that.' `Nor do I,' I said. 'But look at this � at least I got my flask back.' `Where was it?' `In my bergen. I had to go back for it.' `Christ!' I unscrewed the top, took a swig of whisky, which was six�teen-year-old Lagavulin, and handed it to him. `Jesus!' he gasped, as he felt the impact of the spirit. For a few seconds we lay there, trying to get our breath, and when we stood up again to see where the guys were, we were amazed to find everyone in one piece. I'd thought we must have lost two or three � but they all appeared and came Contact! 63 round, just like that, nobody so much as touched. At the very least I'd been expecting to have to dress wounds � although, with the medical pack gone, there was very little I could have done except stuff holes with bandages. Everybody was talking, but I can't remember what they said. It took us only a few seconds to reach a group decision. If our Lost Comms procedure worked, the Chinook would come in to the drop-off point at midnight; but now that we'd stirred up such a hornets' nest, and the Iraqis knew we were in the area, the chances were that they'd ambush the heli�copter and shoot it down. We decided it was safer to make for the Syrian border. First, though, we'd head south and put in a dog's leg, as a feint, to throw the Iraqis off our track. `Right,' I called, 'let's go.' Without consciously trying to take command, but wanting out of this bloody place, I led off, with Andy behind me and the rest in line. By then, we thought, we were out of range of the Arabs' original posi�tion, but some of them had worked their way round on to a closer ridge, and as we came up out of the depression they opened up again. Also, we were back in view of the anti�aircraft gunners, who resumed firing. Some rounds were going booth past us, others landing ten or fifteen metres away � but we weren't interested; we just kept walking like mad. Then the vehicle with the .50 came up on to a crest and started cracking rounds over us again from a range of 400 or 500 metres, but luckily for us the light was dying, and the rounds were going far too high. So we set off, and walked for our lives into the gathering night. three DOWN TO TWO Until we cleared the second long valley, the occasional AA round was still falling in. Some burst in the air with a puff of black smoke and a crack, and others hit the ground. Then we were in the clear, out on the barren gravel plains, and we headed due south, marching as fast as we could in single file. Every now and then we'd shout to Mark to get a fix, and he'd switch on his Magellan and hold it up until it locked on to a satellite. After a couple of minutes, he'd call, 'I've got one,' and the guys would go to ground while Andy and I closed up to look at the map and check our position. Mark would read off the coordinates from his little illuminated screen, look down at the map and say, 'OK, we're just there' � and we'd know our position, within ten feet or so. Encouraged by such precision navigating, we'd carry on. It was a great shock to us that we seemed to have been abandoned by our own people. It's an unwritten rule of the Regiment that if guys need help, their mates come and get them. Wherever you are, even in the shittiest area in the world, if you get into a firefight and give a shout on the radio, they'll come and find you. Now we'd yelled ourselves hoarse on radios and TACBEs, and there had been no result. The disappointment was horrendous. When I'd got out my TACBE, I'd thought, 'This is my last resort,' and I'd fully expected to hear an AWACS pilot answer my call; I had no doubt that he'd have half the Regiment coming out in search of us. What we could not have known at the time was that the nearest AWACS aircraft was 500 kilometres to the east � about four times the maximum range of the TACBEs � and that we had been given the wrong radio frequencies, so that none of our calls on the 319 had gone through unscrambled. Now, deprived of our food, water, warm clothes and other Down To Two 65 essential kit, we set our faces to the south. After
half an hour someone shouted, 'We're getting followed up!' Looking back, we saw the lights of a vehicle. At first we couldn't tell whether or not it was moving, but then through Vince's night-sight we made out that it was definitely coming after us. In some places the desert was completely flat, with no features of any kind, and obviously the vehicle could make good speed across those pancake areas; but luckily for us there were also a lot of wadis, in which the going was rough and the driver had to crawl. There was no way he could still see us � the night was too dark for that � but he knew the line we'd taken down the first wadi, and he was driving on the bearing he had seen us follow, 180 degrees. The ground varied from hard-baked clay to gravel and loose rock, on which our boots inevitably made a crunching sound. There was also the rustle of clothes and pouches rubbing on each other. We could have been quieter if we'd gone slowly, but the paramount need was for speed, and I pressed on as fast as I could in spite of the noise, with the other guys close behind, at intervals of no more than two metres between each man. All the time I was thinking that, because the AA positions we'd seen were obviously guard�ing something, the military there would radio ahead, organising searchers to come round in front and cut us off. We already knew that although the desert seemed so empty there were outposts dotted all over it, and we could have walked on to a position at any moment. There was also the risk of stumbling into a bedouin encampment. After an hour, and maybe eight or nine kilometres, we stopped and came together in a group. Dinger took off his duvet jacket and started covering it with rocks. `What the hell are you doing?' I asked. `I'm ditching this fucker. It's far too hot.' `Keep the damn thing,' I told him. 'Tie it round your waist. You're going to need it.' Later he thanked me, and said I'd saved his life. But for the moment he cursed as we got going again. I kept thinking of all the stuff I'd left behind. I hated the idea of the Iraqis 66 The One That Got Away pillaging our kit. No doubt they'd already whipped the patrol camera away � but unfortunately for them none of the film had been exposed. And what would they make of Tom Sharpe's Riotous Assembly? They'd also have got my dark-blue Patagonia thermal top, my bivvy bag, ten days' rations, the medical pack, a pair of land-line telephones, a couple of anti-personnel mines and some demolition equipment. At least they hadn't got my precious hip flask. With a flicker of satisfaction I remembered that we'd left the claymores and anti-personnel mines buried in the floor of the wadi, and wondered whether they'd taken any of the enemy out. I wished I'd kept more food in my pouches, and less ammuni�tion. As it was, I had nothing to eat but two packets of hard, cracker-type Compo biscuits, five in each packet. At the very least we were in for forty-eight hours of hard going, on little food and water. When you're moving in a straight line, and have a contact, it's usually the Number One who gets hit and, even if he isn't shot, it's Numbers Two and Three who have to get him out of trouble, a.s.a.p. On that march our SOP � which everyone knew by heart � was that if we hit trouble the lead scout would put a 203 round towards the enemy and empty a magazine in their direction. By that time Two and Three should already have gone to ground, and be putting rounds down. Number One would then spring back, zig-zagging, and go to ground himself, to cover the other two, while the rest of the guys fanned out. Equally, though, it was import�ant not to panic and start firing at phantoms, as shots would immediately give our position away. Contact SOPs were second nature. But Vince, who was Number Two, kept dropping back, as if he didn't want to be near me. More than once he stopped and said, 'If we get a contact in front, whatever you do, don't fire back. You're better off sticking your hands up.' I said, 'Hey � if we get a contact, I'm shooting. Because if we get captured, we'll get done.' Down To Two 67 `Don't,' he said. 'If you shoot one of them, they'll kill the lot of us.' `Bollocks!' I said. `You've got to think about it,' he insisted. 'I'm not doing it.' By that time the patrol had closed up again, and there was a bit of an argument. 'Get your finger out,' somebody told Vince. Nobody supported him. I just said, 'Stick behind me,' and led off again. A few minutes later a message came up the line, to slow down and stop. Somebody shouted, `Stan's gone down!' Stan! I thought, 'Jesus! He's one of the strongest guys in the patrol. What the hell's the matter with him?' I ran back and asked what was wrong, but he was on the deck and seemed to be nearly unconscious. All he could do was grunt. It was as if he was drunk, only half there. I'd seen students like that on selection courses, so knackered that you couldn't get any sense out of them. `What's happened to him?' I asked the next guy. Dunno. He just went over.' `Did he hit his head on a rock or something?' `I don't think so.' `Stan!' I said. 'What's wrong?' He just went `Urrrhhh!' One of the guys said, 'I reckon it's heat exhaustion. He's sweating like hell.' `Never!' I said. 'It can't be. The night's bloody freezing.' I'd been sweating a bit myself � but not that much. What we didn't know was that Stan was still wearing his thermal underclothes under his DPMs. He'd been caught out with them on when the contact started, and hadn't had a chance to take them off. The result was that he'd become seriously overheated and had sweated himself dry. Anyway, we got out our water bottles. I tipped sachets of white rehydrate powder into four of them, and started pour�ing the water down his neck. He drank three bottles straight off � one of mine, one of Andy's, and one from one of the other guys: six pints at least. That should have pulled him 68 The One That Got Away round, but it didn't seem to have much effect. He was still dizzy and exhausted, not making much sense. Somebody said, 'We've got to look for a safe spot and leave him. Find a hole in the ground.' There was no way I'd do that. We couldn't leave one guy by himself � not when there were seven more of us, all strong and still fresh. I bent over Stan and said in a menac�ing voice, 'Listen: if you don't start walking, we're going to fucking leave you. Understand?' He nodded and gave a grunt. `Get up, then,' I told him. 'Get on my arse, and don't leave it. Just fix your eyes on my webbing, and keep that in sight.' Someone said, 'OK, Stan � give us your kit.' Andy took his Minimi, then said to me, 'Chris, take this,' and gave me his night-sight (generally known as a kite-sight), which Stan had been carrying slung round his neck. don't want that fucking thing,' I protested. The sight weighed four or five pounds, and I thought it would be a pain to have it dangling on my chest. But I took it � and thank God I did, because without doubt it saved my life. I also took a box of 200 rounds for the Minimi and slung it over my shoulder. We couldn't hang around any longer, because the vehicle lights were still bobbing about in the darkness behind us. I got hold of Stan again and repeated, lust walk behind me �and whatever you do, keep going.' He went, `Urrrhh, yeah, yeah,' then he got up and we kicked off again. Once more I led, with Stan at my back, Vince behind him, and the rest of the patrol following. Lead scout is a tiring job, because you have to be looking ahead all the time; but, being quite observant, I reckoned that if there was something in front of us, I would see it as quickly as anyone else. Andy was in the middle, the normal slot for a patrol commander. Every time we stopped for Mark to do a Magellan check, I'd say, 'Stan � lie down. Get your head down for a minute,' and he'd lie down without a word, as if he were semi- Down To Two 69 conscious, obedient as a dog. When we were ready to start again I'd give him a kick and say, 'OK, Stan, let's go,' and he'd get up again and start walking right behind me � only to fall back, farther and farther. When this had happened two or three times, I tried to provoke some reaction by saying, 'Stan � if you don't keep behind me, and keep up with me, I'm going to leave you.' He did react in a way, by promising to fix his eyes on the back of my webbing, and not let that out of his sight. That kept him going for a while, but still, whenever we stopped, he would lie down like he was dead. Once again the sky was partly overcast, but a cold north�west wind was keeping the clouds on the move, and when�ever the moon came out, it lit up the desert brilliantly. Often I saw some dark object standing out from the background. Usually it was a mound or rock, but it could have been a building or a vehicle, and it needed checking. The moment I had a doubt, I'd stop, lie down and watch for a while, to see if anything moved � and whenever I did so, the other guys automatically went down too, flat on their stomachs, form�ing an arc. The little binoculars we'd bought in Abu Dhabi were a distinct asset, as they drew in what light there was and often enabled me to work out what it was that I'd seen. But the kite-sight, or image-intensifier, proved a godsend. Basically a black tube, it was designed to fit on top of a 203, but it made the weapon heavy and unbalanced and I found it easier to put the sight up on its own, holding it like a tele�scope. To use it, I had to switch it on and wait ten seconds for it to warm up. It gave out a faint, high-pitched squeal, and produced a clear, fluorescent green, white-flecked pic�ture of the ground ahead, with much more detail than the naked eye could pick out. The more I came to depend on the sight, the more anxious I was that I might switch it on accidentally while walking and run the battery down, so as I was moving I kept a finger on the button, to make certain that it was turned off. The penalty of using the sight was that it reduced my natural 70 The One That Got Away night-vision. Whenever I'd taken a check round, and lowered the sight, I could see very little for a minute or two. In spite of the danger, I enjoyed being out at night. We had done a lot of training in the dark, and I always felt safe, protected by the fact that nobody could see me. I thought of the time when I was a boy, out shooting pigeons with my father, and we were coming home in the dusk one evening. As we passed along the edge of a wood, I felt really fright-ened by the intense blackness under the trees. It was the sort of place where, in a children's book or a movie, witches would lurk. I said to my dad, 'I'd be scared stiff to go in there.' `Why?' he said. `Well, you can't see.' `Come on, then.' He took my arm and walked in fifteen or twenty metres. I was terrified, and stuck close by him, hold�ing his jacket so that he couldn't do a runner on me. Inside the wood, we sat down. `Just keep quiet, and listen,' he whispered. After a while he said softly, 'There you are. If anyone was trying to creep up on us, we'd hear him. You can't walk through a wood at night without making a sound. What you've got to realise is that if there are people in here, and we can't see them, they can't see us either. This is the safest place to be.' The lesson stuck, and I was never scared of the dark again. At every halt Mark took a fix with his Magellan until we were confident about our route. But the vehicle lights were still coming up behind us, so we decided to put in the dog�leg. Until then we'd been heading back towards the Saudi border. Now we resolved to turn right � westwards � for a spell, then right again, and head northwards across the MSR which we'd been watching. The loss of our jerricans had forced us to modify our original plan of going north�west, straight for the Syrian border. Obviously we would need water, so we decided to aim due north, for the Euphrates, and follow the river out to the frontier. So, after sixteen quick kilometres southwards, we turned