Dirty Deeds Done Cheap (4 page)

As soon as we landed the steps came up to the main door and we emerged into the bright sunshine. At the bottom of the steps a flatbed truck was waiting for us. Our kit was offloaded in double-quick time and we chucked all of it onto the back and then all piled on. This was Mosul Airport, one of the most dodgy airports on the planet! It was a very small airport, which had been taken over by the American military as an airstrip to fly equipment in and to supply logistics to the north of the country for their missions. It had now been turned into a huge military base.

As we travelled across the runways we came up to one of the most mental things I have ever seen: six Toyota Hiluxes with all the doors taken off (for the purpose of quick exit), all welded together with homemade armour, and in the back each vehicle had a big gun mounted – M240s, M19 grenade launchers and .50-cals! I’ve never seen anything like it. It looked like a scene from a
Mad Max
movie with everyone in the trucks armed to the teeth. The Hiluxes were battered and covered in bullet and shrapnel holes. I was bricking it a bit now – these guys had obviously been in a lot of action. Maybe I’d bitten off more than I could chew. Whatever, I would soon find out. I then saw Phillipe and we said our hellos.

It was now around 17.30 and I was told that we’d have to get a move on because it was even more dangerous travelling at night across Mosul than during the day for us. I was given an M16 and two thirty-round magazines, and got put in the back seat in the middle of one of the Toyotas (the safest place in one of those vehicles). Manning the machine-gun turrets in the back were Fijians and Gurkhas. Everyone was facing outwards in the trucks with their weapons at the ready. We were joined by other vehicles and formed a convoy.

The convoy drove out of camp at full throttle. I didn’t know what to expect. As we went round the first bend into the town a car approached us. One of our guys put his hand up, to indicate to the driver to stop. The car still came towards us. Bang! Bang! He fired two rounds in front of the car. The car stopped. It was company policy not to actually shoot the car or its occupants unless it was absolutely necessary, but we could take no chances. We were to fire warning shots only and to kill only if it was absolutely necessary. However, there are some wankers working in Iraq who seemed just to shoot anything or anyone for fun. This is totally unprofessional and does nothing for hearts and minds. I believe it is counterproductive but, unfortunately, there are quite a few contractors in Iraq who think it’s OK to open up on anything. The guys I was working with, though, were of the highest standard.

As we went through town all the guys were hard-targeting (aiming their weapons along their lines of sight), looking down side streets, looking for anywhere we could be ambushed from or shot at. It was not unknown for the insurgents to hide their bombs in absolutely anything or anywhere (even explosives concealed inside dead animals). However, the guys I was travelling with were good, very good – I could tell these were hardened veterans.

Although I was nervous and my adrenalin was sky high, everyone was so professional and focused, and I had a feeling I was going to like this job. As we travelled along, you could see holes in the road and scorch marks on walls and bridges where IEDs had gone off. There were bullet holes everywhere. This looked like a very fucking dangerous place.

I was in the rear vehicle. There was a gunner on the back with an M240 7.62mm machine gun facing backwards, ready to deal with any threat from the rear. Every now and again you could hear gunshots and the odd bang, and it was pretty unnerving for me at first, but these guys didn’t even flinch. They’d obviously gone through this a thousand times before, but I hadn’t.

We drove for around thirty minutes until we reached the American camp, which was going to be my new home. As we approached, I noticed that the gates had big chains and wires across, obviously to stop suicide bombers from piling on through them and accessing the camp. Big concrete bollards zigzagged up towards the entrance – this was to ensure that no suicide bombers in a car or truck had a straight run at the camp (as they did at the US Marines barracks in Beirut in 1982). Either side of the chains there were machine-gun posts, heavily armed with .50-cal weapons, which were capable of taking most things out.

The camp was totally encased by thick concrete walls with concrete shelters dotted around the place, in which you could take cover in case of mortar strikes. In Baghdad, inside the airport, it was always deadly quiet, but now, up here, it was totally different. Every now and then you could hear automatic gunfire in the distance. This was part of what was called Operation Iraqi Freedom.

After settling into camp life, I prepared for my first mission. The boss made me feel welcome and I finally started my new job – fuel convoys from Turkey. It was certainly an eye opener but I soon got into it.

T
he following morning, I rolled out of bed and got dressed. It looked to be a great day: the sun was shining and we had a nice warm temperature with that lovely fresh morning smell you get. We had got up at 06.00 because we had a big convoy to escort down from Turkey. The convoy comprised fuel tankers headed for the US military.

Breakfast time was the normal shite: big queues with loads of hungry Yank soldiers. I had beans on toast with a mug of coffee and then got my gear ready. I was carrying an M16 assault rifle, an AK-47 Russian automatic rifle, plus a rucksack full of spare ammo. We always carried spare ammo – and lots of it – because we didn’t know what we would encounter. It could be just one contact or even three or four on one trip, so we tried to prepare for every eventuality. I also loaded up with eighteen rounds of high-explosive 40mm grenades for my M203 grenade launcher, mounted under my M16. The reason for the AK-47, which I carried in the footwell of the truck, was that, because our contacts with the enemy happened so fast and were so intense, if you had a stoppage (basically if your main weapon jammed) you could just pick up your AK-47 and open up with that instead. Taking the time to try to clear your stoppage could cost you vital seconds during which you would be exposed and vulnerable. So it was a case of ditch the M16 and grab the AK-47.

At around 06.30 we went up to the ops room for a quick brief. This particular job today was fairly typical and was one we’d done loads of times before, so it was all pretty routine for most of the lads. However, because you learn on the job, nothing is ever routine in northern Iraq. That day, as it turned out, was going to be anything but routine. It was such a lovely morning that you could almost be mistaken for thinking you were somewhere else until the unmistakable sound of gunfire or bombs would jerk you back to reality. All the teams on this mission assembled on the main road leading up to the main gates of the camp. We checked our weapons – we were carrying more firepower than the American troops would. We had to. The Yanks could rely upon their armour, and bloody good it was as well, and they had air support, whereas we had to rely on firepower, aggression and speed, and we had plenty of all three. We just had Gurkhas and Fijians standing up in the backs of our trucks, almost in the open; the American troops had armoured gun turrets.

As we pulled up at the gate, the patrol leader gave the order to load and make ready all the weapons. We then did a comms check and switched on our bomb-jamming devices. We had one of these for every two vehicles, and on this job we had six vehicles. Two of our vehicles carried M240 heavy-duty machine guns on the back; two of our other vehicles had .50-cals; the remaining two vehicles had M19 automatic grenade launchers mounted. Each truck had four men inside, all carrying M16s and M249 squad automatic weapons. Some even, though only the Fijian guys mind you, carried M240 GPMGs. These M240s were big, heavy guns, so the Gurkhas couldn’t individually handle them, but for the Fijians (who were huge guys) it was no problem. The more firepower we had, the better. We looked and were formidable and extremely effective. Due to the language barrier between the Gurkhas and the Fijians, we used to deploy them in separate patrols. Don’t get me wrong, they all got on great, but it was just more efficient and safer for them to be in separate patrols to avoid any potential misunderstandings due to language difficulties.

Everyone and everything was now set. The engines of the Toyotas fired up, we did one last check and then we were off. As we got going I shouted, ‘Heads up, lads!’ as I always did to the guys in my truck. All the guys switched on as we gathered speed. The chains and wires on the gate were dropped and we flew out of it, tyres screeching as we slalomed through the concrete bollards. This tactic (the speed and swerving) was to try to avoid sniper fire. As soon as we departed, the guys started hard-targeting and the gunners on the back were spinning around checking out any likely sniper positions – this was where we started earning our money.

The task we had would probably seem pretty crazy to most people. First, we had to make it to the Turkish border, which was about an hour and a half away, at least. Hopefully, we’d get there in one piece, all the time dodging roadside bombs and sniper fire. Then we had to pick up and escort some one hundred fuel tankers through the most dangerous place in the world. This particular journey up to the north of Iraq went pretty smoothly, with no bombs or small-arms fire, which was pretty unusual, actually, as we normally encountered some kind of shit. As we got into the desert and were heading towards Turkey, everyone started to relax a bit. The area we were passing through was pretty open, with rolling hills and no cover for insurgents to hide in wait, so we were as safe as we could be. We went off-road and went into all-round defence. We decided to let the guys have a break and something to eat, so we stopped for a coffee and a snack, as this was just the beginning of what was to turn out to be one hell of a long day. All joking apart, you really did have to keep your energy levels up. If there was trouble, it could be hours and hours before you got into a safe enough place to stop and get something to eat.

In case you’ve never seen a Fijian soldier eat before, I’ve got to tell you it is one hell of a sight. The US army used to give us some of their rations for emergencies, in case we were ever caught out somewhere or had to go static for a few hours (sometimes we could actually end up stuck somewhere for hours and hours on end). Well, the Fijians would have a huge breakfast before leaving camp and then they would eat a load of the rations, which they followed with lunch and then dinner if they could. The Fijian guys I worked with were all massive, most of them stood 6 foot or well over and some of them had even played international-standard rugby for Fiji. Some of these guys had even played against England before!

After our feed and a bit of banter (the Fijians were all jokers and a real good crack – fantastic guys) we mounted up and headed out for the Turkish border. As we approached Kurdistan we all started to relax. The Kurds have it sewn up in Kurdistan. They man their own checkpoints, and if you’re an Arab, you can’t even take a crap up there without their knowing about it.

This place is where the US military, bodyguard teams and PMCs came to chill out and even do some shopping in the local markets. The markets were amazing, you could buy anything there – even AK-47s for as little as $100 on the black market. Everyone was so friendly and always seemed pleased to see you. There are some beautiful places in Kurdistan. A vast amount of the country is powered by hydro-electricity and there are some beautiful lakes up there, which are used to power the turbines.

As we weaved up and down these northern mountain roads on the way to the Turkish border, I had some big nostalgia trips, for these were the roads that I had used during the First Gulf War, when we were entering Iraq via the Turkey–Syria border; if we weren’t dropped in by chopper we’d drive. I tried my best to remember exact routes and scanned my maps but it had been thirteen years since I’d been in these parts of the country.

We travelled along and at every checkpoint we came across we just went on through without stopping. Our teams didn’t stop for anyone, no one except for the US military. Upon arrival at the border we were confronted with eighty fuel tankers and one of the tanker drivers taking a crap right there out in the open! These people have no shame! Our boss then went to do the paperwork that enabled us to proceed to carry out the protection for the convoy we were assigned to escort. This time, instead of the one hundred, it was going to be around eighty articulated fuel tankers (which was twenty fewer than we had been led to expect).

Now it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to tell you that, if an insurgent were to fire a rocket or detonate a bomb near one of these things, you will have one hell of a bang and it would be blown to bits, and, if we were too close, probably some of us as well! Our job had just got a lot more interesting. Eighty tankers packed with highly flammable petroleum to be escorted and protected through probably one of the most dangerous places in the world. People thought we were fucking mad, and at that time we probably were. However, because of the geography of northern Iraq, the only routes past these hotspots meant we had to go right through the middle of them. Anyway, more often than not, the only decent routes were the main roads, which took you through the centre of these places.

We had a ruthless professional reputation that preceded us and we knew that, although it was fucking dangerous, we would get the job done. Most of the tanker drivers were Turkish, but there were quite a few Kurds as well. Upon inspection, we found that some of the tankers were in a shocking condition and, looking at them, we thought that there was no way they’d make it all the way to Baghdad without breaking down somewhere along the way. The convoy drivers and their bosses had their brief, which was basically this: don’t fuck around; keep up and keep together; if you break down, you have only a few minutes to try to fix the thing; if you can’t fix them quickly, you’ll have to leave the tanker by the roadside and jump in with one of the other drivers – it’s that or face certain capture by the insurgents. After a quick chin-wag with the leading guys we were off.

As we got closer and closer to Mosul (right up in the north of Iraq) the level of potential danger increased and everyone became a lot more focused, as this situation we were in was very, very serious. You have to make difficult decisions on your own sometimes and often right on the spot – how far to go and what risks to take, etc. You also have to accept the embarrassment of being wrong sometimes and the responsibility for any mistakes you make because in our situation you have nobody to hide behind – the buck stopped with us, the team leaders! You are always trying to second-guess the insurgents, since it’s not only your life on the line, but you have the lives of your team and the tanker drivers lives in your hands, too. You learn how to read situations and you have to be disciplined to do this job. Most normal company employees are used to operating under strict rules and regulations. In Iraq there are none; you make your own rules and hope you’ve got it right. Most people go to work in a tie and jacket; we went to work in flak jackets and carrying guns – big guns.

As we got closer to town I flicked on the bomb-jamming equipment. The reason the bomb-jamming equipment wasn’t left on all the time was that it often interfered with some of the communication equipment. As we got nearer, I tightened my hand on the pistol grip of my M16. I then popped a 40mm grenade into the launcher attached below and cocked it. It was time to earn our cash again. We had two vehicles at the front of the convoy, two more trucks travelling at the back and another two travelling up and down the length of the convoy. Everything was going according to plan so far, and then, out of the blue, a truck pulled over sharpish. One of our call signs stopped with it – it was inconveniently breaking down (apparently, an air leak in the brake system) and it couldn’t go on; it was knackered. The driver was adamant he was staying with his lorry.

Now this was dodgy as fuck. If the insurgents were to pass him they’d get his fuel and probably – no, make that
definitely
– execute him, more than likely by lopping off his head, though only after a good bit of torture! Our guys heatedly explained this to him and he finally jumped into another tanker and then we were off again. The convoy hadn’t stopped – we would never, ever stop, not for anybody. The tanker that picked up the, now redundant, driver just dropped to the back of the convoy. We couldn’t afford to stop; we had to keep the momentum.

As we were settling into our well-practised routine of keeping these trucks as safe as we could, we came under fire. Bang! Bang! Bang! in quick succession. Then more rounds came down. They weren’t that effective. The insurgents were just having pot shots at the drivers of the tankers, not us in the gun trucks. My team were frantically trying to identify the source of the gunfire, but I was just waiting for the insurgents to let rip with a bloody RPG, which would be just our luck.

My gunner, in the back of the truck, was frantically spinning around, itching to blow the crap out of the arseholes shooting at us, but his discipline was great. He could easily have just opened up at anything that moved. However, by this time my gunner had been in Iraq for nearly two years and he was a great shot, and if he had located the fire point he would have had ’em big time. We thought it was only going to be small-arms fire because, surely, if they had an RPG they would have fired it by now. Looking behind us, I saw a tanker break file and screech to a halt so violently it almost jackknifed. We dropped back to see what had happened to it.

As soon as we pulled up I could hear the driver screaming. He’d been shot through the hand. It looked a bit messy and no doubt it hurt like hell, but it looked like he was going to be OK. I jumped up and dragged him out of the cab and told him to stop screaming like a baby; but, then again, if you’ve never been shot through the hand I don’t suppose you know how painful it actually is. You could actually see straight through his hand (it brought to mind that scene in from the movie
From Dusk Till Dawn
when Quentin Tarantino’s character, Richard Gecko, gets shot through the hand!).

Our medic wrapped a dressing around his wounded hand and taped it up tight with some electrical tape. We then bundled him into another tanker and we put our foot down to catch up with the rest of the convoy, which hadn’t waited for us – that was our standard operating procedure, up to a point.

As we came to the outskirts of the town, my adrenalin was pumping and I kept my thumb on my safety catch. We all carried a different selection of weapons for a reason: it was because we were getting into unconventional situations and no one knew what we would need. Having to go up against all kinds of things that could be difficult, most of us carried the standard American M16s but a few of our guys carried the HKG3 (Heckler & Koch G3) because of its heavier calibre (7.62 mm) – it was a lot more effective at stopping vehicles that got too close. A 5.56mm round would bounce off an engine block sometimes but a 7.62mm would penetrate it and stop it dead (hopefully). A few of the veterans, who’d worked in Bosnia and Somalia and had been working as contractors for years, still favoured the AK-47, which I personally think was pretty inaccurate but was deadly effective and had a lot more stopping power. The 5.56mm round was brought into service years and years ago because it was so much lighter than the 7.62mm, and you could carry a lot more ammunition; so, although it was still quite capable of killing people, it couldn’t quite hack taking out engine blocks. For this reason we needed the 7.62mm.