Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq (14 page)
The excitement momentarily over, 3 Troop trudged back through the mud to collect their bergens, sporting adrenaline-fuelled grins. I grinned back at them and made noises of approval whilst explaining that I would, of course, have joined them in the assault but I would only have got in the way, added to the confusion, wished I had worked with them before, etc. etc. Not that they cared two farthings about my ramblings; the only thing that mattered to the men of J Company was that they had won their first fire-fight hands down and had acquired a taxicab into the bargain, which was already being used to ferry the troop commander back to company headquarters for a briefing.
Bergen on my back once more, we set off on our intended route towards the river, dropping off an eight-man section to cover the crossroads where the track crossed the Al Faw-Basra road. North of the main road, the landscape immediately changed. Here, irrigation ditches brought water from the river and the grey, lifeless mudflats gave way to green grass and palm trees. It sounds absurd now, but it never occurred to me that these were the same palm trees I had seen on the air photographs, or that there might be Iraqi troops positioned in the only place where there was cover from view. Instead, I simply plodded on, hopeful of finding a spot where I could spend the night in relative peace and safety. I should have known better.
The country became gradually greener as we ventured northeast, until eventually, peering through the trees, I could make out the sluggish flow of the Shat-al-Arab waterway. Across the river, some three hundred yards away, lay Iran. There was no sign of any activity on the Iranian side, but there were some ominous-looking watchtowers poking up from between the palm trees, so I guessed they were keeping a sharp eye on proceedings. Then we stumbled across the crossroads which was our objective and the patrol came to a halt. I was delighted to note that, as suspected from the air photographs, the tracks that made up the crossroads were small and insignificant compared with the main road we had crossed earlier; there was little chance of encountering a tank formation coming this way. To our right, perhaps half a mile away, lay Al Faw town, from where it was still possible to discern the occasional crack of rifle fire as 40 Commando methodically swept through the government buildings. I pulled off my bergen and sat down on it, relieved to have an opportunity to dry my sweat-drenched shirt.
“Okay, let’s have a look north and south to establish whether we’re alone here,” instructed the troop commander as he bounded energetically up and down the line. “3 Section, you can go north - no need to go further than the next irrigation canal, because 2 Troop is operating up there. 1 Section, crack on south. But don’t go anywhere near the town because you’ll run into 40 Commando.” I sat motionless, allowing the late afternoon sun to warm my aching back muscles, fully expecting to be left behind and looking forward to a slack hour or two as a result. Then came the rejoinder: “1 Section, you can include Captain Flashman, because he needs to get his eyes on as many of the local roads and tracks as possible.”
I stared at him with baleful eyes, which he probably mistook as rugged determination, and slowly rose to my feet. “Actually old boy, I’m quite happy to stay here with troop headquarters -no need to give your blokes more work than they need. I’ll only get under their feet.”
He gave a good-natured laugh at this. “Sir, you’re obviously more than capable of looking after yourself, and I’m not worried about their workload. And anyway the company commander has insisted we get you out and about as much as possible.”
I gave a moment’s thought to pulling rank on him and simply refusing to move, then dismissed the idea and dejectedly shuffled off to join 1 Section, who were already shaking out along the track ahead of me. Fortunately they were leaving their bergens where they lay, which made the task of yet more patrolling a great deal more palatable.
The southbound track was evidently used by vehicles, albeit infrequently, since it principally consisted of two deep muddy ruts. It looked to me as if it had lain dormant for a while; there were certainly no fresh tyre marks that I could discern. We walked for some little distance through pleasant countryside, green meadows interspersed with little copses of bushes and marsh grass, all dotted with swaying palm trees. The Marines halted every few yards, diligently scanning the countryside through the optical sights on their rifles or through binoculars, while I enjoyed the feeling of my shoulder muscles loosening without the weight of the rucksack pressing down on them. In front of us I could hear distant loudhailer messages emanating from the town as 40 Commando exhorted the last of the Iraqi fighters to give up without further bloodshed. (Many of them did as they were bid, but some stubborn fools inevitably refused. By the time the Marines stormed the Ba’ath party building in Al Faw town, a camera crew had been flown in by helicopter and the assault, including an incident in which a Marine was injured by an exploding gas canister, was broadcast live on UK television.) But close at hand, the only noise was the rustle of the evening breeze through the palm fronds and the occasional chirrup of birdsong. The low afternoon sun had dried my shirt nicely and I was just contemplating a cup of tea and a boil-in-the-bag supper when a shout went up from the head of the patrol, shots were fired, and I dived into a ditch, thereby soaking my trousers and filling my boots with water.
Over to the east, on the bank of the river, a white three-storey building was just visible through the palm groves. Invisible, at least to me, was the group of jundies who had just exited it and who were making their way south at some speed, parallel to our track. A crack of rifle fire sounded from their direction, followed by the staccato of semi-automatic fire from the front of our patrol. Shouting ensued and the Marines began to leapfrog forward, pairs of men taking it in turn to provide covering fire as their colleagues sprinted a few yards to the next piece of cover. The enemy rapidly disappeared into the greenery, frustrating the efforts of the Marines who were keen to get to grips with them. The Iraqis, it seemed, had spotted our patrol coming and, knowing what was good for them, were fleeing faster than we could advance. Some further shots were fired but the engagement was over in a few minutes.
The patrol regrouped and, despite my exhortations to return to the troop headquarters, the section commander would not be satisfied by anything less than a thorough search of the house and the surrounding area. The Marines fanned out and warily approached the building, lest there be some soldiers remaining inside. I was feverishly worried about the prospect of mines and booby traps and crept through the undergrowth nervously looking for any signs of skulduggery. No such worries seemed to dog my colleagues who pushed on impatiently, primarily motivated by the opportunity to knock seven bells out of any recalcitrant Iraqis they might find lurking in the house. Disappointingly for them we didn’t find any, though there was a fair old treasure trove of souvenirs inside. Most of the fleeing Iraqis had shed their uniforms, items of which were scattered around inside. Webbing belts and clips of AK47 ammunition were also in evidence, as were tin helmets and old black leather boots. But the biggest prize was a highly polished 80mm mortar tube complete with base-plate and sights, and an assortment of bombs to match. It seemed a reasonable assumption that these had been the jundies who had mortared us earlier in the day, back near the helicopter landing site. For a few seconds I was livid that we had allowed them to escape; we should have shot the devils when we had the chance. But it was too late now for retribution - instead I consoled myself with the thought that their southbound escape route meant they would in all probability run into 40 Commando and get their come-uppance anyway.
It was early evening by the time the patrol wound its way back along the track to be reunited with the rest of the troop. UMST had also appeared and, with the exception of a few sentries lying forward and aft of the position, the men were chatting and enjoying the opportunity for a brief rest. I had a quick chat with the troop commander about the prospects for the night ahead. He was an eager young thing and I had every desire to rein in his ambitions for world domination and get settled in the palm groves, where the foliage might mask the light from our stoves and I could therefore enjoy a hot meal and a cup of tea. Happily, he agreed without too much argument and we moved en masse away from the vehicle tracks and into the undergrowth, where I spent a desultory few minutes digging a shell scrape with a couple of the Marines. I toyed with the idea of getting them to dig it for me, but decided to show willing on the premise that if anything kicked off during the night I would probably be grateful for their support - better safe than sorry in these situations, I always think. Happily the sandy soil was remarkably easy to dig and within minutes we had a workable foxhole over a foot deep. By the time I had dragged my webbing and rifle into the shell scrape, a stove was lit and rations were being heated. (For all the numerous occasions I have served with the Marines, I never cease to be amazed at how quickly they can rustle up a hot drink and a meal. It’s a remarkable attribute - and it makes no difference whether one is in the arctic or the jungle, the service is always the same.) Unhappily, the benefits of the hot rations were undone somewhat by the attentions of the Al Faw’s mosquitoes, which dined out in some style that evening, leaving me wondering whether there was any malaria in Iraq (not that I had any anti-malarial tablets with me in any case). Full and exhausted from the day’s activities, having ducked sentry duty (which in any case is not the role of an officer, no matter how my egalitarian Royal Marines counterparts may feel about it), I unrolled my sleeping bag and crawled inside, looking forward to some much-needed sleep.
I don’t know how long I dozed for but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours before I awoke to the sound of heavy machine-gun fire. Thankfully it wasn’t coming in our direction, but it was close enough to be disconcerting. I crawled out of my sleeping bag and demanded to know of the troop commander what was happening.
“Not sure yet,” was his muted response. “I’ve sent some blokes forward to have a look. Can’t work out where the firing is coming from, or who they are shooting at.”
A few moments later a brace of Marines appeared breathless from the undergrowth, having just scrambled the distance from the river.
“Sir, I think you’d better come and see this for yourself,” was their only utterance.
Out of curiosity I followed them back towards the riverbank, to witness a scene of unexpected barbarism. In the middle of the Shat-al-Arab waterway, struggling against the current, was a small wooden boat, 20 feet in length at the most, crammed with civilians. It was a few hundred metres downstream from us and difficult to see clearly but there must have been a score of people onboard, including women and children. Presumably frightened by the fighting in Al Faw town, these poor souls had decided to flee across the river to Iran. The Iranians, however, were having none of it. The machine-gun fire was coming from an Iranian watchtower several hundred yards back from the shore (it occurred to me afterwards that they may have assumed the boat was a military vessel; nervous soldiers who had witnessed 24 hours of fighting over the border could easily jump to such a conclusion). The first shots may have been delivered as a warning, in an attempt to get the boat to change its course. But since it had continued on towards Iran, the heavy calibre gun was now trained on the vessel; each burst of fire was smashing into the boat and into the civilians onboard. Screams and cries for help rang out across the water, barely audible above the echoes of the machine-gun fire. Engine cut, the boat circled erratically in the eddies of the river. It was riddled with holes and slowly began to sink, listing to one side as the uninjured occupants, many of whom seemed unable to swim, threw themselves into the water. Several of their number remained in the boat, either dead or too badly injured to attempt to swim ashore. The machine-gunners didn’t let up though, and bullets continued to rip into the water, killing several of the swimmers before they had got more than a yard or two from the boat. I don’t know if any of them made it back to Al Faw that night - the current took them downstream and out of sight before the firing ceased. I’m not easily shocked but I returned to my sleeping bag in silence, feeling faintly nauseous from the sight I’d seen. It wasn’t the last we would hear from the Iranians.
Soon afterwards, a crackle came over my radio from company headquarters, informing us that there would shortly be a series of air strikes in our vicinity. Several targets had been identified, primarily by the snipers operating to our north. Sure enough, a minute or two later, the air reverberated to the sound of beating rotor blades and a brace of Cobra gunships appeared over the horizon, flying fast and low as they passed over our position, bristling with rockets and cannons. I lost sight of them in the gloom as they continued north, but the huge explosions caused by their missiles destroying Iraqi tanks was music to my ears.
As if to demonstrate the wealth of firepower available to them, more American aircraft appeared a few minutes later, this time in the form of A10 “warthog” tank-busters, their huge engines making a uniquely low-pitched drone as they passed overhead. The booming from their cannons rang out over the palm groves as they made multiple passes over their targets, before turning and heading for home. As they came back over our position (it’s always a nervous moment when a US aircraft appears overhead - one can never be entirely sure when they will open fire, or in what direction), the lead aircraft barrel-rolled into the night sky, popping anti-missile flares from its belly as it went. The burning phosphorous illuminated the whole area, casting a pale white light over the palm trees and creating an odd sensation of motion as the shadows moved in harmony with the falling flares. It was harmless showboating on the part of the pilot but made for a fairly spectacular fireworks display that lent an odd feeling of security to our situation, for which I was very grateful.
