Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq (17 page)

The first sign that we were nearing the Iraqi border came in the form of recently-dropped litter. Scattered across the desert were thousands of small leaflets exhorting Iraqis soldiers to surrender and promising them fair treatment at the hands of the coalition. They had been dropped in their millions from allied aircraft in the days before the war and many had evidently succumbed to the desert winds and found their way back into Kuwait. Moments later the convoy ground to a halt as the lead vehicles encountered the border post, which was manned by US troops. There followed a brief exchange before we were ushered over the border and, less than eight hours after leaving the place, I found myself back in Iraq.

Immediately beyond the border lay the old United Nations peacekeepers’ camp, built after the first Gulf War to facilitate patrolling of the demilitarised zone between Iraq and Kuwait. The convoy swung in through the gates of the camp to be greeted by a handful of redneck halfwits from the US Marines, sporting bandannas and ragged green T-shirts with the sleeves torn off. They looked for all the world like badly dressed extras from a cheap Hollywood Vietnam movie.

“Hey man, welcome to i-raq!” hollered a nearby imbecile, brandishing a machine-gun and a belt of ammunition.

“Go and fuck yourself,” replied the Marine sitting next to me, with venom. I couldn’t have put it better myself. The Americans, looking visibly crestfallen, sloped off into some nearby buildings as their British counterparts de-bussed.

The UN camp, formerly a relatively pleasant spot in an unpleasant part of the world, had suffered at the hands of the Americans. Many of the buildings had been wholly or partly destroyed by shelling, their roofs and walls reduced to a tangle of bent girders and torn sheets of corrugated steel. The water and power supplies were destroyed, shell craters pitted the open areas, and much of the camp was covered in debris and broken glass. Worse, in the three days of their occupation, the US Marines had failed to dig any latrines and almost every building had been used as toilet. Flies buzzed constantly and the stench of faeces was everywhere. But there was no time for me to work out how best to avoid taking part in the inevitable cleanup, since I was faced by a much more pressing problem. With no ceremony, no recce, and no time for any sort of meaningful briefing from the yanks (not that they would have been capable of providing one - I gathered afterwards that three days in Umm Qasr had turned the battalion commander into a gibbering buffoon; the hapless creature was on the verge of a nervous breakdown), the company commander set about giving his orders for an advance on the town.

As a gaggle of officers and NCOs formed around the rear of his vehicle, OC M Company waved them into silence and held out his map in front of him.

“Right fellas, time is pressing on, the CO wants this town taken by nightfall, so let’s not have any mincing around,” was his opening gambit. I felt my bowels loosen as he continued. “We’re going in on foot, supported by our BV-mounted HMGs and Milans.” Using a biro, he outlined the proposed route on his map. “We’ll move north from here, then west through the town via this main street. The boys will need to fan out into the side streets, and the snipers will be mobile on quad bikes, moving to our flanks to provide additional cover wherever they can.” At this point I found myself hyperventilating with anxiety. I had been mixed up in some pretty poorly planned ventures in my time, including some fearfully ill thought-out jobs in Sierra Leone and Afghanistan, but nothing on this scale. Without the benefit of even a helicopter recce, M Company was about to conduct an assault on an enemy-held town which had bogged down an entire battalion of United States Marines for three days. It didn’t seem to faze the company commander one bit though.

“The US Marines have been hit by sniper fire from numerous buildings,” he continued, worsening my panic attack with every word. “This is Northern Ireland routine, plain and simple. Hard-targeting through the streets, fire positions on every corner, mutual support.” My vision began to blur as the fog of panic closed around me. Then he softened up somewhat, adding, “Don’t forget the locals though. They’ve probably had a shocking time with the yanks. Make sure the lads take stacks of biscuits and nutty with them and dole it out to the kids. Right, any questions?”
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There was a brief pause before someone asked, “What happens if they open up on us?”

OC M Company looked at him disdainfully as if he’d been personally affronted. “Then we sort it out the old fashioned way,” was his curt reply. “Kick the door down, get stuck in, slot anyone with a weapon, and move on. They’ll soon get the message. We move out in fifteen minutes.”

With that, the NCOs and officers scuttled back to their waiting charges, eager to pass on the brief that would see us trekking into Umm Qasr unprotected and on foot. I said a quiet prayer and devoted the time to dousing my rifle liberally with oil, on the premise that I might soon need it to work.

By mid-afternoon, the whole of M Company and attached ranks, including one Capt. H Flashman of the Queen’s Royal Hussars, was patrolling warily north from the UN camp. A mile or so away to the east lay the docks, out of sight from our low-lying position. Securing them was the underlying priority, but there was little point even approaching the port while a town of several thousand inhabitants lay hostile on the doorstep. Wasteland stretched either side of the road for a short distance, until we came to the first shanty-style houses to our west, squalid little mud-brick residences with tin roofs and broken windows and doors. At first glance the place looked unoccupied but on closer inspection I could make out the occasional face peering anxiously at us from behind steel doors or through filth-encrusted windows. No-one ventured out to greet us and even the dogs were silent, so the company passed on without stopping.

At the top of the road, some half a mile from the camp, was a relatively smart-looking hotel, standing proud in walled grounds adorned with little marble statues and well-tended palm trees. The lawns looked a little shabby and the facade could have used a coat of paint, but the overall impression was that, in its heyday, it must have been the destination of choice for visiting ships’ captains and the like. It would soon become home to elements of 3 Commando Brigade Headquarters, but for now the place was abandoned to the elements so we passed without stopping. The road into Umm Qasr turned west and a smattering of houses began to appear on either side, generally single-story dwellings half-hidden behind robust-looking walls and wrought-iron gates. A mile or two later the buildings became smaller and more condensed as we entered Umm Qasr proper. The road surface became pitted and potholed, while most of the side roads were barely metalled at all.   Rubbish was everywhere, discarded plastic bags clinging to every bit of foliage and broken glass crunching underfoot. Fetid puddles of oily water lay by the roadside and my nostrils were assaulted by the occasional stench of raw sewage.  (I’m sure the tree-huggers will say the state of town was caused by the biting economic sanctions, but personally I point the finger of blame squarely at the locals - the idle buggers don’t even bother burning their rubbish, they just chuck it out of the front door.) The local populace was more in evidence here, perhaps emboldened by their increased numbers. Women and children peered through gaps in wooden fences and round the side of steel gates and doors, while some of the local men were confident enough simply to stand in groups at the side of the road and watch as we passed. A sort of Mexican stand-off ensued, with neither side seemingly willing to break the silence. Then a couple of the Marines peeled off to a flank, offering boiled sweets to a handful of children hiding in a school-yard behind a low brick wall. Bewildered and not a little frightened, they hesitated before taking up the offering, then shot grateful smiles in our direction before running off, shouting to their friends. Within minutes, children were appearing in the street in their dozens, in some cases forcibly shoved towards us by their parents. Soldiers dug in their pockets and pouches, and Umm Qasr was awash with sweets and biscuits in minutes.

I began to relax, which is never a clever thing to do in hostile territory, and I paid the price almost immediately. A short, burly man came barging out of his house, kicking aside the kid’s who were clustered around me begging for sweets, and began haranguing me at the top of his voice. Bald as a coot, sporting a huge moustache and wearing the traditional Arab garb in a garish lilac colour, he was livid in the extreme. Fortunately my Arabic was up to the job, for I found it pretty straightforward to understand what he was saying.

“You, you are an officer, yes?” he demanded of me, pointing at my rank slides. “Why you bomb this town?! Why?! Many people now dead! My cousin, my uncle, their family, all dead! You Americans, why you keep bombing my town? Eh!?”

I drew myself up to my full height, looked down my nose at him, and replied with utmost sincerity, “My friend, I am
not
an American.” He looked quizzical at this and was about to say something, but I waved him silent. “I am British. We are all British. The Americans have gone.” This was not strictly true, since they were still loading up their vehicles back at the UN camp, but it made little difference since they would certainly not be re-visiting Umm Qasr.

“But why you bomb this town?” repeated my assailant at the top of his voice.

“Neh!” I replied. “We have not bombed anywhere
sadiq,
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we have only just arrived.”

He looked at me unbelievingly and said slowly, “You, your friends, these soldiers, they are not Americans?”

I expectorated loudly and spat angrily on the ground - Arabs love a bit of theatre. “We are not American!” I stated with passion. “We are British. We are happy to be here. And if you behave well towards us, there will be no trouble.”

“Where are the Americans?” he asked, still not quite believing me.

“Gone,” was my monosyllabic reply. “And they will not be back.”

This was evidently too much for him, for he reverted to type and began to assail me once again about his lost cousin and uncle. I clapped my hand on his shoulder to shut him up.

“Sadiq,
I am truly sorry for your uncle and your cousin. But that is over now. No more bombing - as long as there is no trouble in the town.”

At this he even smiled for a second, paused, then suddenly thrust out his hand in friendship, which I shook despite myself. He introduced himself as Sameer, then turned towards a group of local men that had formed a little distance behind him. “Then you are welcome,” he announced at the top of his voice, grinning. “Very welcome. But no more bombing, eh?” He winked and gestured to his colleagues to come and meet me, which they did, albeit cautiously. A remarkably orderly queue formed, each one of them waiting in turn to shake me by the hand and mutter words of welcome in Arabic. Despite the exponential increase in the chance of contracting mange, I did my duty and thanked each one of them for the friendly welcome. In my experience, it often pays to keep the locals onside and I was taking no chances.

In the course of conversation, my burly accuser described himself as a businessman, though he declined to say what line of business he was in. Judging by the reaction of his colleagues to his presence, he was held in high regard locally and could therefore be a useful ally should things turn ugly. He invited me into his house for a cup of tea, which, not wanting to be separated from the Marines, I declined, whereupon he handed me a cigarette. I’m more of a cigar man as a rule, but in the circumstances I thought it might be inappropriate to ask for a Monte Cristo, so I accepted. As expected, the tobacco was utterly rancid - it was all I could do to stop myself coughing like a first-time schoolboy smoker. Hiding my discomfort I puffed away like a trooper, happy to be exchanging pleasantries rather than high-velocity rounds, which had seemed a distinct possibility when we exited the camp.

Time marched on. Unhappily for me, so did M Company. Before I knew it I was entirely alone, oblivious to the fact that the Marines had disappeared into the town centre without me. In fact it was one of the local men who pointed this out to me, with a wry grin on his face. I forced a grin back at him, shrugged my shoulders as nonchalantly as was possible in the circumstances and quietly finished smoking my cigarette. Eventually, with a growing sense of unease, I said my goodbyes and extracted myself from the group, then hurried down the main street hoping that nothing sinister occurred before I caught up with the Marines. Happily it didn’t - unless you count being mobbed by dozens of children demanding sweets.

By the time I re-joined M Company they were about halfway down Umm Qasr’s main street. There were less civilians here, since most of the housing was set back from the main road, but plenty of people still came out to observe our arrival in the town. The road opened out into a broad boulevard, bounded on either side by wide stretches of unkempt scrub, dotted with birch trees. The Marines weaved between the trees, emerging frequently to dart onto the road and hand over yet more sweets to any awaiting children.

Just to the south of the main street lay the local Ba’ath Party headquarters building, which it was felt was as likely as anywhere to house jundies. A large, imposing place, its grim facade was set back among the trees, ringed by a wire-topped brick wall. I kept my distance from the place and hid in a small culvert behind some birch trees as a section of men was sent forward to search it. There followed a brief interlude as they broke into the building - which wasn’t easy, since the windows were barred and the steel doors had been bolted and padlocked. Unhappily for the Ba’athists, Royal Marines seem to have a penchant for breaking and entering, and the padlocks were smashed off in seconds. A few shots rang out as the interior of the offices were systematically cleared, but no Iraqis were found within and the boys returned from the depths of the building, squinting their eyes against the afternoon sunshine, empty handed.