Sniper one (32 page)

'The problem is, sir, it obstructs our view of the lefthand edge of the pontoon bridge. That's a common area the enemy use to approach the compound.'

'Yeah, do it Dan. Get the Warriors to ram it over.'

Top man.

'There's some bits at the back gate that I want to get rid of as well, sir.'

'Do the fucking lot of it. Lives are more important than trees.'

For the first time, we also got permission from Abu Naji to fire high-explosive rounds for the 51mm mortar off Cimic's roof. The condition was it had to be used only as a last resort. Plopping off mini-artillery shells into the city would win us no friends whatsoever.

Our landscape gardening proved timely. As week two of the siege began, the ground attacks on the compound began to get more organized and professional. It was clear that the OMS had begun to have the sense that, to sharpen up their effect, they needed to impose some form of order on the mayhem of different militias. Soon there were heavily armed groups of around thirty coming to have a go. They'd stay for longer, and were a lot harder to deal with.

They also had the use of a lot more of the local buildings. Our neighbours around Cimic had upped and left, either of their own accord to keep their kids alive, or at the end of an OMS sandal. All of them, that is, apart from the poor old family in the corner house. Not even the OMS wanted to be in that unlucky pile of bricks.

The quality of the enemy fighter also changed. We'd killed most of the young looney tunes as well as the crap ones, and the survivors had learnt a thing or two. They stayed behind cover a lot more and used diversion tactics to occupy our fire while they'd get closer elsewhere.

Our hardest job was to locate them. Then you had to flush them out too. For every new burst of fire, the sniper and spotter pairs facing the direction it came from would replay the same conversation.

'Can't see a thing.'

'All right then, where are they most likely going to be? Behind that bush? In that dark shadow there. That's it, put a round in there, see what happens.'

Bang
. 'Nope.'

'OK, what about that window?'
Bang
.

'No. I've got it, how about that pile of rubble? How about I put a UGL behind it instead?'

'There they are in those ruins! Firing at us now, shit! Get your fucking head down!' And the rounds would rake the top layer of the sandbags inches from our faces.

We upped our game, however, and whenever we could too. We were stuck in a one-way struggle, and there was no backing down now.

One thing that kept them at bay for thirty-six hours or so was the sudden arrival of fast air. After Abu Naji were forced to go down on bended knee, coalition air commanders agreed to free up jets to carry out 'shows of force' for us. You don't get air assets unless there's a lot of trouble, and they initially didn't believe we needed them. Then a couple of pilots came over and had a look.

Fast air was assigned on call for short time windows, a couple of hours per morning or afternoon. They'd be anything from British Tornadoes, to American, Italian or Dutch F16s. You'd never know in advance. They were never going to drop their 500 or 1000lb bombs as we were right in the middle of a built-up area. In any case, we had no direct comms facility to talk to them – a must for all close air support.

To begin with, the jets were delightfully effective. We'd pass on where we wanted them to go up the chain. Then out of nowhere, a terrifying screech. Two very pointy looking things would suddenly tear across the sky at just 500 feet, practically breaking everybody's eardrums. The enemy shat their pants and legged it in total panic. Even at that height, the jets still sounded like they were low enough to take your head off.

We'd always be able to recognize the RAF because they would fly the lowest, sometimes down to just 100 feet. The
planes weren't invulnerable to a lucky bullet, so that took proper balls. The boys greeted whoever came with a barrage of whoops and air punches.

'Yeah, fucking right!' we'd all shout. 'You're gonna get some of that!'

Seeing friends as mean looking as a pair of Tornadoes gave us a cracking morale boost. Sadly, after four or five bombless flybys, the enemy soon realized they weren't actually going to get any of that and their powerful effect waned. After a while, they just tucked their heads down, stuck their fingers in their earholes, and carried on once the jets had passed.

So all we could do was to carry on giving it back quicker and faster. It was imperative our drills stayed one step ahead of the bastards.

I decided to kip on the roof at night. It meant I was half a minute closer to helping the guys out up there if they had to stand to. Desperate to do what they could too, a fair few of the lads started doing the same.

We held it together pretty well for the next few days, but the pressure was eating up huge amounts of mental and physical resources. At this pace, sooner or later, we were going to get tired. Nerves had already begun to fray a little, with the odd fractious comment emerging between platoons. And still the OMS screw tightened.

It wasn't just savvy that the enemy was gaining. It was also accuracy. It was hard to ignore that our shaves were getting closer and closer. It began to feel like only a matter of time before the Al Amarah OMS paid out its first 200-dollar bonus.

Dawn came on Day 10 with me on an L96 in Top Sangar and Oost spotting for me down Tigris Street. Fitz and Sam were in Rooftop. An hour or so later, a heavy weight of
AK fire hit the roof's northern wall; the first attack of the new day.

'Firing point definitely on the north bank,' came the shout down from Fitzy.

'Somewhere among the army camp ruins, I think. Can't see it exactly yet.'

That meant they were quite close, and Fitz needed our help.

'Right, come on, Oost, over to the north wall with me, mate.'

We grabbed our SA80s and crawled out of the sangar. Just after we reached the north wall, a high-calibre mortar round plunged straight down through Top Sangar's corrugated iron roof, and exploded in a deafening flash of light and noise. It blew the thing to fuck. The small space where we had just been perching was peppered from top to bottom with smoking pieces of red-hot shrapnel. The sangar did its job well though, as none of the blast went through its sturdy sandbag walls, saving us from any splinters.

Oost and I sat up against the northern wall stunned, and our ears ringing.

'Holy fucking Mary. That was a close one.'

'Too fucking close.'

Since the rest of the roof was still getting heftily shot at, there wasn't much time for existential contemplation. No point in thinking about it anyway, there was nothing we could have done. We rejoined the firefight, and rebuilt the ruined sangar after dark.

By midday the next day, I was in Cookhouse Sangar spotting for Des while Pikey had run down to eat. It was during a short lull in the attacks so we chewed the cud a little. A few mortars had come in, so we popped our helmets on just in case.

That time, I had no warning at all.

Since a high-velocity round travels 300mph faster than the speed of sound, I felt the wallop of the bullet before I heard it. A hard smack on the back of my helmet, followed a fraction of a second later by the crack of the round being fired, and the shot's echo off the surrounding rooftops. We both ducked right down below the sandbag parapet.

'Shit, Des, what the hell was that?'

'Dunno. You OK?'

It felt like I was. 'I think so.'

Des had been facing me, and worked it out quicker than I did. I'd been shot for a second time.

'One round, so must have been aimed right at you. From over your left shoulder about 200 metres away I think, judging by the sound. Are you hit, man?'

Des poked his periscope over the parapet and scanned the horizon. With no second shot following the first, he poked his long over thirty seconds later. In a state of semi-shock, I took off my helmet to feel for the damage. Again no blood, but a mighty fucking sore head all the same.

'No, can't see any movement either. Whoever he was, he's gone.'

We looked at the helmet. The fucker had been very unlucky, it was a great shot. On its right side was a gouge five centimetres long and one deep. The round must have struck just to the right of the helmet's rear, causing it to shave one side rather than go straight through.

If the slug had impacted ten centimetres further to the left, it would have taken off the top part of my skull, with half my brain probably still attached to it.

Des whistled.

'Fuck, man, you lucky bastard. No wait, you're an unlucky
bastard. You know what, Danny, I don't know what the fuck you are any more.'

Des had a point. That was two extraordinary calls in twenty-four hours. I picked up another sandbag and put it behind my head and stayed with Des until Pikey returned. Then I went back up to the roof and showed Chris my helmet.

'You know what, mate? I think someone's telling you to go downstairs for a bit. Go and get yourself a brew or something. We're fine up here for now, mate, I'll call you when it kicks off again.'

For four days in a row now I hadn't left the rooftop for longer than fifteen minutes and only to eat. Maybe Chris was right, perhaps I had started to lose concentration, and that wasn't good.

I went down to the cookhouse to get a cup of tea. Just off from the kitchen was Corky the Medic's room. I could hear him pottering about in there so I popped in to see how he was.

The room had changed a lot too since I'd last seen it during the ceasefire when I'd had to visit Corky about my viral infection. Corky had turned it into a proper dressing station. Everything was laid out there next to the bed: neck braces, bandages, scissors, scalpels, tweezers, IV drips; the lot.

'Nice place you've got here, Corky.'

'Thanks, Sergeant. Hope I never see you in here again. In a nice way, of course.'

'Funny you should say that really.'

'Why?'

'Doesn't matter.'

Stuffed underneath a sideboard was a big cardboard box with some company's logo stamped on it. I didn't recognize
it from my previous visit either. Being a nosy parker, I gave it a little shove. It was heavy.

'What's in there then, Corky?'

'Oh, er, you don't worry about that, mate.'

We both made a start for it. I was nearer than him.

'Easy tiger. Bit of contraband booze do we have here? Don't worry, you can share it all with me.'

'No, mate, it's not. Listen, honestly, don't worry about it . . .'

It was too late. I already had a paw inside it and had got a hold of whatever it contained. Out came something folded up and made out of a rubbery nylon material, but unusually dense and thick. As I unfolded the thing, I saw there was a zip on it too.

'Oi, oi! Is this your gimp suit then, Corky? You filthy little bugger.'

Then I realized what it really was, and stopped dead in my tracks. A body bag.

Fuck.

'They delivered a whole load of them during the last resupply,' Corky explained. 'Sorry. I did try to tell you.'

Well, that was a nice touch. Someone somewhere thought we'd obviously be needing a few of these as our early transport home. The discovery did little for my mood, so I left sharpish.

Poor old Corky. He had a tough deal in that room. All his trauma kit was clearly carefully looked after and ready to go. That's because he knew he might be called upon at any moment to do every single thing he could to save our lives. But he also knew if all his efforts failed, he had a second job. To bag, tag and watch over our dead bodies.

*

The battle group knew it had to go into Al Amarah and do something about the uprising's increasing intensity. If not a knockout blow, then something if only for the sake of it. For the Warriors to keep sitting back in Abu Naji while the OMS ran amok looked weak and gave the OMS a propaganda boost. In Cimic, we were also beginning to crave a respite, even if only for twelve hours or so just to take the consistent pressure off for a little bit.

On Day 10 of the siege, the day of my close call in Top Sangar, Operation Hammersmith was launched.

The enemy was now considered too strong for the battle group to be able to retake all the town's police stations and then, crucially, hold them as we'd done in May. Instead, a full-on offensive on the Aj Dayya estate was launched. We knew that's where most of the OMS's most effective manpower was based. If a fair few of its key players were taken out, it would surely help to lance the angry boil.

Under darkness and in the early hours again, the plan was to punch into the city with four Challenger IIs, then encircle Aj Dayya with a ring of steel made up by C Company's fourteen Warriors. Finally, the Royal Welch Fusiliers would carry out a series of search and arrest operations. In a rare triumph of persuasion, we were given Spectre on call for the first three hours.

This time, Sniper Platoon was restricted to overwatch where we could from Cimic. Charlie Curry wisely judged that the basic defence of the compound couldn't spare us if a massive counterattack came its way.

What we missed we were only too glad to.

The column came in and, as everyone from the CO downwards had expected, it got properly creamed.

Along with Captain Curry and the company's other platoon commanders, I spent most of the battle in the Ops
Room trying to keep track of the carnage going on all over the city.

Redders shouted out the vehicle crews' snatched radio messages as he heard them over the net. One of the first set the battle's grim tone.

'Lead Challenger now immobilized. Twelve RPG direct hits.'

Jesus. Until then, we'd thought our main battle tanks were unstoppable. But there was worse.

'Warrior call sign Whisky 28 in such deep shit. In a dead end with enemy all around it. Calling in a danger close strike from Spectre now.'

Danger close means dire straits, and we all knew the chances were they were going to catch a bit of the Spectre's cannonfire themselves. There was a tense silence in the Ops Room for two minutes as all eyes fixed on Redders.