Crossfire

by Andy McNab

  Dave sat next to the door handle and pointed out where all the wagon's shit was located. 'Behind the boss there, morphine and tourniquets. Spare ammo is here.' He kicked the metal boxes below his seat with his heel.

  Another rocket went off in the compound. He waved a finger under the table that held all the computer and signals kit the company commander was gobbing off into. 'Pass 'em about, will you?'

  I leant over and lifted the lid of a battered plastic picnic cooler. It was packed with 500ml bottles. Drinking water wasn't in short supply in the compound. There were pallets of the stuff people could just help themselves to, and almost as many squirty bottles of hand cleanser. Out here, soldiers had to wash their hands every time they ate, had a dump or simply had nothing else to do. Sickness and diarrhoea could affect anyone; get a couple of guys with a bug and soon the whole company's out of action.

  I threw him the bottle and passed a couple more round. I reached behind the company commander and tapped the scabby boots of the gunner. He reached down from his turret and grabbed it. Next thing I saw, he was pouring the contents away and preparing to take a piss into the empty bottle.

  The company commander pressed a series of buttons on the control panel in front of him to switch between the different nets he was listening to and waffling on. His laptop showed the positions of all call signs in the city.

  Dom and Pete were squashed up on my left. Sonia, one of the medics, was by the door. The other medic, sitting next to Dave, was dressed in full party gear – body armour, bingo wings, ballistic glasses, leather gloves. At a nudge from the CSM he stood up through the hatch and stuck his SA80 out into the gloom. The GPMG turret swung right as we passed through Saddam's majestic gates. We were out of the compound.

  Nobody said a word. Through a haze of dust piling in through the mortar hatch, I'd caught the occasional glimpse of clear starlit night. Now I began to see bulbs. They dangled across the streets like strings of big party lights, and led off to concrete-block houses at either side. Normal street-lighting had been fucked years ago.

  Faded billboards advertised Marlboro and Nescafé, and gave a message in Arabic that I guessed said Gillette was the best a man could get. The newest ones advertised Iraqna, the country's mobile-phone network.

  Washing hung from balconies above closed-up shop fronts. Kids' Teletubby T-shirts and football shirts were soon filthy again from the dustcloud we kicked up. From this angle, I could have been in the back streets of Naples.

  The wagon came to a sudden halt. Dave pushed down the lever on the big metal door and let it swing open. No hydraulics on these old things. He grabbed the top cover to tell him to jump out with him.

  Dom was confused. 'We there already?'

  Through the open door, I could see the top cover was already taking a fire position by a wrecked car.

  'Not yet.' Dave kept the door open and yelled to Pete to jump out with his IR camera. 'There's time to film if you want. One of the locations saw where the rockets came from and called in a fire mission. We can't go any further until it's done.'

  Sonia eased her feet out of the way so Pete could dismount, and Dom was close behind.

  I followed, glad to be out of the wagon even after such a short time. 'How long we got?'

  'Just enough to make sure the fuckers don't hit us as well as the firing points – it's only about a K away.'

  Dave pushed the door shut and Sonia locked it from the inside.

  'Who's firing?'

  'The artillery. We've got a 105 from the COB on the case. That's why we stay well back. Can't trust them to shoot straight.' Dave chortled away to himself.

  I made sure Dom and Pete were in cover, then sheltered in a doorway. Lights went out all round us. I pictured kids and grannies being jammed under tables for a bit of protection. The locals knew as well as we did that shit was on its way. If the Brits were static, they were a target.

  12

  The whole company was shaken out in all-round defence along the road. My PRR was alive with guys making sure all the arcs were covered.

  Pete started filming as Riflemen pulled down the night-viewing aids attached to their helmets over their non-aiming eye. The NVAs on their weapons were already switched on, ready to take aim if they saw a target. Alot of them had chosen to wear their normal dark green camouflage smocks. Some had also covered their helmets with dark green covers. It was a matter of personal choice. They were fighting at night in a town, not in a sandpit.

  Nothing could be heard above the rumble of the Bulldogs and the now much calmer chat on the net. I'd just taken a couple of steps out of my doorway to get closer to Dom when a loud whoosh overhead was followed by an explosion as a 105mm artillery shell slammed into the city ahead of us.

  Dave ran over to me as another whistled over our heads. He crouched against a Datsun that looked like it was held together with gaffer-tape. 'I bet they don't tell you about any of this shit back home, eh? Can you imagine what the papers would say?' He ran his hand along an imaginary headline in the air. 'British Artillery Shells Basra.'

  A third 105 round landed, and seconds later an AK opened up just ahead. Two Bulldog guns and six or seven SA80s returned fire.

  Two more AKs opened up. The PRRs were jumping and the CSM got on the net. 'Leave 'em, we've got things to do. Let's go, mount up.'

  The Bulldogs' guns kept up the rates as guys jumped back in. I grabbed hold of Dom and Pete. Dave and the medic kept their covering positions as Sonia held open the door. We scrambled in and the others followed.

  Dave seized the door handle and pointed at Pete and Dom. 'Make sure you look after those two. If they can lift you, they will. They're always after a squaddy. One of you guys would be even better. Bigger ransom.'

  Pete turned to Sonia. 'And they'd be able to understand what we were saying. He'd be no good on Al Jazeera.'

  Dave waited on the PRR for confirmation that everybody was back inside their wagons. Finally he leant across and thumped the company commander on the leg before giving him the thumbs-up.

  As the tracks squealed again, we took three or four rounds of AK into the side. The GPMG rattled off a reply.

  The wagon jerked and there was a loud scrape of metal on metal. The whole right side of the Bulldog lifted and the scraping continued.

  Pete grinned. 'Someone won't be driving to work in the morning.'

  Dave thumbed the medic to get his arse back on top cover, and it wasn't long before he was signalling Pete to join them with his camera.

  Dom wanted to follow but Sonia grabbed him. She sounded like she should have been on EastEnders. 'It's just where the rocket launcher was, innit? Stay here, love, it's safer.'

  Pete came back down. He opened the side screen of the camera and pressed play. We crowded round. It was fantastic quality, black-and-white IR, none of that hazy green stuff I was used to seeing on TV. The 105s had wreaked devastation. The remains of a six-barrel rocket launcher lay mangled on the back of a truck. Pete had homed in on what was left of a body. The image shook as the Bulldog bounced about, but he looked to be in his teens. The shredded clothing was still smouldering. An arm was missing, and a big chunk of the launcher stuck out of his back.

  'We got one of the fuckers, anyway.' Sonia's East London tones even drowned the engine noise.

  My nostrils twitched. I could smell shit. I looked at Sonia and raised an eyebrow.

  'Not me.' She smiled. 'We're nearly there. Their sewers are fucked.'

  Dave got on to his PRR. 'Front vehicle, count us in. Everyone, listen in.'

  The company commander's head was buried in his laptop. Signals popped up on the screen every few seconds like messages in a chatroom. He talked non-stop on the net. The signaller worked frantically beside him. It was almost like watching a movie.

  The Fijian's voice filled the net, very slow, very laid back, speaking as if he couldn't smell a whiff of shit. 'We're turning on to the target street now. Four hundred to go. Street is lit, house lights going out.'

  13
>
  The PRRs fell silent as the Fijian counted us in. Serious faces looked up and out at the buildings that hemmed us in on both sides.

  'Fifteen . . . twenty . . .'

  Dave pushed down the locking bar of the rear door and held it closed.

  I checked my Osprey collar was up and the Velcro fastening in the front was secure enough to keep it that way.

  'On target – stop, stop, stop!'

  The wagon tipped forward. Dave hurled the door open before it had even finished rocking. He and the second medic both jumped out and disappeared towards the front of the wagon. He had to organize the strike and the protection, and relay everything back to the company commander. Sonia stayed in the wagon to receive any casualties.

  Pete tumbled out. He had a job to do as well. He had to keep as close as he could to the entry team without getting killed.

  Dom and I were close behind. All the Bulldog commanders were ripping down the cables overhead. Bulbs shattered on the ground. Lights went out along the rows of buildings as the area closed down and got ready for a nightmare. Petrified kids screamed at each other inside the buildings all round us.

  Pete had reached the door in the outer wall of the target. The strike team was forming up each side. Terry checked it wasn't unlocked before the battering ram was swung into action. The bang of steel on steel mixed with the rumble of the wagon power packs, smashing glass and the screams of revved-up soldiers and terrified civilians.

  Dom filmed with the IR camera in front of him as we moved along the line of Bulldogs. I gripped the back of his Osprey to steady him and keep him out of the team's way as he concentrated on the small digital screen.

  The ladder crews ran across our path from left to right, heading for the rear of the building. Others legged it to the far side of the street. They needed to get Barney and his snipers up on vantage-points both sides of the road, soon as. Guys with Minimis followed to give all-round defence.

  There was an almighty crash as the battering ram slammed into the steel door for the fifth time. Its top hinge ripped apart and the door fell halfway to the ground but held.

  Pete's stills camera flashed on multidrive. The strobe effect made the entry team's movements look like something out of the Keystone Kops.

  Snipers raced up ladders and on to walls.

  The entry team formed up on the front door, half a dozen each side. Terry already had his weapon in the shoulder, facing in. His zit-covered face glistened with sweat. His mate behind held him by his Osprey, as if he was restraining a hyped-up greyhound.

  'Get that fucking door in!' The yell echoed above the Bulldogs' engines.

  The battering ram crashed against the steel door again and again. Pete did his paparazzo thing, triggering so many bursts of flashlight it seemed like there were a dozen cameras, not just one.

  The steel door came off its hinges and crashed to the ground.

  'Get in there! Now!' Dave somehow managed to make himself heard above the din of engines, shouts and screams from what seemed like every building in the street.

  Terry yelled at the top of his voice as he was released, and disappeared through the open door. The number two followed. The entry team with their battering ram were next, and I heard the first thud as they pounded against the wooden front door of the house just two metres inside the wall.

  Dom arrived at the breach and stood trying to get some film of the guys inside. Most of the strike team hadn't been able to get into the confined space between the wall and the door.

  'It's blocked inside! It's blocked!'

  'Fucking hit it! Hit it!'

  Pete got up on the tips of his toes. He stretched his arm and aimed the camera over the wall, then hit the multidrive.

  Dom strained forward, trying to get into the tiny courtyard with the team. He really thought that forcefield of his would make him bulletproof.

  I hauled him back, doing my job. Even Terry was holding back from the door frame until it was time to move.

  I shouted into Dom's ear, 'Just let them get on with it, mate.'

  There was fire from inside the house. I pulled Dom further back. He fell. Good. I wanted him on the ground anyway. I wanted him anywhere out of the line of fire as Riflemen collapsed against the wall each side of the door as it erupted in a cloud of splinters. Another burst headed the Riflemen's way. The rounds hit the outer wall. Pete, now on the ground streetside, was showered with concrete dust.

  'Gunner! Gunner!'

  A Rifleman ran to the door and fired his Minimi from the hip. As he moved from the side of the door to directly in front of it, his body rocked back and his helmet rattled with the recoil of a good thirty-round burst.

  The echoes bounced round the street, drowning out all other noise. I hauled Dom up so he could film. Pete saw us move and jumped up to get his camera back over the wall.

  It's not enough just to be able to carry one of these machine-guns. You need to have the attitude to use the fucking thing. This lad had it. He kicked off a twenty-round burst, standing not even a metre from the door. Gun oil smoked on its red-hot barrel.

  The wagon commanders chucked rocks at the last few lights that couldn't be reached any other way. Cyalume sticks glowed on the roofs and walls around us to indicate the location of the snipers. When the shit hit the fan, the GPMG gunners on the Bulldogs would know to aim at anything but blue.

  The Minimi stopped. The air was thick with cordite. The gunner jumped out of the way as the door collapsed and Terry and the strike team surged through. Their shouts were mixed with screams from terrified women and children.

  Dom moved through the gateway as a burst of AK came from inside followed by four or five quick rounds of 5.56.

  It was pitch dark now. No more flashes from Pete, and the last of the street-lights had been killed.

  Pete pushed his way inside. 'Hope Tel's OK, eh?'

  I let go of Dom, only for him to get knocked aside by the RMPs as they barged their way through. One had a full Royal Mail post sack over her shoulder.

  The air was thick with sweet, flowery incense to hide the smell of shit from the open sewers, but it couldn't hide the cordite. There were just three small, dimly lit rooms on the ground floor. An external stairway curled up to the second floor. The Minimi had disintegrated the wall opposite. It was now rubble spread across the floor.

  Riflemen dominated every room.

  14

  One of the Rifles was an Arab from Birmingham. He yelled at a man kneeling on the threadbare carpet in a narrow room to our right. The prisoner was young twenties, definitely of fighting age. Cushions lined one wall. His hands had been plasticuffed in front of him. He was still begging the interpreter as a pair of ski goggles blacked out with gaffer-tape was pulled over his eyes.

  One of the RMPs went ballistic, screaming questions for the Arab to translate. 'Name? What's your name? Any more men in the house?'

  She checked her picture cards of Basra's most wanted as she went. He looked up, his hands pleading as desperately as his mouth.

  'Shut the fuck up!' She bent down until she was inches from his face. 'Name! ID card! Where's your ID?'

  Dom carried on filming. Riflemen drenched in sweat shouted at each other as they controlled the rooms.

  Screams came from the middle room. Dom swung round. He got some footage through the half-closed door as women, young and old, huddled on the floor with the children. The other RMP jabbered away in Arabic, trying to calm them as she opened the mailbag and handed the kids little day sacks. Bad cop, good cop.