by Peter Mercer
The rounds had stopped striking now, but we were far from out of danger, because the whole of Route Irish could be a shooting gallery. We drove as fast as possible, each of us aware of our bleeding but conscious comrade and the need to get him medical attention as soon as we could. The Fijian in the back seat was in the meantime applying pressure to his wound. As soon as we’d got past the road blocks, which were manned by American troops at Baghdad Airport (and some of our company’s guys), they had a medic team waiting for us. They went straight to work on the Fijian and the paramedics got him straight into an ambulance. He had, miraculously, been hit in the shoulder, the 7.62mm round ripping out a large chunk of flesh. Those Fijians are hard bastards, mind, and he was out of hospital the next day with a shoulder full of stitches. Once we were back on camp and with our Fijian comrade being looked after, we took the Land Cruisers down to the garage to give them a good once-over. Apart from the bullet strikes, there was no real damage. Some of these vehicles cost over £100,000 each and are designed to take quite a large bomb hit.
Over the next week we did three more runs without incident.
The airport in Baghdad was a fascinating place. There were quite a few companies based there. There is a company called Triple Canopy (TC), who employ only ex-US Special Forces, and there is Blackwater, who do pretty much the same. After the war ended in 2003, Blackwater were probably one of the first PMC companies out in Iraq and, going along Route Irish, they lost an alarming number of personnel. It was their men who hit the headlines in the papers when they were dragged out of their vehicles, executed and then dragged through the streets and hung up and burned in Fallujah. This had been broadcast on TV channels across the world and was a truly shocking sight, showing what can go wrong if you get complacent or unlucky.
Baghdad – and Iraq in general – is such a volatile place. With danger lurking around every corner you must always have your wits about you. Every precaution must be taken to avoid getting ambushed or, even worse, getting trapped and boxed in down some side street. This is why route selection is so very important on jobs. To be captured would be just unimaginable.
We were based at Baghdad Airport near to Triple Canopy, and we often used to go over and visit, just for a coffee or a tea, or in the evening something stronger maybe. Early one morning Mike and I were on our way over to meet up with some of the guys from TC to go for a run. Being ex-US Special Forces, most of them are pretty fit. We set off for our run, carrying just our pistols. We were just building up a sweat and getting a pace going when we heard the familiar whine of incoming mortars. We had no cover to get behind! We were in the shit – big time. All we could do was hit the deck and hope for the best.
The first round struck some buildings nearby, shattering some of the glass and doors. When a mortar lands it is designed to explode as effectively as possible – it sends small shards of razor-sharp shrapnel in every direction and they can be lethal up to 100 metres. These things were doing just that, so we had to lie low and hope for the best.
Two more rounds dropped, roughly on the same location. We looked at each other nervously at first, then everyone got the giggles! Why is it that in situations like these you tend to laugh? When we thought that it was all clear and relatively safe, we made our move. We needed to get back to our compounds, and fast, since we weren’t sure whether any more of these things were going to come down on us. I don’t think any one of us had ever run so fast in his life. When we got back to the safety of our compounds, we were all knackered! I had a shower. That had been one close escape and it was certain that we’d have quite a few more to come in the future, but hopefully not when we were out for a run.
Life travelling along Route Irish and bumming around camp soon began to wear thin. I started to look around different companies for different jobs, but I soon decided it was time to go home on some leave. I was due some, so I put in a leave request and was soon off. Leave was nice and chilled, but for some weird reason it was good to come back.
When I arrived back off leave, everything workwise was pretty uneventful. I got back into camp and fell back into the routine, the normal rigmarole. I went to have a coffee with my boss and asked him if the French guy (Phillipe) had gone up north yet. He said he had. Don’t ask me why, but I immediately asked for a job change. The boss gave me a frown and a slightly shifty look. ‘You don’t want to go up there, not unless you’re not arsed about coming back in one piece or at all.’ After a week of pestering I got my job change. My boss was extremely reluctant to let me go and kept asking me why I wanted to go. I couldn’t tell him why I wanted to go – I just knew that I did. He eventually relented and I got ready for the off. Good move or bad move I didn’t know.
I turned up at 05.00 the next morning, handed in my M16 and Glock in the stores and proceeded to the main terminal at Baghdad International Airport. At 06.30 a civilian Russian plane landed and we all proceeded to get on board. There were around thirty of us, mainly Fijians, all travelling up to Mosul. I couldn’t believe it when we boarded – the plane had two pretty Russian air stewardesses on board, and after takeoff we were served with an orange juice. Here we were, flying into the most dangerous place in Iraq in a civilian airliner.
After a great takeoff and once the seat-belt signs went off, I went into the cockpit to talk to the pilots. They were both Russian and I asked them if they knew that they were flying into the most dangerous place in the world. ‘We were helicopter pilots in Afghan war, Iraq no bother us,’ was their answer. So here I was flying in broad daylight into the most dangerous place in the world piloted by two psycho Russian shot-to-pieces war veterans! At this time the military wouldn’t even fly into Mosul in broad daylight, fearing it was too dangerous! So I went back to my seat, feeling pretty nervous (on military aircraft you at least have quite a few countermeasures against missile attacks, but on civilian aircraft you have none). I sat down and buckled in. Two hours later we were coming in to land. I was just waiting for some sort of projectile to hit us but everything went fine. In fact we could have been landing anywhere in the world and you wouldn’t have known any difference. Very smooth, these pilots weren’t fazed by anything. They were proper headcases.
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. O
ne 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.
Chapter 2
Convoy Missions
The 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.
