by Peter Mercer
At 11.30 I was called. I went through all the bullshit that had happened and told them I’d been in Iraq and that was why I had missed the previous court case. All the magistrates looked at me incredulously. They all wanted to know what I’d been up to. So I gave a sob story about having to come home because of all the danger. Next thing, wham, bam, thank you, ma’am – three penalty points and a £100 fine. I was more than happy with that. All the magistrates wished me luck and I left the court looking as sheepish as I could.
As soon as I was home I checked my emails, then rang the office at the HQ in London to check my travel arrangements for going back. To my shock, I was to be travelling back on the Wednesday, only two days away! I started ringing around and saying my goodbyes, as I’d not got a lot of time left. A few friends had offered to take me to the coach station. I went down to the town centre to get some last-minute shopping. I wasn’t actually looking forward to going back. Don’t know why. But I was sure it would pass once I was on my way. When I was working in Iraq I honestly believed nothing would happen to me. However, the more I thought about it now that I was back in the UK, the more I realised that there was a very real chance of serious injury or death. It’s a humbling, sobering thought.
I went into my local to say goodbye, had a pint, then went home to sort my shit out, not that I had a lot to pack.
Wednesday morning came. I grabbed my bag and got a mate of mine, who drives a taxi, to take me to the bus station, then a coach to Heathrow. I was feeling pretty low and wondering whether it was really worth it. Once you’d got back into reality land you realised what you’d experienced, and it was sometimes tough to go back to Iraq. I moped around the terminal until my flight to Amsterdam was ready, then I boarded. Soon I got my work head on and started to wonder what – apart from the sixteen Gurkhas killed by the RPG – would be different when I got back. I hoped no one else had been injured, or worse.
We soon touched down in Amsterdam. I found out which terminal I had to get to and then I was off. Amsterdam Airport at Schiphol is so massive that it can take about twenty-five minutes to get between gates, so it’s worth checking your connecting terminal as soon as you get off your plane. I made my way to the departure gate before I checked the monitors again and saw, to my horror, that my connecting flight to Kuwait had been cancelled because of fog. I made enquiries at the desk but the staff there were unable to say when the airport would reopen, since nobody could predict when the fog would clear. I realised that I had to find a hotel and find one fast. Given the size of the airport and the sheer number of people it can contain, if all the flights were cancelled the hotels were going to be chock-a-block with thousands of people trying to get rooms for the night.
I had another concern as well: I had to try to get in touch with work and let them know that I was actually on my way back but was stuck at the airport. I eventually managed to find out that my flight had been rescheduled for 07.00 the next day. This was obviously going to screw up the travel arrangements from Kuwait, but there was nothing I could do; it was out of my hands. I still had to let the company know but at least I had the new flight times to tell them now. I managed to get in touch with them eventually and explained the situation. To my relief they said that it would be no problem and that they would sort out new travel arrangements for me.
I did have one bit of luck, though: when I arrived at the airport hotel, I found that, because I was classed as a frequent flyer, I could get an executive suite for only £110. I gratefully took the room, which, I’ve got to tell you, was pretty amazing. I turned on the telly but couldn’t find anything that I wanted to watch. I was feeling restless and a bit bored, so I thought, What do you do when you’re stuck in Amsterdam on your own? Answer: call a hooker. After all, I reasoned, it wasn’t as if I would be betraying anyone, as I was single. I discovered that the hotel offers a great service: it has photo albums of hookers that are sent up to your room so you can pick the one you fancy – what a great country! I made my selection from the photograph and sat down on the end of the bed feeling a little guilty (for all of about two minutes if I’m honest).
After only about five minutes there was a knock on the door. That was quick, I thought, and opened the door. I couldn’t fucking believe it. It was Phillipe. Not really the kind of shag I’d had in mind but it was nice to see him. I invited him in, curious about how he’d found me. Turns out that he had been due to catch the same flight as I was on (funny, I hadn’t seen him at the airport, but, as I said, it was a big place). So, as he was stuck also, he’d checked into the same hotel under our company name and he’d asked the receptionist if anyone else from the company had checked in and had been given my room number. I got him a drink from the minibar and told him that I was on for a shag. I asked him if he wanted second go. Not to worry, I said, I was paying, but I was going first unless, of course, she was up for a threesome.
Phillipe was a bit straight and serious and politely declined. I figured he probably didn’t want to see my mush staring back at him while he was trying to shag. No problem there, but he is far better-looking than I am (though I realise I have a bit of complex about my appearance). Phillipe downed his drink and said he’d see me at breakfast and left.
Barely five minutes after Phillipe had left, there was another knock at the door. I opened it and in front of me was a goddess (far better-looking than her photo had made her appear). I thought that she was definitely worth £70. I invited her in and introduced myself; she introduced herself as Michelle. She dumped her bag on the bed and sat down on the nightstand. She picked up her bag and started rummaging around in it, then she looked up at me and asked if I minded if she did a line of coke. Now I don’t even smoke fags, so I wasn’t up for it myself, but she was gorgeous and, if it relaxed her, what the fuck? Go for it.
She chopped herself a line up and snorted it quickly. I honestly think she was new to this game because she seemed really nervous – but maybe it was my ugly mug making her so jumpy. I hadn’t been laid for months and thought that it would probably be over very quickly, so I didn’t think she needed to worry. She picked up her bag again and found some condoms and handed one to me, then she stripped down to her underwear and looked at me expectantly. I don’t think I’ve ever got my clothes off so quickly in my life.
We got down to business and after only about five minutes it was all over. It was probably the fastest £70 she’s ever made, but I tell you what: from my point of view it was the best money I’d ever spent and definitely worth every euro. While I was still lying happily on the bed she got up and dressed herself again and after counting out her money she left. I rolled over and went to sleep.
The next morning I woke up with a big smile. I rolled over and checked the time. Shit! It was already nearly 06.00 and my flight was due to take off in little over an hour. I jumped out of bed in a panic and dragged on my clothes. I had to get over to the airport damn quick, but what I really wanted to do was get Michelle back to fuck my brains out. I even briefly considered it – it wasn’t as though I was short of cash. I indulged the fantasy for a minute or so, then thought I’d best be off. I decided that I could always give the goddess a call on my way back home next time – if I made it, that is. I picked up my bags and left my room. I stopped by the restaurant but Phillipe wasn’t in there. I guessed that he had already left for the airport. I grabbed a roll of bread and legged it.
I practically sprinted through the terminal looking for my departure gate. I made it in time and I was soon boarding my plane to Kuwait. I looked around and spotted Phillipe sitting about ten rows behind my seat. I gave him a little wave and settled down. I dozed off pretty fast after watching a movie. I woke up and asked for a glass of water and soon the ‘Fasten Seat Belt’ sign came on and we were touching down.
There was the normal bag search once we got off the plane and, after clearing the terminal, Phillipe and I went outside. I’d been warned that no one would be collecting us from Kuwait Airport, so we got a taxi to the hotel where the
company had its office. It was a boring trip: the taxi driver couldn’t understand a word of English, he had a full shemag on, and Phillipe wasn’t in a very talkative mood. So, as we travelled, I took in all the sights of Kuwait. The places we passed made it seem that the city was a shithole, and it was.
After arriving at the office that afternoon, we were met by Tom. He told us that he was having a bit of a nightmare repatriating the sixteen Gurkhas who had been killed. If you’ve been killed in Iraq sometimes they won’t release your body for a number of reasons. It can be a right pain in the arse. It’s a delicate, painful enough process at the best of times, and you need, by law, to be repatriated. After our chat with Tom I had a good think about what I was going back to. I was too hyped up and had too much going on in my head to settle, so, after leaving Phillipe at the office, I took a walk along the beach. It looked beautiful under all of the lights.
I returned to my digs after my walk and watched a bit of TV, then clock-watched until breakfast. Phillipe had had no such problems, and had eaten and gone straight to bed. At 06:00 I went in and gave him a shake. I was still really hyped up and I talked to him about leave and what we’d both got up to. I guess I was trying to distract myself because I now felt the apprehension that I had felt when I went up to the north the first time. It was slightly unnerving. We went down and enjoyed a good breakfast. We finished eating and were ready to go through the rigmarole of getting back into northern Iraq, which was never easy. We collected our body armour and helmets and drove to the airport, going through the now familiar routines.
We cleared customs and boarded the Hercules wearing, once again, only our body armour and helmets. It was noticeably cooler. After another flight we were then touching down in Mosul. As soon as the tail was down we were out of its arse. Once everyone had got off, the tail went up and the plane turned around and took straight off again – not wanting to risk getting mortared or shot at.
Shortly afterwards, all the lads turned up to take us back to our base. Everyone was now wearing their winter gear and they complained that they’d had rotten weather. I could see for myself that the weather was shit. It was pissing down with freezing rain and I was beginning to think that maybe I should go back to Baghdad, where it was a lot warmer. And this was only November!
We had the normal mental dash across town and before long we were back at base. I went up to the ops room to see what the score was. Nothing much had changed while I’d been away, except the weather, of course. No one from our operation had been killed while I was away. There had just been a few minor injuries. This was good news. Fucking brilliant news in fact.
I quickly settled back into camp life. It was fast approaching Christmas (we were now at the end of November) and by this time we would more than likely have snow, which we did. I noticed all the expats wore gear branded as North Face (the outdoor-wear manufacturer). I wondered where it all came from and was informed it was all fake and was being sold at the airport. It was still excellent-quality Gore-Tex stuff, though, and it was cheap. Next chance I had I’d get some for myself, since it was now getting really cold.
I went for some food in the mess hall and then on to my room. The dog was hanging around outside my room and I gave her a pet. She’d grown a lot and now looked like a proper wolf. After a few minutes of fussing with the dog, who, for a change, didn’t try to bite me, I went to the armoury to get my guns, ammo, radio and personal sat-nav. It was as if I’d never been away.
Tomorrow was a new day – my first proper day back – and I’d be a liar if I said that my arse wasn’t giving it some. None of the guys who hadn’t been away were fazed, but, because I’d been out of the country for a few weeks, I certainly realised how damn dangerous this place was. Once you’ve been here for a while you get used to it and it makes little difference. Today we had a brand-new mission to start. This was to be a new challenge and I must admit that I wasn’t looking forward to it.
We were going to be travelling through some insurgent strongholds and this was going to be dangerous as hell. But what the fuck? In for a penny, in for a pound. And it’s not as if we had a choice about which jobs we did – we just did what we were told to.
Chapter 10
Mass Graves
We were getting missions left, right and centre now because the military saw us as extremely flexible in our capability to carry out almost any task they threw at us. It was decided at the highest level that we would be given the most harrowing and, for me personally, the most upsetting and unsettling mission I’ve ever encountered or would ever want to.
Our new mission was to protect the American forensic scientists whose job it was to identify and excavate the mass graves that Saddam had created while trying to eradicate and exterminate the Kurdish people. These graves were scattered all over Iraq and it was going to be a tough task. However, our job was to protect just two of these mass-grave sites. The insurgents were going to be going balls out to stop the military, or us, aiding these scientists who were gathering evidence for the prosecution of Saddam Hussein. The evidence they gathered would form part of the drawn-out prosecution case that would eventually result in his execution.
This tyrant’s regime had seen people whisked away from their homes in the night, never to be seen again. Saddam’s men would go out and dig huge pits in isolated parts of the desert where they knew they could not be observed by any of the local people. These abducted people were then transported to the desert and segregated into separate groups (the men were separated from their families in one group and the women and children were put into another group). We knew this because when the scientists excavated these graves, they found them in separate pits. It’s human nature that, when you separate or segregate a group of men and women, the men will rise up and fight to try to protect their wives and other loved ones; the women, however, will try to comfort their children. It’s so very sad. This is what the scientist showed us in the first pit we came upon. There were women, children and babies in this pit and the women had all been shot in the back of the head with some sort of small-calibre weapon, probably a pistol by the look of it – a .38 (9mm) I was later told. The scientist said that they must have been subdued (like lambs to the slaughter).
The men, on the other hand, in the second pit (which was close by and far deeper than the women’s grave) were just machine-gunned down. It seemed that they were desperately trying to evade execution and had all been torn down in a vicious hail of high-velocity rounds, which had ripped them to pieces. Obviously, a machine-gun post had been mounted on the side of the pit and just sprayed them with bullets, and they’d had no escape; though it seemed apparent that some of them had been trying to scale the sides of the pit when they were viciously mown down. All the bodies in this pit were in one corner, piled on top of one another, as the terrified and dying men had tried using the bodies of their dead neighbours as ladders to try to climb up out of the pits.
Even our hardened veterans of previous conflicts and atrocities had tears in their eyes; some of them refused even to go and look, and I can’t say that I blame them. However, I felt compelled to witness this for myself, as it proved to me that the Americans had been right to finish Saddam’s rule. It was truly one of the most shocking and emotional situations that I have ever witnessed and I hope never to see the likes of it again. It looked to me as if it was pure genocide. The terror that these poor people must have felt is unimaginable.
How anyone could have carried out such atrocities is beyond me. Killing men in battle against whom you’re fighting is one thing; executing women, children and babies is truly barbaric. We were hardened mercenaries who had fought all over the world, and I knew most of us would not even bat an eyelid to slot someone who was trying to kill us; but the murder of women, children and babies was beyond comprehension. The sights I saw on that mission will truly haunt me for ever.
There were literally piles and piles of bodies; these poor, undoubtedly terrified, women still clutching their babies. Saddam was t
rying to ethnically cleanse his country, though genocide is probably a better word. As contractors/mercenaries, whatever, you try not to take the moral high ground, but it’s so difficult sometimes. That fucker and all his henchmen deserved to hang.
In Iraq we had to work alongside some of the people who carried out these atrocities. Some were allowed to keep their positions of power in an effort to keep the peace. It was extremely hard to accept sometimes. Often you just had to walk away, take a deep breath and try really hard to keep your pistol in your holster, because sometimes the urge to blow them away could be almost overwhelming. Of course, knowing that you would get transferred or, worse, get sacked if you gave in to the impulse to slot the fucker was really the only thing that protected them from us.
It was, however, truly amazing how they had found these mass graves. One of the American scientists, who had a reputation of being one of the most knowledgeable and skilled professionals operating in his field, would use only local knowledge of the communities and the lie of the land. He had no electronic equipment to aid him and would be flown in a helicopter over the desert and could tell, from the air, where these mass graves were! He told us that he knew from experience which type of terrain was likely to conceal these graves. He said that land based in shallows, in wadis, places out of view were the most likely points. They also had to have reasonable access for heavy trucks. He told us that in certain areas, even after quite a few years, the graves could still be identified.
