by Dan Mills
On the eastern outskirts of the wood was the remnants of the Iraqi Army Corps' massive ammo dump. Tank and artillery shells were piled up in dozens of mounds as tall as a man, just rusting away. Most of the serviceable stuff had already been pinched by the locals and the OMS but there were still regular scavengers around it. Unlike at Abu Naji, they didn't need to steal the stuff in the city centre. Here they just picked it up off the street.
Directly north over the Tigris was one of the most pathetic sites of all, the shattered ruins of the Corps' city centre camp. It was completely flattened by the USAF twice, in the Gulf War and then in the invasion. Since Saddam's downfall, it had been inhabited by hundreds of refugee families. I don't know how they managed to survive in that slum, but they did. It was overrun by packs of wild dogs and covered in unexploded ordnance, along with the rusting hulks of abandoned T55 tanks. Most of the refugees had nowhere else to go. Behind them, there was a busy bus depot and a big school.
To the east after another major road bridge were the crowded rooftops of Al Amarah old town, a district known as Al Mahmoodia where there was the endless maze of market souks from our first foot patrol. The old town's houses were a lot older, and it was the only place in the city that wasn't built on a grid system. Again with a squint, some of it looked quite charming.
Behind the old town and over a third Tigris bridge as the river swung right was the OMS stronghold suburb of Aj Dayya. It was a stinking slum of a place. Al-Sadr's most fanatical followers ran it with a rod of iron so it became very fundamentalist, as well as home to a large body of the enemy. We went there as little as we could.
Swinging to the south, over 200 metres of rooftops, was the old town's major east–west thoroughfare, Baghdad Street. South of that was the main business district of the city. In it was the telecom centre, the police HQ and a series of oily factories. Then, the Pink Palace, and finally Tigris Street which led down to the OMS building at the bottom of it, with a pontoon footbridge that crossed the Tigris tributary halfway down it.
We struggled to see further than that, even with our high-tech viewing aids. But that was no bad thing really. About three kilometres south of Cimic, the shops and work yards began to give way to slum housing estates. Apart from Aj Dayya, the city's southern half was its main residential area. We passed through it on our way in from Abu Naji. And it was a true dump in the very highest of Maysan traditions.
The southern half was split into four estates of varying degrees of upkeep. From west to east, they were Al Masikh, Kadeem Al Muallimin, Al Awwashah in the middle and Al Muqatil on the east. Independent from the OMS, each of the estates also had its own militia, normally formed on tribal backgrounds. At any one time, they could be at full-scale war with just us, the OMS, each other – or all of us at once. There appeared to be little rhyme or reason to any of it. They couldn't tell you either. It was just what they did. For them, the British Army was just another rival tribe. Someone else to shoot at.
On the city's far southern outskirts just beside Route 6 was the city prison. We had codenamed it Broadmoor. Of course, it was empty when the Paras arrived here after the war. So the NGOs moved in as it was one of the few secure locations they could find from which to defend themselves if need be. These were the people who were really going to rebuild Iraq, from the UN right the way down to various US government-sponsored organizations and Christian charities.
We had at least five different standing tasks on the roof at any given time. The most important was to keep an overview for as long as we could on any patrol that went out. If they came under fire, we would help out by trying to spot for the gunmen. And if any of them got into the shit at night, we'd be ready to pop up an illume round from a 51mm mortar tube.
The 51 is small and light enough to fit in a backpack. It has an accurate range of anything between 200 and 800 metres. We mostly used it for illume. Like all mortars, you simply put them down the tube and then pull a lever which smacks a hammer onto the round's firing pin, igniting it. And an illume is just a bloody great lump of burning magnesium that falls slowly down to earth on a little parachute. It burns with the brightness of 10,000 candles. It's like turning on a giant floodlight over the town for sixty seconds. If need be, it could also fire high explosive rounds.
During daylight I made sure there were always at least two sniping pairs on the roof, one in Rooftop and one in Top Sangar. Often, there were many more than that. Many of the lads used to come up in their free time as well because they enjoyed the work so much.
As with any soldier there, we had an automatic clearance to shoot people, and kill them, if we really thought it was necessary. We didn't need to ask for permission. But I was careful to remind the boys of the British forces' strict rules of engagement at that time.
'Remember boys, do not open fire unless you perceive a direct threat to life. We need to catch these sods in the act of trying to kill us or someone else. That means grenade in hand about to be thrown, or AK47 brought up to aim. You know the drill.'
They didn't really need telling. Each and every one of them was a professional and knew you don't kill unless there is a clear military purpose. It's a waste of a perfectly good round.
We had all our kit laid out next to us. Everything was at arm's reach when we needed it. The place soon began to resemble a craftsman's workshop.
'I'm like a pig in shit up here,' Pikey announced to Ads.
'Yeah, you smell like one too, mate.'
The L96 took a box magazine that holds eleven rounds. So as well as the one in your rifle, we'd also lay out three to grab if they were needed. The rifle takes ball ammunition, exactly the same sort as a normal 7.62mm bullet. The only difference is it's green spot ammunition. Green spot is the first batch hot off the presses from a new mould. If you've just made 50,000 rounds, the first 5,000 will be the very best, so they mark them with a little green spot. After a while with metal clunking against metal, small nicks and dents will develop in the bullets. They could minutely affect the round's trajectory in flight. That's why the best stuff is always held over as sniper ammunition. We never use tracer, which lights up a few metres out of the barrel to show you where you are shooting. First of all, we know where we are shooting. Second, it will betray our position.
The L96 is accurate enough to kill at 900 metres, and harass at up to 1,100 metres. The restrictions are not human nor the fault of the rifle. After that sort of distance, the 7.62mm round just hasn't the explosive charge powerful enough to allow it to fly any further. It then starts to drop out of the sky.
The standard sight that goes on the rifle is a Schmidt and Bender. It gives from × 3 up to × 12 magnification, which is thrice that of the SA80 rifle sight. Its crosshairs are just two simple black lines that turn into dotted lines at its epicentre. In darkness, we clip a SIMRAD night filter on top of it. It's half the length of the normal sight, but three times the thickness. It works by sucking up any spare ambient light into itself and turns everything you can see into different shades of light green.
One of the first things we did on the roof was make up range cards. Everybody had one. It's the drill when you take up a static position that you're going to stay in for a bit. They are a series of pre-calculated points of distance in the panorama around you. When a target pops up and you need to shoot quick, you can immediately refer to the range card to get a rough distance and feed those coordinates into the sight's distance drum. It saves you having to make the distance calculation afresh every time you have a shoot on. We used a couple of laser range-finders to plot out all the major landmarks around us – the hospital and Yugoslav Bridge to the east, Vietnam Wood and the bus station to our north, RPG alley and Aj Dayya to the west, and Pontoon Bridge and Baghdad Street's rooftops to the south.
You also need some sort of stable platform from which to fire your rifle. At the same time, the sniper should be as comfortable as possible because any physical awkwardness might make the body shake. That butt must be as tight into your shoulder as possible
and the barrel must be steady. There are a series of designated sniping positions to achieve all of that. The Prone position is lying down flat on your stomach. The Hawkins position means resting the L96's barrel on your thumb while you're lying down. Alternatively, you could use its bipod legs, or even a tripod.
While kneeling and standing, it's unlikely you can get the stability of aim you will need unless you then rig up a sling or a hook. The Tree hook position involves screwing a hook into a wooden surface and resting the rifle in that. Again, a lot of it is personal preference. You do whatever works best for you. On the rooftop, for most of us it normally meant wedging the longs into a decent ledge on top of the sandbag walls, with our knees or arses resting on the mattresses.
While the Number One worries about his position, the Number Two has his own viewing aids to set up. His responsibility is to get the Number One onto the target, and help him execute the shot. He has at least three sets of binoculars to hand. One is a basic set that gives him strong magnification. Another will be a SOFIE, which are thermal and pick up body heat signature. And finally a laser range-finder. Not all the kit has to be hi-tech though. Most Number Twos also like to carry small periscopes that allow them to see over parapets without exposing their heads. The best snipers' periscopes were made in World War Two, so we still use them.
Throughout their work, One and Two talk to each other incessantly. Sharing information is crucial. You'll discuss everything you see while spotting for a target. And once you have picked one up, Number Two will give a permanent running commentary on everything the target does from that moment onwards.
'Target still stationary in the driver's seat. Though he's fidgeting now, looks like he might be about to get out the car,' Number Two would say.
'Yup.'
'Target getting out of the car now. Closes the car door. Going to the boot, and opens it up. Has a rummage about.'
'Aha.'
'Target is taking a long wrapped package out of the boot. Could be a weapon. Target closes the boot.'
'OK.'
'He's taking the package back to the front seat again, this time passenger's side. Puts package down beside him into the foot well. Target stationary again. Target now picking his nose.'
'OK, mate. Roger all of that.'
Number Two will still commentate even if Number One can see everything perfectly well for himself. A running commentary confirms what his own brain is already telling him. That allows him to focus his mind 100 per cent on carrying out the kill.
Our personal weapons would also go up to the roof with us along with our battle webbing, just in case we needed them in a hurry. And we also made sure there were at least two GPMGs set up in or close by to each of the roof's sangars. Nothing we had was going to stop a determined bomber quicker than a Gimpy.
Technically known as an L7 General Purpose Machine Gun, the Gimpy has been the much loved mainstay of the British infantry for decades now since it first came into service in the 1960s. It was designed to put down 750 rounds a minute of heavy suppressive fire. And that was just how we used it outside the OMS building during our first contact.
The Gimpy weighs 14 kilos and is fed by belts of 200 rounds, which come in tin boxes that hold 800 in each. With its flip-up sight and mounted on a tripod, a GPMG can be effective at ranges up to 1,800 metres, thanks to its 63cm-long barrel. But you can also use them in what is known as map-predicted mode, like mini-artillery pieces. If you point the barrel up into the air, the rounds will fall down onto the target in an arc, giving you ranges of up to 3,000 metres. It's a very skilled art form, but very impressive when done properly. Because of the 7.62's higher calibre, you have to change its barrel after every 2,000 or so rounds fired, because the barrel will have become so hot and in danger of melting. It can literally glow orange. So each machine gun is set up with a bag of two fresh barrels next to it.
As the fighting in Najaf and Baghdad continued, we also got regular taskings from the Americans to look out for Mehdi Army battle casualty replacements passing through our AO. Route 6 was one of the two main roads to both cities from Basra and Iran. Thousands of Shia Muslims flocked from both to join their brothers pitted against the Great Satan. They often travelled together in coaches with flags and posters hanging out the windows. I'd put up an extra pair to scan for them along the Red Route – which was Route 6 when it hit Al Amarah – and where it crossed the Tigris at Yugoslav Bridge. Once we'd identified them, the Americans would often lie in wait for them further up the road.
The task was known as Operation Tiger. Sometimes, it was just speculative spotting. On other occasions, there was specific intelligence that the Americans wanted us to confirm. They often gave us not only the colour and make of the buses, but a four-hour time window when we could expect to see them. It was amazing how accurate some of the intelligence was.
Des and Oost loved volunteering for Op Tiger. It allowed them to salivate at the enemy.
'Hey Oost, look what we've got coming,' the Number Two Des would say, staring through his binos. 'Two white buses 50 metres apart. What was the int again?'
'Two white buses.'
'What time is it?'
'It's 5.46 a.m. That's almost bang in the middle of the time frame. The Yanks said between 4 a.m. and 8 a.m. Fuck, their green slime are good.'
'Yeah. Shit, man, I wish we could just slot a few right here and now.'
'Yeah I know, man. Would save the Yanks the effort. Maybe we could just say that my finger got a spasm.'
Despite their bloodlust and the immense temptation, Oost and Des never did open fire on the Mehdi Army convoys. They were too professional for that.
There were also the permanent watches over the regular trouble spots that we had identified. After a few days, the enemy's octopus-like pattern of movement slowly began to come clear.
Four of their favourite sites for shenanigans became so infamous that we gave them their very own codename. It saved a wordy explanation each time we wanted to report activity over the radio to the Ops Room.
They were christened after precious metals. Gold was a stretch of waste ground on the north bank concealed from our eyes by ruins. It was a popular mortar-firing position. Silver was a road junction over to the north-east where the OMS used to set up their own illegal vehicle checkpoints. It was also a regular ambush spot. Bronze and Zinc were two more favoured mortar points, the first 300 metres to our east amid the old houses, and the second a park 1,500 metres to our south down Tigris Street, conveniently on the other side of the road to the OMS building. The lazy sods could pop a few rounds down the tube while they were waiting for the kettle to boil.
The CO had been right to take the gloves off the battle group as early as he did. What Daz and I thought might have been the end of the OMS's resistance in Al Amarah proved only to be the end of its beginning. From the day Daz was blown up, they kept up a regular barrage of violence against us. During the day that meant opportunistic attacks on patrols. And every night without fail, at least one RPG or mortar strike on Cimic. By the end of our first ten days, the whole company had seen their first contact. Some had already had to fight their way out of two or three.
We had no choice but to keep up with the pace the enemy had set. We had to learn how to do that fast.
9
As snipers, we were busy as buggery. Our dual role of manning the roof and keeping up with the patrol programme ran us ragged. With all our skills, Major Featherstone had decided we were his most potent force and wanted us to be doing as much as possible. It was ironic. Only a month ago back in Tidworth, we had wondered whether there would be a role at all for the platoon in Iraq.
The daily routine was particularly hard on me and Chris. One of us would be up commanding activities on the roof half the night. When he staggered in, the other would go up to take over. Then in the morning it was time to crack on with the patrols again. But we wouldn't have had it any other way. The excitement kept us going.
'It's weird, Danny,' Chris told me. '
I should be bleeding unconscious with the lack of kip I'm getting, but I feel right as rain. D'ya think they're putting cocaine in the scoff?'
We learnt most out and about on foot patrols in town.
We got to know the warning signs when trouble was about to kick off. Empty streets in the middle of the day always spelt bad news. Before the shooting started, the OMS would often tip the locals off first to allow them to get under cover. Men running about on rooftops was another combat indicator. The enemy used high spots to signal to each other, flapping bits of cardboard around. We also learnt we should never stay in one place for longer than five minutes. That's all the time the OMS would need to organize an ambush. Going too close to houses with black flags hanging off them was also a bad idea. It was the colour of the OMS and its owners would see our presence as a challenge. For the same reason, the city's mosques were also put out of bounds. There was no point in picking a gun fight just for the sake of it.
Not all of Al Amarah's people hated us. We still got friendly smiles from the law-abiding majority as we patrolled. Some even willingly engaged us in conversation to practise their English. But from one street to another the mood could turn dramatically and without any warning. On one early patrol, we popped our heads into a metalworks to say hello. We had been told it was a friendly area. Nobody would talk to us. Instead, all the workers started banging away as loudly as they could at their desks. It was calculated to intimidate, and it did. We quickly left.
We also learnt about Al Amarah's history. One place more than any other brought that home to us. We first came across it on a foot patrol. We had known it was there, and it was marked on our maps. But we had been foolishly expecting to come across neat rows of gravestones because of what you see in northern France. Behind a big park on the southern banks of the Tigris, at the western edge of the old town was the Commonwealth War Graves cemetery.
'Keep your eyes open for the cemetery, Pikey,' I told my point man. 'It's supposed to be around here somewhere.'
