by Dan Mills
'I am, boss. I can't see a bloody thing. It's all just wasteland. The only thing around for miles is this brick tower thing. Hang on, there's some English writing on it. It says "Amara War Cemetery".'
We had walked right into the middle of the place without having any idea. The cemetery was the size of a couple of football pitches, but there was very little left of any headstones. Most had been smashed up into fragments, which had themselves been overgrown by weed. The tall red brick obelisk with a domed black roof that Pikey had spotted had once been its front gate. But it was now badly chipped by bullet holes and desecrated by Arabic graffiti. The cemetery's ramparts by the river had also fallen down, leaving the plot susceptible to regular flooding and water damage.
There was a total of 3,704 British and Commonwealth troops under its ground. Most were killed in the bloody Mesopotamian campaign against the Turks and Arabs in the First World War. It wasn't our finest hour. We lost an entire division of 10,000 troops during the grim 147-day Siege of Al Kut in the winter of 1915–16, and a further 23,000 casualties from the relief force that failed to break it. It was seen at the time as the greatest British military disaster since the Charge of the Light Brigade, and far more costly in numbers. And it was fought in horrific conditions where soldiers had to resort to eating rats. Al Amarah itself was the scene of a major battle in June 1915 as the invasion force struggled north to Baghdad.
In one corner, a long stone memorial wall was just still standing. It had the names, rank and regiment of all the dead buried there on it in alphabetical order. Many of the names on the memorial wall were still legible. Two Victoria Cross holders are buried there, the Royal Navy's Lt Commander Edgar Cookson and Lt Colonel Edward Henderson, of the North Staffordshire Regiment. Both were killed winning them. I could also make out the names of several of our regiment's illustrious forebears. Among them were The Queen's Own Royal West Kent Regiment, The Queen's Royal Regiment and The Buffs. Many of their soldiers had died young, the same age as a lot of my blokes in the platoon.
It was a sobering thought. For us, Al Amarah was a brand new experience. But for the British Army, it was very old territory. Along with every other cemetery for British war dead in Iraq, it had been entirely abandoned after the first Gulf War in 1991. Saddam refused the Commonwealth War Graves Commission access to pay their caretakers and gardeners. They still hadn't found it safe enough to come back.
As soldiers, it was a desperately sad site. You deserved more than that if you had made the ultimate sacrifice for your country. We had a wander around the place and reflected on it. Nobody said much.
'The poor sods,' said Chris. Even he knew a Blackadder line wouldn't have been appropriate there. 'Here we are, back here all over again. Why are we always fighting the Arabs?'
We didn't stay for long. I could see some of the younger lads getting a bit too thoughtful, so we all took a few pictures for the albums back home, and moved off again. It was not a place to hang around.
In case we were in any doubt, during those days we also got final confirmation of whose side the Iraqi police were on.
The patrols involved regular visits to town police stations to check their armouries. We supplied them with new weapons and equipment to give them some pride and confidence, and so they could take on the OMS themselves. That meant AKs, brand new German-made Glock pistols, body armour and helmets, all painted nice and blue for them. Then we'd go back a few days later, and half the stuff would already be missing. 'So and so has got it', or more often 'it got stolen' were the regular excuses. But through the sights of our longs on the roof, we'd see OMS men cutting about with the Glocks stuffed into their trousers on the very same day.
On the surface, we'd still turn up to train the cops and offer advice. But it was all a façade, and we'd talk to them through gritted teeth. It was one big game. Both sides knew we had to carry on playing it to please our masters in Baghdad.
Some idiot young Iraqi coppers pushed it too far one day when we were on our way back to Cimic at the end of a patrol. There were three of them, in their mid-twenties, and they were lazing around on the roof of a small single-storey police station on the corner of Baghdad Street. They looked a shambles, all skinny and unshaven with their shirts hanging out.
As we patrolled past on the other side of the road, Pikey gave them the usual friendly wave. In response, one of the coppers put an imaginary rifle up to his shoulder, aimed it at us, and pretended to pull the trigger. His other two friends thought it was hysterical. We didn't.
Pikey was straight over to them in a flash. The coppers stopped laughing instantly, and shat themselves. He ordered them down from the roof with hand signals and made all three stand to attention against a wall.
'Not funny. Now listen to me, you fucking idiots. If you ever do that again, I'll kick the shit out of you. Do you understand me? Do you?' he screamed.
Smudge was right in behind him. To reinforce the point, he made his SA80 ready by loudly cocking a round into the chamber.
'You wankers are supposed to be on our side,' he added for good measure. 'That's why we're fucking paying you. Think about that next time you want to crack a funny.'
Despite the language barrier, you could tell the cops got what Pikey and Smudge were saying. They were wide eyed and shaking. They didn't do it again.
Frustration had been building in the platoon over how we'd been shackled from carrying out a kill, particularly over a hefty desire to attack the mortar crews who'd been chucking stuff at us pretty much every night. Several times the boys had asked permission to engage targets that were borderline under the rules of engagement. But Major Featherstone, who was very cautious, had repeatedly refused.
The OMS weren't stupid. They had worked out our rules of engagement. So they gladly took the piss in the full knowledge there was fuck all we could do.
For three nights in a row, Ads had spotted a mortar team in a truck moving north over Yugoslav Bridge into the wasteland that they used to engage us. They would set up and fire behind buildings where they knew we had no direct line of sight on them. Brazenly, the team would then come back right in front of us. If the team were trying to wind up Ads, it worked.
One night, Ads – known for his sharp eye – even spotted the top of a mortar barrel in the back of an open-topped truck crossing back over the bridge just after we'd been hit. There were two men in the back with the equipment as well as the driver in the front. Ads radioed down to the Ops Room on his PRR.
'Ops Room, Rooftop. I have three UKMs [Unknown Males] driving a flatbed pickup with a mortar barrel in the back. Am I cleared to engage?'
'Can you see them setting up the mortar?' was the response from Major Featherstone.
'No, they've just finished. But I know it's them. Can I engage?'
'No, only if you can see them setting up a mortar.'
'Well, can I fire a warning shot then, over the top of the vehicle?'
'No.'
Silence, while Ads thought about the diplomacy of his next response. But not for very long.
'Well, what's the fucking point in us being up here then, sir?'
'Wind your neck in, Somers,' said Featherstone.
The next day, I was pinged to do a shift manning the radios in the Ops Room. I hated being stuck in there, but it was another of my responsibilities as a platoon commander. We all had to take it in turns. During a routine afternoon patrol, a multiple from the Mortars Platoon were ambushed at Blue 11, a major road junction east of Cimic on the river bank. They were pinned down by a huge weight of fire and taking incoming from a full 180-degree angle in front of them.
The twelve guys dived for shelter behind a garden wall in front of them. They couldn't retreat because it would take them straight into one of the arcs of fire. They were in deep shit because one of them had taken a bullet in the chest and was bleeding badly. Dale had rushed up to the rooftop to lead the company's response. As he leapt three stairs at once, he summoned every available sniper up there with him to help out
. I heard all the action play out on my PRR.
With Maysan's radio gremlins at work again, the only way Cimic had of speaking to the patrol was from Dale to one of its NCOs, Cpl Daz Wright, who was carrying a back-up set. And Daz Wright had to shout loudly over the sound of rounds going down all around him to make his contact reports heard.
'Do you copy? We're pinned down, Sarn't Major. We've got no fucking comms with anyone apart from you. We need a Warrior down here to extract us. Now.'
Dale was always a calm and reassuring presence. 'Keep going mate, you're doing a good job.'
Daz Wright explained where the enemy's main four firing positions were. The most lethal was on the north bank across the river, almost at right angles to them. With their longs at the ready, Ads and Fitz were in Rooftop Sangar facing directly east. There was no time for a Number Two to set up. On hearing Daz Wright's report, they immediately started scanning the area he had identified on the north bank. From Cimic, they had a good and uninterrupted view over most of it.
'If you see anything at all let me know immediately, lads,' boomed Dale as he crouched beside them and peered through a set of binoculars.
It was time for Ads and Fitz to use all the empathy they could muster. You have to ask, Where would I want to be if I was the enemy? Normally that means the high ground, buildings or rooftops – anything that offers good cover. Then, you tell yourself to look out for any shape or aspect that seems unusual in the landscape. Nine times out of ten, that's exactly where they are.
Ninety seconds later, Ads spoke up. 'Sarn't Major, I've got him. I've got a shoot on here.'
Ads was lying flat on his stomach with the L96's bipod legs up. The rifle's long, camouflage-sprayed barrel was pointing over the small lip of the wall. At a distance of more than 800 metres away, all he had seen was a long thin piece of metal poking out from a large bush. A hard looking shape sticking out of a round mass of greenery was unusual enough to attract his attention. He had concentrated on it for 20 seconds. When he finally saw a long spurt of yellow flame blast out of it, he knew what he was looking at was eight inches of an AK47 gun barrel.
'Are you sure, Ads?'
'Yes, Sarn't Major – hundred per cent.'
'If you're happy, mate, take the shot.'
It was a hell of a long way away, so Ads got to work quick. First, he ranged the gunman's position. He was 828 metres away. So Ads did his calculations, and adjusted the sight's range drum by eighteen clicks, setting it to precisely 830 metres. He looked back through the sight, and ever so slightly raised the L96's barrel to put the bush back into his crosshairs. In the movies, snipers aim off and above targets to take account of distance and wind. That's a load of bollocks. The crosshairs are always dead on the target.
There are a total of thirty-two different clicks on the windage drum. You choose which one to set it on depending on whether there is a light breeze or a Force Nine gale blowing. Ads looked harder at the bush through his scope to see if any leaves were moving on it. It fitted comfortably into the middle third of the sight. It was perfectly still, so he left the drum on zero.
Next, the gunman himself. From just the end bit of the barrel that Ads could see, he estimated exactly where the gunman's head might be. You aim for the largest part of the body visible. Normally that means the torso. You don't need to demolish someone's brain to take them out of action, a 7.62 in the kidneys is more than sufficient. But this time it had to be a head shot, because the gunman was lying flat on the ground and his head offered the greatest surface area. Ads looked down into the bush directly following an imaginary line from where the barrel was pointing. The head was roughly 12 inches further back from where the barrel ended, he calculated, and set his eyes on one specific leaf behind which he believed his prey lay. He was ready.
It had taken him no more than three minutes from start to finish. A novice might have taken half an hour, and still only be in with a fifty–fifty chance.
The sweat was running down his brow hard, but he ignored it. He controlled his breathing, gripped the weapon firmly and took up the pressure on the trigger. Then, he took in a deep breath and held it. After staying perfectly still for five more seconds, he took the shot. One slow and steady movement of his index finger, not a snatch. Total control.
A 7.62mm ball round fired from an L96 travels at 875 metres a second. So Ads's round took just a fraction less than a full second to hit the target. Immediately, the barrel sticking out from the bush fell onto its side. Its iron sight was no longer visible, and it didn't move again.
Five seconds later, Ads exhaled slowly. With perfect calm, he sat up and quietly announced, 'I got him.'
He pulled back the bolt of the L96, pulled out the bullet's empty casing, and popped it in his pocket.
'I'm keeping that.'
He lay the L96 back down on a sandbag next to him, and lit up a Lambert and Butler cigarette. A cheeky little grin then spread right across his face. He had killed the gunman stone dead without ever even setting eyes on him. One shot, one kill. It was perfection.
10
For Daz Wright's patrol, the kill had the effect of taking a considerable amount of fire off them so they could begin to look up over their garden wall and return fire. That gained them a foothold in the battle. Ten minutes later, Warriors arrived to extract them with the patrol suffering no further casualties. Daz Wright later had a chance to inspect Ads's work behind the bush. The gunman was still lying there. The shot had taken the whole of the back of his head off.
For the rest of the day, Ads was the platoon hero. He taunted Pikey repeatedly about it.
'Who's the fucking daddy, eh, Pikey?'
The kill had a great effect on all the platoon's morale. Everyone was proud of Ads, but it was a platoon triumph as well, as it could have been any of us. We had proved our trade by saving comrades in dire peril. The satisfaction wasn't warped bloodlust. It was entirely professional. Just like a bricklayer who's just built his first house, and knowing he can do it – and damn well at that.
Company morale was also high at that time, despite the steep learning curve we were all going through. But that doesn't mean there wasn't the odd bit of tension. With 106 fully grown men living in such close proximity, it would be a miracle if there wasn't the odd tense situation.
It came in the shape of Louey, and his arch nemesis Private John Wedlock. An enormous Fijian in Recce platoon in his mid-twenties, John Wedlock was the only bloke in the whole company even bigger than Louey. He was a very keen rugby player, and he was seriously hard. When he initially applied to join the British Army in Fiji, he was told he couldn't because he had too many tattoos on his arm. So he cut them out with a pen knife.
Louey and Wedlock had a massive rivalry over who was the biggest bloke in the company. They hated each other with a rare passion, and it went back as far as anyone could remember. They had already had a few scraps back at Tidworth. His rivalry with Wedlock was the single and only time Louey ever got into trouble. But in Iraq it got even worse. As far as they saw it, they were now representing their platoon's honour in a war zone. Louey was Sniper's big boy, Wedlock Recce's.
One day early on in the tour it flared up again. Wedlock mumbled something under his breath as he passed Louey while coming in from a patrol on Cimic's front driveway. That was Louey's cue to launch his favourite Wedlock piss-take. In his cool Caribbean lilt, he mercilessly took the piss out of the Fijian's broken South Pacific accent.
'Orr, hellor Wedlock. You do nice patrol or you bit hot boy now?'
Wedlock retorted with his usual insult at Louey.
'I may be black, but you're a lot darker black than me, man. Look at you, you're ugly black.'
Louey stood up straight and tall and eyeballed Wedlock with a stare that would have turned most of us to stone.
'Say that again, Wedlock.'
Luckily, Major Featherstone walked out of Cimic just at that moment. With reluctance, the two giants parted looking daggers at each other.
The on
ly racism I ever heard in the battalion was between those two. And they were both black. How they were going to peacefully coexist within the same 100 square metres for the next six and a half months we had no idea. It was Clash of the Titans, and secretly, everyone longed for the next instalment.
That evening's O Group finally brought news about Daz. It had been twelve days since we had last seen him or known anything about him. Once a bloke disappears out of the battalion's area of responsibility, it's very hard to keep track of him. But the news was good. Having lost a lot of blood he had been in a critical condition when he arrived at the Basra field hospital on a Chinook. But the surgeons had done a great job of putting him back together, and he was expected to make a full recovery.
He was now in Selly Oak hospital in Birmingham, where all military battle casualties go. He'd also heard what we'd been going through since he left. He was furious he was missing all the fun. Apparently, he had already pissed the doctors and nurses off considerably by continually demanding to know the date when they would release him so he could get back out. A proper soldier.
Inside the platoon, the only teething problem we were having was Gilly. He was another new arrival for the tour and was a lazy bastard. Like Louey, Gilly had been attached to us as a driver. But if we'd won the lottery with Louey, with Gilly we'd lost the ticket. He was a 27-year-old recruit to the British Army from the Caribbean. He had made a mistake in joining the infantry, and he knew it. Sitting in trenches wet and tired all day long wasn't his bag at all. But the real problem for me was that he couldn't hack Iraq. Its extraordinary pace exposed him as the crap soldier he was. He could hide that easily enough in Tidworth. He was a quiet character who was just happy doing as little as possible for his money. But in Iraq there was nowhere to hide. If you didn't give your all while everyone around you was, they'd notice pretty quickly. It meant you would become an extra burden, and we didn't need that. Gilly would do everything he could to avoid going out on patrol, and he absolutely hated leaving camp. The thought of it terrified him. And he hadn't even been shot at yet.
