by Dan Mills
The Intelligence Cell at Abu Naji had passed on an alarming new warning. Working next door to the battle group Ops Room, the Int Cell collated all the snippets of information and gossip they could pick up about the enemy's movements. It was all graded in terms of its reliability; some things were very accurate, other stuff total fantasy. The new warning had the highest reliability grading possible. It came from a tip-off from a senior insurgency source.
Abu Hatim, the brother of the disgraced ex-governor and the self-styled Lord of the Marshes, was back in town. Over the years, he had built up a sizeable and well-armed following at the head of the terrorist resistance against Saddam in Maysan. Amid the chaos of the uprising, he had sensed this was his chance for power. Abu Hatim had struck an alliance with the OMS to join forces and drive us out of Maysan for good. Under the deal, the Lord of the Marshes would then rule it as an extremist Islamic province under Moqtada al-Sadr's supreme authority.
The tip-off also had it that Abu Hatim and the OMS were to launch a major new offensive against us that afternoon. For the first time, all the armed militias in the province would be fighting under a single coordinated military leadership. That spelt big trouble.
The moment the warning came in, all of Sniper Platoon were dispatched to the roof to keep a lookout for the first sign of any attack. There was nothing for hours.
Then, once the midday heat had died down, a large crowd began to gather outside the Pink Palace. They carried placards and chanted slogans about Moqtada and Najaf. A man in his fifties bleated fury into a loudspeaker, whipping up the mob's passions further. None of them was armed, so they could stand there all day for all we cared.
Then we spotted something of more concern. Using the crowds to distract some of our attention, half a dozen gunmen were creeping up on us through the shadows of Tigris Street.
I went straight for my PRR speak button.
'Stand-to! Stand-to!'
First it was just that handful; then we spotted another small group approaching elsewhere from the west, and then another in the east too. Others had slipped among the rubble of the north bank. Soon, we'd identified at least twelve different concealed enemy positions. Without firing a shot, the fighters had fanned out in a large circle around us. There were easily over 100 of them in total.
Shit. The intelligence was obviously spot on. Three minutes later, every Cimic defender was in his battle position. Another message over the PRR from a sentry.
'Ops Room, Front Sangar. RPG men ducking in and out of the alleys in front of us. Must be a dozen of them in there.'
That prompted a suggestion from Des. His South African blood was properly up now.
'Want me to get out there with my blade, Danny? I don't mind knifing a few of them.'
Before I could reply, an RPG warhead soared up at us from the north bank and shot straight over all our heads. It was the signal for the lot of them to open fire.
Immediately, we were giving it back at them just as good. Half a dozen Gimpys roared out from all round the compound, interspersed by the constant chatter of Minimi bursts and the single aimed shots of two dozen SA80s.
We were putting down a good weight of lead, and managed to slot the odd one or two; but on the whole, the gunmen were all being very careful to stay back at least 500 metres from us. That way, neither side was really close enough to do each other any real damage.
After the attack's initial fifteen minutes, the 360-degree fire tailed off to be replaced by shorter exchanges between individual positions. That went on for another half an hour or so. Then the enemy ceased firing altogether, and we followed suit. In small groups again, they began to withdraw.
Chris was livid.
'What the fuck are they doing? Come on, you fucks! We're fucking ready for you, don't run away.'
It hadn't been much of an all-out attack. The biggest force we'd seen so far had clearly massed for what had threatened to be a proper assault. Bizarrely, it had finished before it had even really begun. The question was why? For once, the enemy had amassed a seriously potent and coordinated force, but they didn't seem to have any intention of using it. Could they really have lost their bottle that easily?
Pikey thought he had the answer.
'Hah! It's obvious. This Abu Shat-im-self is obviously a fucking pussy.'
It wasn't the Abu Hatim we'd heard all about, and it certainly wasn't the OMS we knew either. By the time the engagement had been over for an hour though, nobody bothered to give it any more thought. As far as we were concerned, they were all fucking mad anyway. There was never any point in trying to get inside a Maysani's psyche. You'd soon end up in a loony bin yourself.
As we gloated over our mini-victory, back in Basra there were graver moves afoot. There was no mood of celebration in Brigade HQ. The senior brass had heard enough. The situation in Najaf was still no better, and southern Iraq remained on the brink. No matter how ineffective their assault on us had been, the brigade staff didn't like the sound of the new intelligence about Abu Hatim and the OMS one little bit.
On top of that, we'd also lost another soldier in action. A lance jack serving with the Cheshire Regiment had been shot dead during a gun battle with the Mehdi Army in Basra. The brigade's fourth death since the start of the month.
Enough was enough. It took us all by surprise, but the reality was it had been in the pipeline for ages. An order came through for us to prepare to withdraw from Cimic House. We had to be ready to move by 1600 the next day.
Strategically, it was a difficult call. It was hard to deny that the cost of holding Cimic was beginning to outweigh its purpose. The place had been smashed up so badly that there was nothing really left to defend. Being there for the sake of it made less and less sense, and a massacre was indeed far from out of the question.
On the other side, a withdrawal might save a bit of blood in the short term, but we'd have to come back into Al Amarah sooner or later. We were never going to abandon the city for good. Everyone who'd actually been to Al Amarah knew that fighting our way back in would prove a full-on nightmare.
Personally, the idea of a withdrawal really pissed me off. Letting the OMS win really stuck in my gut. Orders are orders though, so I just got on with it and told the boys to start packing.
'Remember, lads, we're all leaving on foot. Whatever you can't carry gets left behind.'
For the rest of the day, Cimic resembled a madhouse. It was like a scene out of a World War Two movie.
Everything of any military value that we couldn't carry had to be destroyed. That meant huge piles of papers had to be burnt. A pit was dug in the garden for a bonfire, and on it went company admin documents, spare maps, and endless bundles of CPA and CIMIC paperwork.
Blokes were dumping all sorts of kit in great piles around the house. A ton of stuff had been accumulated over the tour. Now that nobody had the luxury of freighting it home, it all had to go. TVs, fridges, PlayStations, souvenirs, toiletries, Arab rugs, extra webbing, duvets – even Ads's mammoth porn stash; it all got binned.
The place was also rigged for detonation. Nothing was to be left in the hands of the enemy. Assault engineers put strips of plastic explosives inside the boats, over their outboard engines and in the few remaining vehicles that still worked. The rooms in Cimic where we would have to dump heavy equipment such as big radios also got wired up, along with the equipment for good measure. It was all ready to go, and just needed a few live detonators to be slipped in at the last minute. The second we left it, the camp would be blown to smithereens.
As they dismantled everything on the roof, the boys aired their feelings about the withdrawal. I was proud to find them just as angry as I was. They were being offered a ticket out of that pit of squalor and degradation. But none of them wanted it.
A Chinese parliament gathered. Pikey took his usual considered approach.
'Fucking twats, cunts, wankers and bastards. We get battered to fuck, mortared to death, shot to buggery, and all those hoops in brigade have to say is,
pull out?'
'Bollocks to them,' said Daz in agreement.
'Never mind all that,' chimed in Oost. 'We're going to be bored stiff in Abu Napa. All I'll get is the RSM going on about getting my hair cut again.'
Des backed his countryman up.
'Too fucking right, man. Where's the fun to be had back there, hey?'
But Chris had the best point of all.
'What about Ray? If we pull out now, what did he die for then?'
The whole platoon yessed in agreement to that.
Being the gentle giant that he was (when John Wedlock wasn't about), Louey almost always kept his opinions to himself. At that moment though even he felt motivated to speak up, and directly to me.
'Full respect, Sergeant, but I think it is wrong to leave. You know, man, Cimic is our home.'
Right. I had to tell Captain Curry about the strength of the boys' feeling in the O Group. I felt it was important he knew. All the multiple 2i/cs and the CIMIC boss were brought in especially for it that night too. It was an important occasion. As it happened, Captain Curry asked for our thoughts first before I even got a chance.
'Right, chaps. The CO has been on. He's very uncomfortable at having to send the battle group back into the city if we pull out of it. Some are saying we could do it when Najaf is all over. But you and I and he all know the OMS won't let that happen peacefully in a million years.
'He's spoken to the brigadier and persuaded him that the final decision should rest with the men on the ground. Only we know what we're capable of. So whether we leave or not tomorrow is now up to me. That's why I've got you all in. I want to know what you think.'
We discussed the merits of both arguments for almost an hour. To my delight, other platoon commanders reported back the same thing. Nobody wanted to leave.
One of the junior officers made the best speech.
'Look, sir, we've had a fair few nasty injuries and even more close shaves, admittedly. But we haven't actually had a single fatality to hostile fire yet. We're fighting brilliantly and we've still got a bit of ammo left.'
'That's true, sir,' confirmed Dale.
The officer concluded. 'The point is, sir, we don't need to pull out yet. I say let's see if we can finish the job.'
There were furious nods and 'hear hears' all round. Captain Curry waited ten seconds for any last comments, then gave his reply.
'Fine. I agree wholeheartedly. In fact, I was secretly hoping you might all say that. If you want my opinion, I don't see why we have to hand over this place to the modern day equivalent of the Nazis. We'll withdraw when we're ordered to, or if we really have to. Until then, we're going to sit it out.'
The decision got a spontaneous round of applause and a room full of proud smiles. We walked out of the hot and sweaty briefing room into the cooler night air and back to our respective platoons with our chests puffed out and a renewed sense of determination in our stride. We were professional British Army soldiers doing what we were paid to do. It was in our blood to stand our ground.
The boys were pleased too when I told them the news. Despite our exhaustion, it gave us a fresh new burst of confidence.
That night proved to be the quietest of the whole siege so far. It reaffirmed everything we had begun to suspect about the new rebel alliance. First there was their piss poor attempt at a compound assault. Now, they could barely be bothered to lob in more than one or two mortar rounds at us.
Yet again the Int boys had heavily overexaggerated the threat they really posed. Maybe they had all turned chicken at the sight of the air strike on Zinc. Whatever the cause, it was clear to us that the numpties were already beaten. Pikey was right: Abu Hatim was a pussy after all.
With not much fighting to be done and the tension swiftly receding, conversation on the roof that night for the first time turned to home. We were a good two-thirds of the way through the tour, so we allowed ourselves a start at that traditional end-of-tour conversational gem: what our dream first meal at home would be. It's a conversation that never normally lasts less than a month.
Quiet precedes most storms. Even hurricanes.
26
It turned out the previous assault had been no more than an elaborate dress rehearsal to gauge our firepower.
The next morning, the mortaring returned with a vengeance. It didn't stop Pikey from banging on tirelessly about jellied eel served with deep-fried Mars bars. We'd opened a can of worms with the first meal chat there.
The incoming got heavier as the day went on. By the afternoon, Pikey had shut up. By darkness, we were on the end of one of the heaviest daily poundings we'd had the whole tour. It was relentless. After the calm of only the night before, and our absolute certainty the worst had passed, the renewed heavy incoming confused the hell out of us. If these fuckers knew they were beaten, what was the point in mortaring us so hard?
The onslaught continued overnight and throughout the next day too, with just the same intensity. Yet more of the camp was being blown to bits. Repeated blasts left sand and shrapnel everywhere, and the sniper screen fencing had begun to collapse. Nobody could clear it up. All we could do was hunker down in the sangars and pray against direct hits.
Our confusion at what it all meant was nothing compared to what we felt the morning after that.
I got up at dawn after finally coming down from the roof at 2 a.m., when the mortaring had still been incessant. The first thing I noticed before I'd even opened my eyes was the extraordinary quiet. I think it was peace that woke me up.
By the time I was on the roof fifteen minutes later, the sun was steadily rising over a ghost town. There was very little traffic on the streets, very few people going to work on the pavements. By 8 a.m., all of the souks were still closed. That was very odd, because it was a Monday. We'd never seen the city like that. It felt like a dream.
'It's fucking weird,' said Chris, who'd gone up to the roof when I went to bed.
'How long's it been like this?'
'The mortars packed up just before dawn. Then nothing, Danny. Not a bloody thing. It's like they all know something that we don't.'
It didn't take very long for the penny to drop. Silence was the most obvious of all combat indicators. The whole town must be in on this one, whatever the hell it was.
We stood-to, just in case. Dozens of belts of GPMG 7.62 link were hung over the sandbag walls of every sangar. Tins of 5.56 ammo were stacked outside each entrance, alongside crates of water, all ready for the off.
We waited for hours as the August sun just burned us redder.
Oost couldn't stand the tension.
'Where the fuck are these shits, then? They're doing my nut, man.'
When still nothing had stirred by 11 a.m., half the company stood down. It was too hot for the enemy to try anything then, and concentrating on nothing drains people unnecessarily. I went down to the Ops Room and volunteered for a shift on the radios so the 2i/c could get some kip. We'd all stand-to again at 3 p.m., when it was cooler.
The enemy guessed we'd do that. So they attacked at midday on the dot.
It started with snipers on the old town rooftops and a new heavy mortar barrage from two different positions. They were smacking stuff in on us from both Zinc and the north bank at the same time.
'Stand-to! Stand-to!'
A dozen frantic shouts were coming from every sangar in the compound.
All over, blokes were throwing on their body armour and helmets. Fast-moving bodies crammed the corridors and crashed up and down the main staircase.
I legged it up the stairs to the roof three steps at a time. I looked down to guide my feet. Bugger it. I still only had my sandals on. I'd left my boots in the Ops Room. Too late. Just before I reached the roof door, the steady thumping of Top Sangar's Gimpy opened up. I burst out on to the roof to feel the crack and snaps in the air as bullets zipped past splitting the atmosphere around them.
'Fucking get down!'
As my body hit the floor a neat burst of four rounds smacked
into the door frame behind me.
Thank God for the roof's all-round three-foot wall. Nobody could raise their heads even a centimetre above it because the air was thick with flying lead. Small chips of stone and concrete shot off its exterior on all sides. Enemy bullets also piled into the sangars' sandbags every few seconds with puffs of dust erupting from each one. Noise was everywhere.
Top Sangar had practically the only eyes on. Des braved the hail of lead to scream out all the information about the enemy he could for everyone's benefit.
'Three buses pulling up at Yellow 3 . . . at least twenty UKMs dismounting with AKs, RPGs, heavy machine guns . . . Separate dismounted attack coming up from Tigris Street, maybe twenty more men . . . No, make that the pontoon bridge and Tigris Street now, another dozen there . . . Another big group going over the bridge to Red 11. Heading up to the hospital and dam . . . Targets on the river road too now . . . Hang on; now there's activity on the north bank as well. Minibuses pulling up. Get the fucking Gimpy onto them, Oost. Passengers are armed UKMs; taking positions in the rubble . . . It's a 270-degree, no fuck it. It's just a fucking 360-degree contact . . . Targets approaching from all sides. Repeat, targets approaching from all sides.'
They were crawling all around us like ants. Attackers were closing on us from the east, south and west, supported by constant static fire positions over the river to the north. There must have been hundreds of them; far too many to count. At least three times the size of the dress rehearsal mob.
Shit. We had to start getting our heads up, or they'd be all over us in five minutes.
'Get the fucking rounds back down at them!' I shouted over the din. 'Lads, everyone's got to start spotting for targets.'
Dale burst open the roof door and hurled himself down on the floor to join me giving out commands.
'Oi, all of you get your faarkin' heads up! Wait for the incoming to stop. Heads up, rounds back, heads down again.'
Dale grabbed at his PRR.
'Ops Room, Sarn't Major. Get every spare fucker up here now.'
