by Damien Lewis
Crack Head and his men had been our first line of defense, and we knew we were safe with them on duty. One night I’d had a major row with Kevin, one of my fellow white-eye operators. Each day we’d save some of our food to share with the guards. Kevin had started volunteering to take it out to the guys on sentry. At first I’d thought he had to be a real nice guy for doing so. Then I discovered he was taking the main course and mixing it into a mush with the dessert, so deliberately spoiling the food.
It was so utterly mindless and disrespectful, not to mention plain stupid. We depended on Crack Head and his boys for our lives, and over the months they’d become our friends. And now this. Kevin tried telling me they were “only a bunch of stupid ragheads, so what did it matter.” I went berserk. I was team leader, and I made it clear that one more transgression like that and he’d be gone.
A few days later we were heading through open countryside in a four-vehicle convoy. Kevin was driving and I was commanding, so sitting in the passenger seat. We were moving toward the villa when he spotted two young kids coming the other way on a little putt-putt moped. A moment later he’d spun the wheel around in an effort to force them off the road and into a ditch.
I reached over, wrenched it back my way, and just managed to save the kids from getting crushed by four tons of armored SUV. I went completely mental. I practically ripped the guy’s head off and stuffed it down his throat. And when we got back to the villa I made it clear to the boss that I wanted rid of this joker, now. Or if not, I was out of there.
It wasn’t just that he was a racist, cowardly, murderous bastard. He was also a total liability. His behavior with the food had threatened to turn Crack Head and the others against us. That was bad enough. But if he’d succeeded in killing those kids—for there was no doubt in my mind that they would have died—word would have gone around like wildfire, and the entire population of Lashkar Gah would have turned against us.
There was a strong sense of honor and duty among guys like Crack Head, and woe betide anyone who disrespected it. Had those kids been mowed down, we’d have been lucky to escape with our lives. And the key difference between our local security in Afghanistan and here in Benghazi was this: if any one of Crack Head’s guys had proven himself incapable of handling his weapon, Crack Head would have been the first to get rid of him. It rested upon his honor to ensure that all his guys were utterly dedicated and shit-hot.
The guy I’d seen at the Embassy who’d lost the magazine off his AK-47 actually turned out to be Mutasim, the leader of the 17th February QRF—so there was a fat chance of Mutasim sacking himself. Crack Head and his boys were also some of the bravest of the brave. On several occasions I’d fought shoulder to shoulder with them, and I’d had absolute confidence they would have died for us. By contrast, my confidence levels in the 17th February Militia were at zero.
I already had Mutasim’s measure by now and he knew it. He was in the midst of doing a tourism and leisure degree at Benghazi University, yet here he was acting as the leader of the American Embassy’s QRF. The rest of his boys were equally inexperienced and unsuited to the task. One was a guy called Hamza. His favorite pastime seemed to be boasting about being a sniper during the revolution to topple Gaddafi.
“I have twenty kills to my name,” he’d announced to me. “Twenty confirmed kills.”
What a load of shit, I’d thought. “Really? Twenty kills. So what kind of range were you hitting them at?”
“Erm . . . Well, it varied.”
“Okay, so what was the maximum kill range?”
“Oh, around a mile or more,” Hamza blustered.
“A mile? Wow. Some shooting. So, what kind of weapon were you using—a Dragunov?”
The Russian Dragunov is the most common type of sniper rifle used by militaries and rebel forces the world over. It is ubiquitous and iconic. Every sniper and most soldiers in the world would know of it. It’s a bit dated compared to more modern sniper weapons, but it’s still a fine piece of equipment.
Hamza shrugged. “Dragunov? What is this?”
“It’s more or less the sniper rifle version of the AK-47. It’s also the most commonly used sniper rifle in the world.”
“Oh, I have never heard of it.”
Enough said. Hamza’s twenty confirmed sniper kills were a figment of his imagination.
One morning I arrived at the Embassy to see Mutasim strutting around with his AK and ordering my guards about. He was trying to give them all kinds of shitty, menial tasks which had nothing to do with what they were here for. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to lord it over my guards, and I’d had more than enough of it.
I walked up to him and gave it to him straight. “The guards answer to me and the Americans only. You got anything you want to say, you say it to me, direct.”
Mutasim’s English was great—it had to be for him to be QRF leader—but he barely uttered a word in response. He couldn’t even look me in the eye. Here was I, unarmed, but I was more than happy to call him out—for I knew he didn’t have a clue how to use the weapon he was carrying. Mutasim was actually scared of his own gun. I knew it, and he knew that I knew, and that’s why he so resented me.
Mutasim went off to find Rosie and he had a good moan. She called me in for a chat. She asked me if I had a problem with the QRF, and I guessed now was the time to go for it. I told her that I did, and if Mutasim continued to try to lord it over my guard force then I was out of here. She asked me what exactly was my issue.
“Put simply, when the shit hits the fan the QRF will not back you up,” I told her.
She asked me how I could be so certain.
“I’ve worked with these kind of people all over the world—or rather, I’ve tried to avoid working with Mutasim’s sort. Trust me, they’ll take your money, but in the event of an attack at best they’ll run, and at worst they’ll help your attackers.”
Rosie was visibly shocked. I told her that the QRF’s weapons skills were atrocious. I told her if she doubted me, then she should get Jim and Adam to do some weapons drills with them. I told her about Hamza boasting to me about being a sniper with twenty kills to his name, something that had sent my bullshit detector off the scale. Of course, Rosie had heard of the Dragunov—not that she claimed to be an ace sniper at more than a mile of range.
Rosie was doubly shocked. The supposed role of the QRF was to repel any attackers once the duck-and-cover alarm had been sounded, so the RSOs could get the Embassy staff into a position where they could protect them. But I knew for sure the 17th February militiamen would never fight and die alongside the Americans they were supposedly charged to protect, and I told her as much.
I’d forged a close bond with many of my guards—first and foremost Nasir and Mustaffa, plus a new guy called Zahid. They were smart, loyal, and sharp, and with Rosie’s help they were fully up to speed. None of them put the slightest faith in the QRF and their ability or willingness to stand and fight.
I’d just recruited two extra guards, Karim and Saladin, both of whom had fought big-time to topple Gaddafi. They even had videos on their mobile phones of themselves in action on the front lines. Saladin was still in need of an operation on his leg from where he’d been shot. They knew the 17th February guys employed as our QRF, and they knew that none had seen any combat—which helped explain their appalling lack of weapons-handling skills.
I explained all of this to Rosie. She pointed out that right now the QRF was the only force mandated by the State Department to carry weapons on the compound. Put simply, she didn’t have anyone else. The QRF was it. She asked me to help her do some joint drills—the QRF along with my guard force—so we could get them working as one team. I told her that I’d help in any way that I could—but in my heart I knew it was hopeless.
We scheduled the first joint training session for the following morning. I arrived at the Embassy early and went and found Rosie. She looked as if she hadn’t slept too well.
“I caught another of your guards sl
eeping on duty,” she announced. “So, I guess that’s one that’s gotta go.”
“Absolutely,” I confirmed. “In the British Army if you’re caught sleeping while on sentry you’ll never live it down. The guy’s history.”
I asked who it was. She told me it was Suffian. I winced. I’d always seen Suffian as one of my best. I left it until an hour before the end of his shift before telling him he was done. I gave him half the outstanding wages he was owed and told him he’d only get the remainder once he returned his spare uniform and ID card.
Suffian begged me to give him a second chance. “Anyway, I wasn’t sleeping. Not really. I was dropping off, but not asleep.”
Rosie was a smart lady and she’d taken a photo of him on her cell phone. I showed Suffian the image.
“That you?” I asked.
He peered at the screen and nodded morosely. “Yes, it is.”
“Tell me, do you look wide awake or fast asleep?”
Suffian had to admit that he had been sleeping. Still, he was desperate for the work and begged me to reconsider.
“Suffian, you’ve read the sign. You know the score. I’ve got no option but to get rid of you.”
I told him he was sacked, but I’d try to see if we could bring him back in. Maybe there was a way he could reapply for his job after a suitable lapse of time.
I went and talked it through with Rosie. “Suffian’s gone, but he was one of our best. What about if we let him go on a standby list to reapply?”
“Good idea. He’ll never do it again, that’s for sure. Offer him the option to reapply, but we don’t ease up the pressure. We keep showing the guard force real tough love.”
I agreed with Rosie on all of this absolutely. But there was also a part of me that was baffled by this focus on my guards. On the one hand it was fine: I was glad Rosie was kicking them into shape. But who was getting on top of the god-awful QRF—the only guys with the weaponry to mount a proper defense of the compound?
Maybe all of that was about to change. We’d scheduled the first combined drill—QRF and guard force—for directly after lunch. I got in position at the front gate so I could check how my guys performed. Rosie headed over to the QRF Villa, rousted Mutasim, and made the announcement.
“Quick! Quick! The compound is under attack!”
No sooner had she uttered those words than one of my guys hit the duck-and-cover alarm, and the horrible metallic wailing began. I saw Mutasim disappear into the QRF Villa, presumably to get his gun. The first to emerge after him was Hamza, the guy who’d boasted about being the world’s greatest sniper. I watched in utter amazement as he tripped over his own bootlaces, which were undone, and went crashing to the ground, his AK-47 scooting off into the bushes.
Mutasim came next. He leapt over Hamza, making no effort to help him up, and as he did so two magazines went flying out of his chest rig, spinning through the air, then hit the driveway, spilling rounds all over the place. He didn’t stop to pick them up but made for a sandbagged bunker in front of the VIP Villa.
From there Mutasim’s supposed role was to put down fire onto the main gateway to prevent the bad guys coming through, while the RSOs got the Mission staff to safety. But right now all he had was one thirty-round magazine for his AK to fight off the hordes of gunmen who were supposedly attacking us. The rest of the ammunition was scattered over the driveway.
The QRF were then supposed to grab their armored SUV, which was parked outside their villa, and slam it in front of the main gate to stop any hostiles driving through. A third member was supposed to get into a second armored SUV and bring it to the VIP Villa, ready to evacuate the Embassy staff. It wasn’t a bad drill in theory, but right now it was proving a total fiasco.
By the time Mutasim had made it halfway to his sandbagged position Rosie had decided to give voice to her disquiet, and boy did she let rip.
“START THE DRILL ALL OVER AGAIN!”
Rosie began to drill the QRF day and night. They never knew when the next was coming. She’d seen with her own eyes how my damning assessment of them was at least partly accurate. In terms of tactics and weapons-handling skills, they were hopeless. But she still didn’t seem to believe that they would turn and run when the bullets started to fly. Of course, I didn’t want to be proven right on that. The last thing I ever wanted was for the Embassy to be attacked and for the QRF to run, leaving the Americans to face the fire alone.
But I feared very much that that was what was coming.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rosie’s awakening about the appalling state of the QRF seemed to draw us closer together. I think she knew by now that I wasn’t a whinging Brit, a glass-half-empty kind of guy. I think she understood that my only concern was for the safety of the Embassy, and the American operators and diplomatic staff stationed there.
Rosie cleared it with Rick, the IT guy, that if I was around at mealtimes I was on the canteen roster. The heart of such an operation is always the canteen, and it was over lunch that we all got to know each other better. There were two Egyptian chefs in the kitchen, plus a Bangladeshi waiter, called Asaf, who doubled as the canteen’s cleaner. I’d worked a lot with Bangladeshis on the ships, and Asaf and I hit it off right away.
Maybe it’s the colonial legacy—Bangladesh being part of the former British Empire—but Bangladeshis certainly can swear. Their favorite everyday curses are the Hindi words gandu and benshoot—neither of which I am willing to translate. Despite the fact that they are thoroughly obscene, Bangladeshis use them as an informal way to greet each other. Asaf and I took up that time-honored tradition, combining it with our intense rivalry over cricket.
“Gandu!” I’d greet him with, as soon as I saw him.
“Benshoot!” he’d fire back.
We’d crack up laughing.
“England no good,” Asaf would continue. “No good cricket.”
“We don’t even need eleven guys to beat you lot: five would do it! Even Pakistan is better than you . . .”
Bangladesh was getting hammered at cricket and Asaf hated it. The RSOs didn’t really get the bond that countries of the former empire have over cricket, and they certainly didn’t get Asaf and me firing Hindi curses at each other. At the same time they could see that Asaf loved it: he was always the first to start. But when they asked me what the Hindi insults actually meant, they were dumbfounded.
“Gee, I mean, you can actually say that?” Rosie asked, laughing a little nervously. “Doesn’t he get upset?”
“Asaf? No, he loves it. He knows he’s a gandu. Anyway, he’s calling me a lot worse.”
I got Asaf talking, and he explained how his six-hundred-dollar monthly wage was sent home to his family in Bangladesh. It paid for his mother and father’s upkeep, and for his brother and two sisters to go to school. He kept twenty dollars a month for his welfare, and at night he’d sleep in a gangmaster’s room crammed with dozens of other migrant workers. I took to slipping Asaf the odd twenty-dollar note. He was reluctant to take it, but he needed the money.
What made Asaf and my cussing all the more amusing was the smart waiter’s uniform he wore—white shirt, black tie and trousers, plus highly polished black shoes. There he was supposed to be all formal and polite, and yet he was cursing like a trooper. It was so incongruous.
We took to watching cricket matches on the plasma TV, and I’d try my best to explain the rules to Rosie, Adam, and Jim. I tried explaining how it was like a giant game of chess. With every ball you moved your fielders into different positions, so that if the batsman did hit the ball you could still catch him out.
“So, the cricket ball, like it’s rock hard, right?” Adam would ask.
“Hard as. Way harder than a baseball. If it hits you in the face it can kill you.”
Jim would shake his head. “No way.”
“Yes way. The ball can come at you close on a hundred miles an hour, and it’s rock hard. Sure it can kill you.”
Jim shook his head again. “But the guys just loo
k so freakin’ gay.”
It was the pristine white cricket dress, complete with sharp creases in the trousers, that Jim found so unmacho.
“Hey, gandu, Jim reckons your guys playing cricket look gay!” I’d yell over to Asaf.
The three RSOs would be choking in their soups.
“No, benshoot, English cricket players gay!”
Jim would be grinning from ear to ear. “Like I said—gay as fuck.”
That was my cue to have a dig at baseball. “Least it’s not a load of fat blokes running around in circles dressed in Lycra tights and chewing tobacco.”
Everyone would be killing themselves laughing by now—Americans, Welshman, and Bangladeshi included.
One lunchtime Adam started telling me all these stories about how the QRF had fought heroically in the revolution to topple Gaddafi.
I threw him a look. “Really? Is that so? Big revolutionaries, are they?”
Adam nodded. “Man, yeah, they got some stories.”
“Yeah, and that’s all they are—stories. None of them fought in the revolution.”
“Why d’you say that?” He sounded a bit nonplussed.
“’Cause two of my guards did fight, and they have the footage on their cell phones to prove it. And they know the QRF boys, and they know they are full of shit.”
Adam looked doubtful.
“Tell you what, mate, take them out on some weapons-handling tests,” I suggested. “Then you’ll see just how good they are.”
“Oh, right.” I could tell that Adam didn’t believe me. He just thought I was bitching and being awkward.
Rosie was still drilling the QRF like crazy, so I figured she at least had to be getting their measure by now. The truth was no amount of drill would help when the guys didn’t even know the basics—how to assemble, load, and operate their weapons. Whenever I saw one of the QRF around with a loaded gun I would get well out of the way. I didn’t want to be accidentally shot by someone who thought he was a U.S. Navy SEAL but in reality didn’t know one end of an assault rifle from another.
