Eye of the Storm

by Peter Ratcliffe

  It was about 0630, just on first light, when the vehicles returned. I walked over to Pat’s wagon and immediately asked him, ‘How was it?’

  ‘There’s no simple way across the motorway,’ he told me.

  ‘Does that mean we can cross, or that we can’t cross?’ I pressed him.

  ‘Well,’ he said, looking at me hard, ‘you could probably cross under a culvert, but it would be a tight squeeze. Plus you wouldn’t get the Unimog through, and if you came back the same way you’d have it all to do again.’

  ‘Did you go into a culvert to check the ground?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t check,’ he confessed. ‘Time was against us. But further down the road we found a gap in the central crash barriers. There’s a continuous concrete-sided storm drain or open culvert running right along the central reservation between the two carriageways, about three feet wide and four feet deep. If we could get across there, at the gap, then right opposite is a service station, which didn’t appear to be manned. Though it could be used at any time by the Iraqis as a military base,’ he added.

  ‘Forget about that,’ I told him. ‘Tell me about getting across.’

  Pat had obviously given the matter some careful thought. ‘Well, as I said, it won’t be that easy. But if each vehicle carried two sandbags inside the spare tyre on the bonnet, then when we get to the gap in the barriers we could fill in the central culvert with the sandbags, lay a couple of sand channels down on them and drive across.’

  I thought for a moment, trying to visualize the site. Off the top of my head I couldn’t see any obvious problem with the plan.

  ‘That’s a good idea, Pat,’ I said. ‘We’ll do it that way.’

  From the look on his face, however, my approval didn’t please him one little bit.

  ‘Me and some of the guys think you should call the whole thing off,’ he said sheepishly. ‘It’s an impossible mission.’

  ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘No mission is impossible. We’re going. Now get some kip. We’re leaving tonight at seventeen-thirty, and I’ll be holding an O-group at fifteen-thirty.’

  It worried me that some of the men might not be fully committed to our task, but I still reckoned that the majority would be hoping to be given key roles, and to be put in the thick of the action when the time came. After all, this is what we had spent so many years training for. It was why we were in the army and not pushing pencils in a bank, or doing something equally ordinary. Above all, it was why we were in the SAS, and not in some other regiment or corps. I only hoped that when it came to it none of them would let me – or their mates – down. For the time being, however, I had to put all that out of my mind and get on the radio. I had to find out what further intelligence I could squeeze out of HQ.

  In the event it wasn’t much. I was told by the ops officer that we could expect to find only three or four Iraqi technicians on duty in the middle of the night, and Intel reckoned no more than a couple of dozen troops would have been assigned to protecting the relay station. But whether this was based on fact or just inspired guess-work, HQ wasn’t saying. To me, it sounded much too good to be true, and I felt the sharp teeth of suspicion and foreboding gnawing away at my innards. Even the photos taken by the high-flying American spy planes must have told them more than this. Yet if they did know any more, then for reasons best known to themselves they were not letting us in on it.

  Not that I would have approached the problem any differently. With the force at my disposal I didn’t have many options. I had only thirty-four guys, and whether it turned out to be thirty against thirty or thirty against three hundred, I wouldn’t – indeed, couldn’t – have changed things. We still had to go in. It would just have been nice knowing, that’s all. I brooded on all this as the day wore on, until, at 1530 hours, I gathered the entire half-squadron around me for orders.

  In giving military orders for an operation, the commander talks about the intelligence, the ground, the execution and the general outline. It didn’t take long to cover the intelligence. We knew where and what the target was, and had an estimate of the enemy strength. The ground took little longer. I explained our model and where the target stood in relation to the motorway, then told them that it was my intention to lead a final recce – a CTR or close-target recce – to the edge of the target just before we went in, and that the intelligence we gathered from this would be given out at the last moment before the attack. In the meantime we would travel in single-file convoy to the motorway, locate the gap in the crash barriers on the central reservation, and use sand-bags and sand channels to bridge the central storm drain. We would then move to within a kilometre of the target.

  In the first stage of the attack I would enter the target building with three demolitionists and five other men, so that each demolition man would have two men to cover him and help carry the explosives. The rest of the patrol would be deployed to give fire support, or on other tasks which I would detail later.

  I had already decided to take Mugger with me on the final recce. As the lead demolitionist I wanted him to have an advance look at the target. Des would also be on the team, as would Ken, who was to be second demolitionist. He could help Mugger work out beforehand what explosives they would need. I left the choice of the final recce-team member to Pat, who knew the men far better than I. I did ask him, though, who was our best man on the spy glass, an extremely compact thermal-imaging device used mainly for night reconnaissance, which allows you to identify objects, and especially people, at night or in poor visibility by producing an image of anything that is a heat source.

  Pat considered for a moment or two, and then replied, ‘Yorky’s your man. He’s the best we’ve got.’

  ‘Okay Yorky,’ I said, looking towards the large figure of Pat’s driver where he stood in the loose circle of men surrounding our model, ‘you’ll be on the recce with me tonight.’

  Just before I dismissed the men I told them to check over their weapons, spare ammunition and vehicles and be ready to move out at 1730. Everything else, including surface-to-air missiles (we were carrying Stingers with us) and spare fuel and water, would be left in, or stacked alongside the Unimog which, having first been booby-trapped and camouflaged, would remain otherwise undefended at the LUP.

  While Mugger and Harry did the checks on our wagon and transferred additional ammunition from the Unimog, I radioed HQ for the last time before we went into action. I informed them of my intentions for the night ahead, and advised them not to expect further radio contact until after we had completed the operation.

  At exactly 1730 hours our convoy – eight Land Rovers led by Pat’s vehicle and accompanied by all three bikes – pulled out of the LUP, leaving the Unimog under its cam net. Anyone who tried to mess with it was going to get a horrible shock in the fraction of a second before he was atomized. We headed northwards in the gathering twilight, and I don’t suppose there was a single one of us who didn’t reflect on the night ahead, and whether he’d see the dawn.

  Some hours and about thirty kilometres later we reached the deserted motorway and began searching for the gap in the central reservation that Pat and his team had spotted the night before. Having found the right place, we packed the sandbags in place in the storm drain, unhooked the metal sand channels from the sides of two Land Rovers, and carefully arranged them in position on top before slowly driving across to the north carriageway. I ordered the guys to leave the sandbags in position, so we could beat a fast retreat if we had to, and we began the last leg of our journey to the target. When we were approximately a thousand metres short of it Pat stopped, as he had been briefed to do, and I closed in on his vehicle. From here I would take my team – Mugger, Des, Ken and Yorky – forward on foot for the CTR. The rest of the guys were to stay with the vehicles until they heard from me or until I got back. I would give my final confirmatory orders after the recce.

  We had pulled up about thirty metres west of the roadway – a main supply route linking MSR3 with the town of Nukhayb
– that ran north to its junction with the east-west road fronting the target building and mast. To our left, some thirty metres further west and running parallel with the road on our right, was a massive berm about ten feet high.

  Slow going meant that we were already behind schedule, and the moon was well over the horizon and rising. It was less than a quarter full, but as bad luck would have it we had been granted a clear night for our mission, and there was already quite a lot of light. We could see the road and the berm quite clearly – a pity, since I had hoped to launch our attack before the moon came up.

  I checked my team. There were Ken, Des and Mugger, and finally Yorky, coming round the side of Pat’s wagon. Everyone except me was wearing a steel helmet, which we call a pot. I find them cumbersome and have never felt comfortable wearing one. Perhaps this was not a good example to the other men, but it was my head and I preferred to leave it bare.

  In his big steel pot, Yorky, all six feet three inches of him, looked rather like an understudy for one of the Flowerpot Men. He was wearing a flak jacket, which is supposed to stop shrapnel and at least to slow a 7.62 round, tightly buttoned to the top, and over this he had his belt kit, with full yokes and extra pouches, as well as bandoliers of extra ammunition criss-crossed from his shoulders. His weapon, an M16, was across his back on a sling, and the spy glass hung from a cord around his neck.

  On a recce, and especially a CTR, it is vital that you should be able to move stealthily, quickly and with the least possible noise. The rest of us were in light order, which is ordinary desert gear with sleeves rolled down, standard belt kit and our weapons. Yorky, however, reminded me of one of those one-man-band buskers you used to see in London, hung about with drums and cymbals and trumpet, and other instruments as well. It was too late to tell him to change, but I remember thinking at the time that I was probably going to have problems with this one. For now, though, we had to get moving, so I pointed north to where, in the moonlight, we could make out the mast and said, ‘OK, Yorky, off you go.’

  He looked shocked. ‘What? Me? At the front?’

  ‘Well, you’ll be no fucking good with that spy glass in the rear,’ I replied. ‘Of course you go in front. Now get going, we’re late.’

  It was obvious to me and the rest of the party that Yorky was not exactly overjoyed at being given the honour of leading, but it was equally obvious that he couldn’t think of a good excuse to get out of it. After a few tense moments he led off slowly in the direction of where the main target ought to be, beneath the huge, skywards-pointing finger of the mast. I followed on, three or four metres behind, with the others strung out behind me at similar intervals.

  However, we had only gone about fifty metres when, without a word of warning, Yorky suddenly dived full length on the ground. I walked up and, looking down at him curiously, said, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘There’s an enemy bunker about fifty metres ahead of us,’ he answered in a loud stage whisper.

  ‘Is it manned?’ The spy glass ought to tell him this, since it can detect heat signatures from bodies even through a wall.

  ‘No – at least, I don’t think so.’

  Our CTR, already delayed, was in danger of becoming a farce. I kicked him quite sharply on the ankle and said, ‘In that case get on your feet and keep moving.’

  By the time we had covered another hundred metres we could visually identify the target building. Behind it the lights showed like pinpricks over a considerable area, almost the size of a small town, and, just beyond the main supply road, the relay block and steel mast were etched in silver moonlight. To the right of these buildings and on our – southern – side of the supply road was a large enemy bunker, built mainly of sandbags and timber, which looked to have been constructed by proper engineers rather than ordinary Iraqi soldiers. Through the slits in its sides we could see, outlined against the bright interior lights, a good deal of movement. It was clearly manned, and probably in some numbers.

  As we stood watching a large vehicle, which seemed to be brightly lit from front to rear, drove along the main road from the east and passed in front of the relay station and mast before turning south, towards us, on the road to our right. Although it was still some eight hundred metres away Yorky again dived full length to the ground.

  ‘Now what’s wrong?’ I asked. What little patience I’d had with him was rapidly wearing thin.

  ‘Vehicle, vehicle, vehicle!’ he replied.

  ‘I can see the fucking vehicle,’ I said.

  I slowly sank down until I was on one knee. You always get down very slowly in white light and keep one eye closed so that at least the night vision in that eye won’t be wrecked. That way you can take a look at whatever it is that passes without being seen and without throwing any shadows. Behind me, the other three had also slowly crouched down.

  As the vehicle drew closer I began to recognize the shape. It was a coach with all its interior lights switched on, as well as its headlights. The driver appeared to be the only person aboard. It was probably a very wise move to have all the lights on, since any Allied pilot who saw it would be unlikely to think that it posed a threat; no Iraqi military vehicle would dare drive along at night lit up like a Christmas tree.

  As it drew level we could see that it was a brand-new luxury coach, of the type that football teams take to their away games and which, as a kid, I had used to call a ‘charabanc’. It was not until 1996 that I heard General de la Billière explain that the Iraqis had used this kind of coach to transport Scud missiles. At the time, however, we had no idea, but I now realize that the driver must have been collecting or moving a Scud that night. In any case, with what we already had on our plate there wasn’t very much we could have done about it, even had we known it was carrying half a dozen of the missiles.

  When the coach had thundered on past us – with not so much as a glance in our direction from the driver – I told Yorky to get up and carry on towards the target. We were about five hundred metres from it when he dived to the ground yet again. I turned to Des, who was immediately behind me, and said, ‘Is this guy for real, or what?’

  Des just shrugged his shoulders and smiled. My problem, he seemed to be indicating. My patience was exhausted, however. ‘What the fuck’s wrong now, Yorky?’ I demanded.

  ‘An enemy bunker!’ His voice came out as a sort of croak.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the left,’ he said, pointing.

  ‘Is it manned?’ Since the spy glass worked by thermal imagery, he should have been able to tell me that.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘And before you ask, I’m not fucking looking.’

  I walked past him and took a careful look around the scrub and rocks that partly screened the enemy position. There was an L-shaped dugout bunker ahead, but it was in complete darkness. I edged forward as quietly as possible until I was able to see over the low sandbagged wall. The bunker was obviously well built, probably by engineers. It was empty. That did it. What was the point of having an expert with a thermal-imaging device if, in the end, you had to go and find out for yourself using the MkI eyeball?

  I returned to the corner and motioned with my arm for Mugger, who was behind Des, to come forward. As he came up I told him, ‘I want you to take this clown’ – indicating Yorky – ‘back to where the others are waiting. Then tell them that I want all the vehicles and the rest of the half-squadron down here in half an hour.’

  As soon as they had gone I led the other pair to the bunker. From there we had a good view not only of the main target but also of what appeared to be, from the dark shapes and dozens of lights, some kind of encampment about half a kilometre further north. It was clearly military, and it was equally clearly manned. So much for there being only thirty or so Iraqi soldiers at the location. Every few minutes the impression was strengthening that this target was going to be a sight more difficult to crack than I’d first imagined when I got the brief over the radio. For now, however, I would have to take into account the en
emy dispositions we had so far discovered during the recce.

  ‘I’m going to sit here and work on our plan,’ I told Des and Ken. ‘Meanwhile I want you two to go forward another couple of hundred metres and see if there are any more nasty surprises for us down there. Don’t worry about the camp to the north. By the time those guys get involved, we’ll either be out of there, or never going to come out.

  ‘And for God’s sake don’t take any chances and get compromised. Just take a good look and then rejoin me back here.’

  ‘OK, Billy,’ they chorused, grinning like a pair of Cheshire cats. Then they slipped out of the bunker and were gone. These were exactly the sort of guys I wanted for that kind of patrol – stable, positive and reliable, they were also first-class soldiers. The right stuff, if ever there was any.

  If the rest of the men had all been like Des and Ken I wouldn’t have been feeling so anxious. I had serious doubts about Yorky, however, who had become erratic in his behaviour to the point of being a liability. Not something I would have expected from an SAS soldier. To add to the problem, I also believed that most of the others were expecting me to call the mission off now that we were within the target area and could see the size of the problem.

  Certainly we were heavily outnumbered, and possibly outgunned as well. I knew that, ideally, I could have done with the whole Regiment to handle this attack, instead of just thirty-four of us – a number that included the few doubtful types who thought the whole mission was suicidal. But we also knew that there was no chance whatever of reinforcements streaming down the slope, like the US Cavalry in Western movies, to join us if things started going wrong. I had no other choice than to make the most of what I’d been given. None the less, I remained certain of my objective: this mission was going ahead as ordered. Calling it off was simply not an option.

  Sitting down in the empty bunker, I covertly cupped a cigarette in my hands and sucked the smoke deep into my lungs as I turned over the problems we faced. One thing that would have to be taken out straight away if things went noisy was the large manned bunker ahead of us and to the right of the target. The best way to achieve that was with a Milan anti-tank missile. These weapons are extremely effective not only against armour but also against fixed defences. All the operator has to do is to keep the target in his sights after launch and the missile is guided through a trailing-wire system, which stays with it until impact. The launcher had to be at least 400 metres away from the target, so if we moved up one of the Milan-carrying wagons to close to where I was sitting, it would be perfectly placed to take out the bunker.