Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq

by H. C. Tayler

  The potential for conflict in Iraq was all over the lunchtime news, with both Bush and Blair pledging to do their utmost to get a UN resolution before committing troops to action. Like an idiot I joined the chaps getting sandwiches and plonked myself in the mess TV room, which did nothing for my nerves prior to meeting the boss. US troops were already building up significantly in the region and, as far as I could see, it was fast getting to the point of no return - in another few weeks the deployment would have generated its own momentum and Bush would have painted himself into a corner whereby he wouldn’t be able to bring his boys home without having won some kind of tangible concessions from the Iraqis. And if the concessions didn’t come . . . well, there would presumably be some kind of punch-up, and it would doubtless involve the Brits as well as the Americans. I couldn’t care less about Joe Iraqi, he could take his oil and burn it for all I cared, and as for human rights abuses, well that was clearly just an expedient excuse for taking action - there was no shortage of dictators around the world after all. But I did care that another Gulf War might involve yours truly, and for this reason alone I found myself silent in front of the BBC footage from Kuwait, rooting for a diplomatic solution to the whole mess. My face must have told a story because halfway through the news bulletin Charlie Valdez-Welch thrust a pint of the cold stuff in my hand and told me I had a face like a wet weekend.

  “The CO wants to see me after lunch,” I told him. “Don’t suppose you know what he wants?”

  “Sorry Flashy, I haven’t the foggiest,” he replied, then added, “Shit, you don’t think he’s got wind of us bunking off yesterday?”

  “No, I don’t think he has,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind too much if it was just a straightforward bollocking. It’s something else, and I’m not getting a warm fuzzy feeling about it.”

  “Well, no point brooding over it. I’m getting another beer. Want one? I mean, if it is bad news you might as well be half-cut when he dishes it out.”

  He had a point, so I accepted the beer, which in hindsight may have been a mistake. If my wits were more fully about me perhaps I could have come up with something imaginative to counteract the news the CO was about to throw at me.

  Straight after lunch I padded along the headquarters corridor which led to the CO’s office, passing a series of oil paintings of the regiment’s exploits during the 19th Century as I walked. Afghanistan featured several times, as did Persia, which should have been enough to get the alarm bells jangling.

  “Ah, Harry, there you are. Do take a seat,” said the CO, gesturing towards the leather button-back armchairs that littered the front of his office. The room was enormous, all oak panels and more oil paintings, this time of former commanding officers. His desk was also oak and measured a good eight feet across - ludicrously over the top for a battalion commander, but then it had been in the regiment for well over 100 years. I sat myself down with a growing feeling of unease. “I expect you’re wondering what all this is about,” he continued. Too bloody right I was. “Well the long and the short of it is that a job has come up with your old friends at 3 Commando Brigade.” My heart sank like a stone. I had only returned from service in Afghanistan with the Royal Marines six months earlier - a tour of duty which had hugely enhanced my reputation (albeit not through any of my own actions) but very nearly cost me my life.

  “But Colonel . . .,” I stuttered, but it was no use, he simply waved an impatient arm to shut me up. “Harry, I know perfectly well what you are going to say. Of course it’s jolly noble to think that another chap should be given a crack of the whip, but I have the reputation of the regiment to think of and you have an absolutely first-class track record with the Marines. Just look at the report that they wrote last time around!” He reached into his desk drawer and produced the dreaded document then waved it theatrically at me across the desk. “First-class! Courageous! A clear thinker! Cool under fire! It’s all in here Harry. Once I re-read this there was no doubt in my mind that you were the right man - the only man - for the job.”

  My head was swimming. It seemed only yesterday that I had found myself cowering behind the mud wall of a fort in the Hindu Kush while hoards of Taliban fiends fired AK47s and lobbed grenades in my general direction. In the nick of time I managed to call in an airstrike, although I came within an ace of getting myself shot in the process. I counted it little short of a miracle that I had survived at all and frankly if that was the sort of place the Royal Marines frequented then they could keep it. And yet here I was about to be sent back to the commandos at a time when there was another war looming. It was too awful for words. I think the shock must have affected my speech, for I simply sat staring at the CO in disbelief, not uttering a sound. He probably took this to be a show of steely resolution, the daft old sod.

  “Now the Marines,” continued the boss, “want someone who can act as a liaison officer between themselves and whichever armoured unit the MoD chooses to send to the Gulf. Good chaps, the commandos, but they know bugger all about armoured warfare, as I’m sure you remember from your time with them last year.” I sat there shivering in disbelief as he droned on. “You’ll be attached to Brigade Headquarters, at least at first, but they reckon you’ll probably be pushed forward to a commando unit if there is any actual fighting, to advise the CO on the mechanics of tying up with armoured formations for any push into Iraq.” He beamed at me from across the desk. “Well Harry, what do you think? Pretty bloody good, eh? We all know how much you enjoyed last year’s deployment and working with the Marines. I expect they’ll be delighted to have you back - you’re becoming something of a permanent fixture within 3 Brigade, eh?” He chortled at his own joke, while my insides turned to jelly. It would mean months spent among officers who, while presumably reasonably competent at their jobs, shared nothing in common with me whatsoever. There was barely an old school tie between them, none of them could ride, polo was a foreign language to them and, while my idea of vigorous exercise was a round of golf, theirs was a 15-mile run followed by press-ups outside the mess. The whole prospect of returning to them was simply too awful for words.

  “You’ll receive the joining instructions in a couple of days and you’ll need to be with them immediately after Christmas leave,” said the CO. “I know you’ll love every minute of it Harry. Ah, sometimes I wish I was a younger man - this is just the kind of opportunity I would have jumped at.”

  Lying bastard, I thought, twenty years earlier he was probably skulking around the clubs of London, doing his best to avoid serving in Northern Ireland and bouncing every filly in sight. Which is precisely what I would have been doing this New Year, if this bombshell hadn’t just been dropped on me. I bade him farewell and sloped back to the mess, in urgent need of a stiff drink.

  NOTES

  1. Flashman is referring to the dossier compiled by the Labour Government and the Joint intelligence Committee (JIC) in September 2002, detailing Saddam Hussein’s alleged weapons of mass destruction and including the now infamous claim, subsequently found to be false, that the Iraqi leader could deploy such weapons within 45 minutes. No weapons of mass destruction were found following the invasion and an independent inquiry in the UK, chaired by Lord Butler, found that Tony Blair’s cabinet and the JIC had both made grave errors of judgement in publishing the dossier without significant caveats about the reliability of the intelligence contained therein.

  2. PJHQ: Permanent Joint Headquarters, the UK’s centre of operations, located at Northwood, west London.

  3. CDS: Chief of Defence Staff.

  2

  With the news of my impending posting still fresh in my mind I found myself somewhat distracted during Christmas leave. Even the prospect of brandy, bonhomie and slaughtering pheasants with the chaps from my Sandhurst platoon was not enough to lift me from my sulk and the whole festive season passed me by like a ticking clock, each day bringing me just a little nearer to my departure for Plymouth. The whole situation was too ghastly for words but it did have one saving grace,
in that my pained expression was noticed by Roddy Woodstock’s rather attractive younger sister, Charlotte, who asked why I was looking so glum. I must admit that I hammed up the answer somewhat such that it had the desired effect and, a couple of stiff drinks later, she insisted on taking me to bed for the afternoon, which was something of a tonic I don’t mind telling you. Nevertheless, the two weeks of Christmas leave was over soon enough and on January 3rd I found myself disconsolately packing my bags and preparing myself for life in the desert. This was bad enough in itself and made substantially worse by the Royal Marines’ insistence that I bring only one large kitbag in addition to my bergen and webbing. I had always found several bags and my old Wellington school trunk insufficient to hold all my belongings when moving from place to place with the regiment, yet now I was expected to achieve the same result with less than a third of the space. It was absurd and my mood blackened further as I was forced to abandon a perfectly good case of scotch and also, would you credit it, my duvet. (After numerous uncomfortable exercises spent shivering on the Barossa training area I had vowed not to spend any unnecessary nights in a sleeping bag and yet here I was preparing, for the second time in a year, to spend months sleeping in the wretched thing.) In the interim there would be just a couple of nights in the officers’ mess down in Plymouth before we set off for the Gulf and I had no intention whatsoever of leaving a room full of clobber for the light-fingered Royal Marines rear party to pilfer while I was gone. Come to that, I had no intention of returning to Plymouth at all and, assuming I made it unscathed through the adventure ahead, I planned to bid farewell to the Marines the minute we returned to English soil. With this in mind it felt a little easier to leave most of my trappings in my room in the regimental mess in the hope that they would be the first possessions to welcome me home, so to speak.

  A sharp hoot on a car horn alerted me to the presence of the duty driver outside my window and it was with heavy heart that I heard the latch on my room door click shut behind me as I staggered down the corridor with my bag, bergen and webbing. The staff car - a ridiculously over-pompous term for a car unbecoming of a second-rate sales rep - was right outside the back door of the mess and the driver, lance corporal someone-or-other, was all smiles and good wishes as he loaded my clobber into the boot.

  “The duty sergeant tells me you’re off back to the Marines, to go to the Gulf, Sir,” he beamed at me. “I bet you can’t wait. A bit more exciting with the Marines, I suppose, than with the Regiment.” Then, realising his perceived disloyalty, he caught himself and quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with the QRH of course but, you know, tours of the Balkans can get a bit repetitive for the lads.”

  I had spoken about almost nothing else for the whole of Christmas Leave so, as you might imagine, I was royally aggrieved that after enduring a fortnight of answering inane questions about the Middle East I should have to face more of the same from an idiot driver. I flew into a rage, told him what I thought of him and, if memory serves me, I think I even threatened to charge him with insubordination if he didn’t shut up. Fortunately the obsequious little toad got the message and we drove the route to Warminster railway station in complete silence which, considering the alternative, was absolute bliss. He even unloaded my bags onto a luggage trolley and wheeled it to my platform without uttering a sound, then hovered around, presumably waiting for my train to arrive so that he could load the baggage on-board for me. It was a distraction I could do without, so I shooed him away and spent an enjoyable ten minutes waiting for the train sending Charlotte Woodstock solicitous text messages from my mobile phone.

  Once on-board, I found an empty first-class compartment and watched England’s rather soggy and not-so-pleasant landscape pass by the window until we reached Exeter St David’s, where I had to change trains. Again I had a few minutes to kill and, asides from pestering La Woodstock with yet more lurid messages, I amused myself by counting the number of Royal Marines recruits I could spot on the station. (1) Eventually the Plymouth train rolled in and with a heavy heart and a strong sense of deja vu I clambered aboard. Less than an hour later and the feeling was stronger than ever, as I shuffled out to the taxi rank in front of Plymouth station, feeling the cold coastal drizzle dampening my cheeks and hearing the cabby’s west country burr as he asked where I was going.

  “Stonehouse, if you please,” I answered.

  “I thought you must be goin’ there,” he responded. “I seen ‘em bags of yours and I thought aye aye, that’ll be another arrival destined for the desert. There’s been plenty of ‘em during Christmas Leave, I don’t mind tellin’ you.” Well at least I won’t be the only Johnny-come-lately in the mess, I thought to myself, a few more new arrivals to keep me company will be no bad thing.

  Stonehouse Barracks was exactly as I remembered it: a beautiful Victorian stone quadrangle with offices and accommodation mixed higgledy piggledy on all sides, and the entrance to the officers’ mess nestling in a far corner. The setting would have had more impact if the centre of the quad had not been used as a regimental car park, but even with the addition of a hundred or so cars it was a very picturesque scene. Plymouth was hardly somewhere I would ever wish to be based but I couldn’t help thinking quietly to myself that such a glorious headquarters was somewhat wasted on the Marines, most of whom would have been just as happy in prefabricated squalor dating from the 1970s - as indeed was proven by the living quarters of 42 Commando, just a few short miles down the road. (2) I showed my ID card briefly to the young chap manning the main gate and loped across the courtyard to the mess, where the porter relieved me of my bag (but left me wrestling with the bergen) and showed me to my room (or cabin, as the Marines insist on calling them, in a transparent attempt to remind the rest of the world that they are part of the Senior Service), a pokey little hovel on the ground floor, complete with creaking pipes and peeling paint. Still, it would do for a couple of nights and would no doubt seem the height of luxury compared to whatever deprivations lay ahead. I unpacked the few personal items I had brought with me in a futile attempt to make the room a little more homely. Its saving grace was a proximity to the bar, where I had every intention of spending as much of the ensuing 48 hours as possible. Many of life’s little luxuries would probably be lacking in Kuwait and the absence of alcohol was a racing certainty. In addition to a carefully secreted bottle or two in my bags, I planned to smuggle as much out in my bloodstream as humanly possible. Having hung up my kit and partially emptied my bags there seemed little point in loitering around my bedroom, so I made my way through to the lounge to see whether there was anyone else on-board.

  As it turned out there were numerous officers of assorted cap badges adorning the bar. A heated debate was taking place and I had difficulty making out what the discussion was about, so I ordered myself a beer and shuffled closer to the group. At first I mistakenly thought the conversation was about whether Britain should be sending troops to the Gulf at all. The UK as a whole was divided by the issue and these debates were taking place in messes and clubs up and down the country. The hawks were determined to sock it to Saddam while the doves reasoned that the UN should be given more time to deal with him and anyway, what was the rush to invade when we couldn’t properly quantify the threat that Iraq posed. For Flashy at least, the debate had reached resolution: if I was on the nominal of troops to be sent to the Gulf, then clearly the UK should not be taking part in such folly. I was about to offer my two pennies’ worth on the topic, when I spotted the chap at the centre of the group and overheard a snapshot of conversation, accompanied by some emotional gesticulation.

  “Well, what can I do?” (Waving of hands and shrugging shoulders.) “We are all in zee military, non? So I must do as I am told. But zat doesn’t mean I ‘ave to agree wiz it. It’s a stupid decision, tres bete. And very frustrating for me, ziz you must understand. I would love to go, of course, I am a professionelle, juste like you.”

  By this stage I had a clear view of the individual and could
see that he was sporting French uniform, which only served to beg the question of what a frog was doing in the officers’ mess of 3 Commando Brigade Headquarters. The discussion was quickly halted as said frog spotted me from across the bar and waved the group aside.

  “Anyhow, we have a guest,” he announced, waving me into the group. “I apologise monsieur, we did not mean to be so rude. You must be new here.” He outstretched a hand in greeting, which I shook, in spite of my inveterate dislike of all things French.

  I introduced myself to the Frenchman, who I could now see was a captain in the French commandos, and to the rest of the group, which consisted of a Navy doctor, OC Brigade Recce Force, an attached officer from the Royal Artillery, and an assortment of Royal Marines staff officers - the usual group of skivers and drinkers that one finds in a mess on any given weekday afternoon. Funny how quickly a headquarters changes its staff: I could remember none of them from Afghanistan less than a year earlier.

  Light was soon shed on their conversation. The French officer was on a two-year attachment to 3 Commando Brigade, and the French government had just issued an instruction that, since their troops were not to be involved in any action against Iraq, he was not to deploy with the Marines. His line, or at least the line he was taking when talking to the British, was that he was part of Brigade Headquarters and should therefore be perfectly entitled to go on operations with them. It takes one to know one, as they say, and I had delivered enough bluff and bravado in my time to have my suspicions of what his real emotions might be. I must admit feeling a fair pang of envy -the lucky swine would presumably waft his way back to Paris and spend a happy six months whoring and drinking Chablis while the rest of us were forced to slog it out in the fetid heat of the Middle East. Amongst his military peers, missing out on the deployment wouldn’t matter a farthing, since the French government had already made it plain that no French troops would be committed unless there was a fresh UN resolution which, as they held a veto on the Security Council, seemed highly improbable. Instead the opportunistic bastards would simply sit on the sidelines and wait for the shooting to finish before muscling in on the most lucrative reconstruction contracts, all shrugging shoulders and Gallic charm, no doubt. Fair weather allies, aye, and when the clouds roll in just look at ‘em run, I thought to myself.