by H. C. Tayler
“... if the Iraqis launch an armoured counter-attack, they’ve really only got two possible routes to follow - here, and here. We can get a blocking force deployed on those routes pretty bloody quickly once we hit the ground. That’s got to be our first priority. Then we can start sending probing patrols north and west to find out where the enemy depth positions are . . .” I peered into the group, but could not make out any of the detail of the air photograph they were examining. However, I knew from the Brigade Headquarters briefings that 42 Commando was flying directly onto the Al Faw peninsular, right on Iraq’s south-eastern tip. Equally, I knew the strategic significance of grabbing the Al Faw oil installations intact. It was a distinct possibility that the Iraqis would blow the high-pressure oil pipelines, thereby flooding the northern Gulf with crude. The environmental damage would be huge, and so would the PR damage back home, so the pressure was on to ensure that whoever landed on the Al Faw did it quickly and cleanly, and allowed the Iraqis the least possible opportunity to create any deliberate collateral damage. 40 Commando - the sister unit to the one I found myself in - would lead the assault, while 42 Commando landed on their north-western flank to deal with Iraqi depth positions and block any possible counter attack. The wide open spaces inland from the tip of the peninsular were potentially good country for armoured warfare, so 42 Commando was to have an attached squadron of Welsh Cavalry to provide an armoured recce screen to their north and west.(1)
The conversation in front of me continued with further gesticulating at the aerial photographs: “What anti-tank assets are we deploying here? We can’t claim to have deployed a blocking force if we’ve only got blokes with light weapon systems, and we can’t get our vehicle-mounted Milans in until the LCACs are functioning.”(2) (3)
This was immediately countered by someone else in the group. “Well, we can deploy man packed Milan if we have to. Or maybe we could bring in underslung vehicles by helicopter?”
This was answered by a tall, sandy-haired figure standing at the top of the planning table, whom I quickly realised was the Commanding Officer. “We could do that if we absolutely had to - although we’ll need to find out whether the American helicopters can undersling our vehicles - but I’d rather explore other alternatives first. It seems to me we can have a pretty effective block in place just by using the organic assets of our close-combat companies, plus UMST.”(4)
There was a murmuring of assent to this last remark, although clearly there was still some concern about the unknown enemy dispositions on the Al Faw. The problem was exacerbated by the date palm plantations and other greenery on the northern side of the peninsula, where fresh water from the Shat-al-Arab waterway was used to irrigate the land. I vividly remembered from my Kosovo days how easy it had been for the Serbs to hide their tanks in the wooded areas of southern Yugoslavia. All the air photographs in the world were no good if your enemy chose to position his armoured formations in woodland - and frankly they would have to be pretty stupid to do anything else. Yet here we were, about to embark on an opposed landing in country which was home to hundreds of acres of date palm plantations. I shuddered quietly at the idea and consoled myself with the thought that while 42 Commando’s fighting companies would be slugging it out on the Al Faw, the Commando headquarters would presumably not fly in from Kuwait until the area was deemed relatively safe.
The planning group broke up and, their eyes no longer fixed on the photographs and maps, they noticed there was a stranger waiting for them. I stepped forward and introduced myself.
“Ah, Harry, nice to meet you,” exclaimed the CO, holding out his hand. “Were we expecting you?” Then, looking over his shoulder at the adjutant, “Were we expecting him?”
“Yes, Colonel,” responded the adjutant. “I got a phone call this morning from Brigade to say they were sending him up.”
“Well why wasn’t I bloody told about it?” grumbled the CO. “I’m always the last person to know about our new arrivals. It’s faintly embarrassing not knowing who all these people are.” But it was all said in good humour and it seemed that he was genuinely pleased to have me on board. I guessed - correctly, as it turned out - that 42 Commando was being deluged with new arrivals in a similar way to the brigade headquarters, and I was therefore just the latest in a long line of unexpected visitors. The adjutant later made a count of them and the total was in the dozens with cap badges including the Royal Navy, RAF, Joint NBC Regiment, Royal Engineers and now, of course, the Hussars. Before I could depart the CO invited me to lunch in his tent, which turned out to be much less formal than it sounded. The tent was a scaled-down version of the standard accommodation marquees which now littered Kuwait, and the furniture was limited to four canvas camp beds. Lunch was even more meagre than the offering at Camp Commando, consisting only of mug of lukewarm tea and a disgusting American ration pack - but I was famished, so I ate the thing anyway.(5)
“Tell me a bit about yourself,” asked the CO. “Your knowledge of armoured manoeuvre will be in demand in the headquarters, so I’d like to know what experience you’ve got.”
I wasn’t expecting a job interview but managed to stutter out a rough summary of my military CV: Bosnia, Northern Ireland, Congo, Kosovo, Sierra Leone, Afghanistan, plus a few exercises and the ubiquitous pass at Junior Staff College. The CO seemed entirely unimpressed, which rather took the wind of out of my sails.
“All very good, but what else have you done?” he asked. Then, to clarify, “Frankly, any medal-collecting war tourist could have managed a raft of peacekeeping operations. They’re two-a-penny these days. What I’m interested in is your tactical knowledge of armoured deployments. What makes you a particular expert on armoured warfare?”
This was much harder to answer as so much of my time had, as he alluded to, been spent away from my regiment. I waffled out a rather weak answer and pointed out that I had spent some time in both Germany and Bosnia with a Challenger squadron back in the mid-nineties. I was expecting another stiff questioning about my exact role but the answer seemed to placate him and the conversation moved on to the current political situation and the impending hostilities.
“So how long do you think we’ll be stuck here?” he asked, his impatience transparent through the question. “You’ve come from Brigade, what’s the word on the street about when we’ll cross the start line?”
This was potentially stony ground. I was rapidly realising that the ambition of most Royal Marines was simply to get stuck into a good fight sooner rather than later and this mindset wasn’t limited to the boys, it was reflected throughout the hierarchy as well. I was savvy enough to know that my inner craving for a peaceful solution to the situation - not to mention a rapid (and safe) return home to Blighty - would be as welcome as a jobby in a swimming pool. No, this was a time for a spot of the traditional Flashman bravado.
“Well Sir, there’s a huge air of expectation and impatience at Camp Commando,” I answered. “Division is keeping tight-lipped about the start date, but then most of those wankers are more interested in writing their own CRs than getting on with the war.”(6) The CO chuckled conspiratorially and I sensed I may have struck a chord, “The Americans are more forthcoming though. They’ll tell you pretty much everything over a cup of tea and a sticky bun - to the point where Div has gone apeshit about Marines talking direct with them - and they reckon we’ll be in Iraq in the next couple of weeks.”
“Well that’s heartening to hear,” he replied. “It’s bloody hard graft keeping 700 blokes motivated day after day. The Unit is doing well at the moment, but these interminable delays will inevitably take their toll on morale in the end. We’ve been ready to go for weeks. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner we get the green light, the better.”
Before I departed Camp Commando, I had taken time to find out a little about 42 Commando’s CO. A mountain leader by trade, he was something of a task-master who led from the front and had a reputation for expecting - and getting - the highest standard of work from all around him.
Expecting high standards from his men didn’t faze me too much (although given the opportunity I generally prefer to shirk a day’s work wherever possible) but I was much more worried by his background as a mountain leader. Royal Marines mountain leaders are a rare breed of lunatic whose trade involves scaling slippery, rainswept cliffs at night, snurgling around in the dark like so many cat burglars and throttling unsuspecting sentries. They are an altogether unsavoury mob whose attitude to risk is significantly more cavalier than the rest of humanity. In itself that’s not necessarily a disaster: if a fellow is determined to kill himself in some ill-conceived enterprise, that’s his business and all power to him, I say. But when that same fellow is given command of 700-odd souls and told to take them into battle, the alarm bells start jangling. I hoped that 42 Commando’s staff would keep him reined in but in my heart I suspected that when push came to shove, we would be shoved firmly into harm’s way.
My interview - for that was what it felt like - with the CO over, I made my way blinking out of his tent, momentarily dazzled by the strong desert sun. I now felt as if I had formally joined the battle group but still had no accommodation and only a faint idea of the geography of the camp. It was time to find a home and get my bearings. I set off in search of the QM whom I assumed would be the man in charge of accommodation. When I eventually tracked him down, his answer was less than satisfactory.(7)
“Bloody hell, another new joiner.” I looked suitably dismayed, but he quickly shook me by the hand, welcomed me to this “armpit of a place”, and assured me he’d find some kind of accommodation before the day was done. I wasn’t entirely reassured but set off for a walk around the camp while he went in search of spare tentage.
Camp Gibraltar was essentially nothing more than a huge rectangle of earth walls, separated into three equal sections by dividing earth walls. It took me almost an hour to walk all the way around, my feet slipping in the loose sand that had already been churned up by hundreds of Marines running countless laps of the perimeter. In the section of the camp nearest the road lay the Commando Logistics Regiment and 3 Brigade’s Command Support Group. The place was full of shipping containers, fuel tankers, tents and vehicles, and festooned with radio masts, satellite dishes and other assorted communications paraphernalia. Fork-lift trucks and flat bed lorries moved antlike around the camp, shifting endless supplies of food, water and ammunition from one place to another. Sensibly, most of the troops I could see were sitting under canvas shade awnings with their feet up, relaxing in the midday heat. Logisticians seem to have an innate ability to know when it’s time to get busy, and that time was clearly not now.
The middle portion of the camp housed the gunners of 29 Commando Artillery Regiment, the Commando Engineers of 59 Squadron, and the Brigade Reconnaissance Force. A long line of howitzers ran parallel to the central dirt track, their barrels all neatly elevated to precisely the same angle. This was the artillery support for 3 Commando Brigade and they would be tasked with pounding southern Iraq with shells before the Marines flew in. The more HE they dropped, the better the chance that Joe Iraqi would be ancient history before I arrived, and that could only be a good thing as far as I was concerned.(8) It was, therefore, quite a heart-warming sight to see so many guns lined up and ready for action. Beyond them lay numerous accommodation tents, and on the far side of the camp I could discern small groups of men tinkering with the machine-gun mounts on a number of stripped-down Land Rovers. The vehicles alone would have marked them out as the Brigade Recce Force but there were several other obvious giveaways too. Several of their number were sporting beards, something which would never be tolerated outside a special forces environment. And all of them were wearing old-fashioned, hooded, russet-brown windproof smocks which looked remarkably like Luke Skywalker’s Jedi cloak. I had no idea what the attraction of such a garment should be, but it certainly served to tell the world they were something different. As I got closer I could also see that they had spray painted their rifles in various shades of desert yellow, something which run-of-the-mill soldiers would certainly not be allowed to do. It was the job of these foolhardy idiots to push miles forward of the commando units, deep into enemy territory, to assess Iraqi troop dispositions and to find suitable targets for airstrikes. And for this highly dangerous mission, they would have no armour whatsoever and be equipped only with open-top Land Rovers. The very thought made me shudder and I silently wished them luck as I made my way eastwards past the Royal Engineers’ tents that were sprinkled throughout that portion of the camp. Beyond the dividing dirt wall, 42 Commando’s set-up looked remarkably like the mounting centre for a battalion engaged in the Zulu wars, rather than a 21st Century fighting force. The tents were arranged in serried rows, unit and Union flags fluttering from the apexes. Everything within the camp had been arranged in straight lines and neat squares. Even the portaloos stood proudly together in one long line. It smacked of a tight-knit, well-drilled unit and appealed immensely to the career military man in me. Unhappily, it also smacked of the kind of unit which would be first across the start line which, since I was now a part of it, was a deeply troubling thought. I pushed it out of my mind as I strode through the sand and instead focused on watching another group of Marines doubling past in PT kit, sweat-drenched T-shirts stuck to their backs while words of encouragement were shouted by the troop commander trotting alongside. You had to hand it to these fellows, they may be foolhardy but they were bloody keen too. My attention was diverted as I heard my name being shouted from across the camp. I picked out the QM who was stood outside a line of shipping containers, waving his arms at me and hollering. When I got to him, I was more than a little dismayed to see that he was stood atop a ragged bundle of dark green canvas which, he explained, was to be my accommodation.
“I’ve looked into it Harry and all the accommodation tents are toppers,” he explained. “This is your only option mate.” I stared down at the canvas bag in disbelief. “The good news is, you won’t be lonely. We’re expecting a two-man combat camera crew to join the unit this afternoon and they’ll be sharing it with you. You might as well wait until they arrive to put it up, as it’s not really a one-man job.” I made no attempt to hide my disappointment - but at least I would have a roof over my head which was, I supposed, the main thing. The QM suggested I join him for a cup of tea which was undoubtedly the best idea I had heard all day, particularly since I was parched after my circuit of Camp Gibraltar.
Much like Des & Kit’s place at the Brigade Headquarters, 42 Commando boasted a communal tea and coffee facility in the middle of the camp. Adjacent to the dining tent, this little haven of calm was frequented by everyone in the battle group and was consequently the centre of gravity for information exchange and gossip of every kind. Admittedly there were no good natured chefs doling out hot drinks but the self-service variety tasted almost as good and the very fact the facility existed gave an air of legitimacy to those wishing to while away hours doing very little. I was sure I would be spending much time there over the coming days. As the QM made tea, I eavesdropped on a conversation being held by a bunch of NCOs, which centred around the Commando’s newly-issued weaponry.
“ . . .and bam! I got the shot off, then just waited and whack, a couple of seconds later, down he went. Proper job, hit him right in the middle of the chest - killed outright, he was.” I was sure I recognised this fellow and later I realised why - he had served in Afghanistan at the same time as me a year earlier, which is where his story came from. The conversation continued apace.
“That’s gotta be bollocks about the range - I’m bloody certain you couldn’t get a kill at over a mile,” countered his colleague.
“Pukka gen,” came the reply. “I know cos I used the laser rangefinder to find out. It’s cos the air’s thin at altitude, the rounds can travel further.”(9)
“I get that bit, but 1800 metres is still over the top. And anyway you have trouble hitting targets at 300 metres on a range so what chance have you got of topping anyone at over a m
ile?”
This was met with a good-humoured tirade of abuse and the conversation moved on to the state of the camp food. The QM returned with two polystyrene cups brimming full of tea.
“So what brings you to 42?” he asked.
I told him the tale of how I had come from a cavalry regiment to be attached to the Brigade Headquarters, and how that had eventually metamorphosed into a job with a commando unit. He seemed far from surprised.
“There are more people being shifted from one job to another at the moment than you can shake a stick at. Half the augmentees here were mobilised to do a different job. Under normal circumstances I’d say the whole G1 plot was a mess, but I suppose these aren’t normal circumstances.”(10) I agreed with him here - divisional deployments didn’t happen every day and most of the planning staff had never been through this process before, or at least never on this scale. “The good bit is the quality of blokes we’re getting - most of them seem to be mega switched-on, which is a good thing, because we’re going to need some good blokes when this thing kicks off.”
I took the opportunity to get a brief on the camp layout and who the key movers and shakers were. Quartermasters, in my opinion, are usually a highly reliable source of information. Anyone who needs equipment usually has to interface with them - which means they quickly get to know almost everyone in the battalion. Plus they typically have over 25 years of service behind them, which means they have seen a thing or two and can often make good judgement calls about the quality of the people around them. They typically come in two forms: the approachable, nothing-is-too-difficult type, and the stand-offish, don’t-bother-asking-because-I-won’t-be-any-help type. Judging by the reception I had been given, and the number of blokes saying a friendly hullo in passing, 42’s QM fell squarely in the former category. Unfortunately I didn’t get as long as I would have liked to get a full download on how he saw the current situation, since he drank his tea in record time and disappeared back into the headquarters tent at a rate of knots.
