Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq

by H. C. Tayler

  As word spread, the camp erupted in a frenzy of last-minute activity. Throughout the day, all non-essential equipment was placed in storage. Our personal kit was placed into civilian hold-alls and dumped inside the empty shipping containers which just a few short weeks ago had brought weapons and ammunition to Kuwait. I waved a fond farewell to the last of my creature comforts as the steel door slammed shut, and prayed I would be reunited with my worldly goods sooner rather than later. Weapons were mustered, ammunition issued, accommodation tents dismantled, equipment checked and re-checked, rifles cleaned and tested one last time. As the sun dipped towards the horizon, lines of Marines trudged through the sand to a corner of the camp to form up in a vast, hollow square. In the centre, perched on a trestle table, the commanding officer addressed the assembled mass. Other men, I am sure, found his speech inspiring. For myself, it cemented my view of Royal Marines officers as criminally insane and served only to loosen my bowels. For several minutes he talked about relying on one another, trust, unquestioning loyalty to one’s comrades, maintaining momentum, and absolute commitment to the task in hand. The only task I was concerned about was getting out of this mess with my skin intact, but self-preservation seemed far from the minds of 42 Commando that night. He left us with an old Gurkha expression, which I retain to this day as a psychological scar: “Lose money, lose nothing. Lose pride, lose much. Lose courage, lose everything.” The Marines loved every word of it, they even cheered the irrepressible old bastard at the end, the bloody fools! I stood frozen to the spot, knees knocking, hoping for divine intervention to prevent the impending madness. It never came, of course, and shortly after sundown, laden with weapons and equipment, we trudged through the eastern gate of the camp and out to the landing site to await the American transport helicopters. The war was about to begin.

  NOTES

  1. The unit to which Flashman refers is the Queens Dragoon Guards (QDG), the self-styled “Welsh Cavalry” on account of their strong regional recruiting base. Many of the squadron’s vehicles can be seen flying the Welsh flag.

  2. Milan: a medium-range anti-tank missile.

  3. LCAC: Landing Craft, Air Cushioned - i.e. a hovercraft.

  4. UMST: Unit Manoeuvre Support Troop. A small, mobile unit within a commando group which can rapidly bring additional anti-tank and machine-gun capability to reinforce a position.

  5. US ration packs are more usually referred to as MREs, an abbreviation of “Meals Ready to Eat”. Universally unpopular, they are frequently referred to as “Meals Rejected by Everyone”.

  6. CR: Confidential Report.

  7. QM: Quarter Master.

  8. HE: High Explosive.

  9. “Gen” is Royal Marines slang for “genuine”, i.e. “not exaggerated”; “Pukka gen” is an even more emphatic version.

  10. G1: manning/personnel.

  11. The Claymore mine is a simple device consisting of an oblong piece of plastic explosive measuring roughly six inches by twelve, in which several hundred ball bearings are embedded on one side. Designed to provide perimeter security or for use in ambushes, it is detonated either on command or by trip wire; anyone standing the wrong side of the mine is riddled with high-velocity ball bearings.

  12. BGE: Battle-Group Engineering Officer.

  5

  As the last glimmer of daylight disappeared over the western horizon, laden down by a huge rucksack and with my webbing pouches stuffed to bursting, I shuffled out into the Kuwaiti desert once again, along with the rest of 42 Commando. Despite the crushing pain in my shoulders I took a quiet moment to look about me, for an entire battle group on the march is not an everyday sight. As far as the eye could see, hundreds of Marines were lining out in the desert, sporting sufficient arms and ammunition to raise Cain. Most of them had passed out of training years earlier, while many of the NCOs had been with the Corps for over a decade. For all of them, this was the zenith of years of service, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to put endless training and countless exercises into practise and wage war on a legitimised enemy.(1) One look at their faces told me all I needed to know - morale had never been higher. Had they been given the choice between a holiday in Barbados or boarding the helicopters into Iraq, I had little doubt that every man in the Unit would have cheerfully jumped onboard his helicopter. I felt a crushing sense of claustrophobia and wondered, not for the first time, how on earth I had got myself into this fix.

  Many of the Marines were carrying in excess of 120lbs on their backs and some were carrying considerably more (notably the heavy machine-gun crews whose equipment weighed in excess of 150lbs), so once we reached the helicopter landing site no-one needed any coercing to ditch their packs and sit down. My experience of military undertakings, whether exercises or operations, is that they invariably involve long periods of hanging around waiting for activity and this one was no exception - our flight was not due to commence until shortly before midnight so I had several hours to kill. It was a perfectly calm, clear night, with just an occasional cloud above us to obscure the Milky Way and the lightest of breezes blowing over the desert. The landing site was almost eerily quiet; most of the men were fiddling with their equipment, eating rations, or taking the opportunity for a nap, but almost nobody was talking. Somewhere off to a flank a short wave radio was tuned to the BBC World Service which was giving a blow by blow account of the “shock and awe” bombing campaign which was raining down on Baghdad. I listened for a moment to accounts of Tomahawk missiles pounding military installations and hoped the Al Faw Peninsular was also getting a softening up before our arrival. (It was, too -I discovered later that the gunners of 29 Commando pumped over 17,000 artillery shells into the area before we arrived, God bless ‘em.) Thoughtful soul that he was, the QM had dumped piles of ration packs and water bottles around the landing site, which was a bloody marvellous piece of foresight on his behalf since none of us knew when we would get our next meal, so I shovelled a boil-in-the-bag dinner into my face before crawling into my sleeping bag and dropping into a fitful doze. I awoke a couple of hours later to the beating of rotor blades and the landing site erupting into a frenzy of activity. It seemed the arrival of the American cabs had spurred everyone to get up and get going, but one look at my watch told me that we wouldn’t move for at least another hour so I hunkered down in my sleeping bag and attempted to sleep for a little while longer.

  I gave up the unequal battle some time after 10 p.m. Asides from the disturbance of the comings and goings around me, my nerves wouldn’t allow me to sleep and I became increasingly on edge as the moment of our departure drew nearer. Eventually it was time to board the choppers and I squeezed into the rear of the behemoth with the rest of my stick, listening as the advance wave of helicopters departed into the night sky, carrying the men of Brigade Recce Force and various Forward Air Controllers and the like. Shortly afterwards our own engines began to whine and the rotors started to turn above us. After the rigours of the rehearsals there was an air of tension among the men - as a rule I’m not a religious fellow, but I said a few prayers before take off, I don’t mind telling you. A couple of minutes later the rotors were spinning at full speed and the aircraft began its customary shaking. I readied myself for liftoff then listened in delighted disbelief as the engine note dropped sharply, the shaking stopped, and the rotors began to slow down. A couple of minutes later the helicopter stood silent again, with its cargo of Marines chattering nervously among themselves, all wondering what the problem could be. In a moment of wild optimism I wondered whether the whole operation had been cancelled. What a stroke of luck that would have been - but of course it was nothing more than wild fantasy on my part. Eventually word came from the aircrew that one of the helicopters in the advance wave had gone down. They weren’t sure whether the crash had happened in Kuwait or in Iraq and were waiting on more information from the squadron commander. The obvious inference was that the thing had been shot down, so I guessed that the lift was on hold until the anti-aircraft threat could be properly assess
ed. A few minutes later, still with no news, the aircrew ushered us off the helicopter and we filed silently across the sand back to the holding area once again.

  I collected another boil-in-the-bag meal and ate it lying in the darkness, listening once again to the World Service. My aspirations of the invasion being called off were immediately dashed as it became apparent that US forces had already breached the Iraqi border in several places, and UK forces were reported landing in the south east of the country. This was a veiled reference to 40 Commando and it made difficult listening for the Marines of 42, whose job it was to protect their flank and prevent an Iraqi counter-attack. For one Captain H Flashman, it was enough to know that while the bullets were already flying, I was nowhere near them. As far as yours truly was concerned, the longer we stayed safe and snug in Kuwait the better. For the moment at least, there seemed little prospect of us going anywhere.

  Eventually a more complete picture emerged of the helicopter crash. Far from being shot down over Iraq, the crash had been caused by either pilot error or mechanical failure (I had my opinion of which it might be, as I’m sure you can guess) and had happened on Bubiyan Island, a flat, featureless mass just off the Kuwaiti coast which rises barely six feet above sea level, and which was currently playing host to the artillery pieces of 29 Commando, many of whom had seen the fireball as the helicopter hit the deck. Tragically, eight of our number had been onboard, including the charismatic officer commanding Brigade Recce Force. Mad as a hatter, like most of his breed, his devil-may-care attitude made him hugely popular in the mess and with the men of BRF. News of the crash brought a sombre air to 42 Commando that night, but it did nothing to reduce the growing impatience of the Marines who were desperate to get out of Kuwait and get stuck into the fighting in Iraq.

  The urgency to get the battle group into action was also reflected at the top, with the CO getting more and more animated in his dealings with the American helicopter crews. Now that the details of the crash were confirmed there was no need to delay entry into Iraq a moment longer - or so he felt. However, the US aircrews, already lacking in confidence in their own abilities, had gone into a sort of collective shock. Four of their number had perished in the crash and they were frozen by fear (I know how it feels, I’ve felt it myself often enough) and refused to undertake the journey into Iraq. For 42 Commando the crash had been a tragedy but it was no reason to delay the commencement of operations. Through the small hours the CO tried every line in the book to cajole and persuade the Americans to fly, but to no avail. Eventually, around 4 a.m., exasperated and angry, he took the unprecedented step of sacking the lot of them and demanding they remove their helicopters from his landing site. The British divisional air reserve was urgently requested and within minutes of the US helicopters departing a makeshift mob of RAF helicopters was on its way north to our position.(2)

  As the first glimmers of dawn brightened the morning sky, a formation of much smaller helicopters appeared on the horizon. The RAF had managed to cobble together seven Pumas (each capable of carrying nine men) and a single Chinook, which could manage upwards of thirty. In a sudden moment of lucidity I realised the huge reduction in carrying capacity meant that numerous men originally earmarked for the first lift would be forced to remain behind in Kuwait. To ensure I was among them all I needed to do was to make sure I was forgotten when the new load-plan was devised. There was no time to waste so, abandoning my bergen, I quietly stole away from the Marines in my stick and made my way towards the group of men furthest from both the Commando Headquarters and the arriving helicopters, creeping up and down the lines in search of an unobserved spot in which to sit myself down and let the morning take its course unhindered. At that precise moment I bumped into the adjutant coming the opposite way at speed.

  “Harry!” he exclaimed, brimming with enthusiasm, “The very man!” My heart sank like a stone, for he had that look in his eyes of a man fired up by the prospect of war and I instinctively knew that whatever was to follow would mean trouble. “We’ve almost sorted the new load-plan and we’ve got the whole of J Company sorted out, plus most of the attached ranks too. Just one hitch though: we couldn’t fit you in with the main body of men so you’re in the lead Puma with the snipers - I hope that’s okay?” He didn’t wait for my reply but added, “Problem is, old boy, they’re being inserted to the north of everybody else because their mission is to push northwards on foot through the date palms. The rest of J Company will be going south and east from where the helicopters land. Obviously we couldn’t rely on an inexperienced man to make his way overland and link up with the rest of the company, so we’ve picked you for the job.”

  I nearly spat in his eye. Far from avoiding the ride, I was being thrust deep into enemy territory and, unbelievably, I was expected to make my way overland on foot, alone, to link up with the main body of J Company.

  “Good man!” enthused the adjutant, “I knew you’d love the idea. Enjoy!” And with that, he strode off towards J Company headquarters.

  Disconsolate and increasingly nervous about what lay ahead, I made my way across the sand back to my bergen and sat down in a blue funk. I didn’t have long to worry about the situation though, as the shout went up almost immediately to “saddle up” and climb aboard the helicopters. The lead Puma was, of course, furthest away from us, and I was sweating profusely by the time I reached it - although whether from exertion or fear, I couldn’t tell. The snipers were already there, sitting on their packs and enjoying the warmth from the first rays of sunshine, and a rough bunch they looked too. Already smothered in camouflage cream and sporting the scruffiest clothes I have ever clapped eyes on, they wore the look of men prepared to risk everything in order to accomplish their mission - it’s a look I’ve seen a few times over the years, and it invariably leads to trouble. I introduced myself with a bluff smile and they looked me up and down, presumably wondering why a cavalry officer of all people should be joining them on their flight. I explained briefly and, to a man, they looked even less impressed.

  “That’ll be interestin’ for you,” quipped one of them in a northern accent. “At least we’ll be going in pairs - you’ll have to watch your own back I s’pose. Still, it shouldn’t be more than a half mile back to J Company. You’ll just have to hope there’s no jundies between you an’ them!”(3)

  At that moment the RAF aircrew arrived, consisting of a pilot, co-pilot and door-gunner. A jovial bunch, they exuded confidence and were clearly delighted at their elevation from air reserve to front-line flying. I shook them warmly by the hand, delighted that whatever other risks we may be facing, pilot incompetence was not likely to be among them.

  “It’s nice to see a British aircrew - and a new helicopter,” I commented, gesticulating towards the immaculate machine, the smart appearance of which was in stark contrast to the corrosion-streaked hulls of the US machines. The pilot’s reply came as a complete surprise.

  “Oh, this thing isn’t new at all - it’s just had a recent paint job. In fact it’s ancient,” he laughed. “It’s not even British. It used to belong to Argentina - until it was captured it in the Falklands. One of the spoils of war. Still, give it a British registration number and paint a couple of RAF roundels on it, and no-one’s any the wiser, eh!”

  Bemused at the thought of flying into Iraq in an Argentine helicopter, I followed the snipers and clambered aboard, squeezing into a tiny canvas seat alongside the door gunner, who was busily loading a huge belt of ammunition into his machine-gun. For a few moments the only sound was the pilot and co-pilot running through their various pre-flight checks. Then the turbines began to whine and I felt the wind rising as the rotors began to howl above us. I pulled my goggles down over my eyes and gripped my rifle, mouth dry with nerves, and feeling more than a little nauseous. Then we were away, speeding northwards at over 100 knots with the desert flashing by just 20 feet beneath us. Through the open side door I could see the other RAF helicopters close alongside and to our rear, maintaining perfect position in
the formation. I glanced about inside the cabin, wondering whether the Marines onboard were experiencing the stomach-churning sense of apprehension that I was feeling. If they were, their faces gave nothing away. Below us, sand gave way to mud flats and then water - we were leaving Kuwait. Sunlight danced on the estuary below, then we were once again flying over mudflats and I knew we had entered Iraq. Below us, the muddy ground was littered with thousands of small craters, which made it look faintly like the surface of the moon. (I discovered later that these were shell craters dating from the Iran-Iraq war some twenty years earlier.) (4) A few moments later the helicopter banked sharply left, the speed fell away, and we came briefly to a hover before landing in the mud. In seconds the snipers were out, pulling on their bergens and moving swiftly away from the helicopter. The pilot gave us a cheery wave, then the engine note rose once more and he was gone. I looked about me, hoping for an obvious route towards the other helicopters which I could make out in the distance. The terrain was almost entirely flat, made up of sand and mudflats crisscrossed by drainage ditches and dykes. A handful of derelict buildings dotted the skyline and to the south east I could make out the pipelines and storage tanks of the oil installations, where 40 Commando was located. A hand slapped me on the back and I wheeled around to see the grinning face of the last of the Marines from the helicopter - the rest of the snipers had already set off towards the palm trees.

  “Good luck, Sir,” was all he said, and then he too was gone I felt horribly alone and exposed. In the distance I could hear the heavy rotor blades of the Chinook taking off - the Pumas had already departed. As the beating of the rotors subsided I realised I could hear the sound of distant gunfire coming from the direction of Al Faw town and the oil pumping station where the assault troops of 40 Commando were busy tackling the Iraqi defensive positions, some of which were proving a little more truculent than anticipated. I had barely taken a couple of steps forward when I heard the sound of a motorcar engine roaring along the readjust behind me. A small blue and white car crammed full of jundies was fleeing Al Faw town in an attempt to get away from the onslaught of 40 Commando. Unhappily for me, its passage had not gone unobserved and suddenly bullets were flying all around me from the direction of 42 Commando. I let out a yelp of fright and threw myself face first into the mud, cursing as my smock and webbing became liberally coated in the stuff. Several rounds smashed into the car but presumably none hit the driver for it showed no sign of stopping and tore on in the direction of Basra. I scraped myself out of the mud and trudged on, hoping to find some hard standing on which to clean myself up. There was none, and my bedraggled appearance caused no little mirth when I eventually caught up with J Company. By that time, the company had shaken out into a series of troop formations and was fanning out across the landscape with the express intention of meeting out violence to any Iraqi troops they found there. I tagged onto the rear and fervently hoped that the troops to my front would dispose of any trouble before I became embroiled.