by H. C. Tayler
Before long, the bulk of J Company, including the headquarters elements, had made their way to a large road junction which marked the western most boundary of the oil installations and also the boundary of 40 Commando’s patch. The Marines of 40 Commando seemed genuinely pleased to see us, which was unsurprising given the tense night they had endured clearing out Iraqi soldiers from the surrounding area. There were a fair few enemy corpses lying around which bore testament to the overnight fighting, but the area was quiet by the time I got there and it seemed a reasonably sensible spot to settle down and recover my breath, so I accepted the offer of a cup of tea from one of the boys and sat on my pack, content to soak up the sun and let the war take its course for an hour or two. I had barely taken a sip from the mug when the quiet was shattered by a series of mortar bombs exploding next to the position. I dived behind an earth rampart, spilling hot tea all over myself in the process, and listened as several more mortar bombs screamed into the area. Fortunately for me, their effectiveness was dramatically reduced by the muddy ground, which absorbed much of the blast. Still, with no idea where they were coming from and, more importantly, no idea how many more might follow, I decided it was high time I moved somewhere safer. The heavy bergen cut into my shoulders as I started to trot north, but a bit of short term pain seemed infinitely preferable to being blown to pieces, and I scampered along the track with the aim of being as far as possible from the road junction before the next mortar stomp arrived.
Among J Company’s objectives were a series of crossroads on the various roads and tracks leading to and from Al Faw town and the oil installations. Common sense dictated that any Iraqi armour would be forced to follow the roads, since tanks would quickly get bogged down in the muddy terrain elsewhere. I soon caught up with the rearmost group of Marines, made up of 3 Troop and elements of UMST, which was heading to the smallest of these crossroads, just to the north of the main Al Faw-Basra road, close to the Shat-al-Arab riverbank. As far as I was concerned, the smaller the junction, the less the odds on Iraqi troops using it, plus it was the furthest away from the fighting around the oil installations, so it seemed a sensible destination for yours truly. The downside was that it involved more walking, but working on the premise that sore feet were preferable to being shot, I buried myself in the middle of the formation and trudged north along a dirt track, sweating profusely, for best part of a mile. The landscape remained flat and empty, mudflats and drainage ditches stretching to the west as far as the eye could see, with the exception of a series of large farm buildings situated next to the Al Faw-Basra road, towards which we were advancing. (I discovered later that they were not farms but water desalination plants, built to turn the brackish water of the estuary into drinking water for the locals.) As sweat trickled between my shoulder blades and hot-spots formed on the soles of my feet, I began to yearn for an opportunity to drop my pack. I didn’t need to wait long.
Bam!-bam!-bam!-bam!-bam! A burst of AK47 fire came from an upstairs window of the nearest building, perhaps 250 metres away. Men dived for cover on either side of the track, dropping their bergens as they went, and all hell erupted. Sharp cracks of high-velocity rounds sounded all around as the Marines began to pour rifle fire into the buildings. Mud and earth spattered up around me as the Iraqis blasted away in our direction.
Fortunately for me they were lousy shots and could generally be relied upon to hit anything but their targets - but that didn’t make the experience any less nerve wracking. I lay quivering in a ditch underneath my bergen, hoping their aim didn’t improve. A few seconds later the rifle fire was drowned out by much heavier thumping from our machine-guns. The increased firepower knocked lumps out of the building, the windows disappeared within seconds, shards of glass spraying left and right, and pieces of wood and brickwork flew in all directions. An eternity seemed to pass (which in reality I suspect was probably no more than a few minutes) until I realised the Iraqis had stopped firing at us. That didn’t stop the Marines though, the gung-ho bastards were still punching holes in the building with everything they’d got. I peered over the top of the ditch to discover that the men either side of me had disappeared -only their bergens remained. The lead sections of 3 Troop were already sprinting towards the buildings in small bounds, diving for cover every few yards in the ditches and dykes that crisscrossed the muddy ground, while their mates continued to riddle the place with holes. Good bloody luck to ‘em, I thought to myself, content to lie in my ditch until the area was declared safe. Just then, somewhat surreally, I caught sight of a navy blue taxicab making its way along the main road towards us. To my amazement, blissfully unaware of the bullets flying around him, the driver turned off the road and drove around the back of the buildings. Unfazed, 3 Troop’s advance continued unabated - they had closed to within 150 metres and showed no sign of slowing. A few seconds passed during which I could see the Marines inexorably closing on their objective, while rifle and machine-gun fire continued to blast away in support. In less than a minute they would be posting grenades through the shattered windows and kicking down the doors. But the glory of a frontal assault was denied them, for just at that moment, the taxicab reappeared from behind the buildings and lurched back onto the road towards Al Faw town, laden with Iraqi fighters. Faced with the prospect of an assault by dozens of highly aggressive Brits and lacking an escape plan, the jundies had simply phoned for a cab to get them out of Dodge. (All credit to them for using their initiative but very low marks for execution; how they ever thought an aging Nissan was going to outrun 7.62mm bullets beats me.) Alongside the driver, three men were jammed in the front, five on the rear seat, and a further two in the boot. Engine straining, the overloaded car tried to accelerate away from the scene and I waited in horror for the inevitable bloodbath that would surely occur once the Marines opened fire on it. It never came. To their eternal credit a handful of the closest Marines sprinted across the mudflats and onto the road, flagging down the car at gunpoint. It screeched to a halt and the occupants - including the protesting cabbie - were dragged unceremoniously out onto the road. It took me a moment or two to work out why their appearance was faintly ridiculous, until I realised that most of them were only half dressed. In desperation they had ditched the majority of their military clothing, presumably in the hope of passing themselves off as civilians. The black boots were a bit of a giveaway though, as were the numerous rifles and grenades in the boot of the taxi. In any event, the Marines wasted little time in searching them and dragged them off to the side of the road, where they were made to sit cross-legged until transport was found to take them to the prisoner of war processing centre, which was conveniently housed in the oil installations. To a man, they looked royally pissed off with the proceedings -I suspect they didn’t realise how lucky they were to be alive and unharmed.
The excitement momentarily over, 3 Troop trudged back through the mud to collect their bergens, sporting adrenaline-fuelled grins. I grinned back at them and made noises of approval whilst explaining that I would, of course, have joined them in the assault but I would only have got in the way, added to the confusion, wished I had worked with them before, etc. etc. Not that they cared two farthings about my ramblings; the only thing that mattered to the men of J Company was that they had won their first fire-fight hands down and had acquired a taxicab into the bargain, which was already being used to ferry the troop commander back to company headquarters for a briefing.
Bergen on my back once more, we set off on our intended route towards the river, dropping off an eight-man section to cover the crossroads where the track crossed the Al Faw-Basra road. North of the main road, the landscape immediately changed. Here, irrigation ditches brought water from the river and the grey, lifeless mudflats gave way to green grass and palm trees. It sounds absurd now, but it never occurred to me that these were the same palm trees I had seen on the air photographs, or that there might be Iraqi troops positioned in the only place where there was cover from view. Instead, I simply plodded on, hopeful o
f finding a spot where I could spend the night in relative peace and safety. I should have known better.
The country became gradually greener as we ventured northeast, until eventually, peering through the trees, I could make out the sluggish flow of the Shat-al-Arab waterway. Across the river, some three hundred yards away, lay Iran. There was no sign of any activity on the Iranian side, but there were some ominous-looking watchtowers poking up from between the palm trees, so I guessed they were keeping a sharp eye on proceedings. Then we stumbled across the crossroads which was our objective and the patrol came to a halt. I was delighted to note that, as suspected from the air photographs, the tracks that made up the crossroads were small and insignificant compared with the main road we had crossed earlier; there was little chance of encountering a tank formation coming this way. To our right, perhaps half a mile away, lay Al Faw town, from where it was still possible to discern the occasional crack of rifle fire as 40 Commando methodically swept through the government buildings. I pulled off my bergen and sat down on it, relieved to have an opportunity to dry my sweat-drenched shirt.
“Okay, let’s have a look north and south to establish whether we’re alone here,” instructed the troop commander as he bounded energetically up and down the line. “3 Section, you can go north - no need to go further than the next irrigation canal, because 2 Troop is operating up there. 1 Section, crack on south. But don’t go anywhere near the town because you’ll run into 40 Commando.” I sat motionless, allowing the late afternoon sun to warm my aching back muscles, fully expecting to be left behind and looking forward to a slack hour or two as a result. Then came the rejoinder: “1 Section, you can include Captain Flashman, because he needs to get his eyes on as many of the local roads and tracks as possible.”
I stared at him with baleful eyes, which he probably mistook as rugged determination, and slowly rose to my feet. “Actually old boy, I’m quite happy to stay here with troop headquarters -no need to give your blokes more work than they need. I’ll only get under their feet.”
He gave a good-natured laugh at this. “Sir, you’re obviously more than capable of looking after yourself, and I’m not worried about their workload. And anyway the company commander has insisted we get you out and about as much as possible.”
I gave a moment’s thought to pulling rank on him and simply refusing to move, then dismissed the idea and dejectedly shuffled off to join 1 Section, who were already shaking out along the track ahead of me. Fortunately they were leaving their bergens where they lay, which made the task of yet more patrolling a great deal more palatable.
The southbound track was evidently used by vehicles, albeit infrequently, since it principally consisted of two deep muddy ruts. It looked to me as if it had lain dormant for a while; there were certainly no fresh tyre marks that I could discern. We walked for some little distance through pleasant countryside, green meadows interspersed with little copses of bushes and marsh grass, all dotted with swaying palm trees. The Marines halted every few yards, diligently scanning the countryside through the optical sights on their rifles or through binoculars, while I enjoyed the feeling of my shoulder muscles loosening without the weight of the rucksack pressing down on them. In front of us I could hear distant loudhailer messages emanating from the town as 40 Commando exhorted the last of the Iraqi fighters to give up without further bloodshed. (Many of them did as they were bid, but some stubborn fools inevitably refused. By the time the Marines stormed the Ba’ath party building in Al Faw town, a camera crew had been flown in by helicopter and the assault, including an incident in which a Marine was injured by an exploding gas canister, was broadcast live on UK television.) But close at hand, the only noise was the rustle of the evening breeze through the palm fronds and the occasional chirrup of birdsong. The low afternoon sun had dried my shirt nicely and I was just contemplating a cup of tea and a boil-in-the-bag supper when a shout went up from the head of the patrol, shots were fired, and I dived into a ditch, thereby soaking my trousers and filling my boots with water.
Over to the east, on the bank of the river, a white three-storey building was just visible through the palm groves. Invisible, at least to me, was the group of jundies who had just exited it and who were making their way south at some speed, parallel to our track. A crack of rifle fire sounded from their direction, followed by the staccato of semi-automatic fire from the front of our patrol. Shouting ensued and the Marines began to leapfrog forward, pairs of men taking it in turn to provide covering fire as their colleagues sprinted a few yards to the next piece of cover. The enemy rapidly disappeared into the greenery, frustrating the efforts of the Marines who were keen to get to grips with them. The Iraqis, it seemed, had spotted our patrol coming and, knowing what was good for them, were fleeing faster than we could advance. Some further shots were fired but the engagement was over in a few minutes.
The patrol regrouped and, despite my exhortations to return to the troop headquarters, the section commander would not be satisfied by anything less than a thorough search of the house and the surrounding area. The Marines fanned out and warily approached the building, lest there be some soldiers remaining inside. I was feverishly worried about the prospect of mines and booby traps and crept through the undergrowth nervously looking for any signs of skulduggery. No such worries seemed to dog my colleagues who pushed on impatiently, primarily motivated by the opportunity to knock seven bells out of any recalcitrant Iraqis they might find lurking in the house. Disappointingly for them we didn’t find any, though there was a fair old treasure trove of souvenirs inside. Most of the fleeing Iraqis had shed their uniforms, items of which were scattered around inside. Webbing belts and clips of AK47 ammunition were also in evidence, as were tin helmets and old black leather boots. But the biggest prize was a highly polished 80mm mortar tube complete with base-plate and sights, and an assortment of bombs to match. It seemed a reasonable assumption that these had been the jundies who had mortared us earlier in the day, back near the helicopter landing site. For a few seconds I was livid that we had allowed them to escape; we should have shot the devils when we had the chance. But it was too late now for retribution - instead I consoled myself with the thought that their southbound escape route meant they would in all probability run into 40 Commando and get their come-uppance anyway.
It was early evening by the time the patrol wound its way back along the track to be reunited with the rest of the troop. UMST had also appeared and, with the exception of a few sentries lying forward and aft of the position, the men were chatting and enjoying the opportunity for a brief rest. I had a quick chat with the troop commander about the prospects for the night ahead. He was an eager young thing and I had every desire to rein in his ambitions for world domination and get settled in the palm groves, where the foliage might mask the light from our stoves and I could therefore enjoy a hot meal and a cup of tea. Happily, he agreed without too much argument and we moved en masse away from the vehicle tracks and into the undergrowth, where I spent a desultory few minutes digging a shell scrape with a couple of the Marines. I toyed with the idea of getting them to dig it for me, but decided to show willing on the premise that if anything kicked off during the night I would probably be grateful for their support - better safe than sorry in these situations, I always think. Happily the sandy soil was remarkably easy to dig and within minutes we had a workable foxhole over a foot deep. By the time I had dragged my webbing and rifle into the shell scrape, a stove was lit and rations were being heated. (For all the numerous occasions I have served with the Marines, I never cease to be amazed at how quickly they can rustle up a hot drink and a meal. It’s a remarkable attribute - and it makes no difference whether one is in the arctic or the jungle, the service is always the same.) Unhappily, the benefits of the hot rations were undone somewhat by the attentions of the Al Faw’s mosquitoes, which dined out in some style that evening, leaving me wondering whether there was any malaria in Iraq (not that I had any anti-malarial tablets with me in any case). Full and
exhausted from the day’s activities, having ducked sentry duty (which in any case is not the role of an officer, no matter how my egalitarian Royal Marines counterparts may feel about it), I unrolled my sleeping bag and crawled inside, looking forward to some much-needed sleep.
I don’t know how long I dozed for but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours before I awoke to the sound of heavy machine-gun fire. Thankfully it wasn’t coming in our direction, but it was close enough to be disconcerting. I crawled out of my sleeping bag and demanded to know of the troop commander what was happening.
