Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq

by H. C. Tayler

  “Flash,” said the CO almost as an afterthought, glancing in my direction, “there’s no point in you sitting around camp scratching your arse. The guys on the ground can always use a little extra experience, and I know you’ve served in Northern Ireland, so you can join in with J Company’s patrol routine. Enjoy.”

  If he had had an axe to grind with me, he couldn’t have done it any better. But what made the CO’s final remark so galling was that he actually meant it. As far as he was concerned, probably the toughest thing about being in command was the lack of time spent on the ground, sticking it to Johnny Foreigner. He actually envied blokes setting out on patrol, and doubtless would have traded places with me in a heartbeat, the bloody lunatic. I did my best to look stoical and determined and hoped my silence lent me a false air of confidence which would disguise the mild hysteria which was enveloping me.

  The first patrol left the camp on foot a couple of hours later, with yours truly tagged on at the back. I was getting heartily sick of being sent on every mission the Commando undertook, especially since my blistered feet were in need of some quiet recovery time, but it didn’t do to complain, not in 42 Commando anyway, so I suffered in silence. Umm Qasr didn’t look any better second time around, it was still a squalid little town with filth everywhere I looked. I mooched along at the back, mind in neutral, wondering how long it would be before I was reunited with my bed and how many, if any, jundies we would encounter before then. The patrol took the same route I had travelled before, turning left in front of the hotel grounds and winding its way down the long main street. Asides from the empty Ba’ath Party building, there were also a couple of schools and several industrial units which lay idle, many of which would be ideal refuges for frightened Iraqi soldiers. Several of them would be searched during the course of the day and at least one of the section commanders in the patrol had already expressed a hope that some of the jundies came out fighting.

  Halfway down the main street I was greeted by the grinning face of Sameer, my assailant of the day before, now apparently my best friend. He came barrelling over, gesticulating wildly and salaaming in quick-fire Arabic, which rather alarmed the Marines adjacent to me. I waved them away, explaining that Sameer was a local contact whom I needed to speak with for intelligence reasons. They did as they were bid and my newfound buddy, as expected, invited me into his house for a cup of tea. His gang of consorts was nowhere to be seen and anyway my feet were in agony, so I gladly accepted and slid through the door as the patrol disappeared up the street.

  My broken Arabic was barely enough to understand him at first, but I have a way with languages and within a few minutes we were conversing reasonably easily. Sameer’s house was fairly basic in layout but it was at least clean, and his sofa was an extremely comfortable, well-worn leather number, presumably imported in the days before economic sanctions. I slumped into it and he squatted on the floor, cross legged. He bellowed a series of commands over his shoulder and then turned to face me so the conversation could begin in earnest. How many of us were there? How long would it be before Saddam was toppled? How long would we stay for? Did we know there were lots of fighters (foreign fighters, he called them, in reference to the fact that they were Sunni rather than Shia Muslims) still hiding in the town? What about the Ba’ath Party people, what did we propose to do with them? (“You think you are in control of the town, but you are not, the Ba’ath Party people are still in control here, you know?”) I answered his questions as best I could, which by and large meant a series of thinly-disguised “I don’t know” replies. Still, he seemed satisfied enough and I guessed that his standing in the community would be even higher now that he could boast of having entertained a British officer in his house.

  Our chit-chat was interrupted by a swish of the curtains separating the lounge from the kitchen. The recipient of Sameer’s commands was his wife, a plump little woman who greeted me with a wry smile despite having her head bowed in the traditional manner. She carried an enormous tray of tea and cakes, which was all rather English in nature - and I did them proud by tucking in as if I hadn’t eaten for a week. The food tasted all the better knowing that the patrol I was purportedly in was currently kicking down doors, risking life and limb in pursuit of enemy soldiers.

  Sameer’s wife retreated to the safety of the kitchen and our conversation continued with the revelation that Sameer was a taxi driver. To be more precise, he was the owner of a taxi firm, which employed most of the individuals I had met the previous day. Every cloud has its silver lining - in Sameer’s case the imposition of economic sanctions had resulted in the closure of Umm Qasr’s school, gifting him a monopoly on taxi rides to and from the school in Basra for those parents who could afford it. As one of the bigger employers in the town, he was looked up to by most people and tolerated by the Ba’ath party henchmen, who he disliked with a passion -although he was wise enough not to broadcast his opinions too widely among his countrymen for fear of retribution. To me though he was most forthcoming and wasted no time informing me of the whereabouts of several leading Ba’ath party members, including his next door neighbour.

  I lost track of time during the conversation, though it certainly went on for long enough for me to amply fill my belly. Eventually Sameer’s wife called through from the kitchen to tell us that the patrol was once again passing the house, this time on its way back to the UN camp. I said my farewells, thanked them both profusely for providing such excellent tucker, and tagged quietly onto the end of the patrol as it made its way down the street. The Marines were in high spirits, having rounded up several Iraqi soldiers, two of whom had been hiding, ironically, in the abandoned school buildings. The boys were also sporting all manner of Iraqi ordnance -mainly Russian hand grenades and rocket-propelled grenades, scores of which had been handed over by the local kids. Apparently the little buggers had dug up several ammunition caches, the contents of which they had surrendered in exchange for biscuits and sweets.

  Back at camp, the evening brief brought a change of tack. No longer would 42 Commando be content to allow Ba’ath party members to co-exist in the town. The CO now wanted complete control, and to that end a series of night raids on known addresses was announced. M Company would lead the way and the first series of raids would take place in the small hours of the following day. Like an idiot I volunteered my list of Ba’ath party members, most of which tallied neatly with the targeting matrix prepared by the intelligence cell; Sameer’s list included a couple of new names but the rest they already knew about. I found this somewhat disappointing but the intelligence chaps were really quite excited about it, since it corroborated their own information and demonstrated the reliability of their source. The contribution was enough to earn a chuck-up from the CO.

  “I don’t know how you manage it - two days in the town and already you’re a mine of useful information, practically a one-man intelligence cell, eh?” he laughed out loud. “Bloody good effort, Harry, bloody good effort. Of course, it would be wholly unfair not to allow you to be there at the finish, so make sure you team up with M Company for tonight’s job, eh? Good man.” I could have kicked myself for being so utterly stupid; I should have guessed that the information might lead to me being sent on another foolhardy mission into the town, and yet I had failed to keep my mouth shut. The result was an invitation to spend the night rampaging through the streets with a load of bloodthirsty louts, rather than tucked up in bed where I belonged. I choked back my disappointment and endeavoured to apply a facade of enthusiasm for the job in hand, leaving the CO grinning like a Cheshire cat and muttering about the extraordinary nature of his attached ranks.

  It turned out that the intelligence cell’s source was a local imam, a rotund little man who was instantly nicknamed the “spherical clerical”. Tubby he may have been, but he was also bold (or daft) enough to accompany M Company that night in order to finger the Ba’ath party hoods during the arrest operation and thereby ensure that no-one untoward was bundled off to the prisoner handin
g centre. The intelligence cell boys were so concerned about him being identified and assassinated that they dressed him in British military kit complete with helmet, shamagh and goggles. We bounced out of the camp in a series of four-ton trucks and Land Rovers at around 2.30 a.m., the boys once again alive with nervous energy and me once again with a dry mouth and intestines churning.

  Most of the addresses due a visit were clustered in a relatively affluent area of downtown Umm Qasr (“relative” being the salient term here, since the whole town was an armpit as far as I could make out). The streets were quietly cordoned off by the Marines - an easy job to do at three in the morning, since the place was utterly deserted. Then, with a silent nod of his head, the spherical clerical confirmed the first address to be visited, and the silence was abruptly shattered as a team of Marines sledge-hammered the door open and burst inside. A commotion stared inside as the family leapt out of their various beds to find out what was going on. Women and children began wailing, and several male voices could be heard shouting in panicky Arabic. Minutes passed and the place became quieter, before the door burst open again and a pair of scruffy looking men, probably in their late thirties, were thrust out into the cold night air, looking bewildered and more than a little frightened, and simultaneously comical adorned in only their stripy nightshirts. The imam looked at them briefly through his grubby goggles, nodded, whispered something to one of the int. cell guys, whereupon the pair of them were plasticuffed and bundled into the back of a waiting truck.

  Without hesitation the entry team and surrounding entourage quickly moved down the street to the next house on the visit list. One or two curious neighbours, awoken by the commotion in the first address, poked their noses out from their front doors to see what the fuss was about. The Marines were in no mood to tolerate spectators though and the doors were swiftly slammed shut, much to the chagrin of the surprised occupants.

  More sledge-hammering ensued and the entry team burst into a second house. This time the occupant was bundled out even more quickly, leaving a multitude of wailing women in his wake. Unshaven and a little older than the first two, he was immediately fingered by the waiting cleric and shoved unceremoniously onboard the four-ton truck. The entry team also emerged clutching a brace of rifles and a quantity of ammunition which our captive had hidden under his bed. Evidently caution had proved the greater part of valour and he had elected not to use it.

  Several more houses were visited in quick succession, each yielding its frightened occupants into the glare of Land Rover headlights and thence into the back of the truck. Several more weapons were seized by the Marines, who were evidently enjoying the whole occasion. Their morale rose even further when the occupant of one house, a ruthless fellow according to Sameer, who was greatly feared in the local community, emptied his bladder in fear and was bundled into the truck with his nightshirt sopping wet.

  For my part, I used the pretext of increasing the security of the prisoners to hop aboard the truck and join the pair of Marines standing guard. This had the dual benefits of saving my aching feet from further walking and allowing me to vent my frustration on the Ba’ath party hoods by administering a swift kick in the ribs to any who looked like misbehaving. The Marines frowned on this sort of behaviour but I had endured plenty of privations over the previous days, so I brushed off their protestations and spent a thoroughly enjoyable hour or so thrashing the daylights out of Umm Qasr’s political heavies. It was quite a cathartic experience, I don’t mind telling you, and my morale was much improved by the time the night was over.

  The following morning I was met by an exuberant BGE who told me that the RFA Sir Galahad had finally docked at Umm Qasr port.(7) I was nonplussed by his enthusiasm for this event, until he reminded me that there was a bar onboard and she would therefore be carrying a quantity of beer. Without further ado we jumped in his Land Rover and sped off towards the docks.

  The grey hulk of the Galahad was the only vessel in sight, which was unsurprising since the coast and approaches to the port had been mined by the Iraqi forces. The mine clearance operation had been carried out largely by a specialist contingent of Australian troops, some of whom were in evidence when we arrived. Festooned with state-of-the-art equipment and natty little American rifles with optical sights, they looked just like a Special Forces team. I sauntered over for a chat while the BGE practically sprinted up the gangplank in search of the ship’s purser and his supply of booze. I caught the back end of a conversation in which a pair of Aussies were debating the number of troops contributed by each country in the coalition.

  “We’ve got to be one of the bigger ones,” stated one of their number.

  “No bloody way,” countered his colleague. “We’re a poxy couple of thousand. I bet the Brits have got a lot more than that.”

  At this point I entered the fray and was invited to comment. “There are about 42,000 British servicemen in the Gulf,” I told them. (The figures had been widely reported in the press prior to our departure from Kuwait.) “And there are about 250,000 Americans.”

  “Bloody hell, we might as well have stayed at home,” he retorted, crestfallen.

  I would cheerfully have carried on the conversation with him but for the fact that one of their colleagues was approaching and my attention was distracted, primarily because she was an extremely attractive young filly, hair tied back in a bun, and a curvy figure still discernible beneath her baggy desert camouflage. Her Australian comrades were still engrossed in conversation about troop numbers and paid her no heed, so I stepped forward and introduced myself.

  “G’day Harry,” she responded, squeezing my hand for all it was worth. “I’m Michelle. It’s good to finally meet the Marines.”

  “My dear, I can assure you that I am not in the Marines,” I said, laying on the charm for all I was worth. “I am a cavalry officer, merely attached to the Marines for the duration.”

  “Jeez, cavalry huh?” she said breathlessly, looking up at me with wide brown eyes. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you sound pretty posh.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure I qualify as posh,” I chuckled. “Perhaps well-bred is a better description. Say, have you been aboard the Galahad yet?”

  She hadn’t, so I wasted no time whisking her up the gangplank, crisply returning the salute from the sentry at the top, and turning aft. Years earlier, I had suffered the misfortune of spending several days at sea onboard an RFA, most of which I spent throwing up over the side as the flat-bottomed barge wallowed in heavy seas. As a result of that passage I knew that several guest cabins were located in a little-visited area near the stern. It took less than a minute to navigate to our destination and, as expected, the cabins were empty and we didn’t encounter another soul. As the saying goes, there are only two certainties in life: death and Australians, and young Michelle proved to be no exception. The cabin door clicked shut behind us and, God bless her, the little Aussie harlot leapt on top of me as if there was no tomorrow. For several wonderful minutes I forgot all about the war as we coupled like stoats, despite the somewhat restrictive nature of Sir Galahad’s bunk beds. The unexpectedness of the encounter - not to mention Michelle’s marvellously lithe physique - made the whole experience all the more enjoyable, and it was with a broad grin on my face and morale fully restored that I shoved the little hussy back down the gangplank half an hour later.

  In the depths of the ship I discovered the BGE in heated conversation with the purser, a jovial fellow who was more than happy to sell us his beer, but who was marginally taken aback by the quantity we wished to purchase - all of it.

  “I think there are about 1,400 cans left,” he said, peering into the stockroom.

  “That’s fine,” came the booming reply. “We’ll take the lot.”

  The purser seemed mildly disbelieving about this, but the BGE was adamant.

  “Cleared it with the CO,” he said, grinning. “A couple of cans per man should make for a decent barbecue, don’t you reckon?”

  It wa
s the first I had heard of it, but the BGE quickly enlarged, explaining that he had contacted an old business chum in Kuwait, who was shipping sufficient meat and potatoes to Umm Qasr to facilitate a slap-up barbecue for all 766 blokes in the unit. Subject to the town being quiet and the continuation of normal patrol routines, the CO was happy to allow a spot of al fresco dining - the men had earned a break and they would certainly enjoy a couple of cold sherbets. Unable to rope any sailors into doing our spadework, I was forced to manhandle best part of a thousand cans of beer into the back of the BGE’s Land Rover, much to the amusement of the onlooking Australians.

  That evening’s barbecue made an uplifting change from endless boil-in-the-bag rations and was therefore an enormous hit with the boys. I wolfed down a hefty steak sandwich and retired to my room, where I had taken the liberty of stashing several dozen cans of beer in the fridge. The combat camera team joined me a short time later and we proceeded to get famously drunk. Bloated with beer, still on a high from my earlier Australian conquest, I eventually collapsed into bed, sated, sometime after midnight. By any standards it had been a good day. Had I known of the horrors that lay ahead, the smile would have been wiped off my face in seconds.

  NOTES

  1. TAA: Tactical Assembly Area.

  2. Flashman is being a little generous to J Company. In fact elements of 40 Commando were the first to land on the Al Faw, arriving some six or seven hours ahead of 42 Commando because of the delays caused by the problems with the U.S. helicopters.

  3. BV: a tracked over-snow vehicle originally procured by the Royal Marines for use in the arctic, but which has proved itself unexpectedly adept in all manner of environments, including the desert.

  4. Nutty: sweets, chocolate.

  5. Sadiq: friend (Arabic).

  6. Silkworm: an anti-ship missile made by the Chinese.

  7. RFA: Royal Fleet Auxiliary - a support ship. Flashman’s mention of mines is correct: the arrival of the Sir Galahad was delayed by a day or more because of the need to clear the shipping lane immediately outside the port.