Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq

by H. C. Tayler

  I have served with a multitude of different regiments and units over the years and in all that time I have never seen one with morale as high as 40 Commando’s that week. Time and again they had proved themselves the better of their enemy and the bloodthirsty buggers were lusting for more. Unhappily for me, it looked as if they were about to get exactly what they wished for. The OC’s orders were for an advance to contact -an inglorious military expression which means we don’t know exactly where the enemy is, so we’ll advance until someone starts shooting at us. In my humble opinion it was little more than suicide, but I kept my jangling nerves under control by telling myself that I would be firmly ensconced in Company Headquarters and therefore hopefully far enough behind the front line to be safe, all things being relative. But even that morsel of comfort was taken away when the OC introduced me to his subalterns.

  “Chaps, meet Captain Flashman. He’s from the Hussars, attached to the Brigade to provide us with a bit of much-need know-how on armoured warfare. He’ll give our lead elements a steer on where to deploy our anti-armour assets.” My blood ran cold. “Frankly there’s no point in him being anywhere but up front, since that’s where he can be of most use, so he’ll be chopped around between the various troops depending on who is confronted by the biggest armoured threat.”

  My circumstances had been unenviable beforehand, but at this proclamation I almost emptied my bowels where I sat. The OC barely drew breath however, moving on to point out likely Iraqi positions on a series of maps and aerial photographs. His impatient young charges hung on every word, each one eager to make their mark on the war and no doubt hoping for the lion’s share of the action. For my part, I sat in silence, wracking my brains as to how I could extricate myself from the situation. If I could only get a message back to 42 Commando, perhaps I could engineer a recall to Umm Qasr. It was a tantalising thought but there was no obvious mechanism for carrying it out and no time either, since 40 Commando’s advance was scheduled to begin in just a couple of hours.

  By the time the orders had finished I had descended into a fit of depression. Unable to make good my escape, I focused instead on filling my belly. The men of D-company proved as adept as any at rustling up hot drinks from nowhere, and I took full advantage by shamelessly scrounging both tea and boil-in-the-bag rations, which were available in abundance. I cleaned my rifle too, conscious that I would probably be forced to rely upon it again before the day was done.

  A short time before the advance was due to begin I managed to lighten my load by clipping my bergen to the outside of one of D-company’s Pinzgauers.(3) Everyone else did likewise, so that by the time we moved off the vehicles were barely visible, festooned under dozens of packs. I reluctantly took my place with the lead troop, sticking to the troop sergeant like glue, since he came across as a sensible soul who was likely to remain out of harm’s way. I made a point of distancing myself from the troop commander who was bounding around like a hyperactive spaniel and seemed just the sort of chap to run into trouble.

  The country to our front was wide open, consisting of tracts of unkempt farmland interspersed with occasional shrubs and thickets. To the north, nearer the river, palm trees were visible and underfoot the going was difficult due to the multitude of irrigation channels. Away from the river the ground was considerably firmer, making for easier patrolling for which I was grateful since my feet were still a little sore from all the miles I had covered with 42 Commando. Vehicle-mounted Milan crews buzzed around to our flanks, busily looking for enemy vehicles to engage, while the bulk of troops moved on foot, advancing inexorably toward the distant buildings. For some unknown reason the sniper fire had halted - I guessed that wherever the sniper was hidden, he didn’t much fancy the thought of facing down a company of testosterone-charged bootnecks. Either that, or our movement had simply taken us out of his field of view. Whatever the reason, I was grateful for the respite, even if it was likely to be short lived.

  Our advance continued unhindered for some time and I began to wonder if we were experiencing a re-run of the Umm Qasr walkover. No jundies were visible and there was no sign of movement up ahead. I knew that other companies were also advancing, out of sight on either flank, but since I could hear no firing I reasoned that they too must be having an easy time of it. But the troop sergeant alongside me looked far from relaxed. Given the days of constant action D-company had endured, this was unsurprising, but his tense expression had a marked effect on me and I kept my wits about me. Then, on the horizon, a glimmer of movement caught my eye. I’m not normally one for scaremongering but I was devilish nervous so I turned to point it out to the chaps nearest to me, when a horrifying ripping sound filled the air as a tank shell tore overhead. I threw myself onto the floor and immediately realised just how exposed I was lying out in the open, away from any decent cover. Machine-gun rounds began cracking all around, some throwing up dirt to my front and others smashing into the undergrowth a few dozen yards away. I screamed and buried my head in my arms, fully expecting to die in a hail of bullets. But the burst of fire was short lived and when I looked up I could make a drainage ditch about twenty yards ahead of me, which I wriggled towards it for all I was worth. The more observant or quick-witted Marines had sprinted into it the moment the shells had started flying and were therefore safely out of the line of fire. Only a small number of us had been stranded out in the open, and I didn’t plan to be there long. More tank shells whistled overhead, exploding in the vegetation a couple of hundred metres behind me. As if to spur my progress bullets hammered into the earth just a few feet to my left, their customary supersonic crack leaving my ears ringing. I yelped and crawled instinctively away, moving ever faster towards the ditch, into which I eventually slithered gasping for breath, much like a fox going to earth and, I imagine, with a similar sense of relief.

  “I thought you were a goner out there,” commented a Marine as I collapsed at his feet at the bottom of the ditch. “It’s a bloody miracle you weren’t hit. I dunno why you didn’t just jump in here when it started.”

  “Damned impertinence!” I exclaimed, but the rebuttal was lost in the crash of an artillery barrage immediately to our front. The enemy gunners had found their range and shells began to pound our position. I buried myself in the bottom of the ditch, chest heaving, listening to the sound of battle unfolding above me. It had taken a few long minutes, but the heavy weapons systems of 40 Commando were now in full voice. Between the exploding artillery shells I could hear the thump of heavy machine-guns clearly audible in the distance, and the occasional earth-shaking explosion meant the Milan launchers were busy too. During a momentary lull in the shelling I stood up in a low crouch and peered over the top of the ditch. I could see now that the Iraqis I had initially spotted were a tank crew. The tank itself was mostly hidden from view inside a large culvert, though its main gun and co-axial machine-gun were pointing ominously in our direction. The Iraqis, at least as far as I could see, had not left their vehicle. This was surely a mistake, as the open landscape meant they were exposed on several sides. Their immobility was the polar opposite of the Marines, whose aggressive advance was clearly visible. Pinzgauers and Land Rovers darted around, their crews blasting away with whatever weapon system was available to them. But the tank wasn’t the only threat, since the landscape had come alive with pockets of Iraqi infantry firing AK47s and rocket-propelled grenades for all they were worth. Their rifle fire seemed woefully inaccurate but the RPGs were better aimed and posed a genuine threat to 40 Commando’s open-topped vehicles.

  Rifle bullets were clipping over our heads from several directions and the grim reality dawned that we were almost surrounded by the enemy. The ditch seemed secure enough as long as one kept one’s head down - and I was certainly doing that - but my Royal Marine colleagues seemed far from happy to remain static. The troop commander was out of sight, somewhere in cover on our right flank, but his voice could be heard loud and clear over the radio, urging his men to locate the nearest pockets of enemy an
d report back to him as soon as possible. To my mind the obvious response to this demand would have been to feign radio failure and remain silent. But the section commander to my left had other ideas and immediately radioed back to say that he had sighted a small group of three or four enemy in a copse some distance to his left. The reply was swift and unequivocal: he was to remain in place until an HMG was brought to bear, then to mount an immediate assault with all the troops available - meaning the eight men of his section, plus the troop sergeant and yours truly.

  Artillery and mortar rounds crashed all around and an eternity passed until a small convoy of Pinzgauers came up behind us.

  The HMG crew in the lead vehicle wasted no time opening fire on the Iraqi position to our left, leaving the way open for an assault. The section commander gave the order to advance and the Marines began vaulting out of the ditch in their eagerness to close with the enemy.

  “It’s suicide - come back you bloody fools!” I screamed, but my cry was lost in another shattering explosion. The Iraqi gunners’ aim had improved; the earth bank of the drainage ditch gave way, chunks of red hot shrapnel whistled past my ears and I was showered with mud and stones. The explosion knocked me unconscious and, when I came round, I found myself flat on my back in the bottom of the trench. Dazed and half deaf, I picked myself up to discover I was alone - the Marines had vanished immediately before the artillery struck and were already closing fast on the Iraqi position. I had seconds to get out before the next Iraqi barrage crashed down, and I wasn’t about to waste them. I scrambled out of the ditch and sprinted after my colleagues with a speed born of sheer ruddy terror. All around me were the sights and smells of battle: bullets cracked left, right, overhead; mortar bombs whistled through the air, exploding nearby; smoke obscured the view across the muddy ground; the smell of cordite was everywhere. Despite it all the Marines maintained their mechanistic, irrepressible advance, sprinting forward in short bounds, taking advantage of every scrap of cover, all the time pumping rifle fire into the enemy position. The .50-calibre heavy machine-guns kept up their pounding of the Iraqis too, spraying chunks of earth and splinters of wood from the undergrowth. The Iraqis were far from done though, and AK47 fire continued to come at us in bursts from positions hidden deep within the thicket of trees. Rocket-propelled grenades screeched out of the woods and across our front, evidently aimed at the vehicles to our flank, but it was to no avail - the Marines reached the trees without losing a single casualty (which was little short of a miracle) and the vicious bastards were mixing it with the terrified Iraqis within seconds. A tiny white flag appeared from a trench to my front but it was far too late, a grenade had already been posted into the position from a passing fire-team and the hapless occupants were blown to smithereens a second later. Theirs was the first trench I came to and despite the blood and human debris scattered around it I dived inside as if my life depended on it.

  Over the radio, somewhat unexpectedly, came the voice of the troop commander urging his men on - he had brought up the rest of the troop and the section assault had become a fullblown troop attack, which was no bad thing given the number of Iraqis concealed in the woods. Then the realisation dawned that they would be coming up behind us, and any uncleared positions would be subject to more grenade posting. I looked behind me in the nick of time - a pair of Marines was metres away, rifles in the shoulder, scanning the area for signs of moving enemy. A stand-off ensued during which I stood like a rabbit in the headlights while they checked me out via their telescopic sights. Fortunately the instinct of self-preservation was by this stage stronger than ever, so I wasted no time in dropping my rifle and raising my hands above my head. Eventually they recognised me for who I was and continued on their way with a cheery wave, kicking the Iraqi corpses to ensure they were dead as they went.

  As the Marines swept through the trees, I caught sight of more of our vehicles bouncing along a rough track beyond the trees. The Pinzgauer carrying our bergens brought up the rear, lurching its way along a track, jolting over the heavily potholed surface. As it approached the thicket of trees I caught a glimpse of movement off to a flank and immediately knew what was going to happen. The assaulting Marines had not yet reached the far edge of the woods and the Iraqis stationed there took full advantage of the slow-moving target, unleashing several RPGs simultaneously. The rockets flew into the hapless vehicle but to my utter disbelief there was no ensuing fireball - the soft surface of the bergens presumably failed to trigger the warheads - and the Pinzgauer continued to lurch along the track unhindered. Another rocket screamed out of the woods and connected with the driver, knocking him bodily from his seat and out onto the track, but once again it failed to detonate. Finally, a warhead connected with a solid surface on the vehicle and the resultant explosion threw pieces of vehicle and equipment - my equipment - in all directions. I assumed the driver had copped it in the blast, but to my amazement he picked himself up off the floor and, seemingly unharmed, sprinted off towards his colleagues before the jundies had the chance to take another pot-shot at him. It was probably the most miraculous escape I have ever witnessed; he should undoubtedly have been killed several times over. Within seconds the assaulting Marines overran the Iraqi trenches and the RPGs were silenced forever. But this was cold comfort to me, since the contents of my bergen - my entire worldly possessions for the duration of the war in Iraq - had already been blown to smithereens.

  Then, from behind me, I heard the unmistakable chock-chock-chock of helicopter gunships approaching. A brace of the sinister looking machines flew directly overhead, the leading aircraft spewing fire from its rotary cannon onto a line of Iraqi trenches before banking sharply and turning away to the south. The second gunship slowed just momentarily to release its cargo of missiles before also banking away to the south. The massive ensuing explosion produced a pall of black smoke to our front and left the area relatively quiet - small arms fire could still be heard in the distance, but nobody was firing in the foreground.

  “Hoofing!” commented the Marine standing next to me. “I can’t see the jundies getting up after that little lot.”(4)

  He was right, too, the earth culvert and the tank within it had been reduced to a blackened, burning mass. Nothing stirred after the gunships departed, which was a tremendous relief -as far as I was concerned, a toasted Iraqi was far preferable to one who was shooting at me.

  We waited in the woods for best part of an hour, half expecting firing to begin again. But the area immediately to our front remained silent, the Iraqis having succumbed either to the attentions of the gunships or to the assault troops of 40 Commando. Those Iraqis fortunate enough to have survived the onslaught were stripped of their weapons and bundled away to the rear to be carted back to the prisoner handing centre in 4-tonne trucks. Eventually the radio crackled into life and the order was passed to continue the advance. By now every Iraqi south of Basra must have heard our approach, which could weigh in our favour if they decided to scarper or seriously count against us if they planned to avenge their fallen comrades. Disconsolately I dragged my mud-covered self out of the woods and took my place at the rear of the troop, emerging from the trees alongside the troop sergeant. The pace seemed notably slower now, which didn’t surprise me one jot since the lead men were becoming more wary with every step. Bursts of small-arms fire still sounded to our north, which did nothing to calm my nerves, and the sweat trickled down my back as the bright sunshine baked the earth under our feet.

  The buildings which had been mere specks on the horizon when we set off eventually loomed into view ahead of us. They looked to be houses of some description, elevated on stilts presumably to keep them dry in the event of the mudflats flooding. There was no obvious sign of movement therein but nevertheless I deliberately slowed my pace as we approached, keen to keep as much distance between the objective and me until someone declared the place safe. Following my narrow escape just a short time earlier I also kept half an eye open for a suitable bolthole in the event of bullets fly
ing. Once again, my instinct for self-preservation proved invaluable, as a silhouette was spotted in an upstairs window of the farthest house and the Marines let fly with everything they’d got. Thankfully, the response from the Iraqis wasn’t aimed in my direction, although this didn’t stop me leaping like a frightened stag into a gully that ran alongside the track, from where I observed the Marines smashing their way into the nearest residence. The bloodthirsty blighters were inside within seconds - I could see their silhouettes flitting across the windows as they cleared the rooms inside. The Iraqi fighters put up a stiff resistance though and the noise of heavier-calibre fire emanating from their AK47s could be heard constantly. A few stray bullets punched out of the wooden walls and flew in my direction, ensuring I didn’t raise my head above the top of the gully - not that I needed any reminding. My nerves, already frayed from earlier encounters, were at breaking strain and there was no way I was going anywhere near a punch-up between a houseful of recalcitrant Iraqis and two dozen Marines baying for blood. Instead I crouched in the bottom of the ditch, waiting for a sign the area was safe. Eventually I saw a party of Marines being dispatched to the next house, which I took to mean the first building had been declared safe. However, the jundies holed up in the second house were no less stubborn, so the fighting continued unabated. After a few more minutes cowering in my ditch I witnessed several Iraqis running from the building under a white flag, jabbering away in frightened Arabic until a couple of the bootnecks got hold of them and forced them to the ground. The bullets stopped flying altogether shortly afterwards so, after a prudent pause to ensure this wasn’t merely a lull in the fighting, I climbed back onto the track and scuttled into the nearest house.