by H. C. Tayler
The interior was as dank and gloomy as the exterior; mingling with the acrid cordite smoke was a musty, stale smell which told me the place had been uninhabited for some time. Stray items of grubby furniture were dotted around and rubbish was scattered on the floor. The place had a somewhat ominous air about it and I felt instinctively unsafe there. I have learned from bitter experience to trust such intuitive feelings, so I began to search for an escape route in case the situation became ugly. I walked through to the back of the house and made a mental not of a north-facing rear door which had been conveniently left unlocked. Upstairs, I found the troop commander and troop sergeant deep in conversation about the viability of remaining in the house and using it as a patrol base.
“What do you think Sir - are we vulnerable to Iraqi tanks if we stay here?” asked the troop sergeant.
“Not especially,” I replied, conscious that for the first time since the war began I was actually doing my job and offering advice on armoured movements. “If I were an Iraqi tank commander, I wouldn’t fancy my chances manoeuvring a T55 over the mudflats, there’d be too much risk of getting bogged down. So they’ll probably stick to roads and tracks, which makes them vulnerable to anti-armour ambush. I’d say the threat is pretty limited really.”
“So should we stay here, or push on?” asked the fresh-faced troop commander.
I had done quite enough pushing on for one day so my answer was forthright.
“Stay right here,” I countenanced, solemnly. “You’ve got a good base with enough elevation to see much of the surrounding country. There are no obvious objectives to your - our - front and there ain’t much daylight left. If I were you I’d get on the net to the company commander and tell him you’re done for the day.”
He did too, and I almost fainted with relief when he got the necessary authority for us to stay put for the night. My heart was still trip-hammering from all the earlier adrenaline and I was becoming increasingly desperate to get some rest. News of our stay came as an obvious disappointment to several of the Marines, who were once again keen to be pressing on -their eagerness to risk their lives in armed combat never ceased to amaze me.
I made my way downstairs, keen to find somewhere quiet to get some undisturbed shut-eye. There were plenty of quiet corners but most of the house was filthy and I didn’t fancy waking up with lice, so I poked around, opening doors and peering into every nook and cranny in the hope of finding a suitable spot for a nap. Just as I was resigning myself to the probability of sleeping in filth, the wall of the house exploded into a hail of splinters, pieces of wood flying towards me amidst the cacophony of noise associated with being on the wrong end of a Kalashnikov. A large timber splinter caught me square on the thigh, embedding itself in my flesh and causing me a great deal of pain. I howled and collapsed onto the floor clutching my wounded leg. It was as well that I did, since the next burst of fire came hot on the heels of the first, smashing through the wall and showering me with more fragments of the building. To be entirely honest, I’m not sure why I acted as I then did, I can only assume I suffered some sort of nervous breakdown. Under attack again, in agony due to my injured leg, something inside me snapped. Despite the flying bullets, I jumped to my feet and sprinted out of the rear door of the house, limbs flailing, screaming in abject terror. I had no idea where I was going and frankly I didn’t care - anywhere was better than being besieged in a filth-ridden cesspit with a bunch of psychotic maniacs. As I exited the building I was vaguely aware of fire coming from the upstairs windows, which I remember thinking was a little odd, since the enemy assault was clearly on the other side of the house. But the Marines could have been shooting clay pigeons for all I cared - I could see the outline of the date palms to the north and in my panic-fuelled insanity I was intent on reaching them. I didn’t get more than 50 yards before fate conspired against me, in the form of a length of barbed wire concealed in the muddy earth. I caught the toe of my boot in a loop of the stuff and crashed to the ground face first, knocking the wind out of my lungs. My fist was still firmly clenched around the pistol-grip of my rifle and when my muscles clenched as I hit the deck I inadvertently snatched at the trigger. Without even being aware of it I had instinctively taken the safety catch off my rifle when the building came under fire. Worse, at some point during the day I had evidently knocked the change lever from single-shot to automatic. The result was an unintentional burst of a dozen rounds or more - not much more than a single second’s worth, though it seemed an eternity at the time - before I managed to release the action and stop firing. Given that the rifle was trapped underneath me I was devilish lucky not to blow my head off - but fortunately I kept my chin up and the rounds shot straight out from underneath me, flying towards the date palms in a deafening roar. Once my own rifle fell silent I expected relative calm to descend, but instead I became terrifyingly aware that bullets were flying all around. With abject horror I realised that I was just yards from a series of well-hidden Iraqi trenches which had gone unnoticed when the Marines assaulted the building. A number of the incumbent Fedayeen had snuck out of the position and were attacking the Marines from a flank - which accounted for the rounds flying through the east-facing wall - while the rest were providing covering fire from their trenches.(5) My panic-fuelled flight to safety had horribly backfired: instead of being away from this madness and concealed in the palm trees I was completely exposed, visible for all the world to see, an obvious target on the bare earth. A braver man might have continued forward to engage the enemy, but I had no such combative instincts. Instead, I cradled my head in my hands and sobbed tears of self-pity while awaiting the bullet that would finish it all. I cursed the Marines, the Iraqis, the CO, Tony Blair -anyone, in fact, who had even a modicum of responsibility for my current plight. Bullets cracked past my ears on both sides and battle raged over my head for several endless minutes, before the firing slowed to an occasional single shot, and I realised with incredulity that I was entirely unharmed. Caution remained the better part of valour though, so I made no attempt to move until the area had lain silent for some time. Eventually, satisfied that the worst danger had passed, I gingerly lifted my head and took stock of the situation. Before I could move, I was grabbed under both arms and dragged unceremoniously into the house by a brace of Marines.
“What the devil ...” I spluttered.
“Don’t speak, Sir,” answered one. “Save your breath.”
I began to protest but my rescuers were convinced that I was fatally wounded and would have none of it. I was rushed into the house and laid down on a foam sleeping mat, all the time being told to conserve my strength and, in a faux-reassuring tone, that everything would be okay. Well, I’m not immune to a spot of pampering and I would have made more of it if there had been anything actually wrong with me. But given that I had just produced a spectacular negligent discharge, and given that I was essentially unhurt, albeit very shaken up and with a throbbing pain in my leg, I reasoned that I was in deep enough trouble without being caught play-acting or faking injury, so I opted to come clean sooner rather than later.
“Look, chaps, I appreciate the effort,” I stuttered in a faltering voice, wondering what they must be thinking of an officer who not only fled the scene of battle but who also lost control of his weapon in the process, “but really, I’m not hurt. Well, asides from my leg of course...” I allowed my voice to trail off, hoping to leverage the sympathy vote in order to ward off their inevitable anger.
“Are you sure, Sir?” asked one of them, jamming two fingers into my throat, presumably to take my pulse. “Only there’s claret all over your face and you look to be in a bit of a state.”
I reached up and gingerly touched my forehead. To my surprise he was right, my fingers came away sticky with blood.
“Well I don’t know what the cause of that is, but I promise you it ain’t a bullet wound,” I told my audience. Truth be told, I suspected I had gashed my forehead on a piece of barbed wire as I fell, though I couldn’t be sure.
Whatever the cause, it looked a lot worse than it was - I couldn’t feel any pain at all. In contrast, my thigh, with the shard of wood still embedded, was throbbing like the blazes.
Just then the troop sergeant appeared, pushing aside one of the Marines to get a better look at me. I held my breath, waiting for wrath of a veteran NCO to fall on me, knowing he had seen me for the coward I really was. Instead, he bent down and squeezed my arm, exclaiming, “Bloody hell, Sir, that was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. We had the situation in hand you know, there was really no need to conduct a one-man assault on the jundie trenches.”
“What the...” I was about to ask what the devil he was talking about, but stopped myself. Suddenly I realised how different my ‘assault’ must have looked from his perspective. A fire-fight had broken out, the house was under attack from two sides, and out of the building, howling like a banshee, comes one of his number who sprints towards the enemy trenches before diving to the ground in order to engage the Iraqis at close range. I must have given the appearance of a fanatic hell-bent on making himself a martyr.
“Well, yes, I suppose it may have looked a tad rash,” I muttered, manfully. “But y’know, in the heat of battle, well, instinct just takes over...” I stopped and stared purposefully into the middle distance as if mulling the possible consequences of my actions. What was actually going through my mind was an overpowering sense of relief. First off, I was still alive and not too badly hurt - although the stabbing pain in my leg still persisted. Second, my attempt to desert in the face of the enemy, coupled with some astonishingly amateurish conduct, had been perceived as heroism and if anything my reputation, which by rights should have been in tatters, stood to be significantly enhanced by the day’s events. I could have wept with relief. Instead, I glanced up at my audience and said, “I say, d’you think the company medic could take a look at my leg?” “
A pair of Marines scuttled off to fetch the medic while the troop sergeant peered at the blood-stained front of my desert trousers, cautiously lifting the fabric away from the skin around the hole where the sliver of wood had penetrated. Shortly afterward the medic arrived and the subsequent inspection of my right thigh did nothing to offer me any comfort. The piece of wood, a wedge-shaped shard around an inch in length, was embedded in my thigh muscle, around nine inches north of my kneecap. The flesh around the entry wound was badly swollen and the area drenched in blood. The medic seemed quite sanguine about the whole affair though - I suppose after a week of fierce fighting he had seen a lot worse.
“No probs,” he said, grinning at me. “Obviously we need to get it out pronto before septicaemia sets in. But it looks as if I can get hold of it, so I don’t think we’ll have a problem.”
Despite my protestations about being taken to the Regimental Aid Post, he began to douse my leg with iodine. The inky brown liquid seeped into the wound and I squealed with pain.
“That stuff always hurts,” grinned my tormentor, before unclipping a pair of fold-away pliers from his belt in order to take hold of the offending item. The extraction was every bit as painful as the iodine, but at least it was over quickly. The medic brandished the offending item in the jaws of his pliers, threw it to one side and proceeded to make me wriggle in agony as he opened up the wound to make sure no debris remained inside.
Once the area was cleaned to his satisfaction he produced a needle and thread and began to close the punctured skin. I continued to thrash around like an epileptic, because the heartless bastard hadn’t bothered with an anaesthetic.
After an eternity of stitching and sewing he finally doused the area with antiseptic powder and dressed it with a spotless white bandage.
“I think we’re done, Sir,” he proclaimed at last, pulling my filthy, blood-encrusted trouser leg down over the pristine bandage. And with that he disappeared, leaving me sprawled on the sleeping mat, alone.
My mind was still racing from the roller-coaster ride of the day’s events but beneath the adrenaline-fuelled high I knew I was dog tired, so I lay back on the sleeping mat and closed my eyes. Relieved and amazed to be still alive, I felt sleep wash over me - even the residual pain in my right thigh failed to keep me awake for more than a few moments.
I was rudely awoken sometime in the early hours by a Marine shaking me by the shoulders. Freezing cold from a night spent without a sleeping bag, I sat upright cursing, fully intent on seeing out the rest of the night without getting embroiled in any more idiocy with D-company.
“The company commander is asking for you,” said the Marine.
I was incensed. “Then tell him to come and find me,” I answered frostily. “Is he not aware I have an injured leg?”
“He’s only next door, Sir,” answered the Marine awkwardly. “I think he wants to chat to you about our next move.”
“For God’s sake!” I exclaimed, clambering to my feet. “Why are you lunatics in such a rush all the time?”
He didn’t bother responding to this but scuttled rapidly away, leaving me hobbling stiffly towards the doorway.
I found the company commander poring over a map of the area with two of his troop commanders. My nerves were still fragile from the previous day’s activity and I was far from sure I could endure another advance to contact so soon. I braced myself for the news, all the time trying to work out how I could possibly avoid being dragged into the melee.
“Harry!” he exclaimed. Then, less enthusiastically, “Bloody hell, you look a mess. You feeling okay?”
“No, by George, I am not,” I told him bluntly. “I am pretty damned far from okay, if you must know. My leg is hurting like the blazes, I’m freezing cold, my equipment has been scattered across most of southern Iraq, and now I am being deprived of sleep. What do you want?”
“Er, actually old man, I got you up to tell you we’re getting rid of you.” I looked warily at him and waited for more. “Apparently 42 Commando want you back,” he added. “Mind you, after a day or two with us, I should think that’s a good thing - any more heroics and I think we’d be sending you home in a box.” The subalterns chortled obediently at his bonhomie and even I cracked into a grin. All things considered, Umm Qasr was like a holiday camp compared with the horror of 40 Commando’s assault and the thought of returning there was, in the circumstances, the best possible news I could have wished for.
“BRF will take you back to Umm Qasr,” he added. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”
The first fingers of dawn were brightening the eastern horizon by the time the Land Rovers arrived. Unburdened by a rucksack I hobbled out of the house and we sped off, engines grinding noisily as the tyres struggled to grip the loose surface. My driver was a cheery soul, regaling me with tales of recent firefights and narrow escapes involving the cavalrymen of QDG. It had surprised me that I hadn’t clapped eyes on their armoured recce vehicles during my time with 40 Commando, but evidently they had been keeping themselves busy elsewhere, seeking out Iraqi formations all the way from Al Faw to Basra and beyond.(6) Damned fine chaps, the Queen’s Dragoon Guards, even if they are Welsh.
By the time we reached the metalled road, daylight was upon us and I was able to get a better look at the surrounding countryside. If the previous day had been turgid for me, it had evidently been a darned sight worse for the enemy. A few burned-out tanks had been visible on the roadside on my inward journey, but now they were everywhere. Many vehicles were still smouldering, the corpses of their former occupants often lying nearby, thrown from the vehicle by the massive force of the missile strikes. Dead infantry soldiers could be seen lying next to their trenches. The blackened hulks of armoured personnel carriers and transport trucks lined the side of the road - they had been shoved aside by our advancing Challenger tanks - and dismembered artillery pieces and 4x4s lay nearby, equally silent. It was an eerie scene, made more so because the two Land Rovers were the only things moving in the still landscape. I kept my wits about me though, and I was grateful that the machine-gunners in both Land Rovers did likewise.
Thankfully the journey was uneventful and we arrived back at Umm Qasr unhindered, in time for me to scrounge a quick cup of tea from the chief clerk prior to the morning brief.
NOTES
1. J Company lost 7-1, but the match served its purpose in calming relations between the locals and the Marines.
2. During the course of the war, several men of 40 Commando escaped death or serious injury when bullets struck the breastplate of their body armour, a seemingly remarkable occurrence since the breast plate is relatively small (roughly A5 in size).
3. Pinzgauer: a versatile, open-topped 4x4.
4. Hoofing: excellent or outstanding (Royal Marines slang).
5. Fedayeen: extremist Iraqi troops, highly loyal to Saddam Hussein.
6. The QDG acquitted themselves with such courage on the Al Faw peninsular and beyond that the Brigade Commander took the unprecedented step of issuing every man a commando flash (badge) to be worn on the sleeve of their smocks and nicknaming them the “Royal Marines Light Horse”.
8
In my delight at escaping the horrors of 40 Commando’s assault I entirely forgot about my bedraggled appearance. Dried mud and blood streaked my face, my clothes were torn and filthy, and the white of a bandage was plainly visible through the gash in my right trouser leg. On top of all this I was limping like a cripple, since my leg had seized up in the night and was causing me a good deal of discomfort. The result was a great deal of curiosity within 42 Commando Headquarters as to what I had been up to. But before I had even begun to wax lyrical about my derring-do, I was seized by the Ops Officer and dragged off into a briefing with OC L Company.
“Harry, sorry to jump this on you when you’ve only just returned.” He grinned unapologetically. “We’ve been tasked with an urgent mission and I need to get you guys on the road as quickly as possible.”
