by H. C. Tayler
The day dragged on interminably. Try as I might, I couldn’t haul myself out of the water - the reeds wouldn’t support my weight, so I had no choice but to remain half submerged. I wasn’t prepared to abandon my equipment and swim for it, not with half the Iraqi army crawling around in the undergrowth. So I stayed put, and became gradually colder as the day wore on. The reeds waved lazily overhead in the light breeze, conspiring to prevent the sun from warming me up, until by mid-afternoon I was halfway to hypothermia. The cold stiffened my limbs and my gammy leg began to ache like the blazes. As the sun began to drop towards the horizon I had the awful notion that the boats might have used another channel to return to the KAA. It was entirely possible that no-one was coming to rescue me. I became hysterical with panic. Once night fell the temperature would plummet and I would surely die of exposure. It was too awful to contemplate. My teeth began to chatter and I shook dramatically, though I’m not sure whether it was through cold or fear. Probably both. How did I end up in these awful situations? Why me? I was destined to die alone, freezing or drowning in a muddy hellhole. It was quite feasible that my body would never be recovered - it would simply slide into the water and disappear forever. And I had no-one to blame but myself. If only I had held onto the boat properly. If only the bloody coxswain had done his job properly. If only ... I was close to tears when I finally heard the hum of a raider engine approaching. The noise grew ever louder - not one raider, but several. They were returning! My spirits soared. I elbowed aside the reeds, thereby making myself slightly more visible from the water. The roar of the engines continued to build and I raised an arm in readiness to wave. Then they appeared -three raiding craft from the south, skipping over the water at maximum speed. I screamed my lungs out and waved frantically as they zoomed by, but in vain. I was neither seen nor heard. Instead of L Company returning south, these boats were the earlier recce parties, now trying to catch up the main body of the company group. The wash they created was immense and frigid water flooded over me in multiple waves. I clung to the reeds, frantically trying to pull myself higher out of the water, but to no avail. The waves subsided and I was once again half submerged, lying prone in the mud and slime. I confess I began to sob.
Dusk had fallen by the time I heard the raiding craft returning. I frantically pulled my torch from my webbing pouches, only to discover that the wretched thing had drowned and was no use whatsoever. I threw it disconsolately into the channel and began waving like fury as the boats approached. But once again, my hopes were dashed. Even if they had been able to hear my screams above the roar of the engines I would have been damned difficult to spot. In any case, unbeknown to me, the company had spent much of the afternoon shooting up various pockets of Iraqi fugitives, nerves were frayed, and the coxswains were piloting the flotilla out of the marshes at best speed - just as I would have done in their shoes. The boats zoomed by without slowing even a fraction. The sun had already dipped below the horizon and I was alone for the night. It was barely 24 hours since I had survived the inferno of 40 Commando’s assault on the Al Faw - how cruel, then, to escape almost unscathed only to end up drowned, alone, freezing in a brackish bog.
That night was perhaps the longest I have endured - and there have been a few, I don’t mind telling you. Without the warmth of the sun the temperature dropped rapidly. Throughout the night, as my senses became less and less functional, bursts of tracer fire lit up the sky to the north and east, helicopters could be heard in the distance, and there was the occasional crump-crump-crump of mortar bombs landing near Umm Qasr. I couldn’t tell whether they were ours or theirs - not that it made any difference. The noise of fighting died away in the early hours and without its welcome distraction I began to hallucinate. The night was pitch dark - there was no moon and the light cast from the stars was only enough to illuminate the nearby water’s edge, no more. Delirious from cold and fatigue, my vision distorted everything around me. Screaming faces emerged from the reeds, Iraqi boatmen slid by silently, old crones peered at me from the water, and - by far the worst -I even imagined my old headmaster shaking his head disapprovingly at me as I lay in the mud. How I didn’t go stark staring mad I shall never know. But eventually the pitch black of the eastern horizon began to turn an inky blue and the first fingers of dawn crept over the marshland. I was utterly exhausted from fending off the cold but slipping into unconsciousness would allow my body to succumb to hypothermia, so I forced myself to stay awake just a little longer. Surely, now that day was breaking, a search party would be sent for me.
Before the sun had climbed over the horizon, the beating of rotor blades filled the air and a Gazelle helicopter passed overhead, flying slowly, clearly looking for something - or someone. I rolled onto my side, ignoring the freezing water which ran down the inside of my smock, and began waving frantically. The helicopter continued its passage north, slowly disappearing out of sight over the endless reeds. But less than five minutes later it was back, this time travelling even more deliberately. I began to wave once more and this time I was spotted. The aircraft hovered overhead and the co-pilot waved back, whereupon it banked sharply to the south and disappeared at speed. A further half hour’s shivering ensued before the silence was again fractured by rigid raider engines. The helo crew had done their stuff - the coxswains had been given my exact location. As the boats rounded the bend they cut their throttles and drifted over to me. A brace of Marines dragged me from the frigid water and I was dumped unceremoniously in the bottom of a rigid raider, much to the mirth of all present. The raiding craft shot off downriver while some kindly soul threw a dry smock over me, despite which I shivered uncontrollably all the way to our pick-up point.
Back at the UN camp I was bundled off to see the doc, who prescribed hot drinks and a full day of rest. I could have kissed him. I changed into a dry set of combats, contemplated collapsing into bed, but instead decided to vent my spleen at OC L Company before the day grew much older. I found him inside the Ops Room.
“Ah, Flashy, I was wondering where you’d got to,” he laughed. “Nice day for a swim - surprised none of the boys jumped in with you.”
‘“You bloody madman - I could have drowned out there!” I shouted.
He clapped me on the back and replied, “Ah well, you look okay to me. Sorry it took us so long to find you. There was plenty of scrapping further north, and I’m afraid I had to focus on the job at hand. You must have been half frozen last night. Still, no hard feelings - at least you’re back with us now.” I did my best to look reproachful and stalked off to bed. Bloody Marines - far too busy getting themselves into trouble to worry about the likes of me. I wriggled into my sleeping bag and passed out.
NOTES
1. 539 Assault Squadron, an amphibious boat group utilising all manner of small vessels from landing craft to hovercraft.
2. BTR - wheeled armoured personnel carrier; BMP - tracked armoured personnel carrier. Most Russian vehicles dating from the Cold War were routinely fitted with propellers and capable of swimming.
3. The KAA to which Flashman refers is the Khawr Abd Allah, while the river onto which the operation launched was the Khawr Az Zubayr.
4. TOW: tube-launched, optically sighted, wire guided.
9
I awoke just after dawn, stiff as a board and still smelling faintly of river water, but nonetheless content to be alive and in a relatively safe place. The UN camp was already a hive of activity, with Marines scurrying around, engines revving, and the general hubbub of a busy military workplace. After a quick strip wash, shave, and a cup of hot coffee, I felt almost human again, and wandered over to the Headquarters building prior to the morning briefing. The place was already full of eager young officers and NCOs, itching to find out what was on the agenda for the day.
I responded to the inevitable questions by waxing lyrical about my amphibious heroics of the previous day, but before I could get properly into my stride the adjutant cut short my monologue and called the morning briefing to order. The usual G1
and G2 issues were rattled through with no small degree of haste, before the CO stood up to lead the G3 items. This in itself was a pretty good indicator that something sinister was about to be announced, but as usual I failed to see it coming, my mind being too busy working on embellishments to my story rather than concentrating on the briefing. I soon started to pay attention when he began gesticulating towards a white board on which a large operations diagram had been drawn in bright green ink. The name at the top of the board stood out in bold capitals: BASRA. With a sinking feeling I realised that the reason for my recall was not to spend a few quiet nights in Umm Qasr, but to be part of another episode of collective madness.
The CO’s diagram, which he had cobbled together with the help of the Adjutant and Ops Officer, was a masterpiece of Staff College-style conceptual thinking. The more I stared at it, the more agitated I became - these theoretical plans seem fine on paper if you’re the kind of chap who gets excited by that sort of thing, but in practise I prefer a more simplistic plan that’s easier to adjust if Johnny Foreigner starts gaining the upper hand. On the sketch map, three large areas of land were highlighted: Basra city centre, the suburbs to the south, and the date palm plantations and suburbs to the east. Across each section was written a single word: Find, Fix, Strike. (For the uninitiated, these are the three principle offensive military activities as defined by the boffins at Shrivenham. The Flashy version of Find-Fix-Strike is Find-Run-Hide, from which you can deduce that I was gravely concerned by the CO’s outline plan.) The explanation was given that 40 Commando, who were already approaching the eastern suburbs of Basra, would fix the enemy in that location. BRF would soon be engaged to the south of the town in an attempt to find the enemy strongholds, which would then be neutralised by airstrikes or by the gunners of 29 Commando Artillery, all of which would leave the way open for an assault on the town centre by 42 Commando, supported by the Challenger tanks of 7 Armoured Brigade. With typical bootneck enthusiasm the entire staff was chomping at the bit within seconds, with yours truly joining in the hoo-har for all I was worth - I had nothing to lose and by this stage I had fully realised the futility of attempting to resist the collective fervour of two dozen Marine officers scenting blood.
Plans were spelled out for the entire Commando Group to depart Umm Qasr by the end of the day, handing over the camp to the sappers and loggies who were already running the port. The overnight move would take us north to a staging post a short distance south of Basra itself, where the assault troops would join forces with a couple of squadrons of Challengers for the final push into the town.
“We’ll be needing your armoured liaison skills more than ever, Flash,” remarked the CO halfway through his briefing. “You’d better get yourself patched up and ready for action,” he added.
I knew better than to contest the decision. Gammy leg or not, I would be riding in the vanguard, once again at the pointy end of proceedings rather than down the back where I belonged. It put me in a proper funk for the rest of the day, much of which I spent washing the grime from my tired carcass with countless bottles of mineral water, which were now being shipped to us in ever more liberal quantities.
Having cleaned my body, if not my clothes, I made a foray to the QM’s department and was re-equipped with the basic accoutrements of soldiering, including a new rucksack, sleeping bag, spare set of camouflage clothing, and even a set of mess tins. Meanwhile, the camp erupted in a hubbub of activity as equipment was stowed, weapons cleaned, vehicles prepared, and 42 Commando prepared for battle yet again. The prize -Basra - served to focus the minds of all involved and morale, which had begun to ebb slightly as work in Umm Qasr became more mundane, shot up once again. I whiled away a pleasant couple of hours on my bed, trying not think about the inevitability of once more putting myself in mortal danger. I found Charlotte Woodstock to be a good source of distraction, so I focused instead on fantasising over what I would do to her when - if -I got home. The combat camera team was as enthusiastic about the move as everyone else in the Commando Group, but they did at least provide an endless stream of tea and coffee throughout the day.
By late afternoon the UN Camp looked an entirely different place. Equipment was stowed away, offices cleared, rooms emptied, and vehicles lined up in neat rows awaiting the move north. Anything remotely useful was pilfered and packed in the vehicles; since most of the men were travelling in the back of 4-tonne trucks, the camp was systematically stripped of soft furnishings in order to create makeshift mattresses. I couldn’t face the thought of spending an entire night in the company of the officers on the Headquarters staff, whose boundless energy and enthusiasm I found a constant drain, so I sought out the BGE - who was no less enthusiastic about the prospect of a punch-up but could at least partake in a meaningful conversation about fox-hunting - and clambered into the back of his truck.
“I hope you haven’t come empty-handed,” he commented. “There’s a cab fare to pay here, Harry, and I’ll accept any gifts you can rustle up.”
“I’ve nothing to offer but my wit and repartee,” I countered. “Although I have brought my mattress so at least the ride will be a bit less uncomfortable.”
“Good man,” grinned the BGE, then added, “By the way, I hope you don’t mind sharing the wagon with a load of RCKs. The consolation is that if they go off, I guarantee you won’t feel a thing.”(1)
The thought of dying in a massive accidental explosion was far from comforting but plastic explosive is pretty stable stuff and anyway I had nowhere else to travel, so I tossed in my mattress and struggled up over the tailgate, cursing my sore leg, which seemed to be getting worse rather than better.
“Leg giving you gip, is it?” enquired the BGE, his voice full of insincerity. “I have just the medicine.” And with that he produced a half-pint plastic bottle full of scotch which we began drinking before the convoy had even left the camp. I expected it to be a long, hard night and I suspect for the drivers it was. For my part, the whisky numbed the pain in my leg and I passed out, sandwiched between the tailgate of the truck and the hard cases of the RCKs, only to awake when the convoy stopped shortly after first light the following morning.
In the faint morning light, I could see that the entire convoy was precariously exposed, stationary on a thin metalled road which snaked its way across seemingly endless mudflats. The halted vehicles posed an obvious target to enemy gunners so I wandered up the line to find the reason for the delay. It transpired it was one of the attached American soldiers who had caused the problem, by spectacularly falling out of his Humvee.
Apparently the chap was the vehicle’s machine-gunner, perched high on a sling seat poking out of a cupola above the cab. The night’s journey had proved too much for him and he had succumbed to sleep just as dawn was breaking, thereby toppling from his vehicle, injuring himself quite severely in the process. Clearly it wasn’t the finest hour for the US Marines - they’ve no bloody stamina, these Yanks; I put it down to the lack of a decent public school education - and his colleagues were busily assuring their British colleagues that it wouldn’t happen again, while our medics cared for their crippled comrade. Eventually he was either patched up or shipped out (I never found out which) and the convoy started rolling again.
Our temporary destination was only a short distance further along the road. The roar of tank engines greeted us as we rolled into the car park of an abandoned university campus. The place was already a hive of activity so I elected to stay in the truck where I hoped I would remain undiscovered and ignored. My relaxed state was soon ended by an immense crash of artillery, at which point I practically shat myself and dived over the tailgate in a desperate attempt to seek shelter. I needn’t have worried: rather embarrassingly the crash was caused by outgoing artillery shells from a gun-line concealed behind a nearby wall - infinitely preferable to incoming fire, but it gave me a heck of a start nevertheless. I berated myself for failing to spot the difference, but under the circumstances I would have jumped at the sound of a kindergarte
n cap-gun and in any case half of the Marines made the same mistake, so at least my embarrassment was diluted somewhat.
The artillery fire may have been harmless - although I’m sure it felt very different on the receiving end - but my exit from the truck had been spotted by OC M Company, who trotted over to inform me that he was once again leading the charge into an enemy-held town and just like last time, I had the privilege of accompanying him.
“Stacks of supporting armour this time, which is a bonus,” he quipped. “Obviously none of our wagons are armoured though, so you’ll just have to risk it in a BV. We’re not due to move out until late afternoon - I’ll be giving a set of orders in the lecture theatre at 1400. See you there.” He shot me a wink and disappeared.
I had attended several exercises in which the orders had been given in a lecture theatre - usually at establishments like Sandhurst or Shrivenham, where the instructors monitored every word - but never a live operation. There was a sort of dark irony about the prospect of receiving orders in such a clinical environment. At least, that’s what I assumed until I strolled over to the lecture theatre later in the morning, to discover that it was a dusty flea-pit, in darkness save for the light creeping in from the fire exit doors, inhabited by numerous sleeping Marines and several thousand mosquitoes, as a result of which I didn’t stay more than a few seconds, and even that was enough for me to get bitten several times.
I spent much of the rest of the morning exploring the university campus. A once-proud series of modern buildings, the place had been reduced to dereliction by either the exiting Iraqis or the incoming Brits, or both. Doors were broken, shattered glass lay everywhere, furniture was typically missing or broken, and none of the classrooms looked as if they had been used in months. There was nothing remotely useful left to pilfer, in fact the only thing of interest I stumbled across was an entire classroom full of enormous hand-painted anti-American propaganda posters. Either the students were all passionately pro-Saddam and anti-Western, or the curriculum left a lot to be desired, for although all the posters were unique pieces, the themes running through them were constant and highly inflammatory.
