Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq

by H. C. Tayler

  As I climbed the floors of the building I was able to get a better view of the surrounding countryside. Away to the southeast, the sky was darkened by plumes of smoke from several burning oil wells, which made the stark sunshine seem all the brighter in the foreground. The countryside to the south and west was largely flat and featureless, crisscrossed by ribbons of tarmac elevated above the flood plains. And to the north, plainly visible, lay the city of Basra. Thin columns of smoke and dust were visible outside the city centre, evidence that our artillery and air assets had not been lying idle. The university site was several miles from the town so it was impossible to pick out specific landmarks, but I could see the gentle curve of the Shat-al-Arab river and the lush greenery that marked the limits of the eastern suburbs - the point to which 40 Commando were already advancing. The scale of the town was immediately apparent: Basra is a fully-fledged city. If the jundies chose to dig their heels in, we could be embroiled in street fighting for weeks. I shivered and scuttled down the stairs, eager to cadge a much-needed cup of tea before the impending orders group.

  Without electric lighting the theatre was too dark to give orders, so OC M Company made do in the lobby. There was no seating and the floor was covered with broken glass, so we stood together in a huddle and listened as he rattled through the details. If his orders for the entry into Umm Qasr had been brief, these were not much more expansive. The upshot of the plan was that we would drive headlong into the centre of Basra, flanked on all sides by APCs and main battle tanks from 7 Armoured Brigade, and seize a series of key crossroads and bridges over the river. Simultaneously J Company would seize the huge presidential palace, which lay just to the east of the town centre, while K Company would come up behind us, sweeping through the southern suburbs. There was very little intelligence about how many enemy troops were located in the town, and even less about where they were likely to be holed up. The threat of ambush was highlighted several times, as was the possibility of de-bussing from the vehicles in order to assault enemy positions on foot. I stood in silence, suffering heart palpitations and chewing my fingernails to the quick. Entering Basra with my cavalry colleagues in a Challenger tank would have been frightening enough, but the idea of offering myself up as a target in a soft-skinned vehicle had my sphincter twitching in terror. No-one else gave the slightest hint of apprehension though so I kept my thoughts to myself.

  “We’ll be rolling in alongside a load of tanks and APCs,” stated the OC matter-of-factly. “Flashy - where is he?” He spotted me lurking in a corner. “Ah, there you are. If we get into a punch-up on the way in, we’ll need your input as to how we can deploy the tanks to help sort it out, okay?” I nodded weakly. “There’s a space in the BV behind mine. Stick to me like glue, yeah?”

  My throat was dry but I managed to grunt an acknowledgement, and the conversation moved swiftly on to air cover.

  An hour after receiving our orders, the BVs and Pinzgauers of M Company began to shake out into a long line outside the university campus. Equally visible and much more impressive were the Challenger tanks and Warrior armoured fighting vehicles of 7 Armoured Brigade, whose massive diesel engines spewed fumes into the air as they jockeyed into position. As instructed I climbed reluctantly into one of the lead vehicles; if it had been down to me I would have been as near the back as possible, but that option had been quashed. No, it was once-more-unto-the-breach-dear-friends for old Flashy, all smiles and bravado, with nary a soul knowing that I was practically vomiting bile at the thought of the peril that lay ahead.

  Eventually the BV lurched forward, rubber tracks squeaking on the hot road surface, and we were under way. The Marines in the vehicle wedged open the back door to allow the air to circulate, affording me a first-class view of the enormous convoy which stretched out behind us. The first miles were unremarkable, as we plodded steadily through the barren landscape south of the town. Then, as Basra drew nearer, brown turned to green and a series of small fields and allotments bounded the road on either side. Small dwellings became visible, rapidly followed by larger houses and then streets and cul-de-sacs as we entered the southern suburbs. I braced myself, gripping my rifle across my knees. But instead of being met by bullets and bombs, I was stunned to see groups of civilians waving at us and smiling. As the journey progressed, the groups turned to crowds until, by the time we entered the town centre, the streets were lined with people clapping and cheering our arrival. Children waved tiny home-made Union Flags and Stars & Stripes while their parents applauded and waved to us. All in all it was a very different reception to the one I had been expecting and I’m sure I was more delighted than anyone. I leant out of the open window of the BV and waved back to the crowd, happy to play the role of Flashman the Liberator - just as long as I didn’t have to do any fighting of course.

  By early evening we arrived at a large roundabout in the middle of town and our lead vehicles juddered to a halt. First out, despite the obvious risk of snipers from all the surrounding high-rise buildings, were the ITN boys, who rapidly set up a satellite antenna and, despite the incessant clucking of their media minder, were broadcasting news of our arrival to the world within seconds. The OC was also in evidence, wielding a map and pointing to a series of road junctions and nearby buildings. The ground shook beneath my feet as a pair of tanks rolled up alongside, then they were gone, screeching round the corner and tearing lumps out of the tarmac with their tracks as they went. It was a sight that would have made any jundie think twice before starting any trouble, and it made me feel a darn sight better about the situation. I sauntered over to the OC, who was busily directing his men to various strategic points in the vicinity.

  “Harry, let me give you a quick heads-up,” he said. “The building to our front will be my headquarters.” He pointed to a sizeable four-story building that was still being constructed. The walls were incomplete and wooden scaffolding shrouded large parts of the facade. It stood on muddy wasteland behind a brick wall, beyond which several constructors’ portakabins had been erected. “We’ve a couple of checkpoints down the road opposite the hospital.” The hospital was a substantial, modern-looking multi-storey building which dominated the local landscape, complete with armies of doctors and nurses coming and going through the front doors and a line of ambulances parked outside. “The rest of the blokes are pushing out towards the river and the main road junctions, where they’ll set up VCPs overnight.”(2) He jabbed at the map with a biro. “I’d like you to make your way to this junction, just on the far side of the river, and team up with the VCP there. The tankies will have several of their vehicles up there too, plus another two stationed just across the river in front of the hospital, here,” he pointed on the map once more. “If anything kicks off in the night, you’re to take charge of the local armoured assets and sort it out, okay? Don’t bother getting authority from up the chain - we’ve already got it. But if the place is quiet you can let the tankies go about their business as usual.” I nodded in acquiescence and he was gone, striding off to find some other hapless individual who looked in need of further employment.

  I cut across the wasteland outside the construction site that was now the Company Headquarters, hoping to cadge a lift across the bridge from one of the many vehicles outside. Annoyingly most of them were busy finding parking spots so I continued on foot, eager to get away from the nearby buildings, which had still not been searched for jundies. The ground floor of the Headquarters was getting the most attention, since the solid brick walls offered no obvious entry points and the steel doors were all locked and bolted. Groups of Marines began sledgehammering the doors, but they were quarter-inch thick steel plate and not likely to budge in a hurry.

  “I say! Need a hand?” I didn’t need to look to know the voice belonged to one of the young tank commanders - the public school accent rather gave the game away. The Marines were quick enough to accept the offer and stepped smartly aside as he ordered the driver to reverse. With a blast of diesel fumes the tank lurched backwards and smash
ed straight through the wall. Gears crunched and it jolted forward, masonry and plaster dust crashing over the hull as it exited the building. Marines swarmed through the hole in the wall and emerged triumphant on the first floor a couple of minutes later, grinning from ear to ear. The rest of the building was searched in minutes and with no sign of any enemy soldiers the Company Commander wasted no time in moving in.

  I left them to it and walked across the bridge to join the squad of chaps at the VCP on the far side - which in reality simply consisted of their BV parked diagonally across the road to block one and half lanes of traffic. Efficient as ever, the Marines had already spread out away from the vehicle and were stopping and searching the few civilian cars and pickups that passed. Warrior armoured vehicles rumbled past several times during the course of the evening, accompanied by a brace of tanks and, somewhat unexpectedly, a Challenger recovery vehicle, sporting a large St Andrews Cross and a crew grinning from ear to ear. (3) For the most part the evening was remarkably quiet - evidently most Iraqis had chosen to stay indoors, an eminently sensible decision in the circumstances.

  Shortly after nightfall a small number of civilians began to file past the checkpoint, making a beeline for the river front road. They disappeared out of sight around a bend, and reappeared thirty or so minutes later, clutching all manner of possessions including mirrors, cabinets, clocks, and even a wardrobe. The looting had begun. As with most cities, river front properties were the most sought after and in Basra they all belonged to the Ba’ath Party faithful. These people had held on to the last, toughing out a series of hit-and-run raids that had been mounted by 7 Armoured Brigade and elements of 16 Air Assault Brigade over the previous days. But confronted by the full-scale arrival of the Commandos and their armoured brethren, none of whom showed any sign of leaving, the Ba’athists scarpered, leaving their fabulously well-appointed residences defenceless. Basra’s unwashed masses, persecuted for almost 30 years, moved quicker than a swarm of locusts. The more industrious looters worked through the night, purloining as many valuables as they could carry - I saw one chap struggling along the road with an entire double bed balanced precariously on his head. But the best trophy of the night went to a tiny, middle-aged women dressed entirely in black, who emerged carrying an enormous cut-glass chandelier. The thing was taller than she was, forcing her to carry it with her arms outstretched above her head. It obviously weighed a good deal too, for she had to stop and rest every twenty yards or so.

  Unhappily, not all of the night’s arrivals were so benign. A small hardcore of stay-behind loyalists mounted a series of raids on checkpoints around the city. Most of these were simple affairs, in which an apparently unarmed civilian swiftly produced a Kalashnikov from under his robes and opened fire on a VCP. The Marines were alert to the threat and, perhaps by dint of looking like the murderous devils they were, attracted very little of this sort of attention, but the APC crews were less lucky and took several casualties during the night. It wasn’t just rifle-wielding maniacs I fretted about though, since the radio buzzed constantly with alerts of suicide bombers roaming the area with pounds of plastic explosive hidden beneath their clothes. During the course of a sleepless night we were indeed approached by one such fellow, though it fortuitously turned out that he was far from eager to meet his maker. Walking slowly and deliberately, he attracted the suspicion of the Marines long before he reached the VCP. As they moved to stop him, he opened his robes, revealing an array of explosives strapped across his midriff. The next thing he knew he was on the floor with a mouthful of dirt and his front teeth missing as the VCP team jumped him before he could detonate the charge. It turned out that the chap was anything but a volunteer and had been forced into the role of suicide bomber by the local Saddam loyalists, who had kidnapped his wife and family and threatened to execute them if he didn’t comply. Evidently even this threat wasn’t enough for him though, and he got cold feet as he approached the checkpoint. It gave me an awful start, I don’t mind telling you, and I spent the rest of the night all a-jitter, sheltering in the lee of the BV whenever anyone approached.

  Word of the free-for-all spread fast and as dawn broke the streets came alive with hundreds and hundreds of eager treasure-seekers all looking for their little slice of the bounty. Marines and tanks moved onto the river front road to maintain some semblance of order, but the situation was already descending into anarchy. As the richer pickings were snapped up the vultures became more and more aggressive, tearing asunder anything that could physically be moved or broken. Windows and doors were smashed, fittings torn down, vehicles burned - the happy-go-lucky night-time scenes were consigned to history as the mood began to turn sour. The Marines moved in to stop the worst of the violence but they were faced with an overwhelming task, since literally thousands of people were now openly stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down. I held back - an angry mob is never an easy thing to control, as I found to my cost in Sierra Leone a few years back - and anyway I had more than a little sympathy with Basra’s citizens, reasoning that if I had been repressed for three decades, I would probably enjoy a little light vandalism too. Sensibly, the Marines decided that houses that were apparently abandoned and which therefore presumably belonged to the Ba’ath Party were fair game, and let the looters have a free rein. But they drew the line at properties that were obviously nothing to do with the old regime, physically ejecting looters from shops and restaurants and even firing warning shots on a few occasions. Sometime before noon a flotilla of small civilian boats sped across from the north side of the river and moored up alongside the riverbank footpath. The occupants jumped out and stormed into the nearest properties, many of which were inhabited by terrified civilians, all doing their best to hang onto their possessions in the face of rising lawlessness. For the Marines, many of whom were - unbelievably - aggrieved at the lack of a fire-fight on the way into Basra, this was a golden opportunity to put on a show of force. Warning shots cracked overhead, forcing the raiders back onto their boats. Those who had already entered nearby properties scuttled out, keen not to miss the boat ride home. The Marines fired more and more warning shots ever closer to the looters, who by now were in full flight. Many still refused to drop their booty though, so the men of M Company increased the pressure still further. I watched as a large Arab man struggled across the road clutching a stack of plates he had pilfered from a nearby restaurant. A rifle cracked and the crockery exploded in his hands as the bullet struck home. The looter collapsed onto the floor screaming in fright, while the M Company boys and I collapsed in fits of laughter.

  Around lunchtime another suicide-bomber warning was broadcast over the radio. This time the suspect was thought to be driving a pickup truck full of explosives, which he apparently intended to crash into one of our checkpoints. At the time the warning was given, unseen by any of our troops, a local thief, presumably somewhat carried away by the looting fever which had gripped the town, was in the process of stealing a pickup from the hospital car park just south of the bridge on which I was stationed. Seconds after the warning was given, he crashed the pickup through the hospital gates and screeched out onto the road, heading directly towards a brace of tanks parked on the roadside. The Marines didn’t hesitate for a second and within a matter of moments the pickup was riddled with bullet holes fired by anyone who could get a clean shot. The chaps at my checkpoint poured fire into the hapless vehicle, much to the surprise of a local pensioner who was busy pedalling his bicycle across the bridge at the time. Tracer rounds flew past him on both sides but he continued pedalling unfazed and even waved cheerily to us as he passed the checkpoint a short time later. The boys in the Company Headquarters also let fly, including at least one heavy machine-gun crew whose armour-piercing incendiary rounds not only punched holes in the pickup truck but also set it on fire. The vehicle swerved from side to side and eventually ground to a halt. After a pause of a few seconds, the driver’s door swung open and the occupant, evidently not in the best of health, collapsed onto the road
and began to crawl towards the hospital. The HMG and small-arms fire had taken their toll though: one of his arms had been blown off and his torso was riddled with holes. Gallons of blood poured out of him onto the road, and the world’s most unlucky car thief died just a few feet from the burning pickup.

  It was long past any civilised lunchtime - needless to say, the Marines were so preoccupied with their VCPs and anti-looting patrols that they hadn’t stopped for food - so with belly grumbling I made my way on foot back across the bridge to M Company headquarters. The building site in which the headquarters was housed was an absolute death trap, which no doubt appealed to the Mountain-Leader OC. Rickety wooden scaffolding covered part of it, there were no walls, and the stairwells consisted of flat slabs of concrete with a mesh of steel reinforcing rods thrown perilously on top. I was delighted to see that the Challenger crews had chosen the surrounding area as a tank park, so I sauntered over and spent an enjoyable few moments cadging not just a cup of tea but also a hot lunch from one of the troop commanders. Despite their self-evident differing mentalities the Marines and tank crews were getting along famously, which was fine by me since, as the liaison officer, I would take much of the responsibility for the state of working relations. In fact it was more a case of symbiosis for the purpose of self-preservation: while the tanks had a menacing and almost omnipotent presence, their crews, when not hunkered down inside, were extremely vulnerable to small arms fire. The Marines, on the other hand, were past-masters at dealing with small-arms fire, but liked the kudos that came from having 75 tons of rolling steel on hand whenever the locals got a little feisty. The roles were so different that there was no competition between the two, and the result was a working camaraderie that one seldom sees outside of wartime - and a marvellous opportunity for me to take credit where none was due. (Needless to say I made mention of it frequently during the following month when I knew the CO would be writing my end-of-tour report, but the old bastard never mentioned it once.)