Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq

by H. C. Tayler

  The Humlnt boys presumably kept up their efforts for the next few days. I say “presumably” because I missed whatever action took place on account of contracting a particularly unpleasant gut infection. That evening I came down with a high fever, my bowels exploded in all directions, and I spend a deeply distressing night vomiting my guts out. I managed to avoid duties of any kind for the following three days and spent my time lying on a kip-mat sweating profusely and groaning whenever anyone approached. The bug had being doing the rounds ever since we left Kuwait so by the time we arrived in Rumaylah I was one of the few people not to have suffered its wrath. Sympathy was therefore minimal and I was largely left to my own devices for as long as it took to recover.

  By the time I was back on my feet the Commando Group had grown restless. With the exception of Rumaylah, there was nothing but barren desert and GOSPs within 42’s area of operations - not nearly enough work to occupy four companies of Marines. More than a week had passed since we arrived and the fighting companies took it in turns to patrol the town and spent the rest of their days whiling away the time sunbathing and doing endless physical exercise. The Headquarters was awash with Marines running around the perimeter fence or working out with weights which had been assembled from pieces of steel left lying around the camp. Thankfully the QDG boys were stationed close by and were less inclined to spend their time in fruitless physical labour. I spent several pleasant evenings with them and was delighted to receive an invitation to a midweek “hunt” which they had arranged. There were no foxes or hares to be had but nevertheless as night fell, the desert was illuminated by spotlights and we spent an entertaining couple of hours shooting up the local stray dog population. The mangy creatures proved very adept at avoiding incoming fire and were remarkably difficult to hit - but I dropped a couple nonetheless, which was more than the average tally. Unhappily, on returning to the GOSPI discovered that my QDG brethren had neglected to inform the Headquarters of this activity, and the Marines had been on high alert ever since the bullets started flying. After my explanation the CO seemed to think the whole episode was quite a hoot though, which was a blessed relief, since I was braced for an almighty bollocking (I suspect he was as bored as the rest of us and would probably have liked an invitation.)

  Ever inventive, the Marines found numerous novel ways of entertaining themselves, the latest of which was a raft race on the nearby canal. Numerous teams from each of the companies and several from the Headquarters spent countless hours constructing their Heath Robinson craft, most of which could barely float at all. Oil drums, cable reels, water barrels, wooden planks and scaffolding poles were all commandeered and lashed together with miles of rope. On the allotted day, four-tonne trucks delivered the flotilla to the canal-side where the rafts were arranged in line abreast at the water’s edge. OC J Company started the proceedings with a whistle blast and, much to the amusement of the watching Marsh Arabs, dozens of Marines took to the water, paddling their rafts with shovels, home-made oars, and even their hands. Given the stifling heat - not to mention the Labrador-like instinct for getting wet that is possessed by all Royal Marines - a dip in the canal proved an overwhelming temptation for many. In several cases there wasn’t sufficient room on the raft for all its occupants, so crew members simply swam alongside, or attempted to board other rafts. The entertaining scenes were made even more amusing when a convoy of vehicles from 16 Air Assault Brigade crossed a nearby road bridge. These poor souls were still being forced to wear body armour and helmets, while underneath them in the canal were dozens of Marines with nothing more to protect them than a pair of swimming trunks. Goodness knows what the Arabs made of it all.

  I took advantage of the entertainment to stroll along the towpath and strike up a conversation with a group of dumbfounded local fishermen who were perched atop a low wall adjacent to the canal. They were a tad reticent to talk at first but my rapidly improving Arabic helped break the ice and within a few minutes we were chatting amiably enough. There was little point even trying to explain the frivolity taking place in the canal so I made a point of agreeing with them that anyone swimming therein must be barking mad, and doled out numerous fruit biscuits to reinforce the point. The conversation gave me a rapid insight into the mindset of these people: they weren’t upset in the slightest by the arrival of the Brits - as long as they were left to live without interference they didn’t much care who was running the country. I didn’t outstay my welcome but made a point of memorising the name of the headman - Tariq - then waved them a cheery farewell as the Marines began exiting the water.

  The next day I cadged a lift with an outgoing patrol and hopped out on the bridge in order to say hello to the Marsh Arabs once more. Unsurprisingly the same group of men were sitting quietly, chatting among themselves, smoking and generally whiling away the time, much as people with uncluttered lives do the world over. They invited me to join them and even produced a pot of tea, almost as if I had been expected. In return I produced biscuits by the dozen and the conversation flowed merrily. The fertile banks of the canal were festooned with green reeds and grasses, giving the place a distinctly European feel, while passing fishing boats added a feeling of quiet serenity. All in all it was a much more attractive spot than the dust bowl of the GOSP.

  With relatively unchallenging conversation, improved scenery, and no-one around to foist work upon me, the canal-side proved a very convivial location in which to spend my days, especially as the hospitality of the locals grew with every visit. Justifying my constant absences was fairly easy, since each day I learnt a little more about the inhabitants of Rumaylah and its environs, information which I assiduously fed back to the Humlnt Cell and the Headquarters staff each evening. In return for the local gossip I plied the fishing community with all manner of contraband from ration packs to cigarettes and even half a bottle of Scotch on one occasion - funny how religious objections disappear when the hard stuff is produced.

  “Harry, you are a good man and we should treat you to a proper meal,” declared Tariq during one of several deliveries of ration packs which I had liberated from the QM. “Not here though. My house is small and unworthy of such a visitor. We shall dine at my sister’s house, in Rumaylah.” I nearly choked on my tea. After a week spent largely soaking up the sun by the waterside I had almost forgotten about the malevolent little town on our doorstep, and it had never occurred to me that these people might be related to the occupants.

  “I have not seen her in several months,” he continued, grinning at me like an ape. “But I shall send word and we shall journey there tomorrow night.” The “journey” was all of five miles, but I didn’t point this out to him.

  Like all the local fishermen the village headman had no vehicle, so the following evening I pinched a Recce Troop Land Rover and drove to the bridge to pick him up. He was already there, waiting for me, all a-jitter. I began to feel distinctly uneasy about the whole escapade and fervently wished I had adhered to the rules and brought someone else with me (single person journeys were strictly forbidden). But it was too late for such thoughts, so I focused instead on engaging him in conversation as we drove through the twilight. It was easier than I anticipated, since he clearly had a lot on his mind that he wanted to talk about.

  “My sister, I sent her a message last night to say we were coming today,” he chattered. His sister, it transpired, was a childless widow whose husband had died of TB a decade earlier. “Normally she would be overjoyed to see me because, praise Allah, she and I have always been very close, though I don’t see her as often as I should.” I nodded sagely and bade him continue. “But this morning I get back a message saying something is wrong and we should not come. Pah! Of course I must go. If something is wrong, I must find out and put it right, yes?” I continued to nod, feeling that all-too-familiar sensation of imminent danger approaching. But there was nothing to be done but keep driving, and before I knew it we were entering Rumaylah.

  Tariq’s sister lived in a fairly substantial house nea
r the end of the high street - not far, in fact, from where I had been when the Recce Troop patrol came under fire almost two weeks earlier. No-one answered the door when we knocked, so Tariq rapped his knuckles against an adjacent windowpane. Still nothing. I could tell immediately that he was uneasy and felt a sudden rush of fear grip me. I quietly undid the press-stud that held my pistol in its holster, while Tariq hammered on the door once more. Finally I heard the bolt being drawn back, and the door opened a few inches.

  “In the name of Allah, what kept you, woman?!” he exclaimed.

  “Tariq, please, it is not good, you must leave at once!” she answered in a forced whisper.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I haven’t seen you in months,” he replied forcefully, shoving the door open with the flat of his hand. She tried in vain to push it closed but he barged his way inside, cursing as he went. “Come, Harry,” he commanded, waving me in behind him. I hesitated for a second but despite my feeling of unease I could hardly refuse to go inside, so I dutifully followed, stooping under the low doorway.

  Inside, a commotion broke out. Tariq found himself confronted by two men, strangers who immediately told him he should leave before he caused trouble. Not one to be ordered around, he refused and just before the situation turned ugly, yours truly burst through the door. My arrival took everyone by surprise. Tariq’s sister - who was much younger than I had imagined and not bad looking with it - shrieked and covered her mouth, while her two guests looked startled and froze, evidently not sure what to do. A more menacing pair you would be hard pressed to find this side of Hereford, both dressed from head to foot in black, one sporting a full beard, the other a couple of days’ stubble and an eye patch. A Mexican stand-off ensued for a few seconds while everyone considered the situation, until the stalemate was broken by the bearded devil producing a Kalashnikov rifle from under his robes. I practically shat myself as he swung the barrel in my direction, and wasted no time hurling myself in his direction - there was nowhere else to run and in my panic-fuelled frenzy my only thought was to prevent him pointing the rifle at me. I crossed the room like an Olympic sprinter and caught the fellow, rifle and all, at full tilt while he was still wrestling with the safety catch. The two of us hit the floor like a sack of potatoes and I wasted no time stuffing my fist into his face. I was bigger than my adversary and with a strength born of fear I’m pretty certain I would have got the better of him, but his one-eyed colleague had other ideas and started laying into the back of my head with his fists. I yelped and rolled over, witnessing Tariq and his sister staring open-mouthed at the melee unfolding in front of them. Before I could shout for help the gunman crawled away from me and jumped to his feet. Flat on my back, I found myself staring up at my two assailants, one of whom was delivering well-aimed kicks at my nether regions while the other was about to administer the coup de grace with his AK47. In the nick of time I remembered the pistol on my hip, which thankfully had remained in its holster throughout the ruckus despite its unclipped cover. I grabbed it, whipped it out, pointed it squarely at the chest of the gunman, fired, and missed. It’s easily done, I assure you, especially if you’re distracted by some maniac attempting to kick seven bells out of your wedding tackle. Nevertheless, the effect was immediate: my two assailants turned tail and ran, barging past Tariq and his sister in their haste to be through the door. I fired at them again as they exited the house, but succeeded only in destroying a vase and knocking a slab of plaster from the kitchen wall. Silence descended and for a second I lay staring up at the ceiling, wondering what on earth I had gotten involved with. My contemplations were short lived though, as Tariq’s sister threw herself on top of me, howling with delight and proclaiming me the hero of the hour. It wasn’t an unpleasant experience (she seemed not to notice that my legs were still shaking with fright) and I might have chanced my luck with a quick fumble if her brother hadn’t been stood watching and applauding. As it was I came over all British stiff-upper-lipped and shrugged it off as if these things happen every day.

  Given the experience I had just been through, I was in no mood for hanging around - I wanted to be back safely inside the Headquarters as quickly as possible and almost said as much to Tariq. But he seemed in no mood for listening, his sister was already rustling up dinner for the three of us, and she was most insistent that we stay so that she could tell us the whole story. I calmed my nerves by gulping down half the contents of my hip flask before offering it to Tariq, who glanced guiltily at his sister before swallowing the remainder.

  A short time later dinner was produced (and a remarkably good spread it was too, all things considered). As she served the food I got the chance to have a better look at Tariq’s sister, whose name was Pasha. She was a pretty, lissom thing who moved in a rather graceful manner, taking immense care over everything she did. She kept glancing at me through large hazel eyes, then looking away, embarrassed, when she saw I was taking an interest. She could have been no older than thirty five, which would have made her very young indeed when she was widowed - I was frankly amazed that no-one had swept her up after her old man passed away. Under different circumstances I would have gone out of my way to spend more time with her, but in the meantime I was simply curious to know the background to the earlier dramatic events.

  “I sometimes take in lodgers for a little extra money,” Pasha told us, hesitatingly. “Two weeks ago, these two men appeared, visitors to the town, and asked if they could stay. Of course I said yes - there is nowhere else for them to stay and anyway I need the income.” Tariq and I nodded and he gestured at her to continue. “As soon as they move in, I know there is something wrong. They tell me I must stay indoors and not interfere with them. Of course I refused, then they show me the guns and insist I do as they say. So I have been a prisoner in my own home for two weeks now.” I half expected tears, but none came. She’s made of stern stuff, this girl, I thought to myself. “These men, it turns out they are from Iran. They come to start an insurgency with the local men, who we know are hotheads and stupid enough to believe anything they are told.” She sneered as she spoke about them and I began to get a sense of why she was still single - in her opinion no-one in the town measured up. “They tell these men that if they get rid of the British they will own all the oil, and that this place can become a powerful Muslim state.” The penny was beginning to drop. She looked at me as she explained: “So that is why you have had such a hostile reception in our town. Most of the young men want to get rid of the British, and the rest of the town is too afraid of these men to be seen to welcome you. It’s all so silly.” And with that she let out a deep sigh and began topping up the teacups, as if the entire episode was already forgotten. Unexpectedly it was Tariq who became animated, leaping up and down and declaring “We must hunt down these dogs and kill them!” I could think of no worse idea and I was prepared to tell him, too, but fortunately Pasha was able to calm him down before he got completely out of control. She continued to apologise profusely for the hostile reception the Brits had received, and insisted I stay for the entire evening. I would have refused but she began producing all manner of deserts - sugary little things, similar to the stuff you get in North Africa, which I adore - so I stayed and stuffed my face until I felt physically sick.

  It was past midnight when Tariq and I eventually said our farewells. Pasha hugged us both and loudly declared me her “liberator”, much to the amusement of her brother. “Come visit me again,” she demanded, and I swear she winked at me as she said it. I dropped Tariq back at the canal bridge and caned the Land Rover mercilessly along the desert highway that led back to the GOSP, eager to be back behind the wire and in the safety of a camp guarded by dozens of Marines. No-one remarked on my solitary arrival so I quietly dumped the Land Rover alongside the other Recce Troop vehicles and stole silently through the compound, clambered back onto my rooftop, and collapsed exhausted into my sleeping bag. Perhaps it was the excitement from earlier in the evening, but I was as restless as a stag in rutting season, and it to
ok me hours to drop off. I remember fantasising about tupping Pasha before eventually falling into a troubled sleep, during which I suffered nightmares about being executed by a firing squad made up of mad Iranians, my old headmaster, and the Brigade Commander.

  When the bright sunshine of the next morning eventually woke me I felt as if I had barely slept at all.

  My solo escapade was strictly against the rules so I was unable to tell the Headquarters staff anything about the previous evening’s happenings. But I did make a point of loudly telling the morning briefing that I had solved the riddle of Rumaylah’s hostile reception, and that since I knew the Iranians had scarpered we could expect somewhat warmer greetings from now on. The news was well received, and my deduction proved correct: within a few days the entire Assault Engineer troop was employed renovating the schoolhouse, while the rest of the Commando reverted to its usual modus operandi of low-level patrols and dishing out biscuits and sweets to the kids. (3)

  42 Commando spent a further 10 days stuck out in the desert, much of which I spent sunbathing and reading countless books and magazines that Roddy and the boys sent from home. The Marines spent their time running endless laps of the camp and lifting weights, while I watched idly from my rooftop. The only visitors to the camp were Americans, soldiers and civilians working for Halliburton, who came to survey the oil infrastructure. They may say that oil wasn’t the primary motive for war but Dick Cheney’s boys were on-site less than a fortnight after the bullets stopped flying. Frankly, I didn’t much care what the motive for the campaign was. With no armoured warfare to worry about and Rumaylah quiet once more there was virtually nothing for me to do - which is exactly how I like it.

  The Marines weren’t the only people getting bored. A squadron of the RAF Regiment was stationed nearby, and they were evidently in a more self-destructive frame of mind. A couple of their number blew themselves up by driving a Land Rover into a minefield, apparently because they wanted to take a look at a burned-out Iraqi vehicle, whereupon the Engineers were scrambled to extricate them - a dangerous task which I wouldn’t do for all the tea in China. The extraction was successful, or at least it would have been if one of our Air Force comrades hadn’t ignored the white tape which marked the safe lane the Engineers had cleared through the minefield. Instead, despite the warning shouts from his colleagues, he stepped over the tape, trod on a mine, and blew his foot off. Since the damned fool had driven into the minefield in the first place this would have been poetic justice but for the fact that the explosion injured one of the Engineers. The whole foolhardy episode was difficult enough to believe but was equalled the next day by the news that one of his colleagues had deliberately injected himself in the leg with atropine, a highly toxic chemical which is used to negate the effects of nerve gas. Compared with this idiocy, running hundreds of miles round and round the GOSP was an entirely harmless activity - but all this madness was a clear sign that we needed either a meaningful tasking, or to be sent home. I need barely tell you how delighted I was when we eventually received the news that it was the latter. The rumour-mill had been rife for weeks and now that our return home had been confirmed, morale shot up.