by Damien Lewis
Earlier that day Grey had studied the maps closely, and inputted a way-marked route into his military-issue GPS, one that would lead them to their objective. He punched in the relevant instructions and the GPS spun up to speed, mapping out the route ahead. Using that, and keeping a close watch on his compass as a backstop, he was able to press onwards. But the wagons following behind had to bunch up much closer together to maintain visual contact.
One of the golden rules of mobility driving is that you should never enter a patch of difficult terrain or try to move across an obstacle before the vehicle in front has cleared it. Otherwise, several wagons could get trapped at the point of greatest difficulty.
Grey navigated them into a steep-sided wadi, and Moth found himself trying to exit via a near-vertical track that led out of the far side. With all the food, water, fuel and ammo aboard, even in four-wheel drive the wagon got only two-thirds of the way out before it slipped and skidded its way back down, its engine howling like a thing possessed and its wheels spinning horribly. Within seconds the dry riverbed was filled with the acrid smell of burning rubber, and then the second and the third wagon came rumbling in behind them. It was only by chance that a major pile-up was avoided.
Moth only managed to find a way out of the wadi when he stumbled across an easier exit point, and at least by then the worst of the sandstorm had blown over. They pushed onwards and Grey navigated the Squadron right to its very objective. They had made it through the heart of the raging storm, and there was a massive sense of achievement to have done so.
The men ended that exercise with a Chinese parliament – a Squadron-wide heads-up to which all could contribute ideas and suggestions. They’d toyed with the idea of driving in two-wheel drive when in Iraq, because it reduced fuel consumption and increased range. On firm, flat terrain 2WD was all that was needed. But the experience of that night’s exercise had proved that you never knew when you might hit trouble, and keeping the wagons in 4WD was vital.
But that in turn meant that the weight the Pinkies were carrying had to be cut, so as to be able to carry more fuel – and about the only thing they could possibly consider losing was ammo. Yet less ammo meant less firepower, which increased the risk of getting caught and smashed by the enemy. This was the eternal conundrum of vehicle mobility operations: how to maximize range, mobility and firepower on a small 4WD vehicle.
The Squadron rounded off their time in Kenya with a week’s high-altitude training, just in case they did end up heading into the more mountainous parts of Iraq. While no one doubted they were going to war – President Bush had already approved the deployment of 200,000 American troops to the Gulf – they didn’t have the faintest idea what their mission might be, or over what kind of terrain they’d be operating. It made sense to prepare for every eventuality, especially when the Squadron had such limited experience of overland operations.
There was only one place to do mountain training in Kenya, and that was Mount Kenya itself – a 17,000-foot peak high enough to be permanently snowcapped even though it lies bang on the equator. The blokes drew specialist mountaineering kit from the stores, including ropes, cold-weather gear and rigid-soled rock-climbing boots. The ascent was done in four stages under crushing loads, each stage taking them to a higher altitude, then dropping lower overnight. This was in line with the concept of ‘climb-high, sleep low’ – designed to help the body adjust to altitude. The lower slopes were clad in a dense tropical jungle, but the higher reaches were fields of bare rock and massive boulders, interspersed with ice fields.
The first three days of the climb were rain-lashed and sodden, and after the blistering heat of the savanna it was truly miserable. The final ascent was done overnight, so as to reach the high point at sunrise. But en route the wind blew up and flurries of snow began to whirl around their frozen ears. By the time Grey, Moth, Dude and Mucker reached the summit they were chilled to the core, and gasping for breath due to the lack of oxygen.
As they crouched in the howling gale the weather miraculously cleared, and a view opened before them that took their breath away. They were sitting on the roof of the world, while two thousand feet below them a carpet of fluffy white clouds stretched into the distance. And at the very limit of the horizon the cloud cover burned off over the golden-brown expanse of the African plains.
During the last stages of the summit climb Grey had been leading his team, and he’d kept calling to the youngsters: ‘Moth! Dude! Come on! I got something to show you!’ They’d only managed to catch up with him when the summit itself was reached, and Dude for one was curious as to what Grey had been going on about.
‘Say, boss, so what you got to show us?’ he gasped, fighting to breathe in the thin, oxygen-deprived atmosphere.
‘You what?’ Grey replied, feigning ignorance.
‘During the last few minutes of the climb – something you wanted to show us?’
‘So there is, mate.’ Grey stretched his arm out into the far distance. ‘See where I’m pointing?’
‘Kind of. Yeah.’
‘Well, I can see your house from here.’ Grey swung his arm around a bit and repositioned it. ‘And you know what, Moth? I can see yours ’n’ all. Fucking marvellous, eh?’
Moth eyed him silently for a few moments, as if it just didn’t compute. As for the young American, it took a few seconds for the penny to drop – the lack of oxygen was seriously fogging his brain. The Dude cracked up laughing, although at such high altitude it petered out into a strangled gasp and a wheeze.
‘Don’t worry about Grey,’ a figure remarked from behind. ‘Full of more shit than a Christmas goose.’
‘Christmas goose?’ Moth queried.
‘Christmas goose,’ the figure confirmed. ‘Got to be full of shit. When was the last time you ate goose for Christmas?’
It was Andy ‘Scruff’ McGruff making the comment, a fellow veteran of Six Troop. As his name suggested, Scruff was hardly the most organized or smartest-looking of soldiers, but he was a first-class Special Forces operator. A few months back he and Grey had fought side by side in the epic siege of Qala Janghi, the battle to secure an ancient mud-walled fortress in northern Afghanistan. Eight SBS and SEAL operators had put down a savage uprising by six hundred Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters.
Grey and Scruff had bonded during that die-hard encounter, and if Grey had a confidant in M Squadron, Scruff was it. The two of them gazed out over the dramatic scenery for a good few moments, before the chilling cold and the lack of oxygen finally got the better of them.
‘Seen enough to last a lifetime,’ Grey announced. ‘Anyone care to join me going down?’
Grey and Scruff fell into an easy step, as the rough, worn path wound away below them. Shortly, they caught up with the distinctive figure of Delta Jim, who was also heading down. Jim was a super-fit bloke, and a hugely experienced soldier: before joining US Special Forces he’d been in the US Rangers, the nearest American equivalent to the Paras. He had chiselled features and close-cropped blond hair, and he spoke with a weird half-British half-American accent.
‘So, how d’you reckon the Squadron’s done?’ Scruff ventured, as they caught up with Delta Jim.
‘Six weeks’ beat-up training,’ Grey panted. ‘Could’ve done with six months.’
‘You’ve been taught by the best,’ Jim remarked, with a wide smile. Then, more seriously: ‘We couldn’t have done more in the time available. It’s been relentless, for you and for us.’
‘Yeah, but we could have done with more time,’ Grey repeated. ‘For a lot of the blokes this is all the mobility work they’ve ever done. And a lot of us were in rag order, threaders, and that was before Kenya. We’d gone from the MV Nisha to months of Afghan ops, now Kenya and soon Iraq. It’s been non-stop.’
Delta Jim eyed Grey for a long second. ‘So, you’d rather not be going to Iraq?’
Grey held his look. ‘There’s not a bloke isn’t dying to get deployed, and that includes the new lads. It’s just that the Squadron
’s washed up. Who wouldn’t be, after six months in the Afghan mountains surviving on British Army rations, plus hot air and bullshit?’
Jim laughed. ‘All routes to war right now lead to Iraq. It’s the only place to be.’
‘It’s route, not rowt,’ Grey needled him. ‘Ever heard yourself? A scouser with a Texan accent. Dunno how your lovely young American wife puts up with it.’
‘In our outfit, we even get the Padre to bless our weapons,’ Jim retorted, ‘and my wife sure is blessed to be married to a regular Mr Nice Guy like me.’
This was partly true. Jim’s unit did get their main weapon – invariably the superlative Diemaco Colt 7.62mm assault rifle – blessed by their priest, before going into battle.
‘Mate, you’ve seen us over the weeks,’ Scruff remarked to Delta Jim. ‘How d’you reckon the Squadron’s shaping up for Iraq?’
‘Way I see it, you’re like one big football team,’ Jim replied. ‘There are a lot of characters, a lot of star strikers who don’t always rub along that well together. But come Iraq you’re gonna have to knit together as one team at war. Those strikers are gonna have to learn to put rivalries aside and pass the ball, so as to score. That’s the only way you’ll ever get through whatever’s coming.’
‘Thanks,’ Grey grunted. ‘That sounds like an easy way of telling us bugger all.’
‘You’re only as good as your weakest link, obviously,’ Jim continued. ‘And like any dogs of war you’re gonna need to pull those new guys through. But if you want my opinion – yeah, I figure the Squadron’ll do fine out there.’
For a moment Grey pondered his weakest links – Moth and the Dude. He ran them through the on-the-run test. It was one that he often used to gauge the measure of a man. If they got badly whacked in Iraq and were forced to go on the run, who would he choose to be with, Moth or Dude? He figured it had to be the Dude. At least with him you’d have a laugh as the enemy hunted you down, plus he was sharp as a pin and you could bounce ideas off him. There was no way to read Moth, and after a few days alone together Grey figured he’d want to murder the young operator, even if the Iraqis failed to nail him.
But in truth there were no limp-wristed belly-dancers among any of his men. The last few weeks of training had revealed a real mental toughness, and when push came to shove it was that that mattered most. Psychological strength had got them through SBS selection, which was designed to make even the most physically fit and hardened crack. It was when the mind told a bloke that he couldn’t go on that most failed selection, not when the body broke.
As they continued down the mountain, Grey threw Delta Jim a shrewd, appraising look. He figured Jim had ended up in US Special Forces – as opposed to the SBS or SAS – by a simple twist of fate: his marriage to an American. But he clearly missed the camaraderie and easy piss-taking of a predominantly British unit. During the coming Iraq conflict there was no telling who the Squadron might be paired up with, and either the SEALs or Delta Force were their natural partners.
Having spent several weeks training together, there was every chance that Jim’s unit might join M Squadron on joint-ops. While Jim had witnessed the Squadron’s lack of expertise in vehicle mobility work, Grey had sensed a hunger in the guy to go in alongside them. It was well known within Special Forces circles that the Brits – along with their Kiwi and Aussie counterparts – tended to get the most extreme and out-there kind of missions.
‘You’d like to be coming with us, wouldn’t you, mate?’ Grey asked him. ‘All that apple pie and godliness you get in your outfit – not really your thing, is it?’
Jim paused for a second. ‘Honestly, mate, I’d jump at the chance, even if it meant driving one of those rat-shit Pinkies all the way to Baghdad.’
*
It was a matter of a few weeks and a whirlwind of activity before M Squadron found itself heading to a forward mounting base before deploying to Iraq. But by then – and unbeknown to all but the military’s top commanders – the scenario for the coming war had shifted beyond all recognition.
On 1 March 2003 the Turkish parliament had rejected a resolution allowing US and allied forces to deploy via their territory. In one fell swoop, the opening of a northern front for the coming war had been scuppered – for the only other nations that have borders with northern Iraq are Syria and Iran, and neither is a particular friend of the West. Turkey’s refusal to provide access constituted a massive blow to the American and British war plans, and came as a major shock. Turkey was a fellow NATO member, and she had enjoyed a long strategic alliance with the US. Over protracted negotiations, the American government had agreed to a six-billion-dollar aid package, plus preferential treatment for Turkish companies doing business with America – all in return for the use of the nation’s territory.
But at the last moment the powerful Turkish military – not to mention the overwhelming opposition of the Turkish public – had halted the bill’s passage through parliament. On its southern border Turkey had long been fighting a rebellion by the thirty-million-strong Kurdish people. The Kurds are spread across a mountainous region that straddles Turkey and Iraq, which they call Kurdistan. Various Kurdish armed-resistance movements had been fighting against both Turkish and Iraqi rule, seeking to carve out their Kurdish homeland.
Over the years Saddam had suppressed such insurrections with an unbelievable savagery, and the Turkish military had also launched brutal crackdowns. The Turks feared that invading Iraq and toppling Saddam would give the Kurds their chance, not to mention risk destabilizing the entire region. Saddam was no particular friend of Turkey, but he was at least the devil they knew, and his iron rule had kept the Kurds in hand.
In the final analysis the risks of doing a deal with the Americans had outweighed the possible benefits, as far as the Turkish military – and the nation’s people – were concerned, and no NATO forces were going to be allowed into Iraq via their territory.
The surprise rejection by Turkey had caught the Americans on the hop. Tens of thousands of troops from the US Infantry Division had already been dispatched, en route to military bases in Turkey. The massive force that had planned to mass on Iraq’s northern border now had no way of doing so. Any push into Iraq would have to go in from one front alone now – Kuwait, to the far south of Iraq.
And in the aftermath of Turkey’s shock decision, M Squadron was about to be given the mission of a lifetime.
CHAPTER FOUR
Grey could hardly believe it when first he laid eyes on the bloke. He was in the stores tent, part of a makeshift camp under canvas tucked away in a discreet corner of the Forward Mounting Base. M Squadron had deployed here complete with weapons, ammo, vehicles and all the communications and other kit they would need for war. This was the last stop before Iraq, and here was this bloke straight from central casting drawing a brand-new set of kit from the stores.
The bloke was tall, lanky and distinctly well-bred in appearance, lacking the weather-beaten, grizzled look of an SF soldier. But what really singled him out was his snowy-white complexion, in contrast to the rest of the Squadron – Moth included – who had managed to get something of a Kenyan tan. Grey watched as Stores handed him a set of ironed and pressed combats, a pair of shiny boots, plus a mess tin with the cellophane packaging still wrapped round it.
‘All right, mate?’ Grey greeted the stranger, as he loaded up his pile of gleaming kit.
The bloke’s face lit up. ‘Good morning. Yes, I’m absolutely fine, thanks.’
The voice confirmed it. The guy spoke with the kind of crisp upper-class accent that only long years of the finest schools and the coldest showers could nurture. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, no older, and he was springing about like an eager puppy. What on earth was this guy doing in a camp set aside for M Squadron – a Special Forces unit in lockdown that was screened and sanitized for war?
‘So erm – who exactly are you, then, mate?’ Grey asked.
‘Oh, sorry.’ A hand was extended. ‘Sebastian. Seb to my f
riends. Seb March-Phillips. I’m your Iraq terp.’
‘Terp’ was military slang for interpreter. Grey took the proffered hand – which was noticeably smooth and uncallused – and shook it. ‘Glad to have you with us, mate.’ What else was there to say?
Grey watched in fascination as the new bloke unpacked the uniform, which was several sizes too big for him. For some reason, Stores only had extra-large. The combat jacket would reach to the guy’s knees, while the trousers would need six-inch turn-ups. Next, the guy unwrapped his clomping great Army boots. He stared at them in horror for several seconds.
‘You know, I’ve got this pair of civvie boots,’ he remarked to Grey. ‘I did my Prince of Wales Silver Warder in them. Do I really have to wear these? I hope I don’t get blisters. Will we be doing much walking, do you think?’
Grey was lost for words. This guy had just pitched up to join a Special Forces squadron heading to war, yet he appeared to be completely and utterly blasé about whatever might lie ahead. He struck Grey as being one of those classic English eccentrics who love an adventure, and whose innocent enthusiasm seems to trump everything – and a part of Grey just couldn’t help liking him for it.
In quick time Grey got the guy’s story from him. Until a few days ago he’d been working for an investment banking firm in London. Some months back he’d joined a specialist unit – so he could learn some soldiering in his spare time. It was there that someone had realized he was fluent in Arabic. He’d been brought up on a military base in the Middle East, hence the language skills. And from there it had apparently been a short step to him being recruited as the terp for M Squadron’s coming deployment to Iraq.
