by Paul Jordan
As preparation for the assault continued, I heard the dull thud of artillery being fired. I heard six dull thuds and thought the Americans had fired a salvo behind us. Then they impacted. The explosions were deafening as the six shells smashed in about 50 metres from Old Betsy. One man lay screaming on the ground and another was thrown into the back of one of the vehicles. Someone tended the injured while the rest of us scrambled for our vehicles and moved. The Iraqis had us in their sights and their first barrage was on target, so we expected a dozen more rounds to follow in quick succession. The only thing we could do was move and move quickly.
Momentum had been well and truly lost, along with the initiative. Intelligence reported that the Fedayeen were bringing families into their town headquarters. They gave the men an AK47 and instructed them to go and fight the Americans or lose their families who were kept as hostages. We pulled back to a night position about 10 kilometres west into the desert. F16s then proceeded to bomb the shit out of the town all night. The Americans were showing the Iraqis what weapons of mass destruction were all about.
That night I finally got some decent sleep — about five hours — but it was bloody cold. People assume the desert nights are as hot as the days, but the nights were arctic. I wore thermal pants and shirt, my Kuwaiti-made uniform, NBC jacket and pants, arctic jacket, gloves and beanie, I was in my cold weather sleeping bag which was inside my bivvy bag, and I was still cold.
In the morning, after a lazy breakfast of MREs and a hot cup of tea, we moved out on a reconnaissance of a bridge with Apache Troop. This seemed to be just something to keep us occupied for the day while future plans were made for the war. We arrived at the bridge and spoke to the locals who seemed a friendly bunch and happy to see us. All the vehicles were lined up adjacent to a railway track except Captain Lyle’s. It was parked on the high ground on the other side of the railway line. Jeff and I were standing in front of Captain Lyle’s Abrams chatting when two men stepped out of a hut about 120 metres away. They both carried RPGs and fired them at Captain Lyle’s Abrams. Due to their haste in firing, both missiles missed their targets, but the noise of the rockets being fired was enough to ensure that everyone ducked and grabbed a weapon. Captain Lyle’s machine-gunner was manning his weapon and immediately opened fire. Jeff and I turned and ran back to Betsy as we watched both men’s bodies jump and dance as about 20 rounds lifted them back into the hut. We returned to the firm base with some speed, but it was a quiet drive home. I suppose the crew now realised that this was a war, people were going to die and we were right in the middle of it.
Back at the base camp we received orders to move, so again, Jeff and I ensured that Betsy was doing okay and we loaded up with MREs, fuel and water. Every time we stopped I pulled out a garbage bag and hung it from the side of Betsy and made sure all our rubbish went into the bag. When it was full, I dug a deep hole and buried the rubbish, ensuring that at least 50 centimetres of sand was loaded on top. The Americans, on the other hand, were absolute pigs. They left rubbish everywhere they went. They just threw it on the ground until the winds carried the rubbish off into the desert. They were also unhygienic. They didn’t dig holes to shit. They just shat on the desert floor and the used toilet paper flew across the desert. It was bloody disgusting. I gave my crew a lesson on bush hygiene and how to use the toilet. It always included a shovel and a very deep hole. If the Iraqis wanted to see where the Americans had been, they just had to follow the piles of rubbish.
We finally received orders to push forward to a location north of Najaf. Apparently we were going to secure a series of bridges over the Euphrates River. Captain Lyle gathered us around the front of his Abrams and delivered a set of orders for the move that would be led by his company. We were to be the forward element on the western side of Iraq, heading north. I got settled in to listen to Captain Lyle’s orders when, after about five minutes, he asked if there were any questions. I waited and no-one said or asked anything. I couldn’t believe it. It was the worst set of orders I’d ever heard. Captain Lyle was a top bloke, but he had spoken for five minutes and told us nothing. He had a map spread out over the front of his tank and most of us only had a view of his back. We were driving about 100 kilometres north into enemy territory where contact with the Iraqis was almost certain and orders lasted five minutes! ‘Ah, yes. I have some questions,’ I tentatively asked as Captain Lyle looked at me. ‘What will the order of march be?’
‘As per normal. You guys will follow my Abrams,’ replied Captain Lyle. ‘Any other questions?’
‘Ah, yes. What are the actions on contact?’
‘Well, we will return fire.’
Fuck me, I’m getting nowhere with this.
‘Any further questions? Right, we’re leaving in 30 mikes.’
I decided to have a chat with Captain Lyle once everyone had left. I confirmed with him that, in the event of an ambush, I would use his tank for protection and that I would allow enough room for him to rotate his turret without removing my roof rack so he could return fire. I also told him I’d be travelling without my lights on, as I didn’t want to attract fire to the soft-skinned vehicle. Captain Lyle accepted this and I went to get ready for the move, but I still couldn’t believe that the whole convoy was moving with lights on. This was just wrong and went against everything I knew.
By 9.00 pm we’d been travelling for about an hour with an average speed of 40 kph. In front I could see the lights of 10 Abrams and Bradleys and behind I could see a line of headlights that seemed to go on forever. Then it started. Charlie thought they were flares. I knew they were tracer rounds. We were being ambushed from the right. The line of tracer seemed to be coming from a machine-gun set on a fixed line as the tanks just drove straight through the fire and the bullets ricocheted off the side of the tanks. I knew we couldn’t just drive through the fire because those bullets would easily cut through Old Betsy and all of us inside and then punch through the other side. I accelerated to the left of Captain Lyle’s Abrams as bullets smashed into it. All the tanks had now stopped and turned into the ambush and returned fire. The Bradleys opened up with their 20 mm cannons and the tanks used their 50 cal machine-guns. Two of the Abrams fired 120 mm shells from their main guns into the ambush and the explosion on their arrival was deafening. No-one could survive that amount of firepower. The firing stopped and the convoy pushed further north. The crew was now on edge. We had just survived our first ambush — and it wouldn’t be our last.
A further 10 kilometres up the road it started again, but this time from the left, although we also took some fire from the right. Captain Lyle swung his turret from side to side engaging targets with his 50 cal machine-gun and main 120 mm gun. I put on my NVGs and could see the ambush on the left about 200 metres away. Incredibly, people were running around with weapons looking for better positions from which to fire. It was strange seeing so much activity in the ambush. RPGs were launched at the tanks, and one landed in front of our vehicle. I watched as three RPGs were fired from the ambush and knew one was aimed at Betsy. I watched it fly straight at the vehicle and grabbed the door handle hoping the blast might throw me free. I cringed slightly as it got closer and waited for the impact, then saw it appear over the right of the car. It must have missed by centimetres. Movement in the ditch about five metres from Betsy caught my eye. This guy seemed to be looking at me as he raised his AK47 and, a millisecond later, his body jumped backwards as it was hit by a five-round burst from the machine-gun of the Bradley behind me. The Americans called in an A10 Warthog, which fired its mini-guns into the ambush. It sounded like the aircraft was letting out a continuous fart as it fired 6,000 rounds per minute and then, for good measure, dropped a 500 lb bomb into the ambush location. That was the end of that and we moved on.
We continued on through very thick palm plantations and I waited for the next attack. This was great ambush country and I spent 90% of my time scanning the plantation on either side with my NVGs looking for indications of an ambush. It was now after
midnight, which made the date 25 March, the day I turned 37.
The convoy slowed down, which made us better targets, and eventually we stopped. A patrol of soldiers ran past us and told me the first Abrams had collapsed the bridge we were to use to cross the Euphrates. With the bridge gone we turned around and drove back the way we had come and I couldn’t believe we weren’t attacked. Retracing your steps is a definite no-no. The engineers loaded the stranded tank with explosives and destroyed it in position. At 1.30 am, on the northern edge of Najaf, we stopped for five hours. I didn’t sleep because we seemed to be surrounded by buildings and the Americans were terrible at letting us know what was going on. In fact, when I asked Captain Lyle what the plan was, he seemed not to know either.
After five hours we were told to continue towards the bridges over the Euphrates, but via a different route given that the other was blocked by the destroyed tank. At the same time, a severe dust storm rolled through and I couldn’t see more than 20 metres. I wrapped my head in a shamagh (scarf) and put on my goggles in case I needed to exit Betsy. The drive took about 90 minutes, but we hadn’t gone very far when the action started. The convoy was getting smashed by small arms fire and rockets from the left and right. I couldn’t take cover behind the Abrams because rounds were coming from both directions. The Iraqis couldn’t see what they were shooting at because of the dust storm, so they came closer to the road. They thought they couldn’t be seen because they couldn’t see the convoy. Foolish. The US soldiers could see them very clearly through their thermal imagery. The Iraqis just fired indiscriminately at the noises. Every vehicle had bullet impact marks except Betsy — bloody lucky. Poor old Betsy’s soft skin wouldn’t have coped with striking bullets. There were rounds landing all around our vehicle and, during a break in the fire, the crew from the tank behind came to see if we had a casualty, and to look at the bullet holes in Betsy — thankfully there weren’t any. Apparently they saw a guy through their thermal imagery firing directly at old Betsy. Must have been a crap shot.
We continued on through the pea-soup dust as the firing intensified. The Iraqis were really laying down some heavy fire from both sides of the road. By now the team had their ballistic helmets on and I suggested they turn and face the doors. The rationale was that the bullet-proof vests had ballistic plates in the front and rear, but if they got hit on the side, the bullets could easily penetrate the Kevlar. So facing the door meant penetrating bullets would, hopefully, hit the ballistic plates.
Through the dust, I realised I was driving around a roundabout, when I saw a white mini-van parked on one of the entry roads to the roundabout. The side door of the van was flung open, and three Iraqis leapt out and started firing at Captain Lyle’s Abrams in front of us. Captain Lyle swung his turret around and his gunner let them have it with about five rounds each. Idiots! Why would they attack a tank with AK47S? And why did they shoot the tank and not Old Betsy? We were just as close. Mind you, I’m glad they decided to shoot the tank. They mustn’t have seen Old Betsy, but I decided then that I really had to find a weapon to protect myself and the team — this was getting out of control.
We finally arrived at the bridge to find three Iraqis on the ground next to a Multiple Launch Rocket System (MLRS). They were taken away by the intelligence guys for a chat while the rest of us had a good look at the MLRS and, more importantly, what they had in the back of the truck. They had so much ammo in there and I wasn’t sure why they hadn’t sent some down range at the approaching Americans. Maybe they hadn’t realised we were there. Maybe they just hadn’t wanted to die. I later learnt that the Kiowa helicopters had thrown a hellfire missile at these guys (which would explain the bits and pieces of human remains scattered about the place) and I suppose this had prompted them to lay down their arms. In the back of the truck I also spotted three AK47s and about 10 magazines and made a mental note to come back and borrow one of them later.
The next day we continued to be hammered by the dust storm. The crew and I were pretty knackered as the dust, combined with sporadic attacks on the perimeter, kept us all up most of the night. That morning the intelligence guys reported a number of T72 tanks and BMPs (Soviet-style armoured personnel carriers) heading towards our location from the north. I moved Old Betsy to a safer location behind a building and faced her south in case we had to do a runner. A group of B52 bombers dropped twenty-six 2000 lb bombs along the road to the north and on top of the supposed attack. The explosions were horrendous and felt like an earthquake measuring 9 on the Richter scale. That was the end of the attack. We later learnt that what the spy planes thought were T72 tanks and BMPs were actually hundreds of camels walking on the road!
I remembered those AK47s in the back of the abandoned truck and decided to borrow one and a handful of mags. I wrapped it in my jacket and found a quiet old shed and pulled the weapon apart and cleaned it. I wanted to ensure that, if I pointed the thing, it was going to work. It seemed to be in good condition and sounded better with a light oil on the internal working parts. I put a magazine on the weapon, cocked it and, with the safety catch on, placed it next to my driver’s seat. It was certainly a comfortable feeling having the extra protection. It was about this time that the other soldiers started asking why I didn’t have a weapon and offered to find one for me if I thought I needed one.
Later that afternoon, Captain Lyle yelled out across the position, ‘Hey, SAS, have you seen an AK47? We seem to be missing one.’ People laughed.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘but I have one if you want to buy it.’
So that was it; everyone now knew that I had a weapon. Then some soldiers decided to do me a favour by giving me extra AK47 magazines. By the time I’d received 20, I had to say, ‘That’s enough, thanks.’
The next day, with my newly acquired weapon wedged beside my seat, we pulled 40 kilometres back down ambush alley to a rest position to sleep and reload. The rear guys had set up a shower facility and kitchens. The showers were as hot as hell and I had a good sweat going by the time I got out. The food was processed, but a nice change from the MREs.
Finally, I was able to get a full six hours’ sleep and it was nice lying on the desert floor watching hundreds of rockets flying overhead and onto the next town. We spent two days in that location, managed to have a boiling hot shower every day, and ate two meals a day in the field kitchen. We also resupplied our food, water and fuel. On the second afternoon we got orders to move early the next morning to Karbala to act as a blocking force.
Charlie became confused with timings the next morning and had us all up two hours before necessary. We had time to pack all our kit away and have a cuppa. Walt needed at least an hour to stow his kit. At 4.00 am we were following Captain Lyle in his Abrams. All the other Abrams and Bradleys had been loaded onto semi-trailers for part of the travel to Karbala. It was a cold morning and, after a few minutes of driving, we stopped to allow another brigade to pass.
By mid-morning we were two-thirds of the way to Karbala when we stopped and they unloaded the Abrams and Bradleys and drove to a position about 10 kilometres south of Karbala and 100 kilometres south of Baghdad. Captain Lyle told me they were expecting trouble that night, possibly in retaliation for the 300 Close Air Support (CAS) missions planned for Karbala. Then it started — and didn’t stop. The noise was unbelievable and relentless. Fuck me, I’d hate to be on the end of that barrage. Karbala must have been getting totally smashed. The Iraqis returned some artillery which landed about two kilometres away. They were positioning their artillery pieces in schools and hospitals making it difficult for the coalition to retaliate.
I spent my time digging a huge garbage pit; big enough to bury our rubbish and for the four of us to take cover if the Iraqis got a bit more accurate with their artillery. I explained this concept to the crew and told them to jump straight in if the artillery got too close.
The next day we held fast and listened to the hundreds of shells pouring into Karbala in front of the infantry assault. I could just imagine the t
roops getting stuck into some serious fighting at reasonably close quarters.
At ‘O dark hundred’ the next morning, Charlie had me up telling me he saw a desert dog wander around Old Betsy and he was concerned it would come close. I rolled out of my warm sleeping bag, had a close look at the ‘dog’ with my NVGs and saw tumble weed rolling around.
That afternoon we attended another ordinary orders group and were told we were moving to act as a blocking force as the 1st Brigade moved through to secure the final bridge to Baghdad. We were told to be ready to leave at 4.00 am.
The next morning Charlie struck again and had us up at 2.30 am telling me that we had 40 minutes to be ready. We sat around until 6.00 am, but at least we had time for a hot brew on that cold morning.
We finally got moving and drove fast over formerly ploughed fields. It was bloody tough going on Old Betsy and we struggled to keep up with Captain Lyle. After about two hours the column of armoured vehicles fanned out into extended line and I sensed they were moving into attack formation. In the distance I could see a white and orange sedan and people piling into the vehicle. I later learnt that this was an Iraqi taxi. The taxi withdrew, Captain Lyle’s Abrams had its main gun trained on the withdrawing taxi and I was certain he was going to fire. He didn’t. Apache Troop continued to the abandoned position that included a number of old Soviet-style anti-aircraft guns. Captain Lyle directed his tank to drive over the top of one of the guns. But the tank didn’t roll directly over the top and slightly missed one of the barrels which slammed down on top of the tank behind Captain Lyle’s turret and head. Instinctively, Captain Lyle dropped into his tank and, a millisecond later, the gun fired. The tank rolled to a halt and I was certain Captain Lyle was dead inside the Abrams. I pulled up next to the Abrams and climbed on top of the tank expecting to see carnage inside. Instead, I saw Captain Lyle bleeding from his face where his helmet had been ripped off his head by the 20 mm shell. His gunner was calling over the radio for a medic while I applied direct pressure to his face. It was a foolish thing for Captain Lyle to do and he nearly paid the ultimate price.
