by Shaun Clarke
The explosion lifted the bike up in the air and flipped it into a spin that sent Johnny Boy and the American in opposite directions before they crashed down again.
Hailsham didn’t know they were gone until it was too late.
‘We can’t turn back now,’ he said when he realized they were missing. ‘Let’s just pray that they make it.’
Chapter 13
Ricketts made it. When the Iraqi trucks advanced across the dark MSR, with the militiamen fanning out between them and firing on the march, he, Geordie and the other three troopers, Gillett, Moorcock and Stone, were saved by the curtain of swirling sand and smoke created by the phosphorus grenades. Down on one knee, in the firing position, with Geordie beside him and the troopers spread out behind them, returning the fire of the Iraqis, Ricketts saw the headlights of the advancing trucks blink out, shattered by bullets, as the smoke and sand from the explosions of the phosphorus grenades formed a spectacular curtain that temporarily obscured the view for both sides.
‘Let’s shoot and scoot,’ he said to Geordie, ‘while those bastards can’t see us.’
‘Right,’ Geordie said. ‘Got ya.’
‘We head south along this MSR for about five hundred metres, but spreading out at different angles, then turn left and head straight for those hills behind us, spreading out again to hit the bottom of the hills at five different locations. When we get approximately three hundred metres up the hill, we’ll all move in the direction required to meet the others. It’s not exactly a precise rendezvous, but it’s all I can offer. OK?’
‘OK, boss.’ Geordie turned back and relayed this information to the other three, even as they continued pouring fire into the smokescreen separating them from the advancing Iraqis. Each man stopped firing just long enough for Geordie to impart his message. ‘Right, boss,’ each trooper said in turn, then started firing again. When the last man had confirmed he understood, Geordie nodded at Ricketts.
‘Shoot and scoot!’ Ricketts bawled, rising to his feet and firing from the hip. ‘Shoot and scoot!’
In an SOP, or standard operating procedure, originally designed for jungle warfare, the five men immediately made a tactical withdrawal that involved splitting up and taking different routes to their emergency rendezvous while returning a heavy barrage of fire for as long as possible, thus confusing the enemy, who would think the fire was coming from all directions. In this case, they were aided immeasurably by the curtain of falling sand and swirling smoke, which must have made their separate, relentless bursts of gunfire appear to the Iraqis lost in the sand and smoke to be coming from more men than there were.
For Ricketts and the others the tactic worked, confusing the Iraqis long enough to let them race southward along the MSR, protected by the billowing smoke and sand, firing as they ran, before turning back and heading straight for the hills where, Ricketts knew, Andrew, Danny and Taff had already gone.
Briefly parted from the others as they all took different routes toward the hills, Ricketts reached the lower slopes just as the smoke was clearing from the MSR and some Iraqi troops, bolder than the others, raced in his direction.
Ricketts dropped to one knee, resting his M16 on the ground, and pulled a grenade from his ammo belt as he jumped up again. It was another phosphorus grenade, designed to do maximum damage, but even before it had completed its downward arc, he had followed it with a smoke grenade.
The grenades went off one after the other, even as Ricketts was picking up his M16 and hurrying up the lower slopes of the frosted hills. The first explosion was spectacular, erupting between the Iraqi troops, blowing some into the air, and tearing the darkness with fingers of silvery light and showering phosphorus fireflies. The second exploded a second later, less spectacular but just as effective, creating a choking smokescreen that completely blinded those not wounded or killed by the first. By the time the smoke cleared, exposing the dead and wounded to the other Iraqis, Ricketts was well up the lower slopes of the hill and out of their sight.
They gave up the chase after that. Ricketts saw them from the hill. They were milling about on the smoky MSR, checking their dead and wounded. As Ricketts, smiling, started backtracking to meet up with the others, the Iraqis were picking up their casualties and putting them in the trucks. By the time Ricketts had reached Geordie and his three troopers, the Iraqi trucks were driving away, back across the MSR, gradually becoming lost in the cloud of dust churned up by their wheels.
‘They haven’t forgotten us,’ Ricketts said when he met up with the Geordie and his men, all having made it safely to the hill. ‘They have our location and they’ll probably send choppers or planes. We better move out immediately.’
‘What about Andrew, Danny and Taff?’
‘No one saw them on the way here?’
The other three shook their heads.
‘Then we have to forget them. We can’t comb these hills for them. Either they made it or they didn’t. If they did, they should be well on their way by now, striking out on their own.’
Ricketts looked at the other three men, the recently badged probationers, and asked, ‘What about you men? Are you OK?’
‘Sure, boss,’ Trooper Stone, always the coolest of the three, said with a wide, cocky grin.
‘I’m fine, too,’ Gillett said. ‘I had a few moments back there on the MSR, but I think I’m OK now.’
‘Moorcock?’
‘No problems.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I think so. I mean, I’m feeling pretty tired and sometimes a bit confused, but I guess one is caused by the other …’
‘It is.’
‘… and apart from that, I think I can make it.’
‘Were you frightened back there?’
Moorcock looked a little embarrassed. ‘Well … yes, I was frightened. Why not admit it? Yes, boss, I was.’
‘Good,’ Ricketts said. ‘That means you’re not dead yet. What about you two back there? Were you frightened as well? Don’t be scared to admit it.’
‘Not me,’ Stone said. ‘I swear to God, I wasn’t frightened. Maybe a little bit nervous, but not actually frightened.’
‘Being nervous helps,’ Ricketts said. ‘What about you, Gillett?’
‘I thought I was shitting my trousers, but I managed to hold it in.’
‘Your probationary period’s over,’ Ricketts said. ‘You men have all earned your winged badge. OK, let’s march.’
The first day was long and arduous, with snow and sleet dogging the group, as well as search helicopters sent over the MSRs by the few Iraqis who had survived the previous battle. It was early morning by the time they crossed the low hills, but by the late afternoon, having to lie low repeatedly to let the choppers fly over, they had only covered about three miles.
The night was better, bringing some respite from the search parties, and they managed to cover another twelve miles or so before first light. Unable to build a proper LUP, since the required equipment had been discarded, they rested in scrapes until noon, then struck out again.
There were fewer helicopters by then, but there were more ground troops, not only combing the area for them, but also on the look out for the troops of the élite Delta Force, the American equivalent of the SAS, who were known to be working inside Iraq’s second main Scud reserve – the northern Scud box, known as Scud Boulevard, located along the border with Syria.
‘That’s where we’re going,’ Ricketts explained, checking his small-scale map and button compass. To a place called Al Qaim, near the Syrian border. We should find friendly forces there.’
They were relatively lucky for most of the journey, making good progress over three nights and two days, but the nearer they came to the northern Scud box, the more populated was the area, with the many intersecting roads, long used for trading between the locals and those across the frontier, becoming increasingly busy. Ignoring the war going on in their midst, the locals, dressed in the traditional keffia and dish-disha, carrying their wares on
makeshift rucksacks on their backs, on rickety old carts hauled by donkeys, or on camels, often with vicious dogs snapping around them, went about their unchanging business as if all was normal.
In this area the Iraqis, fearful of attack from the northern Scud box or invasion from the border, were particularly nervous and opened fire on anyone not instantly recognizable as a local trader. Ricketts and his men were therefore not surprised to often find dead civilians on the roads and in the fields, or by the banks of the Euphrates river, their corpses torn to shreds by the local wild life and covered with bloated, frantic flies.
‘Cor, what a pong!’ Geordie said, holding his nose as they passed one such corpse. Geordie was in file behind Ricketts, but temporarily caught up with him by hurrying to get away from the stench. ‘Those fucking Iraqis should get rid of these poor buggers, not just leave ’em as food for wild dogs and flies. Just leavin’ ’em could cause an epidemic worse than fucking AIDS.’
‘You’ve had AIDS, Geordie?’
‘Don’t come it, Sergeant-Major. You get that fucking disease, you don’t survive it, from what I’ve been told.’
‘From experienced friends, right?’
‘No, Ricketts – wrong. There’s no bleedin’ poofters in my circle, so don’t try it on. I just read about it in the papers, is all. I’ve come no closer to the fucking disease than that, so don’t suggest otherwise.’
‘Just a thought,’ Ricketts said. He was just amusing himself, passing the time, trying to find some distraction from the pain of his blistered feet, his exhaustion, his hunger and his thirst, during this last leg of the journey to Al Qaim. The remaining high-calorie food in their escape belts was gone, the water had gone even sooner, and now they were all beginning to suffer from the lack of replenishment. Thank God, they would reach the border town in a matter of hours.
‘Let’s take a break,’ he said. It was nearing last light and he wanted to make the final leg of the journey by night. Relieved, the men settled down in a semicircle, Ricketts and Geordie sitting together, and the three troopers lying on their backs to stretch their legs and rest up.
‘Tell me, Ricketts,’ Geordie said, ‘what did you do before you joined the Army?’
‘I was a toolpusher – first on the North Sea oil rigs, then in the oilfields in the Gulf.
‘So you know this area already!’
‘Not this area,’ Ricketts said, ‘but I knew Kuwait as it was about fifteen years ago.’
‘You had a good time?’
‘I had my wife and kids with me, which certainly helped a lot, but you couldn’t do any boozing and there wasn’t too much else to keep you busy. I was glad to get home.’
‘What do you think of the A-rabs?’
‘I respect them. They can be volatile and cruel, but they’re also proud, good-humoured and generous. We could learn a lot from them.’
‘You joined the Army when you returned from the Gulf?’
‘More or less. I got a job as a salesman for the oil company, couldn’t stand it, became pretty bored with middle-class life and decided I’d rather fight in Belfast than sleep soundly at night. I joined up, served my time in Northern Ireland, then applied for the SAS. I’ve never regretted it.’
‘Yeah, everyone knows you love it, Ricketts. So what will you do when this show’s over and they give you a desk job? I mean, at your age they’re not likely to let you go on active service again.’
‘No, they won’t. I think this is the last time.’ Ricketts shrugged, expressing regret and resignation. ‘I don’t think I could stand a desk job – not even with the Regiment – so I guess I’ll take early retirement and sign on with a security firm. Even that would be better than pushing a pen.’
‘You could become a mercenary.’
‘I don’t approve of them.’
‘Then become a military instructor for Third World countries. They’re always looking for experienced former soldiers and anyone with your track record would be a gift to them.’
‘That’s a thought,’ Ricketts said. ‘But I think I’m at an age where my wife’s going to expect me home a bit more, so I’ll probably end up as a security guard.’
‘You could do worse,’ Geordie said.
Ricketts glanced over his shoulder and saw that the sun was sinking, casting last light on the horizon and, he hoped, on the border. ‘OK, men,’ he said. ‘Let’s strike out again.’
Wearily, the men climbed to their feet and fell without thinking into file formation, with Geordie out front on point, troopers Gillett, Moorcock and Stone in the middle, and Ricketts bringing up the rear. They progressed without incident for another two hours, then stopped for another break and to let Ricketts check his small-scale map with the aid of a pencil torch.
‘According to this map,’ he said with a deep surge of pleasurable anticipation, ‘we’re only six miles from Al Qaim. I therefore suggest that we get up and go before what energy we have left deserts us. If we stay here too long we’ll become too lethargic to move. So let’s move right now and get it over with.’
‘I’ll second that,’ Geordie said.
When the three troopers agreed, all keen to get to safety, they climbed to their feet, picked up their weapons, and started across the dark field, away from the Euphrates, toward the lights shining from what they hoped were friendly houses in the distance.
They had only been walking five minutes when the first shots rang out.
‘Shake out!’ Ricketts bawled and they all threw themselves to the ground as bullets whipped over their heads to ricochet off the rocks behind them. They were returning the enemy fire from a belly-down position even before they actually saw the Iraqi troops approaching from the front, spreading out, silhouetted by the lights around Al Qaim, firing on the move.
There were a lot of them, Ricketts noticed, as he fired his SLR. Far too many to be dealt with. The only way forward was to go back and circle around. Ricketts stopped firing and waved his right hand to draw the attention of the others, all of whom were firing their M16s and SLRs at the mass of shadowy figures zigzagging towards them.
‘We meet between those palm trees,’ Ricketts shouted above the shocking din. ‘Right there by the river. OK? Shoot and scoot!’
They all jumped to their feet and ran sideways, towards the river, spreading out and firing their weapons on the move. Some Iraqis fell, but the others kept moving, shouting warnings to one another as they fired.
Trooper Moorcock was ahead of Ricketts, zigzagging like the Iraqis, firing on the move, but then he suddenly jerked back, his beret flying off his head, followed by pieces of splintered bone from the back of his skull as his weapon sailed out of his upraised hands and he crashed onto his back. He was already dead when Ricketts leaned over him to check, so Ricketts jumped up and continued running, holding his SLR against his waist and firing on the run.
He heard the sound of a mortar firing and tried to shout a warning. The shell exploded between Geordie and Stone before he could do so. Geordie managed to keep running, but Stone was less lucky, being picked up by the blast and turned over and slammed down again.
He had been crossing the field diagonally, heading away from Ricketts, intending to confuse the Iraqis as part of the SOP of shoot and scoot, so now he was too far away for Ricketts to help him. However, as Ricketts kept running, he saw Stone standing up again, holding onto his wounded elbow and limping towards Gillett, who was rushing over to give him covering fire. Unable to walk – clearly wounded in the foot or leg as well as in his elbow – Stone collapsed again. Gillett was standing between him and the Iraqis, keeping up a protective hail of gunfire with his M16, as Ricketts plunged into the shade of the palm trees by the river-bank.
Looking back, he saw Gillett dropping his gun and raising his hands above his head. The Iraqis surrounded him, forced him onto his belly, aimed their weapons at him and Stone, but did not fire at them. Instead, a few stood guard while the others spread out again and advanced towards the river, this time not firing.
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br /> ‘Ricketts!’
Looking along the river-bank, Ricketts saw Geordie hurrying towards him, at the crouch and still holding his SLR. When he reached Ricketts, he straightened up and stared across the dark, moonlit field at the advancing Iraqis.
‘They’re obviously well-disciplined militiamen,’ he said, ‘so Gillett and Stone might be OK. What the hell do we do?’
Ricketts studied the advancing Iraqis, then stared over the river. The water was icy, about 400 yards wide, flooding the banks and flowing quickly.
‘The only escape route left is north,’ he said. ‘That means crossing the river.’
‘Are you fucking joking?’ Geordie asked. ‘That river’s in flood. The current’s too strong. It’ll sweep us away.’
‘We have to take that chance, Geordie. Either we do that or we stay here. Do we toss or decide?’
Geordie studied the river with growing trepidation. ‘Did you ever see that movie, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?’
‘Yes,’ Ricketts replied.
‘Who’s Butch and who’s Sundance?’ Geordie asked.
‘Let’s find out,’ Ricketts said.
After hurriedly discarding their weapons, kit belt and desert boots, they walked to the flooded bank and tentatively dipped their toes in to check the temperature and strength of the current. The water was ice-cold and the current was fierce. They gazed at one another, momentarily undecided, then glanced back over their shoulders to see that the Iraqis were still advancing and would soon be at the line of palm trees, practically on top of them.
‘Fuck it,’ Geordie said. Then he took a deep breath and plunged in, followed by Ricketts.
The shock of the icy water took Ricketts’s breath away and momentarily blotted out all thought. It was even colder than he’d expected, already numbing much of his body, and he realized that if he was in it too long, he’d freeze to death before he reached the far bank. That bank was far away and the current was very strong, having already swept Geordie off course and now doing to same to Ricketts, no matter how hard he struggled to swim against it. Nevertheless, he kept going, no longer having a choice, and was spurred to greater efforts when gunshots rang out and the water spurted up near him where many bullets were striking it.
