Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq (22 page)

Over the radio, somewhat unexpectedly, came the voice of the troop commander urging his men on - he had brought up the rest of the troop and the section assault had become a fullblown troop attack, which was no bad thing given the number of Iraqis concealed in the woods. Then the realisation dawned that they would be coming up behind us, and any uncleared positions would be subject to more grenade posting. I looked behind me in the nick of time - a pair of Marines was metres away, rifles in the shoulder, scanning the area for signs of moving enemy. A stand-off ensued during which I stood like a rabbit in the headlights while they checked me out via their telescopic sights. Fortunately the instinct of self-preservation was by this stage stronger than ever, so I wasted no time in dropping my rifle and raising my hands above my head. Eventually they recognised me for who I was and continued on their way with a cheery wave, kicking the Iraqi corpses to ensure they were dead as they went.

As the Marines swept through the trees, I caught sight of more of our vehicles bouncing along a rough track beyond the trees. The Pinzgauer carrying our bergens brought up the rear, lurching its way along a track, jolting over the heavily potholed surface. As it approached the thicket of trees I caught a glimpse of movement off to a flank and immediately knew what was going to happen. The assaulting Marines had not yet reached the far edge of the woods and the Iraqis stationed there took full advantage of the slow-moving target, unleashing several RPGs simultaneously. The rockets flew into the hapless vehicle but to my utter disbelief there was no ensuing fireball - the soft surface of the bergens presumably failed to trigger the warheads - and the Pinzgauer continued to lurch along the track unhindered. Another rocket screamed out of the woods and connected with the driver, knocking him bodily from his seat and out onto the track, but once again it failed to detonate. Finally, a warhead connected with a solid surface on the vehicle and the resultant explosion threw pieces of vehicle and equipment -
my
equipment - in all directions. I assumed the driver had copped it in the blast, but to my amazement he picked himself up off the floor and, seemingly unharmed, sprinted off towards his colleagues before the jundies had the chance to take another pot-shot at him. It was probably the most miraculous escape I have ever witnessed; he should undoubtedly have been killed several times over. Within seconds the assaulting Marines overran the Iraqi trenches and the RPGs were silenced forever. But this was cold comfort to me, since the contents of my bergen - my entire worldly possessions for the duration of the war in Iraq - had already been blown to smithereens.

Then, from behind me, I heard the unmistakable chock-chock-chock of helicopter gunships approaching. A brace of the sinister looking machines flew directly overhead, the leading aircraft spewing fire from its rotary cannon onto a line of Iraqi trenches before banking sharply and turning away to the south. The second gunship slowed just momentarily to release its cargo of missiles before also banking away to the south. The massive ensuing explosion produced a pall of black smoke to our front and left the area relatively quiet - small arms fire could still be heard in the distance, but nobody was firing in the foreground.

“Hoofing!” commented the Marine standing next to me. “I can’t see the jundies getting up after that little lot.”
(4)

He was right, too, the earth culvert and the tank within it had been reduced to a blackened, burning mass. Nothing stirred after the gunships departed, which was a tremendous relief -as far as I was concerned, a toasted Iraqi was far preferable to one who was shooting at me.

We waited in the woods for best part of an hour, half expecting firing to begin again. But the area immediately to our front remained silent, the Iraqis having succumbed either to the attentions of the gunships or to the assault troops of 40 Commando. Those Iraqis fortunate enough to have survived the onslaught were stripped of their weapons and bundled away to the rear to be carted back to the prisoner handing centre in 4-tonne trucks. Eventually the radio crackled into life and the order was passed to continue the advance. By now every Iraqi south of Basra must have heard our approach, which could weigh in our favour if they decided to scarper or seriously count against us if they planned to avenge their fallen comrades. Disconsolately I dragged my mud-covered self out of the woods and took my place at the rear of the troop, emerging from the trees alongside the troop sergeant. The pace seemed notably slower now, which didn’t surprise me one jot since the lead men were becoming more wary with every step. Bursts of small-arms fire still sounded to our north, which did nothing to calm my nerves, and the sweat trickled down my back as the bright sunshine baked the earth under our feet.

The buildings which had been mere specks on the horizon when we set off eventually loomed into view ahead of us. They looked to be houses of some description, elevated on stilts presumably to keep them dry in the event of the mudflats flooding. There was no obvious sign of movement therein but nevertheless I deliberately slowed my pace as we approached, keen to keep as much distance between the objective and me until someone declared the place safe. Following my narrow escape just a short time earlier I also kept half an eye open for a suitable bolthole in the event of bullets flying. Once again, my instinct for self-preservation proved invaluable, as a silhouette was spotted in an upstairs window of the farthest house and the Marines let fly with everything they’d got. Thankfully, the response from the Iraqis wasn’t aimed in my direction, although this didn’t stop me leaping like a frightened stag into a gully that ran alongside the track, from where I observed the Marines smashing their way into the nearest residence. The bloodthirsty blighters were inside within seconds - I could see their silhouettes flitting across the windows as they cleared the rooms inside. The Iraqi fighters put up a stiff resistance though and the noise of heavier-calibre fire emanating from their AK47s could be heard constantly. A few stray bullets punched out of the wooden walls and flew in my direction, ensuring I didn’t raise my head above the top of the gully - not that I needed any reminding. My nerves, already frayed from earlier encounters, were at breaking strain and there was no way I was going anywhere near a punch-up between a houseful of recalcitrant Iraqis and two dozen Marines baying for blood. Instead I crouched in the bottom of the ditch, waiting for a sign the area was safe. Eventually I saw a party of Marines being dispatched to the next house, which I took to mean the first building had been declared safe. However, the jundies holed up in the second house were no less stubborn, so the fighting continued unabated. After a few more minutes cowering in my ditch I witnessed several Iraqis running from the building under a white flag, jabbering away in frightened Arabic until a couple of the bootnecks got hold of them and forced them to the ground. The bullets stopped flying altogether shortly afterwards so, after a prudent pause to ensure this wasn’t merely a lull in the fighting, I climbed back onto the track and scuttled into the nearest house.

The interior was as dank and gloomy as the exterior; mingling with the acrid cordite smoke was a musty, stale smell which told me the place had been uninhabited for some time. Stray items of grubby furniture were dotted around and rubbish was scattered on the floor. The place had a somewhat ominous air about it and I felt instinctively unsafe there. I have learned from bitter experience to trust such intuitive feelings, so I began to search for an escape route in case the situation became ugly. I walked through to the back of the house and made a mental not of a north-facing rear door which had been conveniently left unlocked. Upstairs, I found the troop commander and troop sergeant deep in conversation about the viability of remaining in the house and using it as a patrol base.

“What do you think Sir - are we vulnerable to Iraqi tanks if we stay here?” asked the troop sergeant.

“Not especially,” I replied, conscious that for the first time since the war began I was actually doing my job and offering advice on armoured movements. “If I were an Iraqi tank commander, I wouldn’t fancy my chances manoeuvring a T55 over the mudflats, there’d be too much risk of getting bogged down. So they’ll probably stick to roads and tracks, which makes them vulnerable to anti-armour ambush. I’d say the threat is pretty limited really.”

“So should we stay here, or push on?” asked the fresh-faced troop commander.

I had done quite enough pushing on for one day so my answer was forthright.

“Stay right here,” I countenanced, solemnly. “You’ve got a good base with enough elevation to see much of the surrounding country. There are no obvious objectives to your - our - front and there ain’t much daylight left. If I were you I’d get on the net to the company commander and tell him you’re done for the day.”

He did too, and I almost fainted with relief when he got the necessary authority for us to stay put for the night. My heart was still trip-hammering from all the earlier adrenaline and I was becoming increasingly desperate to get some rest. News of our stay came as an obvious disappointment to several of the Marines, who were once again keen to be pressing on -their eagerness to risk their lives in armed combat never ceased to amaze me.

I made my way downstairs, keen to find somewhere quiet to get some undisturbed shut-eye. There were plenty of quiet corners but most of the house was filthy and I didn’t fancy waking up with lice, so I poked around, opening doors and peering into every nook and cranny in the hope of finding a suitable spot for a nap. Just as I was resigning myself to the probability of sleeping in filth, the wall of the house exploded into a hail of splinters, pieces of wood flying towards me amidst the cacophony of noise associated with being on the wrong end of a Kalashnikov. A large timber splinter caught me square on the thigh, embedding itself in my flesh and causing me a great deal of pain. I howled and collapsed onto the floor clutching my wounded leg. It was as well that I did, since the next burst of fire came hot on the heels of the first, smashing through the wall and showering me with more fragments of the building. To be entirely honest, I’m not sure why I acted as I then did, I can only assume I suffered some sort of nervous breakdown. Under attack again, in agony due to my injured leg, something inside me snapped. Despite the flying bullets, I jumped to my feet and sprinted out of the rear door of the house, limbs flailing, screaming in abject terror. I had no idea where I was going and frankly I didn’t care - anywhere was better than being besieged in a filth-ridden cesspit with a bunch of psychotic maniacs. As I exited the building I was vaguely aware of fire coming from the upstairs windows, which I remember thinking was a little odd, since the enemy assault was clearly on the other side of the house. But the Marines could have been shooting clay pigeons for all I cared - I could see the outline of the date palms to the north and in my panic-fuelled insanity I was intent on reaching them. I didn’t get more than 50 yards before fate conspired against me, in the form of a length of barbed wire concealed in the muddy earth. I caught the toe of my boot in a loop of the stuff and crashed to the ground face first, knocking the wind out of my lungs. My fist was still firmly clenched around the pistol-grip of my rifle and when my muscles clenched as I hit the deck I inadvertently snatched at the trigger. Without even being aware of it I had instinctively taken the safety catch off my rifle when the building came under fire. Worse, at some point during the day I had evidently knocked the change lever from single-shot to automatic. The result was an unintentional burst of a dozen rounds or more - not much more than a single second’s worth, though it seemed an eternity at the time - before I managed to release the action and stop firing. Given that the rifle was trapped underneath me I was devilish lucky not to blow my head off - but fortunately I kept my chin up and the rounds shot straight out from underneath me, flying towards the date palms in a deafening roar. Once my own rifle fell silent I expected relative calm to descend, but instead I became terrifyingly aware that bullets were flying all around. With abject horror I realised that I was just yards from a series of well-hidden Iraqi trenches which had gone unnoticed when the Marines assaulted the building. A number of the incumbent Fedayeen had snuck out of the position and were attacking the Marines from a flank - which accounted for the rounds flying through the east-facing wall - while the rest were providing covering fire from their trenches.
(5)
My panic-fuelled flight to safety had horribly backfired: instead of being away from this madness and concealed in the palm trees I was completely exposed, visible for all the world to see, an obvious target on the bare earth. A braver man might have continued forward to engage the enemy, but I had no such combative instincts. Instead, I cradled my head in my hands and sobbed tears of self-pity while awaiting the bullet that would finish it all. I cursed the Marines, the Iraqis, the CO, Tony Blair -anyone, in fact, who had even a modicum of responsibility for my current plight. Bullets cracked past my ears on both sides and battle raged over my head for several endless minutes, before the firing slowed to an occasional single shot, and I realised with incredulity that I was entirely unharmed. Caution remained the better part of valour though, so I made no attempt to move until the area had lain silent for some time. Eventually, satisfied that the worst danger had passed, I gingerly lifted my head and took stock of the situation. Before I could move, I was grabbed under both arms and dragged unceremoniously into the house by a brace of Marines.

“What the devil ...” I spluttered.

“Don’t speak, Sir,” answered one. “Save your breath.”

I began to protest but my rescuers were convinced that I was fatally wounded and would have none of it. I was rushed into the house and laid down on a foam sleeping mat, all the time being told to conserve my strength and, in a faux-reassuring tone, that everything would be okay. Well, I’m not immune to a spot of pampering and I would have made more of it if there had been anything actually wrong with me. But given that I had just produced a spectacular negligent discharge, and given that I was essentially unhurt, albeit very shaken up and with a throbbing pain in my leg, I reasoned that I was in deep enough trouble without being caught play-acting or faking injury, so I opted to come clean sooner rather than later.