The Circuit (11 page)

‘We’re all in the army together,’ said the major, as if reading from an officer’s manual. He then reminded me that we were lucky to be staying at the hub in the first place.

I was about to take his head from his shoulders when Martin grabbed my arm. I knew I’d better not say anything else or we wouldn’t have a place to stay and army rations to eat. The entire episode, however, reinforced a belief that I’d held throughout my military career and still hold today: the TA infantry doesn’t belong in war zones. Individually, most TA soldiers are well-meaning people. For some, the TA is a stepping stone to the regular army. And there are parts of the TA that work well in conflict areas, such as doctors and medics back at the rear, away from the front line. But in my view, a part-time soldier has part-time skills; a war situation requires full-time soldiers with full-time, up-to-date skills. You can’t be a supermarket under manager one day and a front-line infanteer the next. I could never understand how over the past three decades, the government could disband or amalgamate great regular British Regiments while keeping TA units intact. It may have saved money and won some generals who dropped their pants for the politicians a few medals, but it ultimately weakened our armed forces.

Before leaving the hub for the incident area, Martin and I finalized our plan of action. The day before had given us a clearer picture of what had taken place on 22 March. We now wanted to get a good look at where the US mortar and tank positions had been, but our priority was to gather intelligence that could lead us to Fred and Hussein. It was imperative we widen our investigation to the bridge leading to Basra and possibly beyond. We had to determine whether it was feasible to probe into the outskirts of the city and make contact with locals. It was entirely possible that someone inside Basra had information about the missing men.

Our first stop was where Daniel recalled seeing the US mortar unit. We pulled off the main highway, drove forty metres east and got out of our vehicle. The ground was littered with empty mortar bomb boxes. We concluded that the unit must have been protecting US tanks probing towards the main bridge into Basra.

Next, we headed to where the US tanks would have been located. A west-bearing road branched off the main highway approximately fifty yards south of where the burnt and bullet-ridden remains of Terry’s vehicle lay. We drove one hundred yards down the road and got out. Tank tracks were etched into the sand indicating that a group of five armoured vehicles had been positioned thirty metres apart. Ammunition containers and empty American ration packs were spread across the desert floor.

On closer inspection we could see empty cases and link from where the US troops had fired machine guns. The calibres corresponded with the bullet heads we’d found in Terry’s vehicle and in the Fedayeen pickup truck. We took bearings with a compass from the different tank positions. Terry’s vehicle sat smack in the middle of the line of fire.

Everything pointed to what we’d already established; there had been a firefight between the Americans and the Fedayeen. The only thing we couldn’t work out was who had fired first. In the end, however, there was a war on. The Americans had been in a great position to see the Fedayeen pickup flanked by the ITN 4x4s driving towards them. It didn’t matter that ITN had put TV stickers on their vehicles. What the Americans would have homed in on was the machine gun sticking out the top of the Fedayeen vehicle. The Americans would have concluded, and rightly so, that they were about to be attacked.

Having checked out the mortar and armoured positions, we headed up the road towards the bridge where Daniel had told us they’d been confronted by the Fedayeen. We stopped to talk to a British reconnaissance unit stationed a couple of hundred yards short of it. Some of the lads warned us that they’d been taking mortar fire that morning from Iraqis stationed on the other side of the bridge and that we shouldn’t go any further. The lads didn’t know exactly who was targeting them: regular Iraqi troops, Fedayeen or both. Whoever it was they weren’t letting up. While we were talking, a group of Iraqi civilians travelling out of Basra drove past us screaming ‘Midfa huwaan! Midfa huwaan!’ (Mortars! Mortars!)

Soft-skin vehicles are no match for mortars, so Martin and I decided to leave the bridge until later and go back to the incident area to regroup. When we got there, we pulled up on the east side of the highway and turned our vehicle towards Basra to monitor the situation. The bulk of the traffic on the highway was heading south – away from Basra and the mortar fire. As Martin and I sat discussing what to do next, two vehicles with ‘TV’ taped to the sides drove past us heading north; right into the fighting.

We shook our heads in disbelief. Hadn’t the media learned anything from what had happened to Terry Lloyd? Basra was still under Iraqi control and there was another group of journalists trying to get ahead of the situation with no concept of the danger involved.

Not long after they passed, the TV vehicles had turned around and were heading back our way. They pulled off the road and stopped right in front of us. They probably assumed from the TV letters on the side of our 4x4 that we were press as well. I got out to talk to them (I felt like I was about to discipline my children).

The two vehicles contained four Scandinavian journalists and two Kuwaiti translators. The Scandinavians had Arab shamaghs wrapped around their heads and necks. I asked them what they were doing. As I suspected, they were trying to get into Basra. I asked them if they were aware of what had happened to Terry Lloyd. They had no idea what I was talking about.

A quick glance inside their vehicle confirmed that they were indeed clueless about the environment in which they were operating. Their body armour and helmets were stashed in bags in the back of their truck. When were they planning to put them on? After shrapnel ripped through their flesh?

When I asked why they’d stopped, they said it was to warn us about a ‘road accident’ up ahead. I told them that they were mistaken; there was no road accident. Traffic was turning around to avoid mortar fire.

‘What mortar fire?’ they asked.

I told them that the Iraqis had been firing on British positions that morning. Then I pointed to Terry’s vehicle and gave them a sobering blow-by-blow account of what had happened to him and his crew. The Scandinavians were speechless.

When I asked if they had security, I wasn’t surprised to hear they had none.

‘Medical facilities?’ I asked.

None, they replied. But they did have two cases of beer.

‘Fellas, go back to Kuwait and drink your beer,’ I said.

I watched them drive south down the highway. I never saw them again. I hope they took my advice and didn’t stop until they reached Kuwait.

As I walked back to our vehicle, Martin called to me. ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing across the highway.

An old white 1970s sedan had pulled off the highway and come to a full stop. I watched as a short, round, middle-aged man climbed out of the driver’s side, walked to the front of the car and put up the bonnet. I counted three others inside the vehicle: two men and a boy who looked about twelve. They were all staring at me.

The round man smiled and waved. I returned the gesture. He took that as an invitation to walk across the highway and say hello.

I stayed on my side of the road to meet him, safe in the knowledge that Martin had me covered from our vehicle. I greeted the man in Arabic.

He replied in English and introduced himself. I’ll call him Tariq. ‘Do you need help?’ he asked.

I looked at his vehicle. ‘You’re the one with the bonnet up. Can we help you?’

Tariq laughed. ‘We have to keep bonnet open so people think we broke down.’

‘Aren’t you?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘We see you stop at side of road and come to help. You are TV?’

Tariq didn’t seem to be angling for a set-up. Perhaps he really did think we were in trouble. Or maybe he was curious. Either way, if he was from Basra, he could be a potential contact.

‘Are you from Basra?’

‘Yes,’ said Tariq. ‘I am marine engineer. I fix boat on Shaat al Arab (referring to the Shaat al Arab waterway). Come with me to my working place or you come with me to my house. My wife cook for you.’

He wasn’t kidding. He really was inviting me to dinner.

‘There’s a war on, Tariq,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t be welcome in Basra.’

‘But you are not American?’

‘I’m British.’

‘We like British!’ he said.

I gestured towards his car on the other side of the highway. ‘Who’s the little boy?’ I asked.

‘My son,’ he said. He nodded to the front seat. ‘And they are my work partners. You can trust us all.’

‘Are you in the Baath party?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ said Tariq.

He must have sensed some apprehension on my part. The Baath party was Saddam’s eyes and ears in Iraq. ‘Not all Baath party are bad,’ he continued. ‘If you want good life here, you join Baath party.’

Fair enough, I thought. Under Saddam, it was impossible to do anything in Iraq without the approval of the Baath party. There had to be a fair amount of people who had joined out of convenience rather than conviction.

Still, a second opinion never hurts. My gut told me Tariq was legit, but I wanted to see what Martin thought of him. I walked Tariq over to our vehicle, introduced him to Martin and then – with Martin watching – explained that we were looking for two journalists who’d gone missing in the area.

‘Do you know anything about that?’ I asked.

Tariq said he’d heard there were ‘problems’ the other week between the Fedayeen, Americans and a group of British journalists. ‘I have many friends in Baath party. Also Fedayeen,’ he said. ‘Come with me now and we find out together what happen to your friends.’

I explained that it was far too dangerous for us to go to Basra at present. But if he could go, I’d pay him two hundred US dollars if he’d meet us tomorrow with the information.

‘I don’t sell information,’ said Tariq. ‘I here to help.’

I asked him to meet us at the same location the following morning at ten. If he did manage to find anything out, we’d take it from there.

Tariq agreed and we shook hands.

‘We think these missing men are still alive,’ I said. ‘We desperately want to find them.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Inshahallah.’ (God Willing.)

Tariq walked back across the highway and closed the bonnet of his car. His little boy waved to us through the back window as they drove off.

‘What do you think?’ asked Martin.

‘If I went with my heart we’d be following him to Basra,’ I said. ‘But I’m going with my head. We need a while longer to trust him.’

CHAPTER 11

We woke the next morning with a renewed sense of urgency. The night before ITN Kuwait called to tell us that Terry’s body had been collected from the morgue in Basra and was being repatriated to Britain. Tragic as Terry’s death was, at least his family and loved ones wouldn’t have to wonder what had become of him. With his body returned home they could say their final goodbyes.

I could only imagine the torment Fred and Hussein’s families must have felt by that point. It had now been a fortnight since the incident and there was still no word on the men’s whereabouts. I wanted to find answers for those families, even if those answers were tragic. I wanted them to have closure.

Martin and I were anxious to hear what Tariq had found out about the missing men. We arrived at the RV area an hour ahead of schedule to recce it. Though Martin and I were both of the opinion that Tariq was probably above board, we weren’t willing to bet our lives on it.

There was a small track running east of the incident area that allowed us to lay off the main highway and view the RV through binos. We scanned the area, looking for signs of anyone lying low with the intent to ambush us. We were also worried about the possibility of someone planting an IED (improvised explosive device) in the area and detonating it upon our arrival (a precaution which at the time some people regarded as paranoid; it turned out we were way ahead of the game in terms of security concerns in Iraq).

At two minutes to ten, Tariq pulled up in his white sedan. I joked to Martin that I’d never thought I’d see the day when an Arab would show up two minutes early to a meeting instead of two hours late. Through my binos, I could see that he’d brought the same gang as the day before including his wee boy.

Tariq and one of the co-workers got out of the car. They assumed the same ‘cover’ as the day before, lifting the bonnet as if they had engine trouble.

It took only thirty seconds for Martin and me to drive the short distance up the road to meet Tariq. His little boy waved to us from the back window as we pulled up behind them. What an awfully big adventure for such a young lad.

Unlike the previous day, Martin and I decided beforehand that we’d both stay in our vehicle with the engine running for the duration of this meeting. We wanted the ability to get away quickly. I still didn’t think Tariq had it in for us, but for all his good intentions, the Fedayeen could have pressured him into setting us up.

Tariq walked towards us and I rolled down the window to speak with him.

I wanted to cut to the chase. After a quick greeting I asked him if he’d learned anything about the two missing men.

‘There is dead body of British or Russian man in Basra hospital,’ he said.

I assumed he was talking about Terry.

‘We’re aware of that body, Tariq, and the situation is being dealt with as we speak,’ I said. ‘Did your contacts tell you anything else?’

‘I meet with friend of mine,’ Tariq continued. ‘My friend Baath party associate with Fedayeen contact. He tell me the two journalists you look for – they taken from truck and shot dead.’

My heart sank as soon as the words left his mouth.

‘Why did the Fedayeen shoot them?’ I asked.

Tariq explained that the Fedayeen had stopped the men on the Basra side of the bridge just up the road from us. They wanted the journalists’ vehicles to use as cover to attack American troops.