Warrior Brothers (24 page)

The first issue the next morning was navigation and the lack of suitable mapping. I was aware that we needed to head west, so I was looking for the major east–west arterial road that would link back up to Highway One, the road leading to the Jordan border. Many roads couldn't be accessed but, after some initially chaotic driving, we found a major road that led past the notorious Abu Ghraib prison.

This was not before the driver of our second vehicle, a medic who was beginning to fall apart from the stress, ran straight into the rear of our lead vehicle. There was only minimal damage but I was concerned. If this man could not remain calm in traffic, how would he cope with the stress of a significant ambush? I had planned to get rid of our panicky medic at the very first opportunity, but for now he'd have to remain behind the wheel. Ridiculously, former special forces operators who were qualified in advanced trauma and life-saving techniques could not be utilised to fill the medical role because, due to insurance issues, this position could only be filled by former Medical Corps personnel.

From an operational perspective, some of our medics were unsuitable for private security operations. Others, however, were outstanding not only in their field of expertise but as team members. But this medic was a weak link in a chain that was looking stressed enough already. The only
other option was to make him the vehicle gunner, but he would most definitely not have had the presence of mind to make a snap decision regarding whether to fire or not. His vacant eyes made me think of a kangaroo staring into a spotlight. He was clearly overwhelmed and incapable of doing the job. To be fair, he was a nice enough guy who was just out of his depth in this environment. But he was supposed to add value to the team's capability, not detract from it. All we could do was encourage him and get him through this stage of the operation.

Our map had a scale of 1:500,000, so it was near-on impossible to determine which highway we were travelling on. It was also measured in degrees and minutes so I used my navigational training to work out the appropriate eastings and northings down to a one-mile increment, and that made things a lot easier. There was no doubt that we'd link up with Highway One, but the million-dollar question was whether we would enter the highway at Fallujah or further south. As much as I tried to block them out, the paranoid comments of the man who had refused to go on this trip still resonated: ‘If you fuck up and drive into Fallujah, then you're dead.'

I ordered the vehicle to stop on an overpass so I could work out our precise location. It was pretty obvious where we were. A sign informed us that the ominous city ahead was Fallujah. You could almost hear the anger bouncing between the city's 55,000 dwellings. We turned right onto Highway One and remained almost silent while we skirted around the city. If it had been a horror movie there would have been lightning cracking over the top of the bustling metropolis. Instead the day was clear and bright, but it was still far from reassuring. Each breath of the insurgent stronghold exhaled an anti-Western sentiment. We could not have been less welcome.

Several months later, while picking up supplies at the Jordanian border, I met a former special forces soldier who was running an escort task from Jordan to Baghdad. I asked him what he was looking after and he just pointed to half a dozen trucks loaded with 30 bright and shiny police cars. I didn't mean to laugh. He had a dozen Western security consultants and another dozen Kurdish soldiers to protect the convoy. He was extremely apprehensive about driving past Fallujah with such a prized booty. I would have been too.

He asked if we would travel in a convoy with him and I offered my help, with qualifications. ‘Sure, but we turn onto Highway Twelve just before Ramadi and won't be departing before 10:00 hours.' I had my own plans to enter the dangerous village of Hit during the hottest part of the afternoon. Insurgents may be dedicated but they were less likely to be lying in the dirt waiting to blow our convoy to hell and back when the temperature was in excess of 50 degrees Celsius.

Unfortunately, the consultant was edgy and impatient. He left before 07:00 and, not surprisingly, their convoy was ambushed. Sadly, half their Kurdish soldiers perished.

There was no respite from the rising tension as we approached Ramadi. Navigation was now a piece of cake as the GPS was set on degrees (lat long) and I could rapidly identify our position on the map within a quarter of a mile. We were about 25 kilometres from the turnoff to Highway Twelve, the primary road leading to Haditha Dam. The map showed two major roads and I chose to take the better-defined, which ran towards Alasad Airbase.

About a kilometre out from the turnoff, we slowed a little, maintaining 50 to 70 metres between vehicles. The primary turnoff was easily identifiable and our convoy entered the off-ramp that looped beneath Highway One. I briefed the
team to maintain spacing but not to separate, ensuring our vehicles could constantly support one another.

Highway Twelve was a sealed two-lane road that ran parallel to the Euphrates River. At times it was right beside the river, at others the river would be about eight kilometres east. The highway wound through many small villages, and the Alasad turnoff was approximately 60 kilometres further north.

This road would prove to be one of the most dangerous that we encountered in Iraq. It wasn't long before we saw large craters on the verge from roadside bombs. The ordinance that appeared most popular were the South African-made 155-millimetre artillery pieces. If sited correctly they could quite easily throw a seven-tonne military truck on its roof. A vehicle would be peppered with large shards of jagged steel and the exploding gases would likely throw a car off the road in a ball of flames.

Our non-armoured Pajeros had no chance if hit by such a force. The 100 litres of petrol secured in the rear would join the party nicely. We were all horrified when we noticed seven craters in one 30-metre stretch of road. Even the most incompetent insurgent couldn't fuck that up. If the medic or anyone else in the team wasn't nervous before, then they were now. What would it feel like to be ripped apart by a roadside bomb? Would your body be turned into an instant tea-strainer or would your limbs be scattered in every direction? Well, the answer is a bit of both.

The terrain quickly turned mountainous – a magnificent ambush area and perfect for killing or maiming. That we could be on the receiving end of an ambush only heightened our alertness. When we were about three kilometres from the Alasad turnoff I notified the team, and again when we were only 300 metres shy. We reduced speed but maintained vehicle spacing. This area was far from friendly.

A reminder of the area's perils came six weeks later. I was
approached by a nervous man at Alasad Airbase. He was in charge of a four-man security team and was tasked to escort an engineer who was assessing the powerlines in the area. He was deeply concerned for the safety of his team, and I agreed with him. After the initial assessment phase of the Haditha project was complete, I never deployed fewer than five vehicles and 11 consultants on operational road moves. When I informed him of this, he just shook his head and said that his employer was ‘taking the piss' and trying to complete the assessment on the cheap. He had to get going and, with fear etched across his face, asked for my Thuraya contact details. We exchanged numbers and I told him to get in touch if anything went wrong.

Two weeks later, he and his driver were ripped from their vehicle by a mob of raging insurgents who were heading off to join the battle in Fallujah. The US military briefed me on the incident but would not go into detail about his injuries. Apparently they were too horrific. He was in the lead vehicle and was approaching a village at speed when they were confronted by a hostile crowd numbering in their hundreds. The vehicle screeched to a halt just 30 metres from the crowd, and the driver attempted a three-point turn. In his panic, however, he drove into a ditch.

The crowd gained confidence and set upon the vehicle. The driver had his weapon torn from his arms but managed to successfully flee with dozens of men hot on his tail. The man I'd met was not so lucky. He was literally ripped apart, dismembered by the ferocious mob. Around the same time, another team of four security contractors was ambushed in Fallujah. The charred remains of their dismembered torsos were a vivid reminder of the consequences of an insurgent attack.

I had briefed my team that, in the event of an incident, it was one in, all in. If an angry mob attempted to stop the lead vehicle, then the Pajero would become a 1.5-tonne weapon
and so would the trailing vehicles. This would surely put fear into any would-be attacker. We decided that if today were going to be our final day in this world, then as many of those responsible would also be read their last rights via a bit of two-way AK-47 action.

Needless to say, the drive was extremely tense. Pottie was travelling with the team medic and was able to reassure him to some degree. My 2iC was a South African former special forces soldier and a great guy to have on board. He was intelligent, well-skilled and always ready to respond. He enjoyed this experience but would later spend many months at home recovering after being injured by a roadside bomb.

As we approached the turnoff for Alasad Airbase, the cars closed up slightly to make the necessary left-hand turn. Once our rear vehicle had signalled its completion of the turn, we slowed our pace, as any approach to a military base, especially during times of war, must always be undertaken with extreme caution. Vehicles packed full of explosives were regularly detonated at military checkpoints, and the last thing we wanted was to be filled with large-calibre American bullets because of an overzealous approach.

We slowed down well within sight of the checkpoint and displayed an A4-sized Union Jack. We hoped that by being identified as British-sponsored personnel we would be given the thumbs-up from the American guard. Luck was on our side. A British project manager for another security company was waiting at the gate for his colleagues to return, and he was able to organise access for our team. His assistance, particularly after the stress of the drive, was warmly appreciated.

What a great guy he turned out to be. He was a big-picture man, a real team player with no interest in playing politics or making life difficult for other security companies. We were all doing the same job. He told us that if he could be of help, then all we had to do was ask. He quickly led us to the
refuelling station and then invited us to the mess. We were famished after a day of heightened tension.

The Brit and I established an excellent rapport, but the relationship was relatively one-sided. He provided additional mapping and gave us a security brief of the area. We exchanged emergency contact numbers, and all that I could do to show my extreme gratitude was to ask if there was anything I could offer in return. As it turned out, he was a little light on for ammunition. We weren't in a much better position, but I handed over a meagre 400 rounds. It was all we could spare.

During this brief respite, we learned that a company of US soldiers had secured Haditha Dam, just 40 kilometres north of Alasad Airbase. This was welcome news. Just before we departed, the security manager offered one final piece of advice: ‘Take care out there, mate. The road between here and Haditha is horrendous. I've never seen anything like it. Keep off the verge and try to stick to the middle of the road. If you get hit, call me and I'll organise for some assistance.'

Fully aware that every minute that we now spent breathing was not only precious but also depended on luck and skill, our convoy re-entered Highway Twelve. We passed by the village of Al-Baghdadi, a densely populated area, and received many surprised looks from the locals. They may well have been thinking thoughts of hate, or thoughts of disbelief that we dared trespass, but disregarding their toxic stares, we continued on our way.

As we went on, the number of roadside holes became more numerous. Silence filled our vehicles as our eyes strained for signs of the dreaded roadside bomb. It was obvious that the insurgents were very active in this area. Whoever was planting these roadside bombs was highly motivated, as digging this many holes would send even a plumber's labourer into early retirement.