Soldier A: Behind Iraqi Lines Page 8

  As the rest of the SAS troopers divested themselves of their bergens, taking only the bare essentials, they joined Andrew in keeping the Iraqis pinned down, by firing with their small arms. When the last of them had ditched his bergen and was ready to leave, they walked away backwards, firing from the hip for as long as required. Once out of range of the Iraqi gunfire, they turned away, spreading farther apart, and ran as fast as they could across the flat plain sweeping out from the bottom of the hill to the distant horizon.

  The Iraqis, they knew, would follow cautiously. But follow they certainly would.

  Chapter 8

  A few hours after legging it out of the OP, the men stopped for a rest in another hilly, rocky area that had emerged out of the flat plain just as a hazy-white sun was sinking over the darkening horizon. Just as it became completely dark, they saw the headlights of several vehicles following them.

  ‘They’re still on our tail,’ Ricketts said, ‘and won’t stop till they catch us.’

  ‘The night at least offers us some protection,’ Andrew observed, ‘so I say we keep moving, boss.’

  Danny glanced around him, seeing nothing but a vast, flat plain with low hills in the distance. ‘Which direction?’ he asked.

  Ricketts checked his map by the light of a pencil torch. ‘Urbanized Iraq is to the east, so that way offers only certain capture. Westward is Jordan, a non-combatant ally of Saddam Hussein. As they’ve already handed over a downed American pilot to the Iraqis, I don’t think they’ll treat us any better.’ He glanced up from the map and gazed south at the lights of the Iraqi troop trucks following them. ‘That’s south, so obviously we can’t go there. Which leaves north. Or, more accurately, north-west and the frontier with Syria – a member of the anti-Iraqi coalition. We might be OK there.’

  ‘If we get there,’ Geordie said. ‘It’s a hell of a hike.’

  ‘Any other ideas?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Nope,’ Geordie replied.

  ‘Then north-west it is.’ Andrew also glanced at the lights advancing far to the south. ‘And I say we go now.’

  ‘Let’s try to shake those bastards off our tail,’ Ricketts said. ‘First, by going south, then a short leg to the west, then on a northerly heading, which will eventually lead us back to the north-westerly stretch of the MSR. If we follow that, while keeping clear of it, we should reach the border.’

  Andrew flashed his perfect teeth in a broad grin. ‘If any of you have prayers say them now, before you run out of breath.’

  ‘Very funny, Sergeant,’ Geordie said. ‘We’re all in fits. Can we walk and not talk?’

  ‘Read you loud and clear, Geordie.’

  ‘OK,’ Ricketts said, ‘let’s go.’

  Steering by compass, and with the help of their SATNAV global positioning system, they started off again, finding it easier without the heavy bergens, but not thrilled by the sight of that endless plain running out to the low hills on the horizon. The vehicles behind them had stopped moving, as they could see by the lights, which probably meant that the Iraqis had disembarked to search that particular area. It was a good sign. They would have to do that a lot. Which, in turn, would give the SAS troopers on foot the possibility of staying well ahead.

  Without even thinking about it, they had fallen into file formation, with Danny well out front, taking the ‘point’ as lead scout and constantly checking what lay ahead through the infrared night-sight of his rifle. The others were strung out behind him, a good distance apart, maintaining irregular spaces between them to avoid unnecessary, or too many, casualties if attacked.

  Marching behind Danny, Ricketts, as PC, was second in line, with Geordie, as signaller, though now without his radio, and Taff bringing up the rear as Tail-end Charlie’. While this was undoubtedly the safest method for this kind of march, it did not allow for conversation or any other time-passing activities, which in turn made them even more conscious of the distance, and therefore more tired.

  Contributing to the latter problem was the fact that although they were blessedly free of their heavy bergens, they were still burdened with personal kit belts laden with basic survival gear, items of first aid, water bottles, emergency rations, spare ammunition, and smoke and fragmentation grenades. These alone made for a weight that would have broken most men’s back on a hike such as this. Last but not least was the mentally exhausting need for constant vigilance, particularly with regard to minefields, which could have been anywhere and would, if they existed, be particularly hard to see in this wind-blown darkness.

  The wind, both chilling and eerie, constantly blew sand and dust across the plain, covering up small rocks that could trip them, wadis into which they might inadvertently fall, and, worst of all, obscuring any minefields that might be there.

  Should they come across a minefield, Danny, out front on point, would almost certainly be the first to ‘beat the clock’. He knew that, but he didn’t give a damn – he always wanted to be first into the fray. Though remarkably youthful and still called ‘Baby Face’, Danny continued to be widely viewed by the other troopers as a natural soldier and killer. Out on point, the most dangerous place, was where he belonged.

  After marching the men southwards for two and a half hours, or about twelve miles, Ricketts checked their location with his hand-held SATNAV GPS, then led them west for another six miles. This took them from flat desert to more rocky terrain, where the moonlight glinted on patches of ice and the wind whipped up snowflakes.

  Feeling protected by the hills, they stopped for a break at the end of the twelve-mile stretch, some drinking the last of their water, others nibbling on barely edible dried food. Occasionally aircraft flew overhead, but in the darkness they could not make out if they were friend or foe. The wind howled constantly, blowing sand and dust around them, and the cold was eating at their bones, sinking in, taking hold.

  ‘I feel exhausted already,’ Taff said, ‘and we haven’t even come very far. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

  ‘Cold and lack of food,’ Andrew said. ‘More the cold than the food. The cold makes you feel tired.’

  ‘I think my feet are blistered,’ Geordie said, ‘but I can’t even feel them. Fucking numb, they are.’

  ‘Better your feet than your cock,’ Andrew said.

  ‘That’s numb as well.’

  ‘Oh, boy, you is in trouble! Now you’ve nothing to pull on. Me? When I start feeling exhausted, I just pull on my big dong and think of England. That keeps me going.’

  ‘It keeps you coming,’ Geordie corrected him.

  ‘I never cream my jeans,’ Andrew retorted. ‘I think it’s bad manners.’

  ‘Hey, Moorcock!’ Geordie said, again moved by the impulse to stir a little shit with the probationers. ‘Do you think it’s bad manners to cream your jeans or do you stick to pyjamas?’

  Trooper Moorcock, even though visibly exhausted, blushed a deep, virginal crimson. ‘Gee, Geordie … I mean … Hey, come on, I don’t have to … What I mean,’ he said, struggling for an answer, ‘is that I don’t … I just don’t.’

  ‘Low sperm count?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘He wouldn’t know it if he had it in his hand,’ Geordie said with a big grin. ‘That’s innocence for you.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Trooper Stone said, starting to understand this ritual. ‘You guys are just trying to embarrass him. Now me, I have a high sperm count and it’s in my hand quite a lot.’

  ‘It’s good for the complexion,’ Taff managed, though his voice sounded shaky. ‘At least that’s what my women say.’

  ‘What women?’ Geordie asked. ‘I’ve never seen you with a woman. That’s why you’re always wiping the sperm count off your fingers when you think we’re not looking.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Trooper Gillett asked, exhausted, confused and uneasy, wondering what the next hour would bring and starting to dread it.

  ‘He’s a bachelor,’ Andrew explained. ‘H
e doesn’t have it on tap. When he wants it, he either buys an expensive meal for some tart or saves costs by going to bed with Playboy. His fingers often get tired though.’

  ‘You filthy bastard,’ Taff croaked.

  ‘I’m not a bastard,’ Andrew replied.

  ‘I never know what you blokes are talking about,’ Trooper Moorcock said, sounding strained, glancing down at his feet, and shivering helplessly. ‘Why don’t you talk English?’.

  ‘Those bastards are still coming after us,’ Taff said, sounding breathless and hoarse.

  When they looked back, across the immense, dark plain, they saw those familiar lights in the distance, on the move again.

  ‘Come on,’ Ricketts urged. ‘Let’s get going.’

  They changed direction once more, this time onto a northerly heading, marching as quickly as they could, which was not as quick as before, trying to put more distance between themselves and the Iraqis behind them.

  The moaning wind grew in strength, and snow began to fall. Frost was breaking under their desert boots and freezing their feet. The wind was biting and blew sand around them. Though they all had veils over their faces and tinted glasses protecting their eyes, the mixture of cutting sand and freezing snow was a further menace that had to be accepted.

  The march seemed interminable and was thoroughly debilitating, a murderous combination of howling wind, freezing snow, biting sand, loneliness and the constant, exhausting need to beware of minefields, all the while keeping an eye on the Iraqis still in hot pursuit. The lights were right there behind them, advancing slowly but surely, still in the distance only because the Iraqi soldiers were constantly criss-crossing the desert, leaving no stone unturned. They were, however, gradually gaining distance and closing the gap.

  As all the SAS men knew that they would, if captured, be treated with more than the usual harshness, they were given further impetus to keep moving, though the toll was now telling. Twice Taff tripped and fell, which was an indication of lack of attention brought on by exhaustion. This knowledge made Ricketts more uneasy.

  By the time they got back to the MSR it was midnight. Already they had walked for seven hours and covered some forty miles. While the men had another short break, squatting on the windswept sand and drinking the last of their water, Ricketts surveyed the MSR through his night-vision binoculars. At one point, he noticed, it was one or two miles wide, a dangerously flat, open stretch, with dozens of tracks side by side, spread out across the desert. On rechecking, however, he realized that the MSR had made a sweeping curve not shown on the map and that their escape route now lay across that series of Iraqi-controlled, parallel desert tracks.

  ‘That’s pretty fucking hairy,’ Geordie observed. ‘It’s wide-open out there.’

  ‘Right,’ Andrew agreed. ‘And once we start crossing, we’ll be completely exposed, with the likelihood of Iraqi military convoys coming along. Bloody dangerous, boss.’

  ‘We’ve no choice,’ Ricketts said. ‘Either we take that chance or we sit here and let those bastards on our tail catch up with us. One advantage is that this damned wind that’s been driving us mad is sweeping the sand and snow across the MSR, sometimes obscuring it. That should give us at least some protection. Also, the terrain at the far side is hilly, so if we can manage to get that far without being caught, we’ll have more cover than we have here. Still, you’re right, it could be hairy. It’s a collective decision, men, but I say we keep going.’

  The men automatically looked back at the lights of the trucks on their tail, then across the parallel tracks of the MSR, placed a good distance apart on another flat, featureless desert plain along which Iraqi military traffic was known to travel. It was a choice between a rock and a hard place, and all of them knew it.

  ‘What about you, Taff?’ Ricketts asked, nervous about his condition.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Taff replied without the slightest trace of irony. ‘I’m too exhausted to even think about it. To be honest, I’m not sure I can make it. I’m sorry. That’s how I feel.’

  ‘He’s exhausted,’ Danny said. ‘There’s no question about it. It’s probably due to the cold more than the march, but either way he’s in bad shape.’

  ‘I say we take his kit and weapons off him,’ the nervous, but decent, Trooper Moorcock suggested, ‘and put him behind Danny in the file formation. That way we can watch him.’

  ‘Can I take it from those statements,’ Ricketts asked, ‘that you’re all in favour of going on?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Geordie said.

  ‘Fucked if I’m going to stay here and have my fingernails pulled out by Iraqi pliers,’ Andrew added sardonically. ‘Let’s do it, boss.’

  ‘What about you men?’ Ricketts asked the probationers, troopers Moorcock, Gillett and Stone.

  ‘I’m with you,’ Stone said.

  ‘Me, too,’ Gillett said.

  Moorcock stared at his two friends, glanced at the others one by one, stared across the dark plain at the advancing lights of the Iraqi trucks, then turned back to Ricketts and nodded his agreement.

  ‘Right,’ Ricketts said. ‘Divide Taff’s kit and weapons between you and let’s bug out of here.’

  The men did as they were told, relieving the grateful Taff of his burden, then Danny headed off, Taff fell in behind him and the others took their places one by one, well apart in the standard file formation, following Danny down the slope to the desert plain and the wind-blown tracks of the MSR.

  Still protecting their rear, Ricketts glanced back over his shoulder just before starting down the rocky slope. The lights of the Iraqi trucks were now dangerously close and the trucks were clearly picking up speed. Obviously the soldiers had realized that their quarry was not on the plain and that the MSR would have to be crossed. There was not much time left.

  Ricketts hurried down the slope, following the others. Once out of the protection of the rocks, they were exposed to the full force of the wind and the fiercely swirling, stinging sand and freezing snow. The blowing sand gave them cover, obscuring the bright stars, but was so dense that they had to close up, in case they lost sight of one another.

  By the time they reached the MSR, or at least its first track, they were half blinded by the sand, frozen numb by the snow and not sure if they were heading in the right direction.

  Danny looked left and right, checking the track’s alignment, then raised his right hand and waved them on, stepping out in the lead. As they crossed the MSR, going from one track to the next, with sometimes a quarter of a mile between them, the sound of gunfire exploded behind them and bullets whipped past.

  ‘They’re right behind us!’ Ricketts bawled.

  Danny glanced back over his shoulder just as Ricketts turned away and fired his SLR at the headlamps beaming dimly through the gloom from approximately the first track of the MSR. One of the lights blinked out, obviously damaged by Ricketts’s gunfire, but the others were moving inexorably forward, though mercifully at a snail’s pace, because the sweeping sand and snow were blinding the drivers. Ricketts fired a second burst and another set of lights blinked out, but a fusillade of return fire from the trucks made sand and snow spurt viciously from the flat ground about him.

  ‘Spread out and keep going!’ Ricketts bawled.

  ‘Give me a weapon!’ Taff cried out to Danny.

  ‘No!’ Danny said. ‘Run!’

  He hared off across the next track, almost disappearing in the murk, and was followed by Taff and the others. Ricketts, protecting their rear, hurled a phosphorus grenade at the approaching lights, then dropped to one knee and continued firing. He was soon joined by Moorcock, Stone and Gillett, all firing as well.

  The grenade exploded with a shocking roar, filling the darkness with an immense fountain of white flames, streaming fireflies of silvery phosphorus, swirling black smoke and billowing clouds of sand. The deafening roar of the explosion was followed by the screams of the wounded.

  Geordie joined Ricketts and
the other three, firing his M16 in rapid bursts, even as Danny reached the far side of the MSR and turned back to see what was happening. He saw Geordie drop to one knee beside Ricketts, both in the firing position and erratically illuminated in the silvery light of the explosion, just before the raining sand and swirling smoke obscured them completely.

  Taff and Andrew burst out of the murk as Ricketts and Geordie disappeared.

  ‘Let’s get into the hills,’ Danny said, ‘and hope they catch up. That’s what Ricketts wanted.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s go,’ Andrew growled.

  Another grenade exploded behind them, followed by gunfire from both sides, and the silvery flames and fireflies created by phosphorus briefly illuminated the stormy darkness as Andrew, Danny and Taff climbed up into the relative safety of the hills.

  Once in the shelter of the lower slopes, surrounded by rocky outcroppings, they sat down and waited. But although the moving lights showed that the Iraqi trucks had turned back, there was no sign of the other SAS men. The fierce wind was blowing the sand and snow across an empty MSR.

  ‘Shit!’ Andrew hissed.

  Chapter 9

  When a bitterly cold, wet dawn came, Andrew, Danny and Taff were laid up in shallow ‘scrapes’ within a circular sangar, or improvised wall, constructed from the loose rocks found about them. The sangar was positioned halfway up the slope overlooking the MSR. Protected from view by the low wall of the sangar, which blended in with its surroundings, they spent the whole miserable day watching Iraqi militiamen and reservists combing the flat plains below, obviously still looking for them. The Iraqi trucks had returned just after dawn, when the storm had abated, and were parked between two tracks of the MSR, near where Ricketts, Geordie and the others had last been seen. There was no sign of the latter and the wind-blown sand had covered up their tracks completely.