Soldier A: Behind Iraqi Lines Read online

  ‘Either they’ve been captured,’ Andrew said, ‘or they somehow managed to get off and leg out by a different route. If they don’t turn up by nightfall, we’ll do the same.’

  ‘Get captured or leg out?’ Taff asked, attempting some levity even though he felt as bad as he looked, which was truly dreadful.

  ‘Leg out,’ Andrew confirmed. He then looked carefully at Taff. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’ll survive,’ Taff said.

  Andrew glanced down the hill. ‘I left my GPMG down there,’ he said to Danny, ‘when you told us to run. Even I couldn’t carry that on the run. Now I feel naked.’

  ‘You’ve still got your M16,’ Danny replied, ‘and that’s all you’ll want if we’re to march all the way to the Syrian border.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll make that,’ Taff said, looking serious. ‘I feel nauseous and absolutely drained. Bloody awful, in fact. Why don’t we try an aircrew beacon?’

  ‘We will,’ Andrew said, still glancing down the hill to the MSR, where the Iraqi troops were climbing back onto their trucks. ‘They seem to have given up down there. If they have, if they leave, we’ll try signalling with the beacon and hope to God that something turns up.’

  At noon the Iraqis were still searching the area below, so Andrew, Danny and Taff nibbled at the last of the high-calorie rations in their individual escape belts, checked their location with the aid of the belt’s small-scale map and button compass, and decided between them what way to go when the Iraqis departed.

  This they did not do until late afternoon, but finally they drove off, heading back across the MSR, the way they had come. Eventually they became no more than a puff of dust in the distant flatlands.

  When the Iraqis had disappeared completely, Andrew unclipped the surface-to-air rescue beacon, or SARBE, from his kit belt. It was actually a small radio used for emergency communications between an aircraft and a party on the ground by means of a repeated, coded signal. Though they are mostly used by aircrew in case of crashes, the SAS carried them in the event of the loss of the bigger, more powerful PRC 319 radio. As they had lost that, as well as their SATCOM GPS, when they lost Ricketts and Geordie, Andrew was glad he had had the sense the bring his SARBE along instead of dumping it with his bergen. Using it, he sent a distress signal out and prayed that an AWACS aircraft would pick it up and attempt a rescue.

  By sunset, this had still not happened. Ironically, just before the sun sank, an American F-15E flew overhead, but failed to see them and, as there were Iraqis in the area, sometimes along the MSR, Andrew did not dare send up a flare. The plane flew on, ignoring them.

  ‘Damn!’ Taff exclaimed hoarsely. ‘There goes our last chance for today. That means at least another night in the open. I don’t think I can stand it.’

  ‘Not sitting up here, freezing our arses,’ Andrew said, ‘but we don’t have to do that. We have to move out just to keep warm, and it’s best to travel by night. When darkness falls, we should disappear.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to Ricketts and Geordie.’

  ‘Don’t think about it,’ Danny advised.

  At nightfall, with Ricketts and Geordie still missing, the trio decided to push on again. After filling in their scrapes and breaking up the sangar, spreading the stones carelessly about to hide all trace of their presence, they started off and kept going until they reached high ground. This was well away from the constantly populated MSR and, with its hills and wadis, offered more protection from the elements, as well as from any Iraqis still hunting them.

  Sitting on the high ground, Danny looked down through the night-sight mounted on his rifle. Scanning the flat plains, he could see for at least five miles, but there was no sign of the missing men. In the end, he decided to move on, away from the dangers of the MSR.

  Still using a button compass and the small-scale map from Andrew’s escape belt, they continued marching for another four hours, on a northeasterly bearing, over flat rock. By 0500 hours, just as Danny was starting to worry that they would be caught in the open when dawn broke, they came across a small tank berm with walls of soil six feet high and deep tank tracks leading away from it.

  ‘Shelter at last,’ Andrew whispered. ‘We can catch some sleep here. I’ll nod off like a baby. So will you, Taff.’

  He was particularly concerned about Taff, who had developed a bad cough – which could, incidentally, give away their position – and was pale and visibly shaking with exhaustion. His weakness, Andrew suspected, was a by-product of the cold and damp, as well as the long march with no decent food and minimal drink.

  ‘Yes,’ Taff said, so hoarse he could hardly speak properly. ‘That’s all I need … Sleep … 1 need sleep … All of us … Sleep.’

  ‘I’ll keep watch,’ Danny said. ‘We’ll take four-hour turns.’

  ‘You and I will take turns,’ Andrew corrected him, ‘and let Taff rest up.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Danny said.

  Andrew and Taff lay head-to-toe in one of the ditches of the berm while Danny lay belly-down on its rim, his SLR in the firing position, his night-sight giving him an eerie blue view of the landscape in darkness.

  Andrew fell asleep almost immediately, but Taff, who needed it more, was too exhausted to sleep either deeply or for long, and tossed and turned restlessly for hours, muttering under his breath. When he actually dropped off for short periods, he groaned aloud with bad dreams.

  That groaning, like his coughing, could get them all in trouble, so Danny was doubly alert as he kept his long watch.

  At least we’re reasonably safe here, he thought.

  He was wrong. When the dawn light came up, he saw an enemy position, including what looked like a hut or a box-like vehicle, with radio aerials sprouting from it, no more than 600 yards away.

  Shocked, Danny slid back into the ditch and placed his hand over the groaning Taff’s mouth. When Taff opened panicked eyes, Danny placed his hand on his forehead to keep his head down and was worried by how hot it was.

  ‘Quiet, Taff!’ he whispered. ‘Don’t say a word!’

  The sound of his voice awakened Andrew, who jerked around, instantly alert, even as the fear in Taff’s eyes was replaced with a dazed look. Danny removed his hand, then let the other slide away from Taff’s mouth.

  ‘There’s an Iraqi position over there,’ he said. ‘About 600 yards. We’re pinned down again.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Andrew whispered. ‘I don’t believe this shit!’ He rolled over onto his belly and slid up the muddy side of the ditch to gaze across the flat, frosty earth at the Iraqi position. ‘Shit!’ he muttered softly when he saw it. ‘Jesus Christ! Can a man’s luck get worse?’ He rolled onto his side to look at Danny. ‘We’re fucked again, Baby Face. We’re gonna have to stay here all day and slip out tonight.’

  ‘Right,’ Danny said.

  They were indeed forced to stay all day in the ditch. Snow began to fall again. As the blizzard continued, the ditch filled with water and they lay there, unable to move, soaked and frozen. There was little water left in the bottles and all their rations were gone, except for two packets of biscuits still in Danny’s escape belt. Everything else – all their kit, high-calorie rations and spare heavy-duty clothes – had gone with the bergens.

  By sunset, after twelve hours prostrate in icy water, they were so chilled that they had no feeling in their hands or feet, even though the former were in fur-lined leather gloves. The cold had also penetrated their joints, knees and backs, making them so crippled that when they were preparing to leave, they could scarcely pick up their weapons. They had to put their heads down through the slings, then straighten up and let the guns just dangle.

  ‘I’ve never felt so fucking awful in my life,’ Andrew whispered, ‘but I think I can make it. What about you two?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ Danny replied. ‘I’m pretty stiff, but I think I’ll loosen up when we get moving. What about you, Taff?’

  Taff just stared at him. He seemed not to have heard. Sitting on the
edge of the ditch, he looked like a statue. The snow was still falling.

  Reaching over, Danny shook him by the shoulder. ‘Hey, Taff, are you OK?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, I guess so.’

  ‘Come on, then, let’s go.’

  Taff could hardly move. They had to straighten him up first and practically push him out of the ditch. When they set off, heading away from the enemy position, protected by darkness and blanketed by falling snow, he kept falling behind. And when they waited for him to catch up, he soon fell behind again. His breathing, Danny noticed, was irregular and his gaze unfocused. At one point, when he fell behind and Danny went back to fetch him, he found him sitting, slumped over, on a low, snow-covered rock, breathing painfully and holding up his hands.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘my hands have gone black. Why should that be?’

  ‘You’re wearing black leather gloves, Taff.’

  ‘Am I?’ Taff examined the gloves on his hands with delirious eyes. ‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘My hands have turned black. Don’t lie to me, Danny.’

  ‘Just kidding,’ Danny said. He didn’t know what else to say. ‘They’ve turned black with cold,’ he finally lied, feeling guilty. ‘Just put them back in your pockets and they’ll soon be OK again.’

  ‘Yes,’ Taff said. ‘Good thinking.’ Placing his gloved hands in the pockets of his jacket, he stood up again. ‘You lied to me,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry, Taff.’ Danny led him up to Andrew, who was shivering in the falling snow. The sergeant studied Taff, then glanced searchingly at Danny, but made no actual comment. ‘Taff’s hands have turned black with cold,’ Danny said, deliberately and loudly, for Taff’s benefit, ‘and since we’re looking after his weapons, I told him to put his hands in his pockets.’

  ‘Right,’ Andrew replied. ‘Understood.’

  ‘They’re warmer now,’ Taff informed him.

  ‘Good,’ Andrew said. ‘Let’s move on, men.’

  They marched for another hour, but the blizzard was getting worse. Taff coughed a lot and talked to himself and kept falling behind. Aware that he was gradually losing his senses due to hypothermia, Danny tried to keep Taff’s thoughts focused and his legs moving by saying how good it would be when they got back to Hereford, to the base and their comfortable bashas, to warm pubs and good bitter.

  ‘I don’t know anybody in Hereford,’ Taff said, sounding annoyed. ‘I come from Wales. From …’ He tried to think of the name, failed to recall it, stopped walking to give it more thought, then started walking again. ‘None of your fucking business,’ he mumbled with tears in his rheumy eyes. ‘Fucking cold! Who are …?’ Suddenly, he glanced sideways, at an invisible person beside him. ‘What are you doing here? Who asked you to come here?’ The stranger did not answer and Taff looked more confused. ‘What time is it? Where are we? I’m cold. Who won the Derby?’

  When he didn’t speak his teeth chattered, so he spoke a lot. As long as he spoke he kept walking. When he tried to think he stopped walking. His lips had turned blue, his face a ghastly yellow. Some tears had actually frozen on his cheeks and made his skin look like glass. He was coughing and shivering.

  Andrew and Danny stuck with him, going back for him, dragging him on, but eventually they started suffering from cold and exhaustion themselves. Convinced that he, too, could feel hypothermia setting in, Andrew feared that they would not last the night. Yet he kept going, forcing himself to concentrate, still checking their bearings with a pocket light and button compass, determined to get as far as possible before the dawn broke again.

  ‘Escape and evasion,’ he whispered. ‘Escape and evasion. That’s all you’ve got to remember. Keep going, boss.’ He was talking to himself, but not in delirium like Taff. Instead, he was coaxing himself to go on by parroting a well-known maxim from the Combat and Survival phase of Continuation Training and recalling what that training involved – concealment, route selection, the laying of false trails, living off the land, moving carefully. It was all coming back to him. ‘Always carry your escape belt,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t despair. Never give up. Come on, boss, keep going.’

  Danny, who heard every word he said, knew just why he was saying it.

  By now they were on very high ground, being swept by sleet and driving snow, crossing dangerous patches of ice with bare rock between. The stars were bright, framed in patches between dark clouds, and at times they were just like the ice glinting under their frozen desert boots.

  Danny stopped to gaze down at the ice. When he looked up, Taff had disappeared.

  ‘Shit,’ Danny whispered, ‘I’m tired of this.’

  ‘What?’ Andrew asked, also stopping.

  ‘Taff has fallen behind again,’ Danny said.

  ‘Go get him,’ Andrew said quietly. ‘We can’t leave him out there.’

  ‘I know,’ Danny replied.

  He made his way back, easily tracing their uncovered footsteps in the thick snow, expecting to find Taff in a minute or two, but not doing so. When he finally found him, a good twenty minutes back, he was sitting against a rock face, practically covered in snow, his eyes closed, his blue lips frozen in the grimace of death.

  Danny checked carefully, ensuring that Taff was dead, and knew at once that there was no doubt about it. Brought down by hypothermia and exhaustion, Taff had finally given in.

  Danny said nothing. There was nothing to say. He waited until his friend was buried completely by the snow, then he went back to join Andrew and give him the news.

  Andrew just nodded, too cold to speak. Then they pressed ahead, into the swirling snow.

  Chapter 10

  If the road-watch teams were relying on concealment as their best ally, the mobile fighting columns led by Major Hailsham, with the expert help of Sergeants Jock McGregor and Paddy Clarke, were anything but covert. Each column consisted of about a dozen four-wheel-drive vehicles – the Land Rovers dubbed Pink Panthers, and light-strike vehicles, or LSVs – plus motorcycle outriders such as the flamboyant young trooper ‘Johnny Boy’ Willoughby, who could fire his Browning 9mm high-power handgun with one hand while driving his Honda with the other. Though the bikers were notoriously flamboyant in word and deed, they merely summed up the general nature of Hailsham’s mobile fighting columns, which were not only overt, but extremely daring and, some would say, reckless.

  The columns’ Pink Panthers had proven their worth in the first raids into the Scud box a few weeks before. The American LSVs, while they tended to break down too easily, were gradually becoming valued for their speed and ‘invisibility’ in hit-and-run raids, though certain SAS officers harboured reservations.

  ‘I felt like Buffalo Bill,’ was Jock’s assessment. ‘Just riding in there with all guns blazing. Fucking fantastic, boss!’

  ‘I know you found them exciting,’ Major Hailsham replied calmly. ‘You thought you were in a dodgem car in a funfair in Glasgow. Fast they may be, Sergeant, and wonderful to handle, but they do have a terribly small fuel tank and also tend to break down.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Marlon ‘Red’ Polanski, the US Army Master-Sergeant recently attached to the SAS from 1st Special Forces Group. ‘Those little babies are in a class of their own. We’ve only had complaints from the SAS. You guys are spoiled rotten.’

  ‘We’re British,’ Hailsham said, as if that explained everything.

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ Red responded. ‘You need more than the rest of us?’

  ‘Certain standards, dear boy. High expectations. We’re not into mass-produced toys produced to warm a child’s heart.’

  ‘Beg your pardon, boss?’ Jock said.

  ‘No offence meant, Jock. I merely mean that the LSV, so beloved of the Delta Force, does not necessarily excite the SAS, nor even meet all of its requirements.’

  They were drinking in a tent in Wadi Tubal. Not allowed alcohol in this Muslim country, they were making do with tonic water with ice and lemon. But as this t
asted like an alcoholic drink, they were all feeling high.

  ‘Goddammit,’ Red said, ‘I just don’t believe this garbage. You go into the goddam desert, you raid Iraqi mobile units like Indians attacking a wagon train – in out and like whirling dervishes, always highly successful – and you do it in our LSVs and still complain they’re no good. You must be outa your mind!’

  ‘I didn’t say they were no good,’ Hailsham replied. ‘I merely said they had faults.’

  ‘Not as good as the old Pink Panther, right?’

  ‘Exactly, my dear Master-Sergeant.’

  Polanski grinned at the grinning Jock, then looked back at Hailsham. ‘Does that mean you’re not using them again?’

  ‘No, Master-Sergeant. Surely that’s why you’re here. To bear witness to how we use your little toys and offer advice.’

  ‘I guess that’s right, Major.’

  ‘So when we next go out into the desert, we’ll be taking the LSVs and you, our good-natured American friend, will be coming with us.’

  ‘Terrific,’ Red said. ‘So, tell me, Major, how are your road watch teams doing?’

  ‘Not too good at all.’

  ‘They don’t have our LSVs.’

  ‘They don’t have any transport, Master-Sergeant, which is why they are suffering so.’ Hailsham waved his hand to take in the vast, barren plains stretching out on all sides of the tents of Wadi Tubal. ‘They are somewhere out there, beyond that far horizon, legging it, doing God knows what, either surviving or failing. We will know in due course.’

  Red shook his fine American head in confusion or disbelief. ‘Goddammit,’ he said, ‘you Brits are so goddam cool. I can’t figure you guys.’

  ‘There’s nothing to figure,’ Hailsham said. ‘We merely live by a simple rule.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Who dares wins.’

  While the road-watch teams were engaged in Scud Alley, their movements unknown, Hailsham’s mobile fighting columns, after being replenished and serviced by badged SAS soldiers and REME mechanics (or REMFs – rear-echelon motherfuckers) at the Wadi Tubal rendezvous, 87 miles inside Iraq, penetrated once more into the western wilderness.