Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq Read online

  “Another moment of embarrassment for the Joint NBC Regiment,” explained the watchkeeper to the room as a whole. “I don’t know why they persist with that wretched piece of kit - it catches a cold every time one of our Land Rovers backfires.”

  The piece of kit in question - name unknown, it seemed, by anyone in the Brigade - looked for all the world like a huge, metallic ice cream cone. It was apparently a device for sniffing the air for any nasties, and was mounted on top of a specially modified 4-tonne truck, the body of which consisted of a sealed unit containing chemical analysis equipment and populated by a team from the Joint Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Warfare Regiment. Unhappily for those of us sharing a camp with them, there were various technical flaws with the kit and our days were punctuated with the frequent wailing of false alarms.

  Respirator safely tucked away in its pouch, I introduced myself to the Chief of Staff, who was sitting in a corner, pouring over a 1:50,000 scale map of Bubiyan Island. (3)

  “Flashman! I’ve heard your name bandied around -I gather you served with the Brigade in Afghanistan. Good to have you onboard again.” He gestured towards my desk. “Well, you have a home here already, as I’m sure you’ve seen. You’ll be bloody useful to us - bootnecks aren’t used to working with armour, so we’ll be seeking your advice over the coming weeks and even more so when things get started. We’re still not sure how this thing will pan out. If we get the green light over the next couple of weeks, we’ll have to make do with what armour is already here, which ain’t much. On the other hand, if these political delays drag on much longer, 7 Armoured Brigade will be here in force, so we’ll have MBTs coming out of our ears.” (4)

  It was music to my ears. A cosy desk miles behind the front line, a brigade staff hanging on my every word, and still the glimmer of hope that the situation could be resolved diplomatically. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t about to turn into some kind of peacenik campaigner. In fact I’m all in favour of giving Johnny Foreigner a good hiding every once in a while - just as long as I don’t have to put my neck on the line to do it.

  I bade the Chief of Staff a temporary farewell and he pointed me in the direction of the clerks’ desk where I reported to a burly sergeant manning their workstation. After being issued a pass to enable me to get in and out of the headquarters without endless questions I was met by the stores sergeant and taken to a cluster of steel shipping containers a short distance from the headquarters. The following hour was spent drawing rifle ammunition, although I couldn’t see what possible use it could be to me, additional canisters for my respirator, which I certainly hoped wouldn’t be of any use, and a host of desert-camouflage bits and pieces including a new, vacuum-wrapped NBC suit, a shemagh (scarf) and a windproof smock. No longer a patchwork quilt of dark green and light brown, I now looked and felt every bit the desert soldier - and a valued member of the brigade staff. It shouldn’t be too difficult for me to keep my nose clean for a couple of months, get a decent report from the Chief of Staff, and run back to Wiltshire full of second-hand anecdotes to share with the boys in the mess. Life was looking up - or so it seemed at the time.

  As I strode back to the accommodation tent, arms laden with sandy-brown camouflage clothing, I witnessed a bout of all-too-frequent Royal Marine madness, in the form of at least 40 members of the headquarters staff - mainly officers, but accompanied by a fair assortment of NCOs - doubling past in PT kit. Early in the year it may have been but the midday sun was still plenty hot and there was, at least as far as I was concerned, absolutely no need to go punishing oneself further than was necessary. Perspiration was already trickling down my back just from walking around the camp and the thought of voluntarily donning training shoes and dashing about the place was quite abhorrent. As I watched, the attendant PTI barked an order and in one movement every man among them dropped onto the gravel surface of the square and began pushing out press-ups at an alarming rate of knots. A second order was bellowed out a short time later and in one fluid movement the group flipped onto its back and began doing sit-ups quickly enough to make me feel physically sick. I naively assumed that this was a test of some kind, so I slithered away, conscious that if I lingered any longer I might suffer the ignominy of being invited to join in. Over the ensuing days I discovered that it was simply part of the daily routine, open to anyone daft enough to join in. I gave it a stiff ignoring during my time in the brigade and I’m none the worse for it. In fact I suspect my knee joints are considerably better off as a result.

  There are some bits and pieces that every staff officer should have and one of them is a decent map of the area of operations. There will always be an enormous map pinned up somewhere in the ops room, but one is never enough - it pays to have your own version ostentatiously pinned up behind your own desk. Once an operation heats up the headquarters becomes a veritable hive of activity and the staff are expected to have the answers to a thousand questions at their fingertips. The trick is to anticipate as many questions as possible and a good map is key to getting the answers right - plus it makes you appear far more crucial to the proceedings than your peers. The last element of the winning formula is to ensure that you are off watch when the real fighting begins, so that some other bugger can deal with the pressure of the Brigade Commander bearing down upon them. Shortly after lunch I made my way to the Intelligence Cell to requisition a map and, after forcing my way past the corporal manning the door, I was met by a somewhat flustered looking young chap, 20 years of age at the outside, clutching a heap of transparent map traces. “Can I help you?” he enquired.

  I drew myself up to my full height, looked down my nose at him, and announced that I needed a map of the brigade’s area of operations.

  “Yeah, and so does everybody else,” he replied curtly. “We haven’t got any spare.”

  “Then perhaps you’d like to explain that to the Brigade Commander,” I suggested, “I’m giving him an update on armoured dispositions later today. You could join us if you wish, and you can tell him yourself why there isn’t a map for a mission-critical briefing.”

  It was complete bluster of course, but it had the desired effect. He visibly crumpled in front of me, mumbled an apology of sorts and led the way back into the Intelligence Cell with me hot on his heels. The place was a treasure-trove of maps and overlays of all kinds, depicting areas of land stretching from Saudi Arabia through Kuwait and Iraq and northwards into Iran. It took him a few moments to locate the relevant sheet, a 1:50,000 scale map that covered the Al Faw Peninsular and which stretched west as far as Umm Qasr and north beyond Basra. He rolled it up and thrust it into my hands, clearly eager to be shot of me and get on with his work.

  “I’d like a trace to sit on top of it too,” I added.

  Fortunately there was no shortage of sheets of transparent plastic, so my assistant rolled one up for me and ushered me towards the door.

  “There now, that wasn’t so bad after all, now was it?” I commented sarcastically. “You should work on your customer service though. Try smiling a bit more often.” I turned on my heel and left, leaving him wrestling with his map traces and muttering to himself.

  I had plenty of time to kill, which I used to familiarise myself with the layout of my new home. One never knew when things might take a turn for the worse so I made a mental note of the locations of all the nearby Scud shelters, which were dotted around both the British and American sides of the camp. A well-worn footpath followed the perimeter wire of the US base so I set off on a circuit of it, which took me the best part of an hour, such was the scale of the place. Upon arrival we had been informed that the place was called Camp Commando, an absurd moniker that I assumed the misled US Marines had given it in honour of their British colleagues. However, it transpired that the nucleus of the camp - the towering assault course -belonged to the Kuwaiti commandos, and it was from this facility that the place had gained its name, long before the Americans or the British had arrived. As I approached the assault course, I saw that it was being
used. Around a dozen terrified-looking individuals were huddled together atop a 60-foot tower which marked the dispatch point of the aptly-named death slide. I joined the dozens of open-mouthed yanks who had also stopped what they were doing in order to observe the spectacle. As we watched, a body exited the tower and shot down the rope slide, finishing around 50 yards from the base of the tower. Unlike any British equivalent I had ever seen, the Kuwaiti death slide did not descend all the way to the ground, so this heroic individual was left dangling in space. Another, smaller, rope dropped from his body and he quickly abseiled the last 20 feet down onto the gravel surface below him. I presume he was an instructor, since he immediately turned towards the tower and began shouting exhortations to his colleagues to follow his lead. To a man they seemed reluctant to come down the rope. Eventually one was dispatched, presumably against his will, since he screamed in terror the whole way down. Another man followed and he too bellowed with fear as he came down. To this day I have no idea what the supposed military value of this training facility might be, other, perhaps, than to provide entertainment to the watching Brits and Americans. The first display had been somewhat comical but the ones that followed were all too much for me. I began to chortle, quietly at first but then louder and louder as the yanks either side of me also began to see the humour in it. The Kuwaitis stared at us, apparently horrified that we should be laughing at their bravery, but this just made it all the worse. In the end, ruddy-cheeked from laughing so hard, I forced myself to continue walking around the camp, the shrieks of terror still ringing out behind me as I left. I made a point of sharing the story with the headquarters staff and over the ensuing days a visit to watch the Kuwaiti commandos in action quickly became a common method of raising one’s morale.

  Back outside the accommodation, a new feature adorned the square, in the form of an old-fashioned olive-green canvas tent. Throngs of personnel were clustered in front of it and there was an unexpected air of bonhomie about the place. A neat, hand-written sign announcing “Des & Kit’s Cafe” dangled from the apex of the tent poles, occasionally obscured by a waft of steam emerging from within. Inside were two of the oldest chefs ever to don Her Majesty’s uniform, providing an endless stream of tea and coffee to the attendant masses. God alone knew how many campaigns this pair had served in, but they certainly knew how to add value to a headquarters. Here, at last, was a legitimised venue for exchanging gossip and avoiding work - no wonder it was proving so popular with the boys. After all the puffed-up self-importance of the crowd in the Ops Room it was gratifying to see the effect on morale of such a simple facility. And it came as no surprise whatsoever that my media and artillery chums were already in the thick of the crowd, supping tea from polystyrene cups. I jostled my way through the throng to join them.

  “This is a bit of a result,” commented the artilleryman, nodding in the direction of the tea tent. “It’s as close to civilisation as we’re going to get for a few weeks,” he added, “so we might as well make the most of it, eh? Much better than hanging around the Ops Room trying to look busy.” I had little difficulty agreeing with that sentiment, and pushed on past to get myself a cup of tea, only to find my way barred by one of the chefs brandishing a ladle.

  “Sorry Sir, no pongos,” he announced gravely. “3 Commando Brigade ranks only.” To illustrate the point, he waved his ladle at the sign above his head where I could see small print reading “No PT kit, No Pongos”. (5)

  “An army officer I may be,” I replied, equally gravely. “But I am part of the Brigade, attached to the headquarters to advise on all things armoured.”

  He stepped smartly to one side and waved me into the tent. “In that case, Sir, be my guest. Help yourself to whatever you want.”

  I rejoined the boys outside, clutching a cup of tea, and we spent a slack hour putting the world to rights as the sun went down. The tea tent was closed at sundown and we dawdled over to the dining tent to while away more time over a rather paltry supper.

  During the ensuing days it became rapidly apparent to all of us that Camp Commando was home to an awful lot of people with not a great deal to do. The planning staff were one of the small groups working at a frenetic pace, although I couldn’t fathom our why they bothered because the assets available to them, not to mention the intelligence picture, changed almost daily. Also working flat-out were the Intelligence Cell and the NBC boys, although in the latter case I rather suspected that this was to avoid future embarrassment rather than in the interests of furthering the war effort. Whatever their activities, the false alarms continued to sound on a frequent basis, sometimes several times in a single day, which was tedious to say the least. The political process was still dragging on, with British Foreign Secretary Jack Straw having public debates with his French counterpart Dominique de Villepain, in which neither side made any headway and the prospect of a much-discussed further UN resolution never got any nearer. Blair and Bush continued their posturing, Kofi Anan added his comments on a daily basis, Hans Blix and his team of weapons inspectors were used as a political pinball by both sides - and all the while, we were left to sweat it out in Kuwait. I stayed a mile away from the feverish planning taking place in the Ops Room and counted my blessings that as an attached rank, no-one really seemed to notice or mind my absence. Instead I made a point of ingratiating myself with the Media Ops boys, who had their own miniature operations tent, access to the Internet via some highly-technical satellite dish and, best of all, a fleet of hired civilian 4x4s. I worked a fairly simple routine, in that I was by now receiving a steady supply of single malt whisky, posted in old lemonade bottles from Valdez-Welch and the boys back home, and unknowingly delivered to Kuwait by the good old BFPO. The supply of grog was well appreciated by the Media Ops team so it came as no surprise that, after a couple of weeks, I was invited to join them on a visit to Kuwait City. I visited the armoury to exchange my rifle for a pistol, stuffed a scruffy set of civilian clothes into a small grip, and four of us exited the camp in air-conditioned luxury, no questions asked. Cut from the same cloth as the S02 and unashamed military tourists, most of the team were veterans of several recent campaigns -indeed, I knew a couple of them from Afghanistan days. A well-drilled unit, they changed into civilian clothes whilst on the move, stopping only momentarily to allow a new man to take the wheel so that the driver could also get changed. By the time we rolled into Kuwait City we looked for all the world like four nondescript tourists - which to all intents and purposes, we were.

  My Media Ops comrades had a vague schedule of events worked out but I insisted that before we went anywhere, we should treat ourselves to a slap-up lunch. The camp food was poor quality, repetitive and dull and the opportunity to fill my belly with decent fodder was too good to pass up. We ducked into the Hilton hotel, ordered the biggest steaks in the house, then settled down to enjoy not just the food but also the novelty of clean cutlery, starched napkins, marble floors, the surrounding greenery, and the omnipresent air-conditioning’ Unhappily, Kuwait’s hospitality doesn’t stretch to a decent bottle of wine, so we had to settle for coke, with a crafty shot of Scotch thrown in for good measure by yours truly. I’m sure the serving staff must have suspected us for we were all half-cut by the time we left. The awful thought of being arrested and publicly flogged as a drunken infidel briefly flashed through my mind, followed by the thought that even without the flogging, being arrested would in itself result in a court martial and return to UK in disgrace. Fortunately the waiter had the good sense to turn a Nelsonic eye to our increasingly liquid state and held his tongue. We tipped him handsomely in return.

  Bellies full, we set off on a shopping spree of epic proportions. Like most Arab capitals, the residents of Kuwait City are fairly dripping with money and there is no shortage of outlets for them to spend it. We ventured into an enormous air-conditioned shopping mall. The boys scattered into the nearest shops, emerging sometime later with a collection of goodies including new clothes, CDs, personal stereos, and an assortment of cigars
and cigarettes which, asides from their obvious value as smokes, would be useful for bartering back at the camp. On the assumption that we were going to war and I might want to preserve some of the memories for posterity, I splashed out on an unfeasibly tiny digital camera, easily small enough to slip into my hip pocket in the event of anything worth recording taking place in the Brigade headquarters. Then it was back to the car and, I wrongly assumed, back to camp. My hosts, however, had other ideas, and we set off south on the highway out of Kuwait City, completely the wrong direction for a return to the Headquarters, changing back into military attire en route.

  Our destination, which was only a short drive down the road, was Camp Doha, an enormous, permanent US base, constructed shortly after the first Gulf War, and home to literally thousands of troops. Situated under the smoking chimneys of Kuwait’s biggest power station, it sprawls across miles of desert with lines of steel buildings, concrete missile bunkers, temporary accommodation blocks and countless vehicles of all kinds stretching as far as the eye can see. At first glance the security appears to be tight but, like most American establishments, you can bamboozle the guards with any old ID card and they wave you straight inside. This was clearly not the first visit for the Media Ops team for we didn’t stop once to ask directions, zooming through the maze of roads inside the camp at speeds far in excess of the widely-advertised 10 mph speed limit. On either side of us, parked in precise straight lines, were literally hundreds of trucks, 4x4s, armoured personnel carriers and main battle tanks of all kinds. The firepower residing inside Camp Doha was probably greater than that of the entire British Army - and the helipad was equally imposing, housing several squadrons of Blackhawk and Apache helicopters. The most impressive part was that none of this equipment had been specially shipped to Kuwait for the imminent conflict - it was all permanently stationed there.