We needed to get the boat at Al-Dawoodi up and running, and quickly. It was an ageing patrol boat that had been part of the ICDF (Iraqi Coastal Defence Force) but had been laid up by a Task Force 58 commander some months earlier. Cheesy undertook an in-depth check for sabotaged equipment and traps before we set to work. Keith and I were down below getting the engines turned over and ready to fire up. It was a mess, a fucking oil bath of a bilge in which sat two aged diesel engines, but they were free to turn and we had fuel and battery power. There were some glitches with the control cables, which had been cut, and the steering gear was anything but ready to go. Alarm systems were all to shit and not reflecting the true state of the engine systems but who the fuck cared about that? Water strainers were found blocked and leaking but were quick fixes. Owen looked like a spare prick at a wedding, typical American. He didn’t know whether to help Keith and me in the engine bay or help Smudge and Cheesy up in the wheelhouse before getting the deck guns ready. It was a complete pot mess of a boat, but once we had ditched everything off that was of no use to us and got our shit together, we were starting to look like we knew what we were doing. It was a fucking shitshow really but a great demonstration of our abilities as a team.
We intended on getting the boat down to Um Qasr before heading out into open waters in pursuit of our target. We had a team brief once we thought we were ready to try firing her up. There were two recognised routes down to Um Qasr and we decided to turn right out of the academy and then right again, south down the Euphrates. None of us were sure if the Basra Canal was open or if it had locks; additionally, we were not sure of the boat’s draught to navigate the Euphrates or which route the cargo may have taken. We would have to decide which way around Bubiyan and Warbah islands we would navigate. The coin was flipped and we were all set to take the clockwise route. We gathered in the wheelhouse as Keith went below and fired up the diesels – a long set of coughing and choking before we had a plume of black smoke pouring out the side exhausts. Smudge climbed up on top of the wheelhouse to place a CIP (combat identification plate), taken from one of the 4x4s, on the roof just in case of any air activity, then control was passed from local to the wheelhouse and we left the wall, pouring out smoke and oil as Keith pumped out the oil and waterlogged engine bay. We were vibrating like mad and the steering was as sloppy as fuck as we bounced from bank to bank down the Qamat Ali Canal.
We took up defensive positions for river passage; going downriver on an Iraqi patrol boat was nothing short of military stupidity. The fucking boat was just a bullet magnet for any passing tribesman or, worse, a target for a more serious adversary. I was sitting with Keith between the two main diesel engines, Keith forward and me aft near the steering gear compartment hatch, behind which Cheesy was hidden. We had all doors and hatches sealed for the transit. It was like being in a steel coffin. It was about 50 degrees down that engine room with sweat dripping down your back and soaking you through within minutes. A fucking uncomfortable steel sweatbox, to say the least. It’s strange how in such uncomfortable surroundings you can actually sleep. The usual routine would be to get a bail of rags and make a makeshift bed on the plates, moulding the rags to the shape of your head to help act as ear defenders – that would have been a luxury on this trip.
Smudge was up in the wheelhouse and acting as coxswain for this trip. Throttle was at max chat as we approached the rivermouth, then eased down as he took us into the ‘navigable’ channel. There was no chatter aboard just a silent expectation as the engine continued to roar and whistle as Smudge zigzagged and altered speed to make us as unpredictable as possible to any possible incoming fire. Each time the boat manoeuvred from one side of the channel to the other, the bilge water would rush across the hull releasing that sickening oil and stagnant water smell that chokes your throat, making shit smell nice. Poor old Smudge was having a hell of a job driving the boat, trying to miss all the endless debris from air strikes and other half-sunken boats. We had no idea if the river would be clear for a passage all the way to the open sea. Bridges were our biggest fear because if they had collapsed, blocking the river, we would be completely fucked, making us an easy target, but also if they remained intact, giving opportunities to be attacked from above as we passed under them. But things eased down after a while and soon Keith, Cheesy and I were almost asleep, allowing for the noises, vibrations, smells and control system lights and alarms to seamlessly blend into whatever dream we were trying to have in order to get some rest.
We were woken by a scream of “ALARM!” from Smudge from the wheelhouse a split second before an RPG hit the bank in front of us. Heavy incoming fire through the wheelhouse windows, with Smudge now unable to safely steer, we were destined for the west bank. We hit the bank as explosions so deafening merged into a single continuous din, making everything suddenly become silent as my eardrums were plunged into a blunt buzz of tinnitus, making all other sounds obsolete. We had to get out on deck and return fire. No time to think as Keith and I tried to climb up into the wheelhouse. Smudge was trying to turn the boat and pull it off the bank, full throttle astern on the starboard engine and wheel hard over now. I could feel the boat bouncing and the screws hitting the mud as Smudge desperately tried to get us off the bank, one engine then both screaming as he pulled the throttle levers back fully whilst trying to free the arse end by taking the rudder from hard over to hard over and back.
We were in a shit mess. Owen was on deck and releasing as much suppressing fire as he could towards the entanglement of wreckage, fishing dhows and boulders from where the RPG had originated. Multiple crack crack cracks of AK 47 gunfire, ricochets everywhere and that hammer-to-metal sound as the bullets hit the hull and pierced the superstructure. Keith was up with his assault rifle and giving covering fire for Owen as they tried to repel a boarding force. Smudge was ripped to shreds with all the glass and continuous splinters being burst into the wheelhouse, one eye fucked from shards of glass that had hit him in the face. I took a brief look around to assess our situation. We had driven straight into the dhows we had been fucking chasing and were transporting our cargo. No Cheesy, just screams from below.
I returned to the engine bay and steering compartment to see if Cheesy was okay. He was trapped by a twisted girder through his leg, and badly positioned under the deck plates that had all lifted. We must have hit a mine or hit the bottom real hard, forcing up the structure. The engine bay was fully smoked out, rancid acidic fumes now filling the entire engine compartment with that hot glycol-scented mist spraying out from one of the header tank sight glasses. Everything was hot and steam was billowing from the port condenser, creating a hot fog mixing with the glycol which was possibly suppressing a fire or explosion. Cheesy’s leg was fucked, and water was coming in to the boat from the burst sea inlets and strainers and was rising fast. Fuck, fuck fuck. Cheesy was in and out of consciousness, water level rising.
Water level rising.
Leg stuck, water level rising.
His leg was completely penetrated by the support strut and welded back into the hull in a twisted mess. He kept looking at me. Now the water was up to his chest. I stumbled through into the engine bay, grabbed a toolkit and emptied it out over the steering block. I had to hack his leg off. I put a tourniquet of electrical wire and a hammer handle around his thigh and proceeded to hack through his leg, through the open wound and through his bone with a hacksaw. The entire bilge was red with blood now, and he was drowning. Screaming and then gobbling water, drowning, and bleeding out at the same time. It was fucking hopeless. I held his head up as best I could and watched his life pass from his eyes. Cheesy was gone. Hell was above and below me and I had to let him go.
Gunfire intensified on deck which was then silenced. The only sounds now were screams of pain, shouts for help in both English and Arabic. I remember hearing boots pounding the deck above – they had boarded the boat. My hearing was still fucked; everything sounded dull, as though I were underwater. Smudge was screaming, engaging in hand-to-hand
now. I was up on the wheelhouse, it was a fucking free-for-all – two guys on Smudge, rolling around in all the glass and debris, with Keith pinned down on the deck half in and half out the wheelhouse door. I emptied my Glock into the guys on top of Smudge but a grenade went off. All three bounced. I was unconscious now. I don’t remember anything from this point. It just went black. For me the struggle was over.
I awoke on the bank of the river, wet through and my head resting in Keith’s lap. He was badly messed up. I looked up, and he just looked down at me and said, “It’s all over, mate, just need a minute.” We were like two disabled and disorientated drunkards. Couldn’t stand up, I tried and there was no way, and Keith just sat bewildered and dazed. We both had suffered head injuries but Keith was way worse than me. I just needed time to get my shit back in one sock. I think we must have stayed there on the riverbank watching the debris float by for about an hour or so. I just lay there with my head in his lap as he sat and moaned and twitched around in and out of consciousness sometimes long enough to crack a joke about going twos up on my missus and the like. We were in a real fucked-up mess, but we needed to get away from the boat and this site. I managed to get up. Smudge was dead in the wheelhouse still, Owen lay dead on the bow of the boat and Cheesy was gone as well, the images of his death clinging to me like heavy fuel oil to my clothes. I was crying, the saltwater washing a clean patch on either side of my face. There was nothing to salvage here, the patrol boat was a derelict void now of both mechanical and human life. We had to thin out from this site before others arrived to investigate what had happened here; and besides, we were sending smoke signals about a mile up into the air.
I was conscious we had to move on and get out of this place but undertook a quick investigation of the settlement and the dhows into which we had stumbled. The dhows were loaded to the gunwales with explosives, but it looked like they had encountered engine trouble and eventually engine failure, forcing them to pull over to the bank and attempt to make repairs. Engine parts and tools lay strewn across the deck. Seeing an official patrol boat must have freaked them out and triggered the engagement. I gathered up some supplies, first-aid kit from one of the bergens to patch Keith up, water, assault rifle and my sniper rifle. All comms were fucked. We had to walk out of that place, and quickly.
I got Keith up and we started walking. Now, I cannot remember where exactly we were, or for how long we walked. We walked all day and all night and into the next morning, or was it through the night into the next morning, I can’t exactly remember. I was exhausted and Keith was getting desperate. We were definitely in a hostile zone and needed to stay out of sight if at all possible. We managed to find a bit of shade and shelter in a half-finished dwelling in the middle of nowhere. We had no food left and only a little water. I was looking at Keith and knew we were in trouble – he didn’t look good. Shit, we were well and truly in the shit. I caught sight of a dust plume in the distance – a vehicle was approaching us. This was our opportunity. I loaded the sniper rifle and took up position behind the wall of the dwelling. I wiped my sight and focused in on the target. It was an SUV of some description, one driver no passengers. I checked my sights, verified the distance and calmly took aim, putting the driver’s head in the crosshairs. No, I didn’t pull that trigger, I don’t know why to this day. As the vehicle came closer and closer, I just stood up and walked into its path holding up my hand in a stopping gesture.
Now, shit happens in strange ways when you really don’t expect it to happen. The guy, a local tribesman, pulled up the truck maybe 20ft from me and calmly got out of the vehicle. I tried communicating with him but neither of us spoke the same dialect, or language for that matter. He just stood and looked at me, and I at him. There was silence and a good two minutes passed as we both thought how best to come out of this situation alive. He was in a plain light-brown thobe, no headdress, short hair, greying beard and darkly tanned. He eventually beckoned me to his truck. He could see I had my hand on the trigger of my sidearm. Then Keith stood up from behind the wall. The guy was startled but didn’t react badly. There was a long pause, and again he gestured to me to get into his vehicle. I rode shotgun in that SUV for four hours with my pistol in his side before he dropped me and Keith off at an American base. I remember that ride, fucking on edge the entire way, yet happy to share a cigarette with this unknown man, our saviour, before he sped off again into the desert.
We walked, well struggled, up to the entry point of the base, already having attracted the Americans’ attention by just falling out of the SUV. They were on high alert, probably thinking we were suicide bombers or something, and a single shot was fired into the air. Orders were yelled at us from a handheld megaphone from a watchtower to halt, drop our weapons, take off our clothes and lie face down in the sand. We both lay there half fucking naked as a squad of overzealous troops came over, tie-wrapped our hands behind our backs and dragged us into a holding area. Now, for ops like we were on, personal ID and anything that could identify us must be left behind in case you ended up in the wrong hands, so it took some time before we were able to prove our ID and eventually get re-clothed and seen to medically. It wasn’t a pleasant experience sitting half naked in a stress position under the heat of the day without water for maybe two hours, but I guess they were really nervous, or had probably had a recent attack that had claimed one of their own. Keith keeled over at one point and attracted some unnecessary aggression from our guards, but he just took it as did I because there was no negotiating anything when in this situation and we both knew it.
However long it took it didn’t matter, as soon as clearance was established everything changed. We suddenly became very welcome and very well looked after. Keith was taken away to get fixed up and I became the centre of attention in the command centre. I passed all intel through the Americans to London to formalise a joint operation with central command in Iraq. Basra was entirely a British Forces operation whose mission was to secure the entire city. Until now there had been no need to keep the Americans updated with SF missions in this sector but this was now a joint mission as the oil platforms were high-value assets outside of any one coalition member’s realm. I tried to give as much detail as I could as to the location of the patrol boat and the dhows. They were super sharp and keen to retrieve the explosives and had already initiated their own operations regarding oil platform protection measures following their own intel and recent terrorist activity in the NAG. That day was quite something – from being shot at, blown up and surviving a desert hike, to later witnessing the US central command undertake a full reconnaissance mission to find the patrol boat and the dhows, utilising drones and a P-3C Orion. British ground forces were deployed to the site of our firefight to find that the dhows had been abandoned in exchange for the patrol boat which had disappeared. My team members’ bodies were recovered, but I never saw them again. They were flown home to England out of Bagdad. I never got to see them leave Iraq. Even now I’m not sure how I would have handled that.
War doesn’t stop because something has gone to shit, it keeps moving forward relentlessly and without any regard for those who fall. Strangely, for some time it didn’t feel like anyone had actually died, just felt like they had been deployed elsewhere. A coping mechanism perhaps, denial for sure, I wouldn’t accept Cheesy’s death for a long time to come and I knew it. I can remember watching all the imagery coming in as the P-3C Orion was re-tasked to find the patrol boat. The CIP was a fucking bonus in helping us identify that heap of shit out in the middle of a soup of dhows and small craft. I sat with the base commander in a blacked-out section of the command and communications bunker, a three-tiered arrangement with probably about 30 screens displaying live footage, CCTV, statistics and satellite imagery all eagerly watched and reported on by young enthusiastic American service men and women to the watch commander. All those young men and women dressed in out-of-the-packet desert gear that had probably just arrived that week and never seen the light of day. A resentment crept into my
mind as I watched them play their computer games, observing the engagement site with absolutely no respect or compassion. I wanted to tell them that this was where my friends had fought and died.
About an hour later the patrol boat was located and eyes turned to me as I confirmed its authenticity, the same patrol boat we had taken into a firefight at the engagement site and our ID plate code still in place – stupid of the terrorists not to check for an ID tag. Then all the information was relayed to an AC-130 gunship from the 4th Special Operations Squadron which targeted the boat some 298 miles south east of Bagdad, off the Al-Faw Peninsula. It was quite something to watch that gunship take out the patrol boat, almost like watching a video game, so I could forgive those young soldiers, and once it was gone there was a round of applause as if it were a gameshow, then a brief moment of relief before everyone was back into fighting the war, albeit an electronic war. Their war didn’t include close-quarter engagements, no actual loss of life, no screams, no emotions, no fear or adrenalin, just images of people who could be anyone anywhere, images that were not husbands, fathers, sons or relatives, just images on a screen, sometimes in black and white, sometimes in colour and sometimes marked for elimination.
The Steering Group Page 47