by Peter Mercer
On arriving at the terminal car park, I saw that there were all kinds of vehicles, from military tanks and armoured vehicles down to normal Ford cars. There were US troops everywhere getting ready to deploy into Iraq and in among these troops were quite a few private military contractors – or PMCs. I looked around hoping to spot some familiar faces but I couldn’t see any.
Inside the terminal was a young US army sergeant who was acting as some sort of customs officer. He checked our bags and then our paperwork again. Everything was in order and we were cleared for transport to Baghdad. The terminal was a massive hustle and bustle of activity, which could be best described as organised chaos.
Tom wished us good luck and said his goodbyes and wandered off leaving us to stew in the sweltering heat, which was now up to near 40 degrees Celsius. We all fell silent, as I guess most of us were feeling a bit tense and apprehensive. Even the young soldiers we saw were strangely quiet. I guessed that some of them were getting ready for their first tour of duty in Iraq. I felt for them – they looked so young. It reminded me of the time when I had shipped out for the First Gulf War when I was twenty years old, excited but nervous at the same time.
We waited, sweating our tits off, in the terminal for four hours, downing water like something that was going out of fashion. We’d still not acclimatised properly, as we’d been in the country for less than two days and had left England in freezing, rainy weather to come here, where it was 35–40 degrees Celsius. Eventually, at 12.30 that afternoon, we were summoned for our flight into Baghdad. We fell into line with what must have been about fifty American Marines, all armed to the teeth. Phillipe, Dwight and I donned our body armour and helmets and climbed aboard the back of a waiting truck. Some of the obviously new Marines looked as us with astonishment, not knowing who we were, but nobody asked us any questions. Various agencies working for different governments travel in and out of Iraq every day – but this was apparently new to a lot of them.
We drove across the runway to a waiting C-130 Hercules transport aircraft. It was the first time in a while that I’d been in a Herc and it was quite nostalgic. Phillipe, Dwight and I boarded last, so we were right next to the tailgate. All the US Marines had their packs between their legs, some looking more than a little nervous. I hoped that I didn’t look as apprehensive, because some of these guys really looked as if they were shitting it. I told myself that, since I had travelled in and out of quite a few war zones in my time, I knew pretty much what to expect, so I hoped that I looked a bit more confident.
The heat inside the aircraft was stifling and I couldn’t wait to get going and get airborne so we could get a bit of a through draught. I could feel the sweat running down my shirt as my body armour acted like a body warmer. We started to taxi for what seemed like an eternity, then the pilot gunned the throttles and we started to accelerate very rapidly. Because everyone who is a passenger in a Herc has to sit sideways we were all fighting to stay upright, against the g-force. They really pack those Hercs – I figured I knew how a sardine felt.
The plane climbed steeply and, even with my ear defenders on, the noise was still pretty deafening until the plane eventually flattened out at terminal altitude and the pilot throttled off and the noise decreased to a drone. Within a matter of minutes almost everyone was asleep.
As a young Royal Marine Commando I’ll never forget the feeling I had when I was on my first basic parachute course. You’re absolutely shitting yourself but for some strange reason the resonance, hum and vibration of the aircraft sends you to sleep. It’s almost hypnotic.
We were awoken by one of our neighbouring Marines nudging us as the loadmaster signalled that we were approaching Baghdad. Since there are only a few windows in a C-130 – and we weren’t sitting anywhere near those because they are at the front – no one could see anything. All we had was the smell of aviation fuel and the hypnotic hum.
We had learned, through the grapevine, that two weeks previously during an identical landing two guys were shot and killed in the back of one of these Hercs by insurgent snipers, so I was just praying that I wouldn’t get shot in the arse. What a way to go: done through the arse!
Just then the pilot banked hard to port and we all hung on for dear life. He then banked hard to starboard. All the time the aircraft was losing altitude at an alarming rate. We were almost weightless in the back. Everyone had now passed looking apprehensive and was bordering on shitting himself. The landing gear was soon down and within minutes we had made a perfect landing; we then all relaxed a little.
It turns out that the insurgents had been studying certain landmarks on the flight path into Baghdad International Airport and used them to work out when to fire at incoming Coalition aircraft. Sneaky bastards! All the pilot had been doing was trying to mess this up for them. I wished he had shared this information with us before take-off. It would have saved a few pairs of soiled underpants I’m sure.
Under hard braking and the roar of the engines’ reverse-thrusting we came to a halt. There was a whine of the turbines as the pilot shut down the engines and the tailgate came down. As it did so a glorious smell of aviation fuel filled the plane; I fucking love that smell.
We were now in Baghdad. I got off the plane and it was now that I was wondering whether I’d done the right thing, taking on this crazy job. We picked up our kit and walked down the ramp. I could see a white Toyota Hilux coming across the runway towards us. Behind me I could hear a US Marine drill sergeant bellowing at his men to fall in. It reminded me of being back in the mob. Discipline is so very necessary in the military because, when you have to move and take these young men into battle, there can be no room for error. When you say jump all they must do is ask, ‘How high?’ This isn’t always nice, but it is a necessity. The chain of command is essential. As PMCs, we didn’t always have or need this, as we knew we were mostly on our own, but for the regular armed forces it is vital.
The Hilux pulled up next to us and a small blond-haired guy jumped out. All he was dressed in were shorts and a T-shirt with a pistol on his waist. I couldn’t believe that he wore no body armour. We all thought that this was odd, being in the middle of Iraq and all. He introduced himself as Bruce and we all piled into the Hilux and off we went.
We drove for what seemed like quite a few miles before going through a few checkpoints. He explained to us that Baghdad airport was 45 square miles and was protected by fifty-thousand American troops and three-thousand PMCs. We all felt a bit more secure and could see why he carried only a pistol. He explained to us that apparently it wasn’t policy to wear body armour unless you were near the perimeter of the airport. We sped back across the runway and into a car park. The car park was packed with PMCs all waiting to pick up their new guys, clients or men coming back off leave. Meanwhile, we could see that there were Hercs landing all of the time. This place was very busy.
We then drove past one of Saddam Hussein’s impressive summer palaces, which it turns out I would later be living in, and all kinds of fantastic palatial buildings that Saddam had had built for his military hierarchy. They at least had been well treated, for there were swimming pools and quite a few Jacuzzis for their use. While the tyrant had been in power, he had taken all the farmers’ land and water supplies to use for his own private boating lakes and so, after the Second Gulf War, once Saddam had been overthrown, the farmers had taken all of this back and all of his lakes and pools were now dried up as the farmers had diverted the water and used it for their irrigation systems. Good on them, I say!
As we drove along Bruce was giving us a running commentary about what Dwight and I would be doing. It turned out that Bruce was the company doctor. He said he didn’t know what Phillipe would be doing but could only say he would be going up north and he thought that it was dodgy. In fact it was going to be very dangerous indeed. The north of Iraq was, and still is, a no-go area for most PMCs. The north is well known as an insurgent stronghold and to work up there you learned to expect the worse.
Aft
er a twenty-minute drive, past quite a few runways and impressive buildings, we pulled up outside a large tent. Bruce informed us that this was one of the many American chow tents (as they were known) and we could get something to eat here. Bruce cleared his pistol as we entered the compound (basically, he took the magazine off, cocked it and made sure that there was no round in the chamber) and then we went in. It was a big no-no to take a loaded weapon into the chow tent. Inside it was organised chaos with hungry soldiers and PMCs all getting their meals and talking all at the same time. We were all starving, though, and the scran – the food – smelled great.
We helped ourselves, and it was surprisingly good – a lot better than I remembered from my time when I was in the mob. I was looking around the tent – just being nosy, really – when I spotted a familiar face. I immediately got up and walked over to him. He was a guy called Lee I used to be in the Royal Marine Commandos with. Lee was working for a different company from mine, and told me that, apart from doing bodyguard work in Baghdad, he was also training the Iraqi police, which I thought sounded quite interesting.
Lee and I chewed the fat for a while and he gave me a number to get hold of him on. Lee was a really nice quiet guy and you would never believe that he was a bodyguard or ex-Marine, since he was a very passive and easy-going sort.
After quite a pleasant lunch, Bruce came over and told me that it was time to go. We left the chow tent and after a short drive we arrived at a compound surrounded by a tall fence with razor wire along the top and machine-gun posts every 50 metres or so.
On the gate were two guards carrying M16 assault rifles and a mounted M240 GPMG (general-purpose machine gun). They looked Nepalese and were obviously ex-Gurkhas. About 90 per cent of security companies in Iraq employed ex-Gurkhas or ex-Fijian army, and there were also quite a few Peruvians working out there. These guys are a lot cheaper to employ than Western expats and are very reliable, which helped the companies to keep their costs down (and almost certainly profits up).
We drove into the compound, which contained around fifty temporary huts, some accommodation, some stores and some offices. We pulled up and I looked around with interest, for this was going to be my base, my home, for how long I didn’t know.
We went to see the camp boss, who was an ex-colonel in the British Army, and introduced ourselves. He made us feel welcome and, after a quick chat and a cup of tea, we were assigned our billets and packed our stuff away. I had a quick look around the camp. The accommodation was sparse: just a bunk bed and a couple of steel lockers. There was also an air-conditioning unit, which was working but was noisy as hell – this wasn’t going to make for a pleasant stay, I thought – but I decided that for fourteen grand a month I could live with it. This was going to be home for the foreseeable future. I sat down on one of the bunks and contemplated what I’d got myself into.
We were told that there was no rank structure on camp but we did have a project manager who had overall command. He was South African and I would meet him in the morning; but for now I was advised to get my head down. I turned the air conditioning up and quickly fell asleep.
I woke up at 06.00, had a shower, grabbed my joining paperwork and went for a walk round. There was no one about! I wandered about in a bit of a daze, as I’d not got my bearings yet. I eventually found the project manager, who seemed to be nursing a stinking hangover. He asked me who I was and I told him I was one of the new guys; he told me, after a brief chat, I was to go and see the store man who would issue me with some kit.
I went off and eventually found the stores. The store man looked as rough as fuck. He’d apparently been on the piss with the project manager the previous night. He asked me what weapons I wanted. I chose a Glock 19 pistol and M16 M4 assault rifle. The Glock 19 is a great pistol, if a little too small for my big hands, but it was either that or a Browning high-power, and in the past I’ve had stoppages with the Browning. Besides, the Glocks were brand-new, and everyone likes shiny new kit!
Later that day I went to meet the rest of my team and check out the vehicles we would be using. I was introduced to another expat, named Mike. Mike was team leader and in overall command. The rest of the team were to be ex-Fijian army guys. The vehicles we were using were two armoured Toyota Shoguns and one armoured American SUV (sport utility vehicle). These vehicles could withstand some minor roadside bombs and most types of gunfire. The two Toyotas would travel front and rear with the SUV in the middle. The SUV would have the client (or clients) inside; the Toyotas were for protection – gun buses, basically.
Our main task would be to take the clients off the planes that landed in Baghdad International and then escort them and pass them over to their own bodyguard teams. We would then ride alongside them in the Shoguns to provide a bit of added protection. The reason our team wasn’t part of the actual bodyguard team was that Mike and I were the only PSD (personal security detachment)-trained guys; most of the Fijians were not. The PSD teams were normally ex-British Army or ex-Royal Marines Commandos.
Before I could start work in Iraq I had to get my American ID card. This could be a right pain in the arse to get sometimes. This had to be carried with you at all times to enable you to get in and around US bases. It was going to take a week to get my ID, so I spent my spare time doing dry drills with the team (practising convoy protection) around the airport, going on the range and generally getting up to speed with procedures and getting as prepared as possible. Knowing your team and practising together is very important: the better you know how each other works, the more effective you’ll be when the shit hits the fan. And in Iraq the shit would, at one stage or another, hit the fan.
The following week, my American ID arrived and the first mission I was to take part in came through. Mike called us into the office and gave us our brief. We were to pick up the client from the plane and then take him to the outskirts of the airport. At the checkpoint, Checkpoint 1, he would then be handed over to his new PSD team; our SUV would then be dropped off. He would have to get out then. This could potentially be the most dodgy part of the operation, but we had concrete hangars where this could be done in relative safety, as it would be almost impossible for an insurgent sniper to pick him off. Their two-vehicle convoy would then join with our two vehicles, we’d do a comms check and go over the routes, so that everyone was crystal clear about what was going to happen, then proceed along Route Irish (the popular name for the Baghdad Airport road).
Route Irish is probably, or at least was, the most dangerous road in the world. There were daily bombings and shootings. Numerous American soldiers have been killed, along with more than a few PMCs, along this road, but, unfortunately, it’s the only route from the Baghdad Green Zone to the airport, so you’ve got no choice. Like it or lump it, it’s part of the job.
So here we were. We’d practised our drills and honed them the best we could, but that morning I must admit I was nervous. I’d heard horror stories about the road we were about to travel along. We set off from the checkpoint with trepidation. My adrenalin was flowing and everyone was buzzing; we were all ready. I asked Mike how many contacts they’d had. He reckoned about one in every tree trips. This ratio was high. I kind of hoped that, since this was my first run out, it wouldn’t be that one out of three; but I wasn’t really bothered because if the shit hit the fan I was ready. We were all ready.
I cocked my M16 and put on the safety, then we took off at a pretty rapid rate out of the checkpoint, but, because of the heavy armour we carried, the Land Cruisers were slightly slower (the armoured SUV was quicker because it had an uprated engine). As we travelled along Route Irish we started approaching some American convoys. You had to be extremely careful approaching the American military because they have a reputation for sometimes lighting non-military vehicles up (basically, shooting the crap out of them). Approaching fast towards them was a very bad idea, and so we slowed right down. You can’t really blame them for shooting up non-military vehicles because this is what a suicide bomber would do: d
rive slowly up to the convoy and then, at the last minute, speed up and detonate their device and take out most of the convoy. As soon as we were given the signal to pass, we overtook the Hummers (Humvees) and gave them a cursory wave as we went past. So far, so good.
Coming into the Green Zone there was an increased military presence: lots of barriers, machine-gun nests, armoured vehicles and lookout posts. We then split off from the main convoy so that we could turn around. There was another team waiting to take over from us – their PSD guys. It was all in their hands now. We now just had to try to make it back to the airport in one piece.
As we turned around in this dangerous place we could hear some small-arms fire. I didn’t think it was directed as us at first, but then the first round struck our vehicle, then another. The American gunner, on the checkpoint’s machine-gun nest, then opened up and all hell broke loose. No disrespect intended, but there is nothing worse than some nineteen-year-old Marine from Alabama with a .50 calibre heavy machine gun (or .50-cal, as we tend to call them) – they can be a bit trigger-happy at the best of times, though I guess that, since they were just young frightened guys, you couldn’t really blame them. We just nailed it out of there as fast as possible and tried to get out of the line of fire, and especially get out of the kill zone that we were obviously in or, more importantly, were going into.
The comms were going mad and I was told by one of the Fijians that this was apparently pretty close to where an American officer was killed (his head blown apart by a sniper) the week before. It was a known sniper hotspot. We were in a tricky situation. Our vehicle behind was then hit. As long as it was small-arms fire we would pretty much be OK because of our armour, but if they got a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) off we’d really be in the shit. An RPG would take you out. We were now nearly in the clear but, as we were all trying to get out of the kill zone, there was a commotion on the comms again. Unbelievably, a round that had been fired by an insurgent sniper had gone between the door frame and glass, the most vulnerable point in the vehicle, and had hit the Fijian bodyguard sitting in the passenger seat of the rear vehicle. We didn’t know the extent of his injuries but we couldn’t stop to check or assess them because to stop would be suicide. We just knew we had to get out of there – and quick!