by Andy McNab
The four squadrons have very different characters. It was once said that if you went to a nightclub, A Squadron would be the ones along the wall at the back, not saying a word, even to each other, just giving everybody the evil eye. G Squadron would be talking, but only to each other. D Squadron would be on the edge of the dance floor, looking at the women. And B Squadron-my squadron-would be the ones out there on the floor, giving it their all-and making total dickheads of themselves.
Debby came back from Germany to join me in Hereford. She had not seen much of me since I started Selection way back in January, and she wasn't too impressed that the day after she arrived I was sent back to the jungle for two months of follow-up training. When I returned it was to an empty house. She had packed her bags and gone home to Liverpool.
In December the following year I started going out with Fiona, my next-door neighbor. Our daughter Kate was born in 1987, and in October that year we got married. My wedding present from the Regiment was a two-year job overseas. I came back from that trip in 1990, but in August, just a couple of months after my return, the marriage was dissolved. In October 1990 I met Jilly. It was love at first sight-or so she told me.
3
We assembled at 0750 at the OC's table and headed off together for the briefing area. Everybody was in a jovial mood. We had a stainless steel flask each and the world's supply of chocolate. It was going to be a long day, and saving time on refreshment breaks would allow us to get on with more important matters.
I was still feeling chuffed to have been made patrol commander and to be working with Vince. Approaching his last two years of service with the Regiment, Vince was 37 and a big old boy, immensely strong. He was an expert mountaineer, diver, and skier, and he walked everywhere-even up hills-as if he had a barrel of beer under each arm. To Vince, everything was "fucking shit," and he'd say it in the strongest of Swindon accents, but he loved the Regiment and would defend it even when another squadron member was having a gripe. The only complaint in his life was that he was approaching the end of his 22 years' engagement. He had come from the Ordnance Corps and looked rough in a way that most army people would expect a member of the Regiment to look rough, with coarse, curly hair and sideboards and a big mustache. Because he'd been in the Regiment a bit longer than I had, he was going to be a very useful man to have around when it came to planning.
The briefing area, we discovered, was in another hangar. We were escorted through a door marked NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. As a regiment we were in isolation, but the briefing area was isolation within isolation. OP SEC (operational security) is crucial. Nobody in the Regiment would ever ask anybody else what he was doing. As unwritten rules go, that one is in red ink, capital letters, and underlined. Doors either side of us were labeled AIR PLANNING, D SQUADRON, INT CORPS, MAP STORE. There was nothing fancy about the signs; they were A4 sheets of paper pinned to the door.
The atmosphere in this building was markedly different. It was clinical and efficient, with the ambient hiss and mush of radio transmissions in the background. Intelligence Corps personnel, known to us as "spooks" or "green slime," moved from room to room with bundles of maps in their arms, being meticulous about closing doors behind them. Everybody spoke in low voices. It was an impressive hive of professional activity.
We knew many of the spooks by name, having worked with them in the UK.
"Morning, slime," I called out to a familiar face. "How's it going?"
I got a mouthed word and a jerk of the wrist in return.
The place had no windows and felt as though it had been derelict for a long time. There was an underlying smell of mustiness and decay. On top of that were the sort of ordinary office smells you'd get anywhere-paper, coffee, cigarettes. But this being what we called a remf (rear echelon motherfucker) establishment and early in the morning, there was also a strong smell of soap, shaving foam, toothpaste, and aftershave.
"Morning, remfs!" Vince greeted them with his Swindon accent and a broad grin. "You're fucking shit, you are."
"Fucking shit yourself," a spook replied. "Could you do our job?"
"Not really," Vince said. "But you're still a remf."
The B Squadron room was about 15 feet square. The ceiling was very high, with a slit device at the top that gave the only ventilation. Four tables had been put together in the center. Silk escape maps and compasses were laid out on top.
"Freebies, let's have them," Dinger said.
"Never mind the quality, feel the width," said Bob, one of Vince's gang.
Bob, all 5'2" of him, was of Swiss-Italian extraction and known as the Mumbling Midget. He'd been in the Royal Marines but wanted to better himself, and had quit and taken a gamble on passing Selection. Despite his size he was immensely strong, both physically and in character. He always insisted on carrying the same load as everybody else, which at times could be very funny-all you could see was a big bergen (backpack) and two little legs going at it like pistons underneath. At home, he was a big fan of old black-and-white comedies, of which he owned a vast collection. When he was out on the town, his great hobbies were dancing and chatting up women a foot taller than himself. On the day we left for the Gulf, he'd had to be rounded up from the camp club in the early hours of the morning.
We looked at the maps, which dated back to the -1950s. On one side was Baghdad and surroundings, on the other Basra.
"What do you reckon, boys?" said Chris, another from Vince's team, in his broad Geordie accent. "Baghdad or Basra?"
A spook came in. I knew Bert as part of our own intelligence organization in Hereford.
"Got any more of these?" Mark asked. "They're fucking nice."
Typical Regiment mentality: if it's shiny, I want it. You don't even know what a piece of equipment does sometimes, but if it looks good you take it. You never know when you might need it.
There were no chairs in the room, so we just sat with our backs against the wall. Chris produced his flask and offered it around. Good-looking and soft spoken Chris had been involved with the Territorial SAS as a civilian when he decided he wanted to join the Regiment proper. For Chris, if a job was worth doing it was worth doing excellently, so in typical fashion he signed up first with the Paras because he wanted a solid infantry background. He moved to Hereford from Aldershot as soon as he'd reached his intended rank of lance corporal and had passed Selection.
If Chris had a plan, he'd see it through. He was one of the most determined, purposeful men I'd ever met. As strong physically as he was mentally, he was a fanatical bodybuilder, cyclist, and skier. In the field he liked to wear an old Afrika Korps peaked cap. Off duty he was a real victim for the latest bit of biking or skiing technology, and wore all the Gucci kit. He was very quiet when he joined the Regiment, but after about three months his strength of character started to emerge. Chris was the man with the voice of reason. He'd always be the one to intervene and sort out a fight, and what he said always sounded good even when he was bullshitting.
"Let's get down to business," the OC said. "Bert's going to tell you the situation."
Bert perched on the edge of a table. He was a good spook because he was brief, and the briefer they are the easier it is to understand and remember what they're telling you.
"As you know, Saddam Hussein has finally carried out an attack on Israel by firing modified Scud missiles at Tel Aviv and Haifa. The actual damage done is very small, but thousands of residents are fleeing the cities for safer parts of the country. The country has come to a standstill. Their prime minister is not impressed.
"The rag heads, however, are well pleased. As far as they're concerned, Saddam has hit Tel Aviv, the recognized capital of Israel, and shown that the heart of the Jewish state is no longer impregnable.
"Saddam obviously wants Israel to retaliate, at whatever cost, because that will almost certainly cause a split in the anti-Iraqi Coalition, and probably even draw Iran into the war on the Iraqi side to join the fight against Israel.
"We knew this was a da
nger, and have been trying from day one to locate and destroy the Scud launchers. Stealth bombers have attacked the six bridges in central Baghdad that cross the river Tigris. These bridges connect the two halves of the city, and they also carry the landlines along which Baghdad is communicating with the rest of the country and its army in Kuwait-and with the Scud units operating against Israel.
Since Iraq's microwave transmitters are already bombed to buggery and its radio signals are being intercepted by Allied intelligence, the landlines are Saddam's last link. For the air planners, they have become a priority target.
"Unfortunately, London and Washington want the attacks to stop. They think the news footage of kids playing next to bombed-out bridges is bad PR. But gents, Saddam has got to be denied access to those cables. And if Israel and Iran are to be kept out of the war, the Scuds have to be immobilized," Bert got up from the table and went over to a large scale map of Iraq, Iran, Saudi, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, and Kuwait that was tacked to the wall. He jabbed his finger at northwest Iraq.
"Here," he said, "be Scuds."
We all knew what was coming next.
"From Baghdad there are three MSRs (main supply routes) running east to west," he went on, "mostly into Jordan. These MSRs are used for the transportation of fuel or whatever-and for moving Scuds. Now, it appears the Iraqis are firing the Scuds in two ways. From fixed-launcher sites, which are pre surveyed and from unfixed sites where they have to stop and survey before they fire. These are more tactical. We have hosed down most of the pre surveyed sites. But the mobiles."
We had even more of an idea now.
"Landlines are giving information to these mobile launchers, because all other com ms are down. And I doubt there are that many people left in the country who can repair these things. And that, basically, is the situation."
"Your task is in two parts," said the boss. "One, to locate and destroy the landlines in the area of the northern MSR. Two, to find and destroy Scud."
He repeated the tasking statement, as is standard tasking procedure. His task now became our mission.
"We're not really bothered how you do it, as long as it gets done," he went on. "Your area of operation is along about 150 miles of this MSR.
The duration of task will be fourteen days before resupply. Has anybody got any questions?"
We didn't at this stage.
"Right, Bert here will get you everything you want. I'll be coming back during the daytime anyway, but any problems, just come and get us. Andy, once you've got a plan sorted out, give me a shout and I'll have a look at it."
Rather than dive straight in, we took time out to have a breather and a brew. If you fancy a drink, you take one from the nearest available source. We emptied Mark's flask, then looked at the map.
"We'll need as much mapping as you've got," I said to Bert. "All the topographical information. And any photography, including satellite pictures."
"All I've got for you is one-in-a-half-million air navigation charts.
Otherwise, there's jack shit."
"What can you tell us about weather conditions and the going?" Chris said.
"I'm getting that squared away. I'll go and see if it's ready."
"We also need to know a lot more about the fiber optics, how they actually operate," said Legs. "And Scuds."
I liked Legs. He was still establishing himself in the Regiment, having come from Para Reg just six months before. Like all newcomers he was still a bit on the quiet side, but had become firm friends with Dinger.
He was very confident in himself and his ability as patrol signaler, and having started his army life in the engineers, he was also an excellent motor mechanic. He got his name from being a real racing snake over the ground.
Bert left the room, and discussions started up amongst the blokes. We were feeling relaxed. We appeared to have plenty of time, which is rare for the Regiment's operations, and we were in a nice, sterile environment; we weren't having to do our planning tactically, in the pouring rain in the back of beyond. There is a principle in the infantry that's referred to as "The Seven Ps": Proper Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance. We had perfect planning conditions. We'd have no excuses for Piss Poor Performance.
While we waited for Bert to come back, blokes wandered off to fill their flasks or make use of the remfs' plumbing facilities.
"I've got the mapping for you," Bert said as he came through the door a quarter of an hour later. "And I've got the information on the ground-but not a lot of it. I'll try to get more. There are some better escape maps coming through. I'll get you those before you leave."
We had already pocketed the others as souvenirs in any event.
We'd now had time to think things through a bit more, and Bert was bombarded with requests for information on enemy positions; areas of local population; the nature of the border with Syria because we were immediately thinking of an E&E plan and that frontier was the closest; what type of troops were near our area and in what concentrations, because if there were massive concentrations of troops, there was going to be a lot of movement up and down the MSR, which would make the task harder; what type of traffic moved up and down the MSR and in what volume; plus everything he could find out about how landlines worked, what they looked like, how easy they were to detect, and whether, having been found, they could be destroyed with ten pounds of plastic explosive or just a bang with a hammer.
Bert left with our new shopping list.
Looking at the map on the wall, I saw an underground oil pipe that had been abandoned. "I wonder if it's laid parallel to the MSR," I said,
"and if the cable runs through it?"
"There's a boy in the squadron who used to lay landlines for Mercury,"
Stan said. "I'll see if he knows the score."
Bert came back with piles of maps. While some of us taped the separate sheets together to make one big section, two lads went out and nicked chairs.
The atmosphere was rather more serious now. We mulled things over in general for another half an hour before we launched into planning proper. Chris studied the maps and made pertinent comments. Legs scribbled memos to himself about radio equipment. Dinger opened another packet of Benson & Hedges.
The first point we had to consider was the location we were going to. We needed to know about the ground, and areas of civilian and military population. The information available was very sketchy.
"The actual MSR isn't a meta led road but a system of tracks amalgamated together," Bert said. "At its widest point it's about one and a half miles across, at its narrowest about two thousand feet. Over 10 miles either side of the MSR there's only a 150 foot drop in the ground. It's very flat and undulating, rocky, no sand. As you start moving north towards the Euphrates, the ground obviously starts to get lower. Going south, it's flat area most of the way down to Saudi, but then you start coming into major wadi-type features, which are good for navigation and good for cover, and then it flattens out again."
The tactical air maps didn't have contours but elevation tints, rather like a school atlas. Ominously, the whole area of the MSR was one color.
"This country's fucking shit," Vince said.
We laughed, but a bit uneasily. We could see it was not going to be easy terrain to hide in.
In remote regions, everything tends to be near a road or a river. The MSR went through built-up areas of population, three or four airfields, and several pumping stations for water, which we could take for granted would be defended by troops. It was also a fair assumption that there would be pockets of local population all along the MSR, either in fixed abodes or as bedu on the move, and plantations scattered all along the area to take advantage of the availability of transportation and water.
The MSR hit the Euphrates in the northwest at the major town of Banidahir; then it ran southwest all the i way to Jordan. Traffic would be in the form of transports to and from Jordan, military transport going to airfields, and local militia in the built-up areas. They weren'
t likely to be on the alert, because they would not be expecting Allied troops in such a remote spot.
As far as they would be concerned, there was nothing of great strategic importance up there.
So, where along the MSR should we operate? Not at its widest point, that was for sure, because if we had to call up an air strike we wanted to keep the potential target area tight. What we really needed was a point where the MSR was at its narrowest, and common sense dictated that this would be at a sharp bend: no matter where you are in the world, drivers always try to cut a corner. We looked for a choke point that was as far away from habitation and military installations as possible.
This was hard to do because an air chart only shows towns and major features. However, Legs pinpointed a suitable bend at a position midway between an airfield and the town of Banidahir, and about 18 miles from both. As a bonus, the underground pipeline crossed at the same point, which might provide a useful navigation marker.
The weather, Bert informed us, would be a bit nippy but not uncomfortably cold. Like a spring day in the UK, we could expect it to be chilly at night and early morning, warming up in the afternoons.
Rainfall was very rare. This was good news, because there's nothing worse than being wet and cold, particularly if you are hungry as well.
Keep those three things under control and life becomes very easy indeed.
We knew where we were going to go. Next, we had to decide how we were going to get there.
"The options are to patrol in on foot, take vehicles, or have a heli drop-off," Vince said.
"Tabbing in is a nonstarter," Chris said. "We wouldn't be able to carry sufficient kit such a distance -and we'd have to be resupplied after a while by a heli that might just as well have dropped us off there in the first place."
We agreed that vehicles could get us away from trouble quickly and let us relocate on the MSR or get to another area altogether for re tasking Pinkies or one-tens (long-wheelbase Land-Rovers) would also give us the increased firepower of vehicle-mounted GPMGs (general purpose machine guns) and M19 40mm grenade launchers, or anything else we wanted. We could take more ammunition and explosives and equipment as well, and generally make ourselves more self-sufficient for a longer period. But vehicles had two major disadvantages.