Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq

by H. C. Tayler

  The first stop on our Camp Doha jaunt was somewhat unexpected. Instead of visiting the numerous eating venues or the shopping mall, we drew to a halt outside a row of scruffy looking temporary buildings, hidden in the shade of an enormous steel hangar. The Media Ops boys jumped out, pulled a series of large bags from the boot of the 4x4 and disappeared into the nearest hut. It transpired the buildings were home to Doha’s laundry facilities and rather than persevering with the hand washing routine that prevailed at Camp Commando, the Media team had got into the routine of getting their clothes clean courtesy of Uncle Sam. Next stop was the huge shopping mall, where hundreds of overweight, under-employed American soldiers spent most of their free time buying junk food with which to supplement their dietary intake, an amazing feat since their cookhouses already provided meal portions large enough to feed a whole family. It seemed somehow churlish not to partake so, despite feeling overfull from the steak lunch, I bought myself a grotesquely extravagant ice cream and entered the enormous department store that lay immediately beyond the food hall. Were it not for the obvious fact that all the clientele inside were in uniform, we could have been at any downtown US shopping mall. Everything from Harley Davidsons to Hershey bars was on sale inside, augmented by the usual collection of jingoistic paraphernalia that always accompanies the US forces - from T-shirts to tattoo parlours, this place had it all. I suspected that Camp Doha was largely populated by logisticians and headquarters elements who would see out their war without even entering Iraq, but that wasn’t stopping the shopping mall from doing a roaring trade in Gulf War 2 souvenirs - and the fighting wasn’t even likely to begin for several more weeks. Mercifully we stayed in the mall only a short time before retiring to a nearby Starbucks and soaking up some of the late afternoon sunshine whilst supping cappuccinos. I had to hand it to the Media Ops team, their well-worked day trips certainly made a refreshing change from the drudgery of Camp Commando. As the sun set over the desert sands we piled back into the 4x4 and bade farewell to Uncle Sam and his recreational shopping facilities. I made a mental note to remember to bring my laundry with me next time.

  That night brought an unusual hum, or rather, rumble, of activity to Camp Commando, as the lead elements of 7 Armoured Brigade rolled into town. (6) The first vehicles arrived in the middle of the night, as seems to be the norm with any British military move. During the early hours I became vaguely conscious of the ground vibrating and tracks squeaking but failed to fully wake up or realise the significance of the noise. By daybreak the relative tranquillity of the camp had been shattered by the roaring of large numbers of diesel engines as vehicle after vehicle entered the square in front of the accommodation tents. The loose gravel surface was kicked up into clouds of dust which quickly covered anything and everything not kept under cover. Row upon row of armoured vehicles took up position within the square, eventually forming a rough oblong around which were rolled coils of barbed wire sealing in the vehicles and leaving a single entrance some 50 yards from the dining tent. I watched as two signallers erected a large wooden sign featuring the familiar silhouette of a jerboa and reading “HQ 7 Armoured Brigade - The Desert Rats”. As a cavalryman I found the sight of all these newly-arrived tracked vehicles a joy to behold, even if they were largely made up of rather aged armoured personnel carriers dating from the 1970s. Accompanying the headquarters vehicles would be more cavalry officers and I had little doubt that the social life around the camp would improve dramatically as a result. I spent much of the morning watching the remaining vehicles arriving and looking forward to evenings spent drinking shots of scotch in the company of officers from the Hussars, Lancers, Dragoons and the like. As soon as they had all arrived I made a foray inside the wire and immediately bumped into a couple of chaps from the 9/12th Lancers with whom I had served in Bosnia. I dragged them off to lunch and before long our table had become a proper little cavalry club with attendees not only from my home regiment but also from Sandhurst days. Life really was looking up.

  The following morning my spirits were still running high from the combined effects of a day spent in relative civilisation and the arrival of my armoured brethren. I felt myself to be well ensconced in an undemanding and relatively sustainable job which, for the time being, involved minimal time in the Ops Room and maximum time enjoying myself on one spurious mission or another. On balance of course I would rather have been back in merry England but, on the whole, I felt a sense of quiet confidence that I could see out the war in the headquarters without too much drama. I should have known better than to drop my guard but I was utterly unprepared for the next turn of events. Post-breakfast, feeling somewhat bleary-eyed and still clutching a mug of coffee, I made my way over to the Ops Room, primarily to see whether I had any more mail packages from the UK rather than to do any planning work. My pigeonhole was empty so I mooched into the Ops Room to see whether there had been any significant developments during the previous working day. I opened my mouth to say a cheery hallo to S02 Media, who was (for reasons that elude me) manning the central G3 watchkeeping desk, when I noticed a fresh-faced young RTR captain sitting at my desk. (7) (8) He spotted me and stood up, looking somewhat abashed. At the same moment, the Chief of Staff appeared at my shoulder.

  “Ah, Harry, there you are ...” I wondered momentarily if I had been missed the previous day, then dismissed the thought. “Meet George Thomsett, your replacement.” Young George stuck out his hand which I duly shook. My mind was racing and for one hopelessly positive moment I even thought that this could be my ticket home. But the optimism within me was quickly crushed. “I’ve been looking at the orbat of our two commando units,”(9) continued the Chief of Staff. “It seems to me that 42 Commando will be working almost constantly with elements of 7 Armoured Brigade. There’s no-one with particular armoured knowledge within the commando group, and I’m bloody keen that we get them the required expertise quick sharp. You’re the obvious candidate for the post, so we’re sending you there pronto.” My head was spinning and I felt faint. Far from going home, my cosy headquarters job was evaporating before my very eyes and I was to be pushed forward into a fighting unit which would shortly be engaged in the first thrust into Iraq. This was the worst possible turn of events. I was caught completely off guard and momentarily lost for words. I began to mouth a response, but the Chief of Staff beat me to it. “You may be wondering why young George doesn’t go in your place.” Mouth dry, I could only nod in agreement, hoping in vain for some kind of reprieve. “Well, George has spent the last year in 7 Brigade’s headquarters. He knows the ropes, and we need a first-class brigade-level liaison officer. On the other hand, everyone knows your track record, Flash, and there’s no doubting our first choice to go to a commando unit. I can see that you’re raring to go - you’ve probably got your bags packed already, I should imagine!” He roared with laughter and clapped me on the back so hard that I spilled coffee onto the floorboards. I stared bleakly at George Thomsett. Under other circumstances I might have stuck my fist in his face for having the insolence to pilfer my job. But it was hardly his fault that these idiots thought I actually wanted to go to a commando group, back to the kind of lunatics with whom I had barely scraped out of Afghanistan a year earlier. No sooner had I made myself comfortable in the brigade headquarters than fate - assisted by my undeserved reputation for derring-do - had intervened. The Chief of Staff had made his mind up and there was nothing further to be said so, attempting not to show my inner despair, I simply turned on my heel and walked out.

  NOTES

  1. With the Iraqi border less than 50 miles away, Flashman was easily inside the range of Saddam’s Scud missiles and the prospect of a gas attack was very real. Most military units encamped in Kuwait experienced at least one false alarm per day during the build up to the invasion. Every man was required to keep his respirator with him 24 hours a day.

  2. The UK (and US) armed forces use a series of alphanumeric codes to denote different job functions. G4 refers to logistics.

 
; 3. Bubiyan Island is situated in the northern Gulf, just off the Kuwaiti coast. Subject to frequent flooding, it is an expanse of sand and mud which never rises more than a few feet above sea level. Being close to southern Iraq, it was used to site the British artillery positions during the initial invasion.

  4. Main Battle Tanks.

  5. Pongo: less-than-affectionate naval slang, used to describe anyone in the army.

  6. Flashman fails to note the arrival of 1 UK Division Headquarters, which took over the reins of the deployment from 3 Commando Brigade shortly before the arrival of 7 Armoured Brigade. Commanded by a 2-star general, the division’s fighting assets consisted of three formations: 3 Commando Brigade, 7 Armoured Brigade, and 16 Air Assault Brigade.

  7. G3: operations.

  8. RTR: Royal Tank Regiment.

  9. Order of Battle, i.e. the manning structure.

  4

  When S02 Media heard my sorry tale, he was hardly the sympathetic listening ear I had hoped for. He was perched on his bunk, deep in some trashy paperback, headphones in his ears, in a little world of his own when I walked back into the accommodation tent. Seeing my downcast expression he unplugged himself and enquired what was wrong.

  “I’m being moved on,” I told him. “Some tosser from 7 Armoured has got my job, I’m being sent to 42 Commando.”

  His response was typically bootneck, typically idiotic. “You lucky bugger! Good God, a couple of weeks swanning around here, then off to a commando before the fighting begins. I don’t know what you’ve done to deserve this, Flashy, but there’s plenty of blokes who’ll be gutted to know they’re staying here while you move on.”

  The silly thing was that he was absolutely right, there were dozens, probably hundreds, of chaps in the headquarters who would give their eye teeth to be joining a commando group. And despite having all these people to choose from, I was the one who had been picked, probably the only man in the brigade who would have paid good money to avoid the front line. Still, the decision was made now and there was no point letting a fellow staff officer get a glimpse of my yellow liver. I put on an air of resigned determination for his benefit and that of the other chaps in the accommodation tent whom I was certain were eavesdropping.

  “It’s not joining a commando unit that worries me old chap, it’s the thought of leaving you buggers without the benefit of my leadership and experience. War can be a terrible thing you know, and you boys back here will doubtless have a hell of a time of it . . .”

  His paperback book came flying in my direction.

  “Bloody hell, you really have a cheek sometimes,” he chortled. Then, with mock gravitas, added, “We all know it will be a struggle without you, but we’ll do our best to soldier on in the face of adversity. I should think the bigger question is whether 42 have got enough blokes to stop you getting into trouble. If the CO has got any sense, he’ll have you making tea in the ops room and not let you out of his sight for the duration.”

  I set about packing up my limited worldly belongings. It didn’t take more than a few minutes and I found myself with best part of an hour to spare before my driver was due to turn up. I whiled away most of it outside Des & Kit’s cafe, saying a fond farewell to numerous members of the brigade staff whilst ensuring that I maintained the famous Flashman stiff upper lip. I might be quaking inside but there was great PR mileage in joining a commando group, so I took the opportunity to milk it for all it was worth. Eventually the laughter and bonhomie was interrupted by a loud hooting from a nearby Land Rover horn, and I spotted my driver looking impatiently at me through the heat haze and dust. I strode over to him.

  “Are you looking for someone?” I enquired.

  “Yes Sir - you,” he replied. “Land Rover to Camp Gibraltar?”

  “Right, well I suggest you get out and give me a hand with my bags. If you’re not too busy, that is,” I added.

  He looked for a moment as if he was about to say something, thought better of it, and reluctantly climbed out from behind the steering wheel. I strode off towards the officers’ accommodation, the driver trailing in my wake. Inside the tent I passed him my grip and webbing, leaving him wrestling with both as I carried my bergen and rifle out to the vehicle.

  “Bloody hell, Sir, I’m a driver not a bag-carrier,” he grumbled as he caught me up.

  “Really? Well I’m a cavalry officer and you’ll be a bloody toilet attendant if you don’t shut up and start providing some assistance,” I retorted. “I’m only asking you to carry a couple of bags, not parachute naked into an enemy minefield. I thought you were supposed to be a commando?” Peeved, the fellow just shot me a sidelong glance and went into a sulk.

  Camp Gibraltar, the place where my arrival coach had stopped briefly a few short weeks earlier, was around an hour’s drive north of Camp Commando. The desert on either side of the highway was picture-book yellow, featureless and flat, punctuated only by the occasional camel train barely visible through the heat haze. My thoughts drifted as the Land Rover sped along the highway. It was still only February and already the air was starting to warm up viciously during the middle of the day. Carrying heavy loads, wearing body armour and NBC clothing and breathing through a respirator is difficult enough in any conditions, but the stifling heat of the Middle East meant that our troops would become physically degraded within a very short time. It didn’t take the brains of an archbishop to know that the war would have to begin before the real heat of the summer arrived - I reckoned the end of March was the latest possible kick-off date, perhaps even earlier depending on how quickly the hot weather snuck up on us.

  After a time, through the dust, I made out a criss-cross of dirt roads cutting through the desert sand, and the earthwork ramparts of a temporary military encampment in the middle of nowhere. The Land Rover slowed and then veered off to the right hand side of the road, bouncing onto a dirt track running perpendicular to the highway. The driver quickly slid shut his window and closed the air vents as dust kicked up around the vehicle. I did likewise but nevertheless the leaky nature of the Land Rover meant we were covered in a fine film of dust even before we reached the first checkpoint, just a quarter of a mile from the tar road. A bedraggled looking soldier wearing goggles and an ill-fitting helmet asked us for some ID, which we duly displayed before driving on along the dirt road. At first there seemed to be no sign of the camp but then I saw that our dirt track was running parallel to the earthwork ramparts once again. We passed a large sign announcing the presence of the Commando Logistics Regiment, then shortly afterwards another announcing the home of 59 Commando Engineer Squadron. Finally, we swung into a gateway where a young looking Marine asked us for our ID again. Inside was row upon row of tents, many of which were flying union flags with a few Welsh dragons and St Andrew’s Crosses thrown in for good measure. The headquarters was positioned at the far end of all the accommodation tents, evident primarily from the numerous vehicles parked in close proximity. This, then, was the home of 42 Commando - and a more desolate armpit of a place one couldn’t have wished for. Beyond the earth walls of the camp there was nothing but empty desert for dozens of miles. Inside the camp there was nothing but the tents, a fistful of shipping containers, and a couple of portakabin-style buildings which functioned as the ablution blocks for over 700 men. My spirits, already low, took a further battering as I realised the paucity of the living conditions compared with the Brigade Headquarters, which itself was hardly the lap of luxury. It was exactly the kind of isolated, frugal existence that the Marines would love, especially as it ensured that officers and men would share living quarters. (For reasons I have yet to fathom, this holds immense appeal to the egalitarian ranks of the Marine Corps.) Still, this wasn’t the moment for moping - there would be plenty of time for that in the weeks to come. I needed to introduce myself to the CO and his staff, and find myself a bed-space somewhere.

  My sulking driver dropped my bags outside the headquarters tent and sped off, presumably in a hurry to get away before I had the opportun
ity to task him with any more work. A stiff breeze was scudding across the camp, blowing little puffs of sand along the floor and ensuring that vehicle tracks and footprints disappeared almost as rapidly as they were made.

  On the far side of the camp a squad of Marines in PT kit ran along the perimeter wall, sand and dust billowing up in the breeze from the combined action of 20-odd pairs of training shoes. Overhead, the sun was beating down and I could make out the dull thump of distant rotor blades from a passing transport helicopter. Asides from that noise though, the camp seemed remarkably quiet. I lifted the flap of the tent and stepped inside.

  The commando headquarters tent was divided into three discreet sections. There was a large briefing area, into which I stepped, which also housed the duty signallers and the chief clerk. Beyond it lay a smaller briefing area, which housed a large map table and various workstations adorned with dust-covered laptop computers. This area was a hive of activity, with around a dozen officers and warrant officers all poring over a huge black-and-white aerial photograph of, I presumed, some not-too-distant part of Iraq. At the back of this briefing area hung a large curtain, beyond which was housed 42 Commando’s intelligence section. Nobody challenged my entrance to the ops room and all inside seemed engrossed in their various activities, so I placed my rifle in the rather homespun wooden rack provided and then stood for a few seconds and earwigged at the on-going conversation.