by H. C. Tayler
My heart sank. After the bloody inferno of the past 24 hours I had fully expected at least a full day to get some rest and sort out my equipment, most of which lay scattered in the dirt back on the Al Faw. Instead, here I was, about to be thrust headlong into another episode of madness. I began to yearn wistfully for a night curled up in my bed, and felt a lump forming in my throat. But of course I said nothing, and the Ops Officer continued with his briefing.
“Here’s where the problem lies,” he explained, pointing at a map pinned to the wall. “The Al Faw peninsula is away to our east, we’re here in Umm Qasr, and 40 Commando has cleared most of the route to our north towards Basra. But there remains a bloody great area of marshland and waterways to the northeast which is completely insecure. No-one else has got the manpower to clear it, which is why it’s fallen to us. With a little help from our friends in 539, of course.”(1)
I could see an immediate flaw in his plan: namely, me. “Look here,” I interjected. “I can see why you need to clear this area, but it’s a job for you boating types. What good is an armoured specialist in an area of marshes, eh?” I chortled at the obvious logic, but the Ops Officer looked unfazed.
“Two points,” he replied. “First, the Iraqis don’t just use tanks, they use all kinds of Russian armour, and a good deal of it is amphibious. Think of all those BTRs and BMPs they’ve got. Those things would be ideal in the marshes.”(2) My heart sank. “Second, and more to the point, a little bird tells me you were involved in raiding operations in the Congo a few years back, and we could use a little first hand experience, if you catch my drift.” He held up his hand to stop me objecting. “I’m afraid there’s no arguing Harry, the decision has been made.”
These “riverine” operations, as they were described, involved the clearing of huge tracts of marshland crisscrossed by dozens of canals, dykes and narrow waterways that riddled the low-lying land on the south side of the Al Faw peninsula. The whole area was a maze of tracks and waterways, punctuated with tiny settlements and solitary thatched fishing huts. Line-of-sight would inevitably be difficult from small boats because of the endless reed-beds which lined the riverbanks and obscured the view of the land beyond. It was no place to hide a large formation of troops, but determined pockets of enemy could remain hidden in there for months. (They’d probably develop trench foot, mind you.) It was also ideal landscape for mounting ambushes on easy targets - like difficult-to-miss boatloads of Royal Marines. It’s an understatement to say I wasn’t keen to join the party, but there was no moving the Ops Officer, so I kept my thoughts to myself and he pressed on with the brief.
“We’ve outflanked this whole area,” he continued, gesticulating to the map. He was right too: 40 Commando were situated to the north and east, and 42 Commando held the towns of Umm Qasr and now Umm Khayyal to the immediate west and northwest of the marshes. “But as long as it remains unsecured it represents a weakness - a potential threat - to our supply routes along the north side of Al Faw and into Umm Qasr itself. There’s no easy way to do this, so we’re going to send multiple simultaneous patrols through the waterways to flush out anything - or anyone - hiding in there.” He paused for breath while staring impassively at me, then added as an afterthought, “You’ll have air cover, of course!”
The transport for the entire company was due to depart later in the day, so I had a little time to eat fistfuls of painkillers (my leg was still throbbing like the blazes) and to wash myself liberally with bottled water. I would have given my eye teeth for a hot shower (not to mention a decent night’s sleep), but the water was at least clean and I felt a darn sight better just for clearing the mud and grime off my carcass. Feeling somewhat more human I set off to acquire a new set of equipment to replace my previous set which remained scattered over the Al Faw peninsula. Thankfully the QM had sufficient spares of everything to replace not just my bergen but also everything inside it, so within a couple of hours I was transformed from a bedraggled wretch in torn clothing to a dapper young fellow sporting entirely new equipment and smelling faintly of shampoo. Quite the dandy, all things considered. I didn’t have long to enjoy my improved wellbeing though: as I packed the contents of my Bergen a line of 4-tonne trucks drew up outside and the men of L Company began to clamber onboard.
By the time the wheels started rolling the sun was at its zenith and I was damp with sweat before we left the camp. A few miles of dust and dirt and my pristine clothing was as squalid as that of the Marines sitting alongside me. I gripped my rifle between my knees and endeavoured to maintain a look of steely focus. Inside I was mentally wondering where the trucks would stop and whether it would be possible for me to make a break for the Kuwaiti border. I didn’t have long to ponder the idea. The wagons jolted to a halt and I peered cautiously out through a gap in the canvas sides. We were at the end of a small metalled road, at the foot of which was a concrete slipway into a murky estuary. To our south lay the KAA waterway, which stretched into the distance and ultimately led out into the Gulf. To our north lay nothing but marshland - albeit with a bloody great river running through it.(3) And immediately in front of us was a gathering of small, high-speed boats: the rigid raiders so beloved of the Marines. A brace of larger landing craft stood stationary in the water some distance offshore, but it was clear from the gesticulations of the raider coxswains that we were not destined to go anywhere near them. The prospect of being shot at whilst in a small boat was evidently very appealing to the Marines of L Company, and their eight-man sections barged past me in their hurry to board the waiting craft. Hastily shouted commands mixed with the ominous rattle of belts of ammunition being loaded into the breaches of waiting machine-guns and the clack-clack of rifles being loaded and cocked.
L Company’s commander was a bear of a man who, judging by his size and predilection for crucifying himself on the unit’s only rowing machine, had probably spent more of his university days out on the river than in the bar. Despite this obvious shortcoming he was certainly popular among his boys, most of whom seemed to consider him a relatively safe pair of hands and a cool head in a crisis. His saving grace, at least as far as I was concerned, was that he was the only OC of a fighting company who had not succumbed to a Mountain Leaders’ course. Given the near-suicidal tendencies of the MLs, that fact alone was almost a cause for celebration. Nevertheless he was obviously spoiling for a fight and there was no getting away from the hard fact that we were destined for a waterborne assault against an invisible enemy, probably outgunned, and certainly very vulnerable. Just the kind of situation in which the Marines revel, and which I revile. Still, there was no use arguing, so I threw my pristine new bergen into the bottom of the raiding craft and followed the OC aboard. The engine revved for a moment then we drifted silently away from the shore into the middle of a small flotilla which floated patiently as the last boats were loaded. After a short pause the OC gave the “go” signal over the radio and a cacophony of engine noise filled the air as we sped off along the river.
The raiders formed a tight arrowhead formation in the wide expanse of the estuary, with our little vessel somewhere near the centre - not a bad place to be, I thought to myself. The craft were thrown from side to side as we negotiated the twists and turns in the river, bumping and dipping as we crossed the wakes of the leading boats at speed. To our front I could see several British helicopters patrolling the area, doubtless looking for targets for us to engage. The number of raiding craft looked fairly impressive and I had high hopes that the sheer volume of noise might frighten off any Iraqi troops. But then the river began to narrow, and small groups of raiding craft peeled away from the back of the formation to explore smaller tributaries and channels on either side of the main waterway. The main body of the flotilla slowed to a leisurely plod to allow these foolhardy explorers time to catch up. It was hugely disconcerting. Even moving slowly, the noise of our engines rang out over the flat marshlands, eliminating any possibility of surprising the enemy, and our pedestrian progress made us virtual sitting
ducks. The OC didn’t seem unduly fazed though. Instead he nonchalantly chattered into his radio, presumably keeping in touch with the recce parties exploring the side channels. It was impossible to eavesdrop on the conversation over the throbbing of the engines, so I settled back into my seat, gripped my rifle tightly, and scanned the reed-beds in the hope of spotting something that might trigger our retreat. But there was nothing to be seen, just endless reeds waving gently in the morning breeze, and certainly no sign of jundies plotting my destruction. The warmth of the sun made itself felt through my windproof clothes and, combined with the gently hypnotic slap-slap-slap of water against the hull of the boat, it conspired to make me feel distinctly drowsy. My fingers gradually loosened their grip on my rifle and my head began to nod with the rhythm of the boat as my thoughts drifted away from the job in hand. All in all, Iraq wasn’t such a terrible place to be, I thought to myself. The Al Faw had been rough but I’d survived. And here, on the water, with the sun beaming down, life was pretty civilised really. Nothing much to worry about . . . my eyelids closed and I began to doze.
My catnap was cut short by the simultaneous roaring overhead of a Lynx helicopter and a burst of static and furious chatter over the OC’s radio. Commands were hastily shouted and our coxswain glanced behind him before opening the throttles, whereupon the rigid raider leapt forward like a greyhound from a trap. Some of our number were still absent, having not yet returned from the tributaries to our rear, but whatever lay ahead, we weren’t waiting for them. I crouched down, clinging onto the side of the boat for dear life as we bounced over the wash of the other craft. I caught an occasional glimpse of the Lynx helicopter to our front - which was now accompanied by another smaller helicopter - flying low over the marshes and seemingly doing their utmost not to remain static for a moment. Everything smacked of an imminent engagement with the enemy and I felt the bile rising in my throat once more. The helicopters began firing on targets to our front - I could see spent rounds and link falling from the machine-gun in the doorway of the Lynx - and I realised that we were seconds from joining the firefight.
Right on cue, the air all around us was filled with the staccato crack of high-velocity bullets - not just the discharge from one or two riflemen, but the concerted firepower from several belt-fed weapons. Worse, the rounds were not just coming from one direction, but from two very different sources. We were caught in the crossfire between Iraqi troops in the marshes and a beach party from 539 which was blasting away with a GMPG from a bend in the river almost a kilometre away. The coxswain slewed the raider from side to side, presumably in an attempt to dodge the incoming rounds - a complete waste of time - and several bullets thudded into the fibreglass hull as he did so, smashing lumps out of the boat and sending me into a blind panic. I ducked beneath the gunwale and clung on as the boat bounced its way across to the left hand bank of the river, momentarily escaping from the line of fire. Helicopters continued to roar overhead, door-gunners blasting away at targets hidden in the reeds. With a whoosh and an almighty bang a Lynx discharged a TOW missile, before wheeling sharply south and tearing away over the horizon.(4) The coxswain was shouting into his radio and gesticulating at the rearmost boats to cross to our side of the river before they rounded the bend. One or two took heed; the rest scuttled across soon enough when the bullets started flying again. With the engine noise more subdued I overheard the OC bellowing into his radio and realised with growing dread that he was ordering his troops to assault the beach in front of us. Engines revved once more and the flotilla leapt forward, Marines blasting away with their rifles and machine-guns as we went. The machine-gunner in the bow of our boat let fly with several long bursts, showering me with hot cartridge cases, but I was too terrified to care. With every second we were getting closer to the enemy and the boat was becoming a bigger target for their rocket propelled grenades and AK47s to hit. Bullets began thumping overhead and I had an overwhelming sense of impending doom. But fate was to lend a hand. The raider zigzagged left, right, left as the coxswain attempted to dodge the incoming fire. Other coxswains were doing the same, doubtless attempting to make life difficult for anyone aiming an RPG at us. We swerved left, the boat next to us swerved right, there was an almighty bang as the two hulls collided, I failed to hang onto the gunwale and in a split second I found myself free falling into the river. We were travelling at a good 30 knots and the water hit me like a sledgehammer. I suspect I blacked out, thankfully only for a moment, for the water was chillier than I had expected and it brought me to my senses pretty sharpish. My webbing pouches rapidly filled with water, but for a few moments they retained a modest buoyancy and I was able to grab a lungful of air, glancing behind me to ensure I wasn’t about to be run over. I thanked my stars that the raiding craft had all safely passed me, and thanked them again as I realised I was only yards from the nearest reed bed. I swam to it like a man possessed - my rifle was still slung across my chest and my equipment was dragging me down with every stroke - but with a strength born from the prospect of drowning I reached the reeds in the nick of time. I sobbed for breath, clutching at the roots and mud, desperately seeking some purchase for my feet. There was none - the riverbanks were false, made up only of huge floating reed mats. After an almighty struggle I was able to force my way between the reeds, where I wedged my torso such that I no longer had to kick my legs to stay afloat. I was utterly trapped, unable to make headway into the cover afforded by the reeds, and equally unable to swim the 400 yards or so to the nearest stretch of dry land. I consoled myself with the thought that that same dry land was currently the setting for a battle between the Iraqi army and the bloodthirsty louts of L Company, which was clearly visible across the water. It was certainly no place for a panic-stricken cavalry officer. No, the only thing to do was wait and hope I wasn’t forgotten in the melee. Stray bullets whistled overhead as the helicopters made frequent passes over the troops, machine-guns blazing once more. L Company were all ashore though, and from the look of things the Iraqis were taking a proper pasting. They were clearly on the retreat, having disappeared from the beach itself and melted back into the reeds beyond. The Marines of L Company continued to blast away but I thought it was unlikely that they would pursue the jundies into the undergrowth - it was impossible to see more than a couple of yards and maintaining control would have been all but impossible. As the firing slowed I began hollering for someone to come and rescue me, but my cries weren’t heard and I was all but impossible to spot, half immersed in water and jammed between the reeds. I waved an arm and shouted myself hoarse for a couple of minutes but there was no sign that I had been either heard or seen. Every time I wriggled or waved I slid further into the muddy water, so I quickly accepted that it was futile and focused on staying motionless in the hope of not keeping at least part of my torso above the waterline. On the beach, it appeared the firefight was finally petering out, so I was optimistic that a search party would be despatched before too long.
The company commander eventually called a re-org and groups of Marines made their way out of the reeds and onto the beach. Sensibly, they chose not to congregate in one area but pushed out to the left and right, spreading themselves thinly across the length of the river front. Off to the right, out of sight of L Company, I caught sight of a group of men forming up in a small area of beach hidden behind a thicket of reeds. At first I assumed it was simply a group of Marines which had become separated whilst in the reed beds. But even from several hundred yards away there was something odd looking about them. I began screaming at the top of my voice, trying desperately to sound a warning, but like my earlier shouting it went unheard. In any event it would have been too late. I watched in horror as the Iraqis launched their counter-attack.
A roar carried across the water as an RPG was launched at the company headquarters. Kalashnikov fire was suddenly all around, dirt and water spraying up as the bullets flew into the mud amongst the Marines. The beach erupted into mayhem, with men yelling commands and blowing whistles. The Iraqi
s were counter-attacking in force, and no-one had seen them coming. The company signaller was frantically bellowing into his mic in an attempt to get the helicopters back into action. But L Company wasn’t waiting for air cover. With remarkable tenacity the boys surged into the undergrowth, firing bursts from their rifles as they went. A pocket of Iraqi infantry was rapidly located on the left flank, and it disappeared in the fireball created by a phosphorous grenade, which brought a huge cheer from the beach and simultaneously set fire to a large area of reed bed. The jundies weren’t finished though and rockets continued to whistle through the air, accompanied by the thump-thump-thump of machine-gun rounds. I watched in morbid fascination and prayed that the Marines would prevail - I didn’t much fancy the prospect of being taken prisoner by this invisible enemy, or worse, being left to freeze to death in the frigid river. The battle continued to rage for some time, but the prospect of more white phosphorous forced the Iraqis backwards and the return of the Lynx and its rotary cannon was the final nail in the coffin of their assault. Thus it was a triumphant band of Marines that traipsed out of the bushes onto the beach, smothered in mud and twigs but grinning from ear to ear and chattering with adrenaline-fuelled energy, much to the annoyance of the Sergeant Major. The company commander wasted no time in extracting his men and they boarded the waiting raiding craft in a hurry. They would have to drive past my position so I wriggled myself into a position where I could best attract their attention. Then, to my abject horror, the flotilla of boats turned sharply away and set off north, upstream. I screamed my lungs out, horrified at the prospect of being abandoned, but of course no-one heard and the boats disappeared from view in a matter of seconds. I even thought of firing my rifle to attract their attention - always assuming it would still work after the soaking it had received - but decided it might invoke the wrong kind of response. Instead I just clung to the reeds, shivering and wondering when they might return.