by H. C. Tayler
Of course, like every military journey, the return took inordinately long to facilitate. 42 Commando was moved en masse to the port of Az Zubayr, where we were housed in enormous corrugated steel warehouses for over a week. The waiting was interminable, but eventually a convoy of ancient buses arrived, I found a vacant seat, and we were whisked over the border to Ali Al Saleem airbase in Kuwait and thence flown back to the UK. Of course, a direct flight would have been far too sensible, so instead the RAF made us waste a day in Cyprus. The aircraft finally landed at Brize Norton at 1 a.m. on a chilly night in mid-May, and I was delighted to find that my return had not gone unnoticed by my regiment, since a driver was waiting dutifully for me - a huge relief, since I had no desire to spend days in Plymouth with the Royal Marines when I could take centre stage in a cavalry unit where I would be the sole returnee from the Gulf.
The goodbyes took only a few minutes - the quicker the better as far as I was concerned, for I was eager to put some distance between me and the Marines without further delay. Perhaps it was just good manners on their behalf, but they seemed genuinely sorry to see me go.
“Well done, Harry,” said the CO, gripping me by the hand. “You’ve had a better campaign than the rest of the staff combined,” he added, grinning. “Now bugger off and get some rest - you’ve earned it.” On this last point I wholeheartedly agreed with him, so I wasted no more time and jumped into the waiting car. The last I saw of 42 Commando was a queue of men waiting patiently to board a line of coaches. For a moment I felt a pang of sorrow as we departed - although in retrospect it might have been wind, brought on by the awful RAF food. Good luck to you all, you bloody madmen, I thought to myself as my driver accelerated into the night.
NOTES
1. The wetlands which were home to the Marsh Arabs were drained by the construction of upstream dams by the Ba’ath regime. There were many motives for this but the primary one was probably ethnic hatred: the Marsh Arabs were largely Shia Muslims and mistrusted by Saddam’s Sunni henchmen. Their lifestyle, now a thing of the past, is vividly depicted in Gavin Maxwell’s A Reed Shaken by the Wind.
2. Humlnt: Human Intelligence.
3. Iranian (and other) agitators were reported throughout southern Iraq in the immediate aftermath of the war, though none were ever brought to book.
11
My welcome home was every bit as triumphant as I had hoped, and didn’t I just love it. I slept for most of the first day, but the evening was another matter - the boys in the mess gave me a hero’s welcome, breaking open the champagne and demanding to know every last detail of the deployment. They got what they wanted -I gave them chapter and verse, and of course the battles got larger and the gallant deeds got more outlandish with every bottle of booze. After a largely liquid dinner the CO joined the fray, probably in an attempt to prove he could still hold his drink. He got royally pissed and kept slapping me on the back, shouting “Good show, Harry, bloody good show!” I had fully intended to hit the town but after months in the wilderness the comfort of the mess seemed plenty sufficient for my first night back, so I propped up the bar and plied myself with bubbly until well past three. All in all it was quite a night.
The following morning I gave Roddy the slip and ducked out of camp to meet Charlotte. She looked an absolute picture - although given a four month period of abstinence (well, almost) I dare say I would have found a female sumo wrestler attractive. In any event she wasted no time in taking me home, practically tore the clothes off me, cooed over the scar on my leg, then pinned me to the sheets and pleasured herself atop me for a good hour or more.
“Oh Harry, darling, I’ve missed this,” she muttered, nibbling my ear as she ground away down below. “Really, it’s been too long.” I didn’t believe that for one moment - the randy little tart had probably been through half the mess in my absence. But then she had written to me several times a week, and sent endless text messages whenever possible, so maybe there was some truth to it. In any event I didn’t much mind - she was a talented lover and I spent a thoroughly enjoyable day getting shot of several months of pent up tension.
My rehabilitation into the QRH took very little time, whereupon I took my post-operational tour leave, which amounted to just over three weeks. I spent most of it swanning around the countryside visiting old pals, playing polo, gate crashing the occasional wedding, and sponging tickets to Henley and Wimbledon from the Pagets (the better-bred side of my family has always been well connected when it comes to the Season). A thoroughly enjoyable three weeks it was too, being feted as a returning hero everywhere I went. But before I knew it the holiday was over, I was back at the regimental depot, Iraq was a fading memory, and I was pushing a pen for a living once more. Summer gave way to autumn and the interminable exercises on Salisbury Plain that are the blight of any cavalryman’s life, and the only thing of note which changed is that Charlotte and I became an item. It seemed only fair to make it public after almost six months of seeing her on the sly, and anyway her sexual prowess was, if anything, growing -she certainly became a lot more adventurous (I won’t go into the details here, you’ll have to use your imagination. She certainly did).
Christmas arrived and was the usual tawdry family affair, followed by a spectacularly drunken New Year’s Eve, in which I disgraced myself by staggering out of a fancy dress party and vomiting onto the leather seats of Charlie Valdez-Welch’s open-top MG. (Serves him right too -I ask you, what kind of buffoon drives around with the roof down in January?) I finished the night back at Charlotte’s place - she wasn’t best pleased by my bedraggled appearance and refused to go near me, so I spent what little was left of the night sprawled on her sofa. My drunken slumber was interrupted by her screams of excitement at about ten o’clock - an ungodly hour when one has only been asleep since five. I fervently hoped that whatever caused the squealing didn’t involve me, but of course it did.
“Haaaarrrrryyyyy!” shouted the little minx as she scooted into the lounge, dressed only in a long T-shirt. She jumped on top of me, pounding me excitedly with her fists. I could still taste the bile in the back of my throat and was on the verge of gagging, but the news she announced washed the hangover clean out of my mind. “Guess what?!” hollered Charlotte. “I just got a text message from Roddy and . . .” she paused, grinning, while I rubbed my eyes. “You’re in the New Year’s Honours list. You’ve been awarded the Queen’s Gallantry Medal!”
I could barely believe it myself but it was true nonetheless, printed in black and white in the morning newspapers. Numerous names from 3 Commando Brigade and 42 Commando were also listed - the CO got an OBE,(1) while the CO of 40 Commando received a DSO.(2) But there were plenty of medals awarded for bravery too, including at least one Military Cross, several MiDs (3) and a fistful of Queen’s Commendations for Valuable Service. The Navy and Air Force received a fair number, as did 16 Air Assault Brigade, and the boys in 1 Div -although God alone knows what they did to deserve them. Lastly, it was heart-warming to see a few old chums in 7 Armoured Brigade receive recognition for their part in the proceedings. But each time I scanned the list, one name stood out above all others: Captain Harry Flashman QRH, awarded the Queen’s Gallantry Medal.
The reception at the Palace took place a few weeks later, and a fine affair it was too. I, of course, was in uniform while Charlotte rushed out and bought herself a new frock from Harvey Nichols (she looked quite a picture in it too). So many medals were being dished out from the Iraq campaign that the reception was somewhat overwhelmed by the military, but there was no shortage of celebrities too. Palace officials and minions rushed around, clucking advice as they vainly attempted to herd us into the right place at the right time.
Charlotte spent the day by my side giggling and gushing. “It’s just like being in Hello magazine, Harry!” she hissed in my ear as she busily pointed out one TV star after another, most of whom I wouldn’t have known from Adam. For my part, I spent a thoroughly enjoyable few hours toadying with luminaries from the armed forces -
one never knows when such groundwork will be rewarded.
I had met the Queen before of course, but I still found myself surprised by how much smaller she was in the flesh than she appeared on TV. She had evidently been well briefed and seemed quiet knowledgeable about the campaign, chattering away pleasantly as she pinned the gong on my left tit.
“They tell me you were involved in several actions,” she commented discreetly. “You must be delighted to have got home safely.”
“Ma’am, you have no idea what a relief it was,” I replied, with devastating honesty.
“Well done, Captain Flashman. Very well done indeed.” She smiled at me for a moment, then plodded on down the line to the next deserving soul to be decorated. If only you knew, I thought to myself.
A couple of days later I found myself back at the QRH Regimental Headquarters where I spent the day strutting around, terribly pleased with myself, knowing I was the object of a great deal of professional envy. The CO bumped into me in the mess during lunchtime and asked me to visit his office during the afternoon.
“I have a little something to discuss with you,” he remarked over the salad counter, and winked conspiratorially. “Drop in at three o’clock and I’ll fill in the details.”
For a moment I was all a quiver - I wondered if I was being sent away again. I consoled myself with the thought that it was still too soon after Iraq, and anyway the British forces weren’t planning any new deployments, or at least none that I knew of. It was probably some mundane task, designed to take the shine off my new gong.
I knocked on his door at the allotted hour and was summoned inside, where he waved me into one of his voluminous leather armchairs.
“Harry, first let me offer my heartfelt congrats on your recent decoration,” he started. “It really is an honour to have you serving in the Regiment right now. I’m delighted for you.”
I stammered some thanks and wondered where the conversation was leading.
“I have been chatting with the appointing people recently,” he continued. “I think you have proven your mettle often enough, young Flashman, and it’s high time we recognised the full extent of your abilities.”
So far so very good, I thought to myself. Now for the punch line.
“I’m delighted to tell you that you’ve been picked up for promotion.” With that, he reached across his desk and thrust out his hand. “Well done, Major Flashman. Or perhaps I should say, Major Flashman QCG!”
So the Iraq war had at least one happy ending: mine. Decorated, promoted, and most important of all, unharmed. I’m not saying for a moment that I deserved any of the accolades that came my way that spring. But I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. And, should UK Plc decide to go to war again, I take heart from the fact that my newly elevated rank should keep me safely behind a desk and out of trouble...
NOTES
1. OBE: Order of the British Empire.
2. DSO: Distinguished Service Order.
3. MiD: Mention in Dispatches.
Epilogue
I am not normally a spiteful woman, as those of you who know me will testify (I hope). But when I stumbled across Harry’s wartime diaries recently I couldn’t resist taking a peek. His writing is, I think, much better than his often boorish spoken manner - and he is remarkably open and honest in the written word, unusually so for someone who usually holds back so much in the vernacular.
I read much of Harry’s commentary with shock and surprise. No longer will I look upon him as the dashing hero or fearless warrior. He is obviously nothing more than a coward and a liar, a fake Fendi in a world of designer handbags, a cheap crystal in a princess’s tiara, and I despise him for it. But even this I could have forgiven, were it not for his confession that, whilst on active service in Umm Qasr, he was deliberately and consciously unfaithful to me with some enlisted hussy from Australia. Most men, it seems, were happy enough to serve their country, endure the hardships and privations of war, and return home as heroes to loved ones and families. Only one man (at least to my knowledge) found time and energy to go seeking carnal knowledge of other coalition troops - and then had the sheer affront to accept a medal for valour from the Queen in the certain knowledge that he has not a courageous bone in his body.
Therefore, dear reader, I have taken the decision to publish his diaries, albeit in an edited format which I trust makes the whole sordid tale a little easier for you to digest. Harry uses rather a lot of military acronyms in his journal, most of which I have attempted to explain in the footnotes, with a little help from my brother - I hope you found them helpful.
I trust that in doing so I have exposed Harry Flashman as the coward he really is, not to mention a cad and an unfaithful fiancée to boot. I need hardly add that the engagement is OFF - I hope never to clap eyes on the filthy animal ever again.
Yours etc.
Charlotte Woodstock
Table of Contents
HARRY FLASHMAN AND THE INVASION OF IRAQ
Preface
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Epilogue