Operation Iraq

by Leo Kessler

  Then it happened. They had just turned a bend in the pass, with the vehicle in front already round the next curve and the one behind not yet in sight, when his driver cursed – "Bloody hell!" – and hit the brakes hard. McLeod, startled, nerves jangling, caught a glimpse of a slither of rocks to their front coming down in a mini-avalanche. Next moment the armoured car shuddered to a stop and he heard the sound of boots landing on the steel deck. "Stand fast," he gasped, as almost immediately someone began trying to prise the turret hatch open. Other boots ran to the front of the stalled armoured car, while the startled driver frantically tried to start it once again, as someone was attempting to get to the muzzle of their two-pounder cannon.

  Shocked as he was, McLeod reacted correctly. "Gunner," he yelled over the intercom. "Swing the turret round. Don't let him get at the muzzle... Car Three," he called to the other car following him round the bend. "Watch yer step. Open fire at anyone on the deck of my vehicle. Fire!"

  For a few minutes, everything became a crazy chaos. Desperately their unseen assailants tried to break into the armoured car, while the driver, eyes popping with fear, cursed mightily as he attempted to start up once more, and the first burst of tracer from the follow-up car pattered along the rear of the armoured car like heavy tropical rain on a tin roof. A scream of mortal agony. A heavy thud as one of their attackers slammed to the ground. But suddenly the machine gun stuttered to a stop. McLeod cursed. He knew instinctively what had happened. The gun had jammed. Their ancient equipment, bought years before by a parsimonious British government, had failed them yet again.

  The sudden respite encouraged their unseen attackers. Now he could hear their yells and cries as they emerged again from their hiding places in the rocks and assaulted the trapped vehicle once more. This time, however, they tried a new tack. Liquid sloshed against the sides of the stalled armoured car. Suddenly the interior was filled with a cloying smell. "Jesus wept!" the gunner cried. "Petrol!"

  McLeod's heart sank. He knew instinctively what they were in for. Next moment it happened. A bottle shattered against the side of the armoured car. It would be a home-made Molotov cocktail, being used as igniter. An instant later, it burst into flames with a great whoosh. Almost at once, the steel plates of the car's interior started to glow a dull purple. The temperature soared. In a flash they were sweating like pigs, their shirts black with perspiration. "They're gonna burn us alive!" the driver shrieked.

  "Shut up!" McLeod bellowed. "Keep control of yourself, man... Gunner, fire smoke."

  "Smoke, sir?"

  "Get on with it, man, we're going out of the escape hatch. Move now!"

  The driver and the gunner moved. Both started firing the smoke dischargers fixed to both sides of the burning turret. The cartridges sailed into the air, fell once more and exploded with a slight plop, discharging a cloud of thick black smoke almost immediately.

  McLeod waited no longer. Drawing his revolver and leaving it to dangle at his waist by its cord, he dropped to the floor of the armoured car, its steel plates now very hot to the touch. He thanked God that this particular car had been modified just on the outbreak of war, when it had received a new Rolls Royce engine and transmission. At the same time, the mechanics had fitted a tank-type escape hatch on the bottom of the vehicle. Now that hatch was going to be the only means of escape from this death trap. Feverishly, feeling all thumbs, McLeod worked on the big screw which kept the hatch in place. Inside the car, the heat was tremendous now, and he could hear their assailant, coughing and spluttering in the sudden smokescreen, sloshing more petrol on the car's hull to keep the fire blazing. McLeod cursed. The plate was proving damned stubborn. Poor maintenance, he told himself angrily, praying at the same time that the smokescreen would last long enough to cover them as they emerged from the car.

  Then the last screw gave. He waited no longer. "Come on, lads!" he cried above the crackle of the flames outside. "Bale out... gildy!" They needed no urging. Panicked and streaming with sweat, they pushed by the kneeling McLeod, who felt like some ship's skipper, only ready to abandon ship himself when all his crew had already done so. One by one, they slipped through the hole, fell to the ground and wiggled their way under the burning armoured car. Now it was McLeod's turn. He was much older than his crew, and now he felt his years as he twisted and forced his body awkwardly through the escape hatch. With a gasp, he dropped to the ground, one hand seeking the dangling pistol, for already he could hear the snap and crack of small-arms fire, which might mean his escapees were running into trouble.

  He crawled forward, mind racing furiously. He guessed that his crew would have headed round the bend, where the other armoured car was positioned. It would be the obvious thing for them to do. He guessed, too, that the Iraqi assailants would be waiting for anyone else coming from underneath the burning car and heading in the same direction. What was he to do?

  He hesitated a mere second. It was too hot to stay underneath the car much longer. Already there was the stink of burning oil from the transmission. It would be only seconds before the engine went up. Now, McLeod realised, it was a matter of timing. If he could wriggle free in that same moment when the armoured car went up and the attackers would reel back, he might well just do it. He started to count off the seconds. "One... two... three..." Next moment he was pulling himself out between the rear wheels, revolver in his hand, firing as he did so.

  An Iraqi standing there, axe at the ready to slice off his head, went reeling, clutching his shattered chest. Another appeared from the smoke. McLeod fired without aiming. He went down too, blood jetting in a bright red arc from his left shoulder, weapon dropping from suddenly nerveless fingers. Then McLeod was on his feet, as the car exploded, and was pelting for the shelter of the rocks, from which the Iraqis had originally attacked. Next moment he was stumbling and slipping down the steep hillside beyond, to land in a battered, bruised fall at its base, all alone, with not an Iraqi, or anyone else for that matter, in sight.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Vulture crouched in his 'senior officer's latrine', which was guarded, when he wasn't using it, by an armed sentry. It was an old oil drum from the French plane which had brought them from Syria to this awful desert wilderness. With his pants around his skinny ankles, he held the paper in one hand, and in the other his service pistol, to fight off the rats and the desert mice which swarmed everywhere ever since they had set up the camp two days before.

  The Vulture was in a bad mood. He had dysentery again and there was still no news of von Dodenburg's missing First Company – and without their strength, he wasn't going to risk Wotan in any desert attack, armed as his men were with only their small arms. They didn't even possess mortars to give them any added firepower. In essence, Wotan was no better armed than the slovenly, bearded Iraqi Army men who were supposed to guard the SS and eventually lead them to join the rest of the Iraqi brigade besieging the Tommy base in the hills.

  The Vulture groaned as he was assailed by another spasm, his guts cramped, as if being squeezed in a steel vice. The water boy – pretty in a dirty sort of way, the Vulture couldn't help thinking, though he didn't like the silver circles in the Iraqi's cropped hair, which indicated that he suffered from ringworm as well as the usual head lice – hurried forward and offered him the cigarette he was smoking. The Vulture knew it contained some sort of drug the locals used to ease pain, but despite the boy's winning smile, he declined the offer. It wouldn't do for the CO of SS Assault Battalion Wotan to be seen smoking drugged cigarettes by his men, though most of his men, who were suffering too from what they called the 'thin shits', were probably smoking them.

  Still the dirty little Iraqi boy continued to smile winningly. He tucked his cigarette away inside his dirty robe and then opened it to reveal his penis. He rubbed it, licking his lips as he did so. "Du... willst?" he asked in his newly acquired German. "Very good."

  The Vulture pointed his pistol at him and snapped before he was overcome by yet another spasm, "Hau ab! Take off, schnell!"
>
  The little boy got the message and, still smiling in that winning manner of his, wandered off to the main tented camp, leaving the Vulture to sweat and groan, his monocle clouded with sweat. Some time later, the pain eased and the spasms ceased, though the Vulture wondered for how long. He decided, as he cleaned himself, that he'd keep close to his thunderbox; it wouldn't do for him to be caught short. So he called the young soldier who was guarding his personal latrine and ordered him to take up his post once more, commanding, "Ensure that no one enters but myself, and see that the latrine is ready for instant occupation. Is that clear, sentry?"

  "Yessir!" the sentry replied, too frightened of the Vulture to even be amused by the CO's predicament. "Zu Befehl, Obersturmbannführer." And he clicked to attention.

  For an instant the Vulture hesitated, as if he wasn't sure he should take a chance and go back to his tent; after all, it was fifty metres away from his personal thunderbox. Then he decided he'd have to take that chance if he was going to get any work done this day. Cautiously, taking very short tight steps, the ugly officer, with his gross nose and mottled face, set off back to his HQ.

  Hauptsturmführer Dietz, Wotan's adjutant, was waiting for him there, his slacks stained brown where his dysentery had caught up with him before he had time to pull his pants down. The Vulture, hard man that he was, had no sympathy for his adjutant, but Dietz was a good officer, so he said, "You too, eh?"

  "Yessir. Thin shits. Give a little cough and you've a pantsful. Scheisse, what a country! Leave it to the British and their tame Arabs, I say." He shook his big cropped head.

  "My sentiments exactly," the Vulture agreed and sat down – carefully. "Anything to report?"

  "Nothing from the Arabs in Baghdad yet, sir." Dietz's face brightened a little. "But we have got a prisoner."

  "Prisoner?"

  "Yes, some sort of ancient Tommy the buggers brought in half an hour ago. Caught him when they blew up his armoured car."

  "Does he speak German? I'll talk to him if he does."

  "You know the Tommies, sir. Arrogant swine. They don't talk any other lingo than their own. Think everyone understands English. But there's that Indian sergeant from Lieutenant Singh's lot who speaks some German and English. He could do the interpreting, if you wished, sir. Sorry, sir – " Dietz's face turned a sudden white. "Have to rush, sir... the frigging thin shits again..." Already undoing his belt and breathing very hard, Dietz rushed out of the tent, heading for the latrine, with the Vulture shouting after him, "Salute, man... salute, d'yer hear?"

  Five minutes later, escorted by a tall Indian sergeant and a couple of Wotan troopers, who looked at the captive as if he were some sort of curiosity, Squadron Leader McLeod was pushed into the Vulture's HQ tent.

  His face was swollen from the beating the Iraqis had given him on capture, and he sensed that a couple of his ribs were broken – there was sharp stabbing pain in his right side every time he moved awkwardly. But McLeod was taking everything in through his swollen eye slits all the same. He knew that he had to note everything and anything for when he escaped. For, despite his present situation and physical condition, he was determined to do so. Now that he was in the hands of the Germans – even though they belonged to Hitler's elite, the SS, with their notorious record for wholesale butchery – he knew he was relatively safe. Unlike the Iraqis, who might kill him on a whim, the Germans would honour the Geneva Convention.

  Now, for the time being, he knew he'd have to give something to the Germans to keep them interested, and at the same time retain control over his person. Once they didn't need him and gave him back to the Iraqis who had captured him, he knew that his fate might well be sealed. So, feigning that he was more seriously injured than he was, he allowed himself to be assisted into the Vulture's tent by the Indian sergeant, who, traitor and renegade though he was, obviously still respected the white officers of the army to which he had once belonged before he had thrown in his lot with the Germans.

  The Vulture sized the captive up for a few moments, peering at him through his monocle and praying that his jumpy stomach would behave itself during this interrogation. The Tommy was very old and obviously he had been beaten up pretty badly, which didn't help his looks much. Still, he had a defiant look about him and the Vulture could see from the faded ribbons on his bloodstained khaki drill tunic that he was a veteran of the old war. The Vulture decided he wouldn't waste time on preliminaries, but get down to the serious questions immediately, while the Tommy was still in shock after capture. Besides, he had to worry about his own guts and just how long they'd remain quiet before he had to run for the thunderbox for another bout of the thin shits.

  Without wasting any time, the Vulture snapped, as the Indian sergeant tensed, ready to interpret his words, "You are from the air-force base. Why are you out here?"

  Back in the 'old war' in the trenches, McLeod had been used to interrogating prisoners himself. During those terrible four years in the line, he had picked up some German. Now that knowledge was coming in useful, despite it being somewhat rusty. The time taken by the Indian to translate the SS officer's question gave him time to consider his answer. So he replied, having assessed swiftly just how much he could give away and still keep the German, with his monstrous beak of a nose, happy, "I was ordered to look for you."

  That caught the Vulture by surprise. "How did you know about us?" he rasped.

  "Intelligence." That, McLeod thought, was a blanket expression which might save more revealing explanations.

  "I see. And what did your intelligence tell you to expect?"

  "A German infantry unit come to help the Iraqi rebels. But, naturally, not an SS formation."

  The Vulture was vaguely pleased. He gave McLeod a careful smile and, in the manner of people who are self-satisfied or flattered, he revealed more than he should have done. "Yes, I'm sure you didn't expect to have SS Assault Battalion Wotan deposited on your doorstep, what."

  Even the Indian sergeant translating was a little shocked that the German had revealed the name of the formation just like that, but he translated all the same without protest. Indian that he was, he knew that white sahibs, even German ones, had strange ways of their own, not comprehensible to any normal Indian.

  "No, sir, unfortunately I didn't," McLeod replied, telling himself that officers like this SS colonel shouldn't be allowed to interrogate prisoners. He gave away more information than he received.

  But the Vulture was unaware that he had given away his unit's identity. Pleased with himself, he said, "Now, I am not going to waste any more time on you, prisoner. I'm going to ask you an important question in a simple way, and I expect a simple answer." He looked severely at the pale-faced Scot, who looked to him to be on his last legs, an ideal candidate for intimidation. "If you don't answer it satisfactorily, I must warn you that I may have to give you back to the Iraqis – and I don't think they will be as gentle with you as we Germans."

  McLeod winced and the pain was genuine this time. He knew he wouldn't be able to stand too much punishment from the rebels. So, how was he going to answer the Vulture's question and not give too much away? He tensed and waited for the Indian sergeant to interpret it.

  "It is about your base," the Vulture said. "We know about your effectives. What we don't know is the number of combat aircraft you possess."

  He stared hard at the prisoner. "Tell me that number. Hurry please." The Vulture bit his bottom lip. His stomach was beginning to gurgle once more, like a drain emptying, and he knew it wouldn't be long before he had to rush again for his thunderbox.

  McLeod hesitated while the Indian translated. What should he do? Lie or tell the truth? In the end he lied. For the time being, the lie would save him from the damned Iraqis, and by the time the Huns found out that he'd misled them, he might well be dead or safe back at base, where they couldn't touch him. "I'd say somewhere in the region of two hundred planes of all types," he answered boldly, looking the Vulture straight in the eye.

  "Two hundred
!" the Vulture echoed in astonishment. "As many as that? Great crap on the Christmas tree, I didn't think – " He never finished his sentence. He sensed the urgent need to run for his latrine. Without another word, he grabbed his service pistol and ran for it, leaving the Indian sergeant and McLeod to stare after him in bewilderment, until the latter said, "Well, Sergeant, what now?"

  The Indian, who had obviously not believed him, looked concerned. He lowered his voice and looked hard at the Iraqis who had captured McLeod and beaten him up, and who were now smoking their drugged cigarettes once more. He said, "Shhh. If I were you, I'd leave here – soon."

  McLeod was so shocked by the renegade's words that he heard himself say in bewilderment, "Thank you for the advice, Sergeant. I think... you're right."

  CHAPTER 13

  Some fifty miles away from Wotan's camp, another group of SS troopers, the ill-fated survivors of von Dodenburg's First Company, felt the same urgent need to escape. It was three days now since they had fallen in with what Lieutenant Singh called the 'hill people' of the border area, and still there was no sign that the nomadic tribesmen were going to release them or enable them to get into contact with their own people in Baghdad.

  It had been early on the evening of the first night of their march eastwards that they had stumbled into the ragged filthy nomads. They had been resting in the shelter of some desert scrub and camel thorn when the sentry had alerted them to the approach of a small band of tall, rangy men with dark flashing eyes and great beaks of noses, riding a collection of broken-down mules and flea-bitten camels. Behind them on foot came their heavily laden womenfolk, clad in black, veiled to the eyes and bearing baskets or pots on their heads.

  Von Dodenburg had thrown up his glasses immediately and had surveyed the little caravan, noting immediately that, behind the newcomers, there was another bunch, armed to the teeth and unburdened by women on foot and their scraggy dirty children.