Soldier A: Behind Iraqi Lines

by Shaun Clarke

  Where initially their penetration had been limited to 25 miles because of fears that Israel would respond to the battering of Tel Aviv with a full-scale invasion of the same objectives as those allocated to the SAS and the USAF, the former’s successful raids against the Scud bunkers and mobile launchers had removed that threat, leaving them free to roam where they wished and pick a broader range of targets. This they could do in an area of approximately 240 square miles, including the motorway linking Baghdad with the Jordanian capital, Amman. It was a critically important military area filled with an incongruous mixture of heavily armed Iraqi soldiers on mechanized transport and impassive robed Bedouin on camels.

  In addition to their normal arsenal of devastating weapons, all of the Pink Panthers now had anti-aircraft and anti-tank missile carriers with, fore and aft, protective 360-degree-traverse Browning 0.5in-calibre machine-guns. Most of the weapons were fitted with thermal imaging sights, and the drivers, including the men on the motorcycles, wore night-vision goggles.

  The Pink Panthers looked even more exotic than before as the men had since added their personally stencilled silhouettes of ‘kills’, including Scud launchers and communications towers, to their already colourful paintwork.

  ‘I don’t envy you guys if the Iraqis catch you,’ Red Polanski informed Major Hailsham as they studied the stencilled silhouettes. ‘You’re practically begging to get the sons of bitches mad.’

  ‘No offence meant,’ Hailsham replied. ‘They’re just a few little doodles.’

  ‘Fucking A,’ Red replied. ‘A few little Van Goghs. All set to be framed and hung up in Saddam Hussein’s bedroom. You guys get caught with those things on your cars and you’ll be in bad shit. You’ll learn how controversial art can be when it has the wrong audience. We’re not talking art criticism here – we’re talking dragons and dungeons.’

  ‘My men don’t play games,’ Hailsham said.

  Racing across the vast, flat plains, their wheels churning up clouds of dust, the Pink Panthers and LSVs were accompanied by the bikers, with Johnny Boy right out in front, a shemagh veiling his face, tinted glasses protecting his eyes and an unofficial vivid-red scarf billowing out behind him. As usual, he had an M16 strapped across his back, a Browning 9mm pistol at his hip and a leather-encased Fairburn-Sykes commando knife slipped into one of his high-topped desert boots. Together with his shemagh, trailing scarf, tinted glasses and blackened face, his weapons made him look bizarrely heroic.

  ‘If that kid’s as good as he looks,’ Red said to Jock, who was expertly driving their Pink Panther, ‘he’ll be pretty impressive.’

  ‘He is,’ Jock replied. ‘What about you, Master-Sergeant?’

  ‘I’m not as young as that kid,’ Red replied, ‘but I do OK, I guess. Not bad for an old man.’ In fact, with two tours of Vietnam, a Purple Heart, a Bronze Star, and three years of covert activity with the élite Delta Force behind him, including service in Grenada and Panama, Red was a ‘soldier’s soldier’, and certainly looked the part – sixteen stone of solid muscle, still handsome for his age, and deeply tanned by the sun of many countries. ‘You ever see that movie, Apocalypse Now?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jock said, glancing distractedly at the fleet of Pink Panthers, LSVs and Honda motorbikes racing across the desert in a long line, their wheels churning up a cloud of sand about a quarter of a mile long. ‘Bloody terrific.’

  ‘You remember that scene where the officer says with real regret, “Someday this war’s gonna end”?’

  ‘Yes, boss, I do. Robert Duvall. A great actor. Him and his yellow scarf.’

  ‘Well, Sergeant, that’s what I’ve felt every day of this war. Someday – in this case, very soon – this war’s gonna end … and I’m gonna regret it. That’s a terrible truth.’

  ‘It’s the nature of the beast,’ Jock replied. ‘That’s why we’re all here.’

  As the mobile columns made their way across the desert, the men going without lunch as morning became afternoon, RAF reconnaissance GR-1A Tornadoes from the airfield at Tabuk, in the far north-west, flew constantly overhead, heading for Baghdad, where they would use radar techniques to drop 1000 lb bombs from 20,000 feet with pinpoint accuracy. Also seen frequently were heavily armed F-15s, F-16 Fighting Falcons, A-10s and A-6E Intruders on round-the-clock patrols – both north, where the Delta Force were operating, and south, where the SAS columns were heading.

  Throughout their long journey to the location chosen for their laager, or fortified position, the men in the columns came in contact with no enemy transports or tanks, though they did see more than one caravan of Bedouin, in fluttering robes and astride camels burdened with carpets and bags filled with wares. The Bedouin watched the extraordinary columns of Pink Panthers, LSVs and motorbikes with interest, but did not seem unduly surprised.

  ‘They have their own, unique lives to lead,’ Hailsham explained to his driver, Paddy, ‘and probably think we’re as insubstantial as the wind – here today, gone tomorrow. When we’re gone, the desert will still be here – and so will the Bedouin.’

  ‘I feel weird when I see them,’ Paddy replied. ‘As if I’m living a history book.’

  ‘I know what you mean, Sergeant.’ Hailsham waved his hand to take in the other Pink Panthers, LSVs and motorbikes spread out across the desert, roaring and churning up great clouds of sand as they made tracks through the flat plain. ‘Here we are in our armoured transport, with all these technological marvels, and there they are travelling by camel as if time has stood still. That’s what makes it seem strange.’

  The columns kept going, as if racing one another, not stopping for food or rest, to reach their destination before sunset. That destination was merely a convenient gathering place, a base, an Empty Quarter to be used as a jumping-off point for their many patrols outward in all directions.

  Once there, in their Empty Quarter, a small holding force made a base, then the various groups broke up and went off in different directions to form a series of OPs and laagers across a broad front, though close enough to be able to reach one another other if help was required.

  By last light, Hailsham’s group had formed themselves into a half-squadron laager – a temporary fortified position of Pink Panthers and LSVs in the shape of a wagon-wheel – and were settling down for the night, with some men taking turns to sleep and stand guard.

  By sunrise, though the main laager was still in position as a temporary, camouflaged base camp, the various Pink Panther and LSV crews were taking turns at prowling about the open expanse of flat, stony desert between Karbala, south-east of Baghdad, and Nukhaib, about sixty miles from the Saudi border.

  There was no cover in this area. It was mostly flat, sandy desert with little sun and too much wind, appreciated only by the frequently seen Bedouin. The Iraqi militia were not spotted so often, though they certainly crossed the desert roads in soft-topped trucks and tanks. For this reason, Hailsham’s men made a point of peering into culverts under main roads to check whether they concealed Scuds or other mobile units. If that happened to be the case, they took the Iraqi troops out with a withering hail of unexpected gunfire, then destroyed the Scuds or mobile big guns with plastic explosives or, failing that, with their trusty sledgehammers.

  Passing Bedouin often witnessed them doing this, but showed no sign of curiosity, let alone outrage.

  The ways in which the SAS men waged their mobile desert war were many and diverse. They blew up passing enemy trucks with their M19s, which could hurl small but potent 40mm armour-piercing grenades more than a thousand metres. They also blew up bridges and communications towers with a variety of explosives, including TNT, Semtex and C3/C4 plastic explosive. They illuminated entry points to enemy targets with large, tripod-mounted designators to enable the laser-guided GBU-15 and Paveway II bombs of the Allied aircraft to hit home with devastating accuracy.

  Often dressed as Arabs and speaking Arabic, sometimes even riding camels, they moved dangerously close to enemy bases and establishments,
even infiltrating their towns and villages, to bring back important information on armaments factories, oil refineries, communications and transportation systems, radar sites and command and control centres. This information was relayed via the SATCOM equipment on their backpacks to HQ in Riyadh, which passed it on to the AWACS aircraft on the prowl for fresh targets.

  ‘Without us,’ Paddy said, ‘those fucking pilots wouldn’t know shite from shinola. We’re their eyes and their ears.’

  ‘I’m sure they appreciate that,’ Major Hailsham replied distractedly, gazing across the vast expanse of the desert and wondering where his missing road-watch team was.

  ‘I hope so,’ Paddy said. ‘Fucking pilots!’

  Even more dangerously, the SAS patrols would drive close to enemy airstrips, camouflage the Pink Panthers, LSVs and motorbikes, go the rest of the distance by foot, locate the supply dumps, usually located near the edge of the base, and contaminate the aircraft fuel under the very noses of the Iraqi guards.

  Johnny Boy often did this by himself – in unusual ways.

  ‘I drive around the airstrip on my Honda,’ the trooper informed US Master-Sergeant Red Polanski, whom he admired and was admired by, ‘in full view of the Iraqi shitheads on guard. I’m wearing my shemagh and my face is painted brown, so when I wave like I’m just having fun, they think I’m a local nut. I do this until last light, when the lazy shits are half asleep, then I circle around to where the supply dumps are located and get off the bike. If no one’s there, I go in – just cut the barbed wire with shears – and go about doing what I have to do. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘And if someone’s there?’ Red asked, always keen to know every detail.

  ‘I have a good piss in the sand, unconcerned, just another A-rab, and when the guard turns away, which he often does in disgust, I slip up behind him with my neat commando knife, slit his brown throat and enter via the gate as if I own the joint. I then contaminate their petrol – sorry, Red, their gasoline – and walk out and dawdle back here on my Honda.’

  ‘Hold on!’ said Red, always looking for a weak spot. ‘If the fuckers find a dead guard by the tanks they’re gonna know something’s up.’

  ‘Too true,’ Johnny Boy replied, enjoying the challenge, thrilled to win. ‘And for that very reason, when I have to silence a guard …’

  ‘A typical Brit euphemism for something really nasty,’ Red interrupted. ‘I love it, kid. It’s so cool!’

  ‘When I have to silence a guard,’ Johnny Boy continued, ‘which will let them know it’s sabotage, I deliberately tape an explosive charge to the petrol tanks. When they find it, they think they’ve been smart and know what I was up to. They remove the explosive charge and never think to examine their fucking petrol. Thus, for the next month or two, they have nothing but trouble with their aircraft, tanks and troop trucks – which is more valuable to us than simply blowing up the supplies. A good job well done, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Red replied admiringly.

  Apart from their ambushes and acts of sabotage, the SAS men collected intelligence on enemy command and control centres, bunkers, and nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons, as well as troop and aircraft movements. They also snatched enemy soldiers and either interrogated them or handed them over to the green slime, the Intelligence Corps to be given a hard time.

  Sometimes, when specifically asked to find a prisoner for urgent interrogation, they would be compelled to take considerable chances. One method was to make a daring attack on a passing truck or column by racing up in their speedy light-strike vehicles, firing and throwing grenades while on the move, then hauling a surprised soldier into the LSV and roaring off in a protective cloud of sand caused by the explosions. Another was to sneak up on an enemy camp under cover of darkness and simply abduct one of the guards, silencing the other guards, if necessary, by slitting their throats.

  These approaches, however, only produced prisoners of lowly rank, most of whom could impart little information. For more valuable prisoners they had to be more daring, which sometimes involved high-risk raids into the heart of passing convoys. In such raids, SAS troopers would hurl grenades and fire their small arms as the Pink Panther carrying them raced boldly between selected Iraqi vehicles to cut out the one containing officers. While the other Pink Panthers formed a buffer between the first Land Rover and the Iraqi column, SAS troopers in an LSV, often led by Red Polanski, would speed alongside the isolated officers’ vehicle, shoot all of its occupants except one, abduct the survivor at gunpoint and then race away to safety, protected by the guns and grenades of the other Pink Panthers and LSVs. The latter would then also make their escape, using the smoke dischargers on the rear of their vehicles to create a protective screen behind them.

  ‘I’ve got to hand it to you Brits,’ Red Polanski said admiringly, ‘you sure as hell know how to shake out. I’ve never seen anything like these goddam raids – and I’ve seen a lot. That kid on the motorbike, those guys in the Pink Panthers – dammit, even myself in the LSVs – like red Indians attacking a stagecoach in a Hollywood movie. Who said the British were inhibited? Not out here, they aren’t!’

  ‘You’re too kind,’ Major Hailsham said.

  ‘Don’t tell me it was nothing.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ Major Hailsham said. ‘We’re just doing our job.’

  ‘Stop being so goddam humble. I hate Brit humility. What you guys are doing in this desert is unprecedented. You’re way out on your own, man.’

  ‘I’m sure the men would be pleased to hear that.’

  ‘So I’ll tell ’em.’

  ‘Please don’t. The SAS encourages humility as well as humour, so I don’t want you swelling their heads. Your Delta Force might need its ego stroked, but the SAS doesn’t.’

  ‘That’s a crock of shit, Major.’

  ‘It’s a fact of life, Master-Sergeant.’

  ‘Jesus, you guys are so cool you make sweat look like ice cubes.’

  ‘Rather nice in the gin and tonic.’

  ‘Which we can’t drink in this damn country. Tell me, Major, have you had any news from your missing road-watch team?’

  ‘Alas, no,’ Hailsham said.

  Increasingly, as the war continued and the Coalition forces advanced, Hailsham’s men were coming across many Iraqi wounded abandoned by their comrades in battle, plus deserters only too glad to be captured. The finding of ‘quality’ prisoners for interrogation was therefore becoming a lot easier. In fact, over the first few weeks such Iraqis became an embarrassment, even a liability, to the SAS, as they required food, first aid, a place to stay and generally looking after.

  ‘A bullet in the head and a grave in the sand,’ Paddy suggested as a practical means of solving the problem. ‘It’s what they’d do to us.’

  ‘Damn right,’ said Red.

  ‘Wrong,’ Hailsham informed him. ‘We can neither break the Geneva Convention nor give the Arabs of either side an excuse to call us imperialist barbarians. We must therefore treat all our prisoners with respect, consideration and kindness.’

  ‘British pragmatism at its best,’ Red commented with a wicked grin. ‘There’s even a sound reason for your so-called moderation. It sure as hell ain’t straight from the heart.’

  ‘Hearts are easily broken,’ Hailsham said, ‘and we can’t afford breakage. More tea, Master-Sergeant?’

  Often the individual Pink Panther and LSV teams would stay away from their temporary base, or laager, for more than a night or day, in which case they would construct their own camouflaged lying-up position, or LUP, and use it for sleep or short-term breaks. At such times Hailsham would luxuriate in the silence, in the grandeur of the desert sky, and recall earlier SAS tasks, which some, more romantically inclined, might describe as adventures.

  In particular, he recalled the Falklands war, when he had first come to know his then revered superior, Major Parkinson, now with the Queen’s Regiment, Sergeant-Major Ricketts, then a sergeant, and all the others now missing on that
road watch.

  Major Hailsham, then a captain, had been renowned for his sardonic tongue, but now, though his tongue remained acerbic, he was filled with concern.

  There had been no radio call from the road watch team. No SARBE beacon. No communication via SATCOM. Helicopters sent over the area had found no trace of them. They had literally vanished. Now, even running his own successful campaign in the desert, Major Hailsham could not help but worry. Where the hell were they?

  The night before Hailsham’s columns were due to regroup and drive back to the Wadi Tubal rendezvous for resupply and debriefing, four Iraqi artillerymen, attempting to avoid a strike by a US A-10, drove off the road and across the desert – straight into the sentry position of Hailsham’s half-squadron laager.

  Without thinking twice, the SAS troopers keeping watch in the semicircle of Pink Panthers poured Browning machine-gun fire into the oncoming vehicle, killing three of the Iraqis, one of whom virtually somersaulted out of the car and thumped onto the desert floor. The survivor, shaking visibly, climbed down with his hands raised and was instantly escorted to Major Hailsham, who spoke fluent Arabic.

  Questioning the frightened young soldier, Hailsham learnt that he was the commander of his gun battery and a mine of information about the activities of the Iraqis in the area. The value of his intelligence was greatly increased when the prisoner produced the military maps that his men had been carrying. These described, to a trained eye, the detailed deployment of all the enemy brigades in western Iraq.

  Realizing immediately that his work here was finished, Hailsham relayed the information back to the Tactical Air Coordination Centre, then ordered his men to destroy their LUPs, break up the laager, hide all evidence of their stay in this place and prepare to drive back to Wadi Tubal.