Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq

HARRY FLASHMAN AND THE INVASION OF IRAQ
H. C. Tayler

A Novel Based Largely on Real Events

Dedicated to the memory of those servicemen who deployed to Iraq and did not come home.

© H. C. Tayler, 2011 First published in Great Britain, 2011

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-7223-4040-0

Preface

I came to, dazed and covered with earth and mud, spitting blood and with a penetrating ringing in my ears. The trench in which I had been cowering had all but vanished. I had been blown flat on my back, partly buried in debris, and the deafening roar of battle was all around. Another huge explosion ripped into the wall of the trench a few yards away, once more showering me with earth and stones. Machine-gun bullets zipped through the air, sometimes a few yards away, sometimes directly above my position. I could also make out the whistle of mortar bombs overhead, though it was impossible to tell if they were ours or theirs. I was utterly convinced I was about to die and, as might be expected, was terrified out of my wits.

Fear - or rather panic, for that was what it had become - is a great driver to action, and this was no exception. Dying pointlessly in some foreign field is bad enough, but I was damned if I was going to die alone. Hesitation (or cowardice) had kept me in the trench when my Royal Marines colleagues advanced. Probably many of them had paid the price for moving into the open - but I was sure some of them would have escaped the onslaught of shelling, and they were getting further and further away by the minute. I was dazed, bleeding and half deaf - but I wasn’t staying in that hellhole a moment longer. Clutching my rifle I kicked away the spoil that was covering my legs, staggered to my feet, clambered over the remains of the parapet, and tore after them like a man possessed.

To my surprise, the line of advancing Marines seemed unbroken and, despite the ordnance raining down on the battlefield, the ground wasn’t littered with bodies either. Perhaps this was because of the rapidity of the advance, or perhaps due to the uncanny ability of the Marines to vanish into cover in the split second before the air was filled with incoming fire. I shall never know the answer. But on that bleak day in southern Iraq it seemed the gods of war were smiling on them. I scuttled up in rear in a low crouch, not close enough to the forward troops to be caught in crossfire but close enough to scream for help in the event of anything untoward happening. Bursts of fire rang out from Iraqi depth positions, but the vanguard of 3 Commando Brigade pressed on undeterred. Heavy machine-guns boomed out from our flanks, as the stand-off companies suppressed the Iraqi gunners concealed in the thin stretches of woodland to our front. Large-calibre rounds smashed into the enemy trenches, and for a moment I had sufficient presence of mind to thank my stars that I was on the giving, not the receiving, end of such treatment. Within a few minutes the first Marines were inside the woods, operating first as four-man fire teams and then in pairs as they systematically cleared the network of hidden Iraqi trenches. I hid in a shallow ditch a couple of hundred yards from the edge of the trees, waiting until I was convinced the nearest trenches had been silenced. Eventually, conscious of being the last man left out in the open, I sprinted across the gap and into the copse, hopeful of finding a suitable bolt-hole. Ahead of me the Iraqis were in disarray. Little white flags appeared as some of them surrendered, but for many it was already too late. The Marines swept through the positions with astonishing speed, pouring bursts of rifle fire into anything that moved and posting grenades into the Iraqi trenches to make doubly certain that nothing survived inside. Sporadic bursts of Iraqi AK47 fire came cracking through the trees in my direction, so I wasted no time in diving into an available trench, despite the gruesome sight of its dead occupants which awaited me. With a sense of horror I realised that there were more Royal Marines entering the woods to my rear. There was no way they could be sure which trenches had been cleared and, cowering inside, covered in mud and blood, it was a distinct likelihood that I would be mistaken for an Iraqi soldier and shot. I screamed and waved my arms, desperate to be recognised as British. The Marines were taking no chances, ducking from tree to tree, utilising every scrap of cover and scoping the area through their telescopic sights before they moved. Just a few dozen yards away I watched as one of them spotted me through the smoke and cordite fumes. My head began spinning as I realised he was raising his rifle in my direction. In slow motion the barrel rose until it was pointed exactly at my face. He squinted, peering through the telescopic sight, and I closed my eyes as his finger closed around the trigger. I was unable to speak or cry out, but I suppose the abject terror in my face must have made him hesitate for a second. I realised afterwards that I had dropped my rifle and instinctively raised my arms aloft in a gesture of surrender, but with all the adrenaline coursing through my veins I wasn’t conscious of having done this. The stand-off lasted for several seconds until the Marine in question finally recognised me, lowered his rifle, shot me a broad grin over the top of his sights, then disappeared into the trees in pursuit of his colleagues. Overcome with relief I collapsed into the trench where I was able to catch my breath whilst resting on the conveniently prostrate corpse of one of its former occupants.

This was Operation James, a nondescript code name for the bloodiest day of fighting since the war began. Fate had dealt me a rough hand indeed, landing me unwillingly at the sharp end of proceedings just as the British advance gained momentum. In my current situation I would be lucky to survive the day unscathed, let alone the rest of the campaign. Home suddenly seemed a very distant land - and despite the horrors unfolding all around me, I found myself experiencing a queer nostalgia for the comforts of Blighty. Perhaps it was simply because I was all too aware of my own fragile mortality. Whatever the cause, I found myself thinking wistfully of London parties, days spent hunting on the South Downs, and boozy nights in the officers’ mess. No doubt the boys back at the regimental headquarters were safely tucked up in bed, sleeping off their hangovers caused by the previous night’s excesses. I envied the lucky bastards. I really did.

1

It was shortly before Christmas 2002 when the Second Gulf War began for me. And a bloody depressing Christmas it made for too. I had bunked off to Woburn with a couple of chaps from the regiment - Roddy Woodstock and Charlie Valdez-Welch, as I recall - for a round of golf and a bigger round of afternoon drinking. I can’t remember the exact date, although I know it was early December and I was supposed to be writing end-of-year appraisal reports for the non-commissioned officers in the battalion headquarters. For once, my procrastination of staff work was not simply borne out of idleness. A couple of the Staff Sergeants had done me a tidy favour earlier in the year, covering my tracks when a romp in the bushes with the Brigade Commander’s undergraduate daughter had been uncovered during the summer ball. That’s another story, but suffice it to say that I might not still be wearing my rank on my shoulders if they hadn’t thrown up a smokescreen quick sharp. For that, if nothing else, I intended to write them a pretty decent annual report. However, there was really no point reinventing the wheel with these things, and I knew that Julian Pemberton had already completed most of his - first in the queue outside the CO’s office as usual, and much good might it do him. The obvious solution was to get the chief clerk to put Pemberton’s reports onto disk, and then copy the best written prose straight into my reports. I reckoned I could get through most of the headquarters NCOs in less than half a day by this means, and the time saved would be well spent sharpening up my short game and enjoying a couple of Speyside malts courtesy of Valdez-Welch’s father, who was a member at Woburn.

The weather that winter was typically abysmal, dominated by long, wet spells and endless dreary grey skies. The day we spent on the golf course was unfortunately no different -rain squalls were gusting in from the north east and it was icy cold to boot. I was wearing layer upon layer of woollens to keep out the frigid air, topped off with a smart new golfing cap which attracted a good deal of abuse from my playing partners but did a fine job in keeping the rain out of my eyes. The weather may have been grim but happily my golf was on remarkably good form, considering I had hardly swung a stick in anger for almost four months. Roddy, who was immensely proud of his handicap of four, suffered a shocking round and was in a terrible funk by the time we were halfway round the course (I had never bothered getting a formal handicap but usually played off 14). Today though I was thrashing Roddy at his own game and for every shot he dropped, I managed to pull one back, even birdying a couple of par three holes. Charlie and I threw in the odd cheap jibe about his swing needing some coaching, which made him tighten up all the more - it’s a glorious feeling, kicking a man when he’s down, and I was thoroughly enjoying every minute of it. Roddy’s game deteriorated further as we entered the back nine and he even stopped speaking to us after losing a ball in the drizzle off the 13th fairway, while I managed to birdie the hole which only served to make things worse. Anyhow, as Charlie and I strolled towards the 14th tee, with Roddy scowling some way behind, who should we bump into but old Bob Tudor, Honorary Colonel of the regiment, all smiles and bonhomie, and wearing a pair of bright blue tartan plus-fours that would have offended the sensibilities of a Peckham market trader.

“Boys! How unexpected!” he boomed at us, striding across the fairway. “Bit of a shocking day for it, don’t you think?” he shouted at me with outstretched hand. “How delightful to see you all.”

We returned the platitudes and he strode off back across the fairway, evidently well pleased with himself for having spotted us through the gloom. ‘Bonking Bob’, as he was affectionately known, had shot his career royally in the foot when caught conducting an away fixture with his interpreter in Bosnia a decade earlier. I never had the pleasure of meeting the girl but apparently she was a lovely looking filly and the boys thought he had done the battalion proud. Unhappily the dago general running the United Nations show at the time thought otherwise, word got out, Missus Tudor was none too pleased, and Bob returned home with his tail between his legs and his career in tatters. Time is great healer though and the Army has always liked a rogue (I should know); a few years and a lot of settling dust later, and he was welcomed back to the regiment with open arms as the Honorary Colonel. Good on him, I say, although he was an idiot for getting caught.

Anyhow, an hour later and we were back in the Woburn clubhouse, poor Roddy still in something of a sulk after being reduced to 16 over. Charlie and I had beaten him by three and five strokes respectively - my best ever round, as it turned out, and one I still haven’t bettered. Woburn, if you haven’t been there, is a smashing place, very comfortable and ideal for whiling away a slack afternoon, especially if you have just excelled yourself out on the golf course. Of course it’s even more relaxing when someone else is paying. I was the wrong side of a couple of brandy and gingers and just beginning to contemplate lunch, when I was vigorously clapped on the back and asked if I wanted a proper drink. Bonking Bob had returned.

After ordering us several pints of stout (“Shorts have their place, of course, but they do make you look like a bunch of pseudo-intellectual nancy boys . . .”) he plonked himself down on a nearby armchair and launched into a machine-gun diatribe about the regiment (morale high), the state of the mess (shocking), diesel engines in recce vehicles (about bloody time too), and rumours circulating within the MoD about the possibility of a forthcoming Gulf deployment. He was an opinionated old bugger but he was also very well connected within Whitehall, so it paid to listen to what he had to say. A rumour coming from old Tudor was often little short of an intelligence briefing and always a good way of finding out which units were liable to be going where. On this occasion, as so often before, he was bang on the money.

“Of course, you’ll have heard the buzz about the Gulf deployment,” he started. Ever since the Government had published a dossier giving details of Saddam’s alleged chemical weapons the political bun fight had dominated the news, so this was hardly much of a rumour, but more was to follow.
(1)
“Turns out the bloody Admiralty has done a deal with the Yanks to provide a battalion of Royal Marines. But our Tony has volunteered more troops to the Pentagon, so the battalion is going to become a brigade - it’s all over the wires in PJHQ.
(2)
Word in London is that he wants to send even more - there’s even talk of it becoming a divisional move, God forbid.” Good, thinks I, send in the Marines, let them spend a few months sweating in the desert while the rest of us get ourselves ready for another season on the polo field. I could think of few places I would like to go less than Kuwait - the obvious exception being Iraq, of course.