Dirty Deeds Done Cheap (12 page)

Our death toll was rapidly rising.

Although if we had to leave a vehicle it was our standard operating procedure to blow it to bits, this time it was done for us. The Hilux was well and truly fucked. The mine had ripped it in half.

It was a sombre group that eventually returned to camp. The American sentries on the gate could tell as we approached that something had gone wrong, as they could see we were a vehicle down, and the usual smiles and waves were absent, although they did shout concerned questions to us as we passed through the gates. Once we were on camp the first thing we did was to make arrangements for the Ghurkha’s body to be taken care of. Once that was arranged, we went in search of beer – and lots of it! It had been one hell of a day and we all needed a drink to settle us.

We managed to get hold of a few crates of beer and we went down to the accommodation and de-rigged. We didn’t even bother to shower. We just wanted to sit down and chat over a beer about our departed friend. We lit a big fire and then we toasted our colleague and tried to get as wasted as we could, but not so wasted that we wouldn’t be able to function in the morning, as this job was non-stop.

This was a rather grim and unofficial tradition among us if we ever lost a mate, a bit like holding a wake, I suppose. It is never easy to lose a friend or colleague, especially one who, on numerous occasions, had saved your arse or whom you’d fought alongside. So we spent the night drinking to him, basically drowning our sorrows, and remembering every funny thing or humorous incident involving him that we could because we knew that the next day we would have to get up and carry on with our job. It seemed to help numb the pain of our loss, anyway. We all just hoped that the next evening our colleagues would not be toasting us, which was a very real possibility in this line of work. We all shed a few tears that night.

As I’ve said before, the Yanks on camp thought we were nuts, driving along with no doors on. And, if we were in Baghdad or Basra, we would be nuts, but, then, back in Baghdad or Basra we would have been in armoured SUVs. Up here in the north, however, we were in a different ball game. At any time you might have to alight from the trucks fast and get the hell out at a moment’s notice; and, because our trucks were all soft-skinned, our options were limited. We had to be quick on our toes and so it had been decided that the doors would just slow down our exit from a vehicle in an emergency contact situation.

I have mates who operate for other companies and work in Baghdad in pairs, using an Iraqi driver and passenger as cover. The bodyguards lie down in the back seat with blacked-out rear windows, using mirrors to see out with. These guys aren’t nutters, they are the top earners (up to £1,000 a day). But, if you think about the situation that they are in, it’s not that crazy. Their losses were far smaller than ours and, unless they were to break down in the city, they would normally be OK. However, I don’t want to take anything away from them or imply that their job is easy. It’s not. It’s still a very dangerous job. We always kept in touch via email or mobile phone and compared notes about our different jobs.

Part of the new mission that we’d been given was to escort a US military psy-ops unit out. This is a complex specialised unit designed to try to win over the local communities by attrition – hearts and minds – basically winning the war by guile and not by strength. It was a tactic first employed by the Americans during the Vietnam conflict.

This was the first time civilian contractors were carrying out operations involving US military personnel. We were now transporting these US special-ops people around one of the most dangerous places on the planet. I don’t know if it was official or unofficial, but we were doing it anyway. On the bright side, we now had full US military air support and state-of-the-art tactical support, and we could access their comms, which made a huge difference to us.

I don’t know if this was a good thing or a bad thing. By taking on this role it could become a double-edged sword. This was truly getting very serious, but our relationship with the military was exceptional and I prayed that this would expand and continue. We had now been placed in the position of being responsible for the welfare and safety of some of the ordinary American troops and even some of their special-ops teams. This was quite daunting: to think that the US military’s safety and security were now firmly entrusted to our hands, a private military contracting company. We were now responsible for a big important chunk of the American assets.

When we were training the Americans used to look to us because we were all ex-Royal Marine Commandos, SAS, SBS, French Foreign Legion, British Army, ex-Paras and so on. They started observing our tactics, almost studying them. A few American patrols took on our tactics, hard-targeting, debussing when stuck in traffic, etc. Taking the Yank special-ops guys on patrol was funny: they had all the gear you could think of and we were driving them around in soft-skinned Toyotas with no doors on! I think most of them just did it for the buzz; I think they secretly enjoyed riding with us.

Because we did such a fantastic covert and overt job, and had no rules of engagement, we could basically shoot at anything that became a threat to us without having to do reports. The Yank special-ops guys loved coming out with us. They had no contact reports to file, nothing; they were living and loving every bit of the life of a mercenary, with all the soldiering but none of the bullshit paperwork. They couldn’t get enough of it and we liked having them along with us because they, as I said, had their comms and could call in air support if we needed it.

On our first run-out, we had to travel south to an airstrip that was just south of Mosul and was about an hour’s dash away on a good run (two hours on a bad one). We just had to drop some guys off. We came in through the gate and had to stop to get directions, as this place was so huge. The airport had loads and loads of aircraft hangars and we didn’t have a clue where we were supposed to drop these guys off – and they didn’t know either.

We had arrived at the airport via the back entrance of the most northern runway next to this huge complex of buildings. This place was probably about the size of Gatwick Airport – that’s pretty big. What was very apparent to us as we approached the runway was that there was a C-130 Hercules sitting in a hole! Apparently, when the American plane landed, no one had shared with the poor pilots the news that there was a big fuck-off hole in the runway caused by bomb damage. The poor pilots literally just taxied into it! There was a parked Humvee in the back of the C-130, which survived totally unscathed, but that was it. Everything else in the plane was well and truly broken. After the accident the Yanks turned up with their bomb-disposal unit and equipment and just blew the plane to pieces – after the explosion there was nothing left, just bits. What a monumental fuck-up. Seems the norm in Iraq is just to blow the crap out of anything, sad but true. But I suppose it is better to be safe than sorry, and, anyway, the Yanks love their explosives.

On the way back from having witnessed the demise of what to me had looked like only a slightly dented Herc, we were going to check out an Iraqi security position. So when we turned up – it was absolutely hilarious – these guys were armed to the teeth, but not from being supplied by the Iraqi army. No, these were weapons that they had kept or stolen from the First Gulf War. One guy had his own RPG painted in different colours and said he was saving it for a special occasion. What that occasion was I don’t know! These guys were nice and friendly and of Kurdish origin so we didn’t have to worry too much about our safety with them.

As we came back we had to go through a police checkpoint. We’d been warned about them; they’d been warned about us; hopefully, there were going to be no worries. Safety catches off, trigger fingers ready. I just hoped we wouldn’t slot an innocent civilian. We were, after all, working in no-go areas, areas that most private military security companies were not allowed to work in, so the chances were that there was going to be civilian collateral damage of some sort along the way if we had a firefight. None of us were warmongers or animals, far from it. We were men with compassion and values, but we were also men in Iraq getting paid to do a dirty job – and I’m not talking about cleaning the bog! We were all there by choice. Good or bad, we were there trying to earn a crust (albeit a big one).

As we charged through the first checkpoint there was no opposition, thank goodness – or so we thought. Then there was a sudden burst of gunfire and we were on our toes. As we’ve seen, the worst thing about the contacts you encounter in the north is that it’s difficult to identify where the fire is coming from. Identifying the fire point is often the hardest part, but once you’ve got this sussed you can rake the fuck out of them. We then saw two guys in police uniforms doing a runner. If they
were
police, surely they wouldn’t be running away, AK-47s in hand. We couldn’t be certain, so we let them live. Later on this would not be the case.

As we were driving white Toyotas and because these trucks are so reliable, the insurgents used them, too – same colour, everything, but without the heavy weapons. This could put the American pilots in quite a predicament when it came to identifying enemy targets or friendlies, like us. As we closed in on the camp, though still a few kilometres away, the unthinkable happened: we got lit up by a Yank patrol. Basically, we were fired upon by the Americans! It wasn’t bad but it was enough to scare the shit out of us.

We had a blown out front tyre, scary enough though when you’ve got the might of the American military machine bearing down on you. We limped back to camp and went straight to the citadel, something had to be done to prevent a blue-on-blue situation like this happening again. The Americans apparently thought we could have been insurgents and lit us up. We were carrying no ID. Because of the confusion involved in any firefight, these situations could be even more difficult: our guys could have fired back, which would have been catastrophic. We were all armed to the teeth, and so were the US military. Ultimately, they would have won and we would have been wiped out. This situation could not be allowed to happen again.

After an emergency meeting it was decided that at night, if we had to travel, we were going to be issued with infrared strobes: flashing lights visible from 20 miles but not to the naked eye. Only the Apache and Black Hawk pilots with night-vision goggles could see us. In the daytime we would employ the hi-tech method of putting massive, fuck-off fluorescent orange flags on the roofs or bonnets of the trucks!

I have a lot of respect for these pilots who risk their arses, but I am still paranoid about incoming friendly fire, and we faced this prospect daily, especially with new American military units coming and going all the time. The new units arriving at that time didn’t even know we existed, so it was no wonder that this happened. Information didn’t always filter down very well – not on these bases.

One new unit that arrived came complete with a full-blown American General, who came into the camp just generally have a look around. He found us tucked away in our corner of the camp and as usual the Fijians were singing, as they did every night. This was really pretty soothing and relaxing, as they had fantastic voices. This General was walking around the camp, and had just stumbled upon our ragtag private army posted in the farthest reaches of his camp, when he came across to ask who we were. After a lot of explaining and checking up, a great relationship struck up between us and the new army unit and he then gave us all the support we needed. In most war zones military changeovers often don’t run smoothly, but this was going to be slightly different! This general didn’t even know we were on his camp until he found us! Once it was established that we were one of his assets it was game on: we were now going to get every dodgy job going and this would include Iraq’s forthcoming elections.

America, because of tensions, could not be seen to have anything to do with the forthcoming elections, so we, as a private task force, were tasked to try to make things run smoothly, looking after and taking care of all the voting parties. This was a mammoth task, but, as I said, we had the respect of the local militia and, because we hadn’t killed too many innocent civilians, a lot of the local people in Mosul liked us too.

As we were relaxing back in camp it was announced that the funeral of our dear departed mate (the one who’d been blown to bits when his team drove over the landmine) was to be held in the chapel of rest in Saddam’s palace. This seemed quite fitting and the Fijians were going to sing for everyone. It was a very emotional service; all the services were. The Americans really went to town for us on these occasions and it was very touching how much they tried to help us with our losses. You can slag the Americans off all you want for going into Iraq, but there are a lot of excellent American people and soldiers out there. I honestly believe that some country had to take charge and the Yanks were the ones with the power to do it.

The problem with being a contractor/mercenary in Iraq is that in some of the jobs you can pick and choose, and in other jobs you can’t – you don’t get given a choice. You often have to go where the money is. However, once you’ve done the real dodgy shit the rest comes easily. It can be a very harsh learning curve but you can’t moan about it.

T
he American camp where we were based was a big place and had once been Saddam’s northern HQ. There were some pretty impressive buildings on the camp and, while Saddam’s people had suffered in poverty, he had lived a life of luxury, a typical tyrant. We had heard that in Baghdad they found a gold, workable, full-sized replica of Queen Elizabeth II’s royal coach! We’d all actually seen it when it had been put on the back of a flatbed truck and I managed to get a picture of it. They had also seized a load of gold-plated Heckler & Koch MP5 machine guns. The massive complex contained two huge palaces surrounded by palatial buildings for Saddam’s staff. Of course, since he had been overthrown, during a violent attack by the US Special Forces, the surrounding compounds had been trashed, but the buildings were remarkably undamaged. The camp was surrounded by brick walls topped with razor wire. It was very well fortified.

There was now a full complement of American troops on camp plus four private security companies. Although this place, being up north, was a lot more dangerous than the south, you had a lot more leeway. It was a nice place to be based, with a great gym, unlimited free Internet access and food that was very good. The little time off we had (when we weren’t doing convoys, the mass graves, elections and route reconnaissance for the American military) was spent training – weapons-testing, first aid and tactics, mainly. It was hard to practise tactics sometimes because no two situations we encountered were ever the same. But anti-ambush drills were a big part of our training, and we also honed our weapon skills and vehicle drills the best we could until they became second nature. My main job was training the guys with the M240 and M249 light and heavy machine guns. Some of the new guys had never worked with these weapons before or even picked one up. All weapons are potentially deadly in the right hands but these weapons are
especially
so; they will blow clean through brick walls and steel plates, in fact almost anything.

We also practised vehicle drills a lot of the time. For instance, in the event of getting stuck in traffic, getting caught in an ambush or losing a vehicle due to breakdown or gunfire, everything had to be second nature to everyone. We had to try to leave nothing to chance. Every eventuality had to be considered and, if possible, catered for, so the drills had to be practised on a regular basis. After all, practice makes perfect.

Working up in the north was an amazing difference from working in Baghdad for reasons other than those I’ve already mentioned: in Baghdad our vehicles had to be kept immaculate and were armoured, but in the north they just had to be kept running and in one piece, if possible.

The welded steel plates along the length of the tailgate sections of the pick-ups and along the length of the door and window of the driver would stop a 7.62mm round, AK-47s being the preferred weapon of the insurgents. We’d fired at some of these plates on the range to test them out. During a contact or when we got stuck, our driver was the only one to stay in the vehicle, so we had to protect him the best we could. After the doors were taken off the truck we would weld down the tailgate to give the gunner on the back more room to manoeuvre, then armour plating was added to the back up to his waist height. Last, big wide running boards were attached to the sides of the truck so that everyone could sit facing outwards, and then all arcs of fire could be covered. The wide running boards helped to stop guys falling out when we were going round bends because you could grip or brace yourself with your feet a lot better. This did happen on one or two occasions – nothing serious, though, just a few cuts and bruises.

When we first modified these brand-spanking-new trucks it felt a bit of a waste ripping apart a £40,000 Land Cruiser or £25,000 Hilux, but it was cheaper and more effective to do what we did than spend £100,000 on armoured ones.

After our trucks were finished being modified, the team leaders got together and decided which weapon would be mounted on the back: M240, .50-cal or M19 grenade launcher. We tried to vary these between the vehicles so as to be prepared for every eventuality.

Each of the vehicles had five men: a gunner on the back with the big guns; a driver (of course); a vehicle commander in the front passenger seat; two gunners positioned in the back seats. We were equipped with three forms of communications – HF (high-frequency), VHF and a satellite phone. We also carried some bomb-jamming equipment which was, obviously, limited to certain devices. IEDs were triggered normally by a mobile phone or something similar (all the insurgents had to do was call it and the device would go off).

The kit we had could stop some of this but not the more sophisticated devices. Another triggering method favoured by the insurgents was a command wire. This was basically a wire that ran across the ground and was actually connected to the device and could be triggered by a presser switch. All the insurgent had to do was go to his local hardware store, buy a big roll of electrical wire (preferably dark-coloured so that it was hard to see), then get hold of a battery and – hey presto! – one detonation and triggering method.

Whenever we ventured out we could carry whatever weapons we wanted – whatever was in the armoury, anyway. We had a choice: M16, M16 with 203 grenade launcher, HKG3, AK-47 and HKMP5 sub-machine-gun. Because the MP5 is a 9mm, it’s not really worth a wank doing the job we were doing, so hardly anyone carried one, though some of the guys preferred to carry one instead of a pistol.

The Yanks, as you know, thought we were headcases because we had no armour and we were driving around with no doors on, but we had speed and the ability to get out of the vehicles fast, which gave us the ability to react quickly. And we had the aggression. We soon got a name and reputation for ourselves as being effective and not a company to mess with. Attacking us was a last resort for the insurgents – they knew that we had no rules of engagement against them that we would have to adhere to, and that, if one of them so much as raised a head, we’d unleash hell and blow them to pieces.

Life on camp was pretty enjoyable and was made even better for having excellent guys to work with, and we were under the command of two fantastic bosses, both of whom were former US Special Forces. When we weren’t fixing up the trucks (which took a lot of time because most were full of holes from bullets and shrapnel) we were on the range.

The range we used was next to the helipad. The helipad could accommodate six choppers at any one time and was a good size, probably that of a football pitch. Sometimes we would challenge the Fijians to touch rugby – big mistake! Some of these guys were fucking awesome: 6 foot 6 and 19 stone of pure brick shithouse. Thank fuck it was only
touch
rugby. I’m far from small but there’s no way I’d like to take a tackle from one of these hulks.

We lived, played and fought together until we had such a strong bond that home for me became a distant memory. Our rotation on this operation was supposed to be nine weeks work and three weeks off, but some of the lads had done thirteen months solid. I’d done five months up until now and I had almost forgotten life in the UK. I was enjoying it. This was my life now. It was like being in the mob again but more relaxed and with the added bonus of being paid a hell of a lot more. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my time as a Royal Marine Commando and those guys are some of the toughest troops in the world, but this line of work was a different ball game, one at times you could become unsure about – having no backup for one.

In the Marines I was involved in three tours of Northern Ireland and the First Gulf War, but I don’t think it is comparable to what today’s troops are going into. No disrespect to the ground troops who did go in during the First Gulf War, but our lads are now having to fight for their lives in Afghanistan and Iraq. It’s a different war these days, in my opinion. It goes back to the hardcore fighting like in the Falklands period, when troops were carrying 120 pounds of equipment and fighting for hours on end – a very tough job. And now warfare has to be conducted at very close quarters, sometimes with fixed bayonets.

Although I was here as a civilian, not fighting as such but still staring death in the face every day, we were basically working as a private army. The Americans called us mercenaries, but because we weren’t officially going on combat missions we couldn’t be classed as such. However, there is a loophole: if we came across American troops under effective enemy fire we could ‘assist’ – i.e. help them out, go on the offensive, call it whatever you will. We would fight alongside them. Sometimes we even took charge of situations. They were quite well aware of our backgrounds and knew that most of us were far more highly trained than they were. Our calmness under fire often showed this.

Does this breach the boundaries of contractor or mercenary? You make your own mind up.

If you were to ask any of the lads working up in the north or in Baghdad, I bet you would get the same answer through and through. We operated with political indifference. You don’t give a shit what you are actually doing – you are just there for the money and you’re doing a job that you’re trained to do. Our one-hundred-man elite unit was made up of Poles, Americans, Brits, French, Irish, South Africans, Zimbabweans, Fijians and Gurkhas (Nepalese). Most companies in Iraq and Afghanistan hire Western expat soldiers as team leaders/patrol commanders; PSD (personal security detachment) teams are 90 per cent expats. Then for the troops they hire ex-Gurkhas, Fijians or Peruvians. Wages in Iraq today are not what they used to be but there is still good cash to be made. South African companies are flooding the market and wages have gone down, as low as £140 per day for an expat; the Gurkha and Fijian base rate was $50 per day and Peruvians’ rate was as low as $33 per day.

A major reason a lot of these PMCs are used is that, essentially, we are civilians and civilian or company casualties don’t have to be reported. If the US used their soldiers to do all of the work, (a) they would have to commit more troops and (b) more of them would die or be permanently maimed. The American government were using us as tools of war and also so that US citizens could avoid being drafted because, obviously, if this was to happen the government would become extremely unpopular, probably losing votes. No government wants this, as it could quite possibly be political suicide.

We would have a good laugh with the other companies around camp. At the end of the day, we were all in the same boat. We were there for the same thing: the rush and the money. Anyone who says different is, in my opinion, kidding themselves. I know guys who were formerly elite solders in fantastic jobs in civvy street with great money, wives and kids – a nice life – who went back to Iraq as contractors and took a wage cut to do it just for the buzz. Once a soldier, always a soldier. We’d sometimes have a drink together, moan about wages (as I said, some of the South Africans were on £4,000 a month – £140 a day – while we were on £14,000 a month), moan about the companies we were working for – just like being in the forces again but with more dosh. And, of course, it was all friendly banter.

All the expats were issued with an M9 Beretta pistol. In body-guarding situations these pistols are essential, but in this job we were doing they were pretty useless. Most of us just carried an AK-47 and put it in the footwell of the vehicle as a backup weapon, but the pistols came in handy when you were running around or walking around camp. We used to joke that this was in case we were about to be captured. If I was in a situation where I needed to use my pistol and our situation was beyond repair we would most certainly be fucked. I would shoot our team then me. Ex-forces guys reading this book will probably say ‘Bullshit, what a wanker!’ But once you actually see what the insurgents are capable of (and I’ve already given you a taste of that) you’d consider it – we had all made a pact to do just that.

I gave my pistol to my driver – his M16 was too unwieldy inside the confined space, and I always carried a spare. If there was no way out and we were certainly fucked, we would do it. You stood a lot bigger chance of getting caught or killed up here than in Baghdad. If you don’t take these things into account, you shouldn’t be doing the job we were doing. It was my job to make sure nothing like this would ever happen – period. However, the pistol would always remain a joke, but we all seriously knew it wasn’t.

Please don’t get me wrong. I think the bravest man in the world is the man who has to look after his family. But, although a lot of the lads I worked with were family men, most of these guys craved, or even needed, the adrenalin rush (and obviously the money).

For your wife or girlfriend back home, it is a daily drama of not knowing how you are or where you are; if you are going to be killed, or if you’ve already been killed; or what the hell is actually happening to you. Ask any partner what they would prefer. You at home on £500 a week or getting your arse shot off for £2,500 a week? I think that most partners would rather have you ‘safe’ at home and in one piece. This was a predicament I didn’t have to face. A lot of these guys were here just to get themselves out of debt and some, as I said, were here for the buzz.

As we woke to a beautiful, crisp morning, I decided to take our brat of a dog, Kasper, for a run along the perimeter. I put my pistol in my hip holster, which I used to put on my arse because Berettas are big pistols and trying to run with one on your hip is a nightmare. The Iraqi civilians on camp and some of the troops were always trying to kill the wild dogs that used to hang around, so we sprayed the back of our dog green so that they knew she was one of ours and would not kill her. Kasper didn’t mind that we’d sprayed her green, but she was still a feral little bastard.

So there I was happily jogging along with our green-arsed dog when I heard a familiar sound: the whistle of an incoming mortar. I grabbed the dog and then dived for cover; the dog then tried to bite me. We dived onto the ground, as I didn’t have any cover nearby. Boom! I couldn’t tell where the mortar landed but it sounded close. Then there was another. All the time that this was going on the fucking dog, which I was trying to protect, was biting the crap out of me, the little sod!