Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq (27 page)

Shortly after nightfall a small number of civilians began to file past the checkpoint, making a beeline for the river front road. They disappeared out of sight around a bend, and reappeared thirty or so minutes later, clutching all manner of possessions including mirrors, cabinets, clocks, and even a wardrobe. The looting had begun. As with most cities, river front properties were the most sought after and in Basra they all belonged to the Ba’ath Party faithful. These people had held on to the last, toughing out a series of hit-and-run raids that had been mounted by 7 Armoured Brigade and elements of 16 Air Assault Brigade over the previous days. But confronted by the full-scale arrival of the Commandos and their armoured brethren, none of whom showed any sign of leaving, the Ba’athists scarpered, leaving their fabulously well-appointed residences defenceless. Basra’s unwashed masses, persecuted for almost 30 years, moved quicker than a swarm of locusts. The more industrious looters worked through the night, purloining as many valuables as they could carry - I saw one chap struggling along the road with an entire double bed balanced precariously on his head. But the best trophy of the night went to a tiny, middle-aged women dressed entirely in black, who emerged carrying an enormous cut-glass chandelier. The thing was taller than she was, forcing her to carry it with her arms outstretched above her head. It obviously weighed a good deal too, for she had to stop and rest every twenty yards or so.

Unhappily, not all of the night’s arrivals were so benign. A small hardcore of stay-behind loyalists mounted a series of raids on checkpoints around the city. Most of these were simple affairs, in which an apparently unarmed civilian swiftly produced a Kalashnikov from under his robes and opened fire on a VCP. The Marines were alert to the threat and, perhaps by dint of looking like the murderous devils they were, attracted very little of this sort of attention, but the APC crews were less lucky and took several casualties during the night. It wasn’t just rifle-wielding maniacs I fretted about though, since the radio buzzed constantly with alerts of suicide bombers roaming the area with pounds of plastic explosive hidden beneath their clothes. During the course of a sleepless night we were indeed approached by one such fellow, though it fortuitously turned out that he was far from eager to meet his maker. Walking slowly and deliberately, he attracted the suspicion of the Marines long before he reached the VCP. As they moved to stop him, he opened his robes, revealing an array of explosives strapped across his midriff. The next thing he knew he was on the floor with a mouthful of dirt and his front teeth missing as the VCP team jumped him before he could detonate the charge. It turned out that the chap was anything but a volunteer and had been forced into the role of suicide bomber by the local Saddam loyalists, who had kidnapped his wife and family and threatened to execute them if he didn’t comply. Evidently even this threat wasn’t enough for him though, and he got cold feet as he approached the checkpoint. It gave me an awful start, I don’t mind telling you, and I spent the rest of the night all a-jitter, sheltering in the lee of the BV whenever anyone approached.

Word of the free-for-all spread fast and as dawn broke the streets came alive with hundreds and hundreds of eager treasure-seekers all looking for their little slice of the bounty. Marines and tanks moved onto the river front road to maintain some semblance of order, but the situation was already descending into anarchy. As the richer pickings were snapped up the vultures became more and more aggressive, tearing asunder anything that could physically be moved or broken. Windows and doors were smashed, fittings torn down, vehicles burned - the happy-go-lucky night-time scenes were consigned to history as the mood began to turn sour. The Marines moved in to stop the worst of the violence but they were faced with an overwhelming task, since literally thousands of people were now openly stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down. I held back - an angry mob is never an easy thing to control, as I found to my cost in Sierra Leone a few years back - and anyway I had more than a little sympathy with Basra’s citizens, reasoning that if I had been repressed for three decades, I would probably enjoy a little light vandalism too. Sensibly, the Marines decided that houses that were apparently abandoned and which therefore presumably belonged to the Ba’ath Party were fair game, and let the looters have a free rein. But they drew the line at properties that were obviously nothing to do with the old regime, physically ejecting looters from shops and restaurants and even firing warning shots on a few occasions. Sometime before noon a flotilla of small civilian boats sped across from the north side of the river and moored up alongside the riverbank footpath. The occupants jumped out and stormed into the nearest properties, many of which were inhabited by terrified civilians, all doing their best to hang onto their possessions in the face of rising lawlessness. For the Marines, many of whom were - unbelievably - aggrieved at the lack of a fire-fight on the way into Basra, this was a golden opportunity to put on a show of force. Warning shots cracked overhead, forcing the raiders back onto their boats. Those who had already entered nearby properties scuttled out, keen not to miss the boat ride home. The Marines fired more and more warning shots ever closer to the looters, who by now were in full flight. Many still refused to drop their booty though, so the men of M Company increased the pressure still further. I watched as a large Arab man struggled across the road clutching a stack of plates he had pilfered from a nearby restaurant. A rifle cracked and the crockery exploded in his hands as the bullet struck home. The looter collapsed onto the floor screaming in fright, while the M Company boys and I collapsed in fits of laughter.

Around lunchtime another suicide-bomber warning was broadcast over the radio. This time the suspect was thought to be driving a pickup truck full of explosives, which he apparently intended to crash into one of our checkpoints. At the time the warning was given, unseen by any of our troops, a local thief, presumably somewhat carried away by the looting fever which had gripped the town, was in the process of stealing a pickup from the hospital car park just south of the bridge on which I was stationed. Seconds after the warning was given, he crashed the pickup through the hospital gates and screeched out onto the road, heading directly towards a brace of tanks parked on the roadside. The Marines didn’t hesitate for a second and within a matter of moments the pickup was riddled with bullet holes fired by anyone who could get a clean shot. The chaps at my checkpoint poured fire into the hapless vehicle, much to the surprise of a local pensioner who was busy pedalling his bicycle across the bridge at the time. Tracer rounds flew past him on both sides but he continued pedalling unfazed and even waved cheerily to us as he passed the checkpoint a short time later.  The boys in the Company Headquarters also let fly, including at least one heavy machine-gun crew whose armour-piercing incendiary rounds not only punched holes in the pickup truck but also set it on fire. The vehicle swerved from side to side and eventually ground to a halt. After a pause of a few seconds, the driver’s door swung open and the occupant, evidently not in the best of health, collapsed onto the road and began to crawl towards the hospital. The HMG and small-arms fire had taken their toll though: one of his arms had been blown off and his torso was riddled with holes. Gallons of blood poured out of him onto the road, and the world’s most unlucky car thief died just a few feet from the burning pickup.

It was long past any civilised lunchtime - needless to say, the Marines were so preoccupied with their VCPs and anti-looting patrols that they hadn’t stopped for food - so with belly grumbling I made my way on foot back across the bridge to M Company headquarters. The building site in which the headquarters was housed was an absolute death trap, which no doubt appealed to the Mountain-Leader OC. Rickety wooden scaffolding covered part of it, there were no walls, and the stairwells consisted of flat slabs of concrete with a mesh of steel reinforcing rods thrown perilously on top. I was delighted to see that the Challenger crews had chosen the surrounding area as a tank park, so I sauntered over and spent an enjoyable few moments cadging not just a cup of tea but also a hot lunch from one of the troop commanders. Despite their self-evident differing mentalities the Marines and tank crews were getting along famously, which was fine by me since, as the liaison officer, I would take much of the responsibility for the state of working relations. In fact it was more a case of symbiosis for the purpose of self-preservation: while the tanks had a menacing and almost omnipotent presence, their crews, when not hunkered down inside, were extremely vulnerable to small arms fire. The Marines, on the other hand, were past-masters at dealing with small-arms fire, but liked the kudos that came from having 75 tons of rolling steel on hand whenever the locals got a little feisty. The roles were so different that there was no competition between the two, and the result was a working camaraderie that one seldom sees outside of wartime - and a marvellous opportunity for me to take credit where none was due. (Needless to say I made mention of it frequently during the following month when I knew the CO would be writing my end-of-tour report, but the old bastard never mentioned it once.)

My arrival at the Company Headquarters coincided with the news that we were to be replaced by another company and withdrawn from the city. Good news indeed, made better by our destination, which was the palace, successfully seized by J Company the previous evening. The place erupted into a frenzy of packing and equipment stowage as the Marines scrambled into the vehicles, eager to get to the palace and do a spot of looting of their own. A convoy of vehicles quickly formed and within minutes we were rolling east along a road parallel to the river.

Saddam’s palace looked impressive enough from a distance but on closer inspection was disappointingly lacking in opulence. Situated in expansive grounds, it consisted of a series of ornate buildings backing onto the Shat-al-Arab river and a plethora of smaller, less impressive buildings set back from the river, which I could only assume had been designed to house servants. The most impressive structure - essentially the centre of mass of the whole palace complex - was a huge marble-fronted affair, complete with gigantic stone pillars either side of the front door. Inside, grandiose marble staircases ascended from a huge, airy entrance lobby to a series of enormous, bare bedrooms. (Needless to say, the CO had adopted this building as his Headquarters. For all its ostentatious gaudiness, in my opinion it was much more becoming of a battle group commander than the 1970s dross back at Bickleigh.) The whole area was surrounded by lawns mostly unkempt - punctuated by a series of ornamental lakes and crisscrossed by roads and bridges. With very few exceptions, the interior of most of the buildings was unfinished many had no electrical wiring and were lacking in even rudimentary plumbing. By the time I arrived any loose fittings and furnishings had been purloined by the magpies of J Company, leaving the place even more bereft of creature comforts. J Company themselves had moved into an adjacent building, almost as flamboyant as the Headquarters palace, the rear of which featured a huge marble balcony jutting out over the Shat-al-Arab. In the water beneath the balcony was a tangle of barbed wire and steel pickets, designed to prevent riverboats from approaching the palace. Preventing Marines from swimming is broadly similar to keeping a Labrador retriever out of water - impossible. The more adventurous souls within J Company had discovered that the barbed wire entanglement could be cleared with a running jump from the balcony and several dozen men were happily swimming in the river below, enjoying a respite from the incessant heat of the afternoon sun, despite the best exhortations of the adjutant for them to get back onto dry land.

Beyond J Company’s temporary home lay another palatial building, largely unoccupied. I explored its many empty rooms before discovering my old chums from the combat camera team ensconced in an upstairs bedroom - which of course was lacking a bed, or any other furniture come to that. Somewhat larger than a squash court, and with high ceilings to match, the room had the advantage of marble walls and shuttered windows, which meant it was pleasantly cool despite the 40+ Centigrade temperature outside. Inevitably a stove was already lit and I rapidly accepted their offer of tea. I dragged my belongings up the stairs, lay myself down on a sleeping mat and immediately drifted off to sleep.

A half-decent night’s sleep did me the power of good and I awoke feeling if not optimistic about my situation, at least not as gloomy as I had been the previous days. After all, we had taken Basra without too much fuss, I had avoided further injury, my leg was on the mend, and I had set up home in a palace. All in all, things could have been worse. I set off for a stroll around the grounds, keen to get my bearings and avoid the headquarters staff for as long as possible. Turning away from the Commando Headquarters, I followed the road across a small bridge. A small distance away I spotted K Company’s vehicles parked neatly outside yet another impressive-looking marble edifice, and BRF’s Land Rovers could be seen coming and going from outside a smaller, less ostentatious building further away still. I strolled on, alone in my thoughts, until I was rudely interrupted by the roar of an engine and the squealing of tyres as the BGE’s quad bike slid to a halt alongside me.

“Harry! What brings you down this way?” He didn’t wait for a response but simply shouted at me to get onboard so he could give me a lift to his ‘office’. There was no pillion seat so I perched atop the steel luggage rack on the back and the bike took off underneath me like a scalded cat. Gears crunched and we gathered pace, stiffly ignoring the 10 mph speed limit imposed on the camp by the RSM.

“I got it well over 50 yesterday night!” he yelled above the noise of the wind and engine, “and I reckon she’ll do 60 if I start my run from one of the bridges. Trouble is, the bloody road’s too short!” As if to illustrate the point he slammed on the brakes and we screeched to a halt outside an unremarkable-looking two-story building a short distance from the main gates to the palace grounds. The oblong block was constructed from concrete, though the front wall had been clad in black marble to give it a veneer of authority. The BGE vaulted from the bike and barged through the doors, evidently eager to show off his new quarters. Inside, it was plainly obvious why the engineers had commandeered this particular building: unlike the grandiose palaces to which the Marines had flocked, their abode was fully furnished. Carpeted hallways led to a series of small, comfortable rooms, complete with sofas, dining suites, beds -there were even little china vases on the bedside tables. After a night spent with nothing more than a finger-thick kip-mat between me and a bare marble floor, I wandered around in a state of ill-concealed envy.