Sniper one (20 page)

We fought the OMS's new warfare with the usual counter-insurgency tactics: arrest operations, searches, unpredictable patrols, random vehicle checks.

On the streets, we indulged in a new game of cat and mouse. The OMS watched us carefully. When we came back into camp, they would go out and do their own patrols. The kids that had been chatting to us half an hour before were slapped about. Some poor sod who'd been drinking would get shot again.

Half of it was a cold war for the city's hearts and minds. That was just as important as the physical stuff. If we could get the local population on our side, it would deny the OMS friendly territory from which to operate. To do that, the battle group tried to keep Warriors off Al Amarah's streets as much as possible. People hated the Warrior. It was a beast of a thing, it knocked down their buildings, churned up their tarmac and made a hell of a din. I couldn't blame them.

As time went on, it wasn't just the OMS that we were
going up against either. They began to get help from some very dark quarters. With the Najaf standoff well into its second month, the foreign extremists who'd previously concentrated their efforts on Baghdad and the north saw a good opportunity in the south to wreak further havoc. Al-Qaeda had come to town.

Their help came in the form of tactics, expertise and equipment, and a lot of it was highly professional. Al Amarah was too small and poxy to be a major destination for world jihad. But it was the closest city to the Iranian border. That was the transit route into Iraq that most of the holy warriors were using. Al Amarah also had Route 6 running through it which would take them all the way up to Baghdad, so many used the city as a convenient stop-off. The temptation to have a crack at us while they were here proved too strong to resist.

Intelligence briefings revealed that as well as Iranians, now Syrians, Yemenis and Jordanians were all making the trip and were operating for short periods in Al Amarah. They ranged from individual untrained fanatics to large and highly professional groups.

Sadly we never caught any, and it was hard to tell them apart from other religious-looking Arabs at distance. But you could tell if you got into a gunfight with them. They were particularly resilient, and unlike many Iraqis they had been trained to use their rifles properly too. Division HQ in Basra was so worried about their increasing numbers, that Recce Platoon was deployed along the Iranian border for a while to join an operation to catch them. We'd heard that the Americans in western Iraq had even captured some British jihadis from Birmingham. If only the little toerags had come to Al Amarah.

The foreign fighters brought their very own novel brands
of killing with them too. We were told of the increased threat of Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Devices (VBIED). That's military speak for car bombs.

Another of the foreigners' tricks was to strap old Soviet-made tank mines underneath road bridges so their shrapnel would come down like lead hailstones on anyone who drove underneath them. We kept a wide berth of bridges for a fair while after hearing that.

A specific warning was made at the end of May that sent a chill down all our spines. Featherstone explained all the information that had come through.

'Guys, we've had some pretty nasty intelligence about which I want you all to be particularly aware. Three cars rigged up with high explosives are going to attack coalition troops or bases on Route 6 somewhere between Al Amarah and Baghdad. They're being driven by three suicide bombers, who are also wearing explosive vests. They'll detonate them if they're stopped.

'Vehicles they are using are . . .' Featherstone looked down at his notes to read off a list. '. . . a black BMW, a white Toyota Christa and a red Toyota Corolla. Each car has a support team of nine or ten fighters travelling alongside it. They will launch an RPG and small arms assault once the cars have exploded. The whole team was trained in Iran for a week before they set off.

'That's all, I'm afraid. Targets and timings unknown.'

In other words, we didn't know where this little package of misery was going, or when they'd get there. But we knew they were on their way.

'The greatest threat to us will obviously be at vehicle checkpoints. Be very careful indeed please, guys, and make sure everybody's wide awake 110 per cent of the time when you're out over the next few days.'

Car bombs we knew all about from Northern Ireland. But suicide bombers was a brand new one on us. We were extra careful when we went out. Beyond that, there's little more you can do.

Suicide killings are the hardest concept for western soldiers in Iraq to deal with. Blokes firing machine guns at you are fine, because you can shoot back at them. But people who are prepared to die to kill you in an everyday situation are almost impossible to prevent. You stop the wrong car at a vehicle checkpoint, you're going to get yourself blown to fucking bits. It's just pure chance.

It took the Slipper City desk jockeys longer than us to clock onto the changing shape of the war. We were up close and personal to them every day, so we could pick up the telltale signs. In one house search we found a couple of mercury tilt switches used to detonate bombs. Now they are smart pieces of kit. As soon as you move the device, the mercury moves, connects the electrical circuit, and boom. So when someone in Abu Napa came up with the bright idea of allowing our Snatch Land Rovers back on the streets, we were more than a little pessimistic.

Major Featherstone told us about the decision in an O Group. The first Snatch patrol would even go out from Cimic that very night. This was going to be interesting. I went back up to the roof and told the five members of the platoon up there.

'Bloody hell. They're mad,' observed Fitz.

Everyone else shook their heads. But Ads had an idea.

'How about this, lads: why don't we do a sweepstake on how long it takes for them Snatches to get smacked? We could all put in a tenner.' The time closest to the inevitable attack on the Snatches after leaving base would win. Ads plumped for 22 minutes. Sam had it at 17, Chris at 31,
Smudge at 25 and I fancied it at 24. Fitz went for the lowest, at 11 minutes. Smudge gave his bet short shrift.

'Don't be silly, Fitzy. It takes just about ten minutes to get out the chicanes and off fucking Tigris Street. That's a wasted orange one.'

Two hours later, two Snatch Land Rovers left Cimic. With the stopwatch running, we watched them go. Just after they turned out of our sight,
bang
. An explosion echoed out over the night sky, followed by a long burst of AK fire. The Snatches came screeching back to Cimic. Nobody was hurt, but one of the vehicles was decorated with long scorch marks on its rear where the roadside bomb had caught it. They had been out for only eight minutes. Fitzy had won by a country mile.

The penny dropped in Abu Naji after that. The Snatch ban was reimposed immediately.

Light-hearted distractions were essential in dealing with the tense atmosphere and helped lighten the mood. But the funny thing about combat is you can never predict how people are going to react until they're in the middle of it. The hardest bloke in the company could become a bag of nerves, and the smallest runt could end up fighting like a possessed banshee. Appearances and reputation count for nothing. Everyone goes through the wringer equally.

Some took a bit of time, like young Sam who had frozen up inside my Snatch during our first and major contact on 18 April. He was full of apologies to me the next day, and felt awful about it.

'There's nothing to apologize for, Sam,' I told him.

'I just wanted to get the fuck out of that vehicle, Danny.'

'I understand. We're through that now, mate. I know you'll come good the next time.' And he did. Sam was a different
person in the next scrap we had, and went on to become one of the platoon's most ballsy warriors. I was hoping against hope that the same would happen with Gilly.

There were also a few who just couldn't deal with it at all. One of those was Taff. What happened to him was an awful thing to witness. Taff was a 32-year-old corporal in Recce Platoon, and a bloody good NCO at that. He had a great sense of humour and was very chatty. A typical Welsh Taff in an English regiment.

He'd also been in the thick of the fighting on 18 April. That evening, Chris had pointed out to him that he had a lump of sharp shrapnel the size of a pen lid still sticking out of his breast plate. The implication was obvious. If he hadn't been wearing body armour, he'd be brown bread.

Taff didn't like this one little bit, and it had scared the hell out of him. Back in England, his girlfriend was pregnant with his first child. From that night onwards, he started to go downhill. His behaviour changed immediately and he was no longer the same person. He wouldn't leave hardened accommodation unless there was a military reason. Blokes had to bring his meals to him there, because he didn't want to go to the cookhouse. He refused to take his helmet and body armour off ever, even in bed. It meant he couldn't shower either.

For a while, Taff tried to carry on as usual. To begin with people let him be because we didn't want to hurt his pride. He'd been in for years and he had a load of blokes under him. He didn't want to turn around after all of that and announce he hated it there. But it was obvious he did.

All the senior NCOs tried to talk to him quietly. We were his mates, and we wanted to help. I found him sitting in a doorway of the main house one morning staring up at the sky. He was slowly rocking backwards and forwards.

'All right, Taff?'

'Hi, Danny. I'm fine.'

'Right shit hole this, isn't it, mate?'

'Yeah.'

'You going out on patrol today?'

'Nah.'

'Yeah, best leave it for a bit, eh, mate. No need to rush things is there?' He didn't reply. Instead, he carried on rocking backwards and forwards on the spot. There was no getting through to him. He was gone.

We felt desperately sorry for him. Neither was it a very good sight for the young toms. Just seeing him had got a few of them thinking, and we didn't need that. It was the OC who eventually told him he had to go.

'Look, Taff, we're going to get you out of here. You're clearly suffering. I'm going to get you back to England for a bit.'

'Right, sir.'

'Don't take it as a slur on your character. You're a good soldier, and you can come back when you feel ready.'

Taff was taken out down the usual chain as a medical casualty. When he got back to the UK, he immediately signed himself out of the army. In three months, he was a civvy. He didn't even want to wait to get a proper medical discharge. We lost a good man. It was very sad for him, and very sad for the company. But nobody thought any worse of him, because it wasn't his fault.

After Taff, the OC set up the trauma diary. It was a good idea and probably saved another ten Taffs in the company. Whenever a patrol had got into a contact, the first thing they'd do when they got back to Cimic was all go into a room with Major Featherstone and Dale. Then they'd talk through every little thing that happened, from the moment
they left the front gate to the moment they came back in again. You could say anything you liked in it, from how you felt about killing somebody to how you'd shat your pants. Nobody was exempt, from privates to officers. Everything was aired in fine detail, so nothing could be suppressed.

It has to be said though that Taff was a rare exception. Most of the company became very adept at adjusting to whatever the OMS and their allies threw at us next. As for me, well, I just loved it. War fighting was what I had really wanted to do my whole career, and here I was at last getting a chance to do it in fucking spades. That's how a lot of Sniper Platoon felt too. But that didn't make us better men than Taff. It didn't even make us better soldiers. It's just that everybody is different.

Longy, however, had his own highly individual way of dealing with the rigours of Iraq. He masturbated. And he wanked like there was no tomorrow.

At just five foot four inches tall, Private Sean 'Longy' Long was the smallest bloke in the platoon – despite his surname. Hence the nickname was not a little bit ironic. He got a lot of abuse for his diminutive height, which he took very well. Another soldier aged just twenty, he was one of the platoon's real characters, very popular and likeable. The only thing that let him down was his drinking capacity. He would always be the first to get totally shit-faced, so we had to look after him when we were out on the piss in Tidworth.

Longy got heavily mothered by Ads, who felt that someone so small needed looking after. Most of it was wind-up. Ads's favourite line to Longy when out on patrol was, 'Keep low, move fast.' It had him in stitches every time.

Ads would also tell him, 'Longy, I'm going to marry you. You're so sweet.'

'Fuck off Ads, you poof.' That had Ads in fits every time too.

Longy's masturbatory habits hadn't been an issue in England. When he came to Iraq though, his capacity went through the roof. He would take a porn mag or a DVD player into the loos with him at least five or six times a day. After every patrol, he was straight in there without fail, sometimes without even taking his body armour off. He would emerge fifteen minutes later with a big smile on his face. The lad didn't even have any shame at all. Ads had a regular line for those moments too.

'You complete wanker, Longy!'

'Yeah, fair one,' he could only reply.

Then there was Louey and John Wedlock's way of dealing with the stress.

Over a month had gone by since they went eyeball to eyeball on the front driveway. Word had started to go round the company that they'd even sorted out their differences. Word was wrong.

Major hostilities broke out suddenly one breakfast. Wedlock was in the corner of the cookhouse by the taps filling up half a dozen jerry cans of water. As Louey walked past, he couldn't resist the usual quick dig.

'Orr, hellor, Wedlock. Make sure you fill them all the way up to the top now.'

Perhaps there was something in Louey's laid back Caribbean tones that morning that was particularly provocative. Maybe Wedlock was just having a bad morning. Whatever it was, he quickly stood up and punched Louey hard in the face twice.