Warrior Brothers (26 page)

The rear vehicles were under the impression that we were now in contact because a tyre had been shot out, but in reality the tyre had burst because of the excessive road surface temperature. The remaining vehicles continued past the suspected kill zone while our vehicle kept sliding (now sideways) towards a guardrail. Every member of the team thought it was only a matter of time before the exposed rim that was now sparking along the bitumen would grip and throw our vehicle into a murderous roll.

Si kept his foot off the brake and the vehicle somehow settled on its three remaining tyres. Joe and I congratulated him for preventing a roll-over, which probably allowed us to keep on living. The boys immediately secured the area and we carried out a rapid tyre change drill. The teams were expected to be able to change a non-armoured vehicle's tyre in no more than four minutes. We had to set the standard so, with the adrenaline still pumping, it was easily achieved.

Si and Joe typified the best of the mateship and camaraderie of service. Joe, in particular, was a huge source of inspiration and a true friend. He was a warrior, probably the only truly fearless man I have ever served with.

Joe was a former Rhodesian SAS soldier and Selous Scout. One evening Joe, I and two marine officers, Sean and Jon
(who had just returned from the Battle of Fallujah), sat down and shared our past experiences. We bonded and will always remain friends. After Joe spoke about some of the things he had done and seen … well, everyone else remained pretty quiet after that.

The three of us were in awe of this man. He was a legend, a warrior, a gangster. He could be so creative, funny and warm, but everyone had confidence that, should our situation become dire, he would become a fearless killing machine. His marksmanship was outstanding. I first noticed this when we were conducting live-fire range practices from moving vehicles. Most of the guys had no idea when it came to shooting on the move from the front passenger seat of a vehicle, but Joe was the exception. He lined up his weapon and squeezed off the rounds perfectly, with either hand – it didn't matter, he could fire with both. He was that extraordinary mixture of elegance and brute force, if the occasion called for it.

In many ways, Joe reminded me of Kane. What a team the two of them would have made. Without hesitation I would consider these two men to be the toughest human beings I've met.

Even after I had returned home, we kept in touch – one of those bonds that you know will be lifelong. While writing this book I received an email from Joe, who was still working in Iraq. I had already written the paragraph above, trying to capture his spirit, when this message came through. It felt like my memories had conjured him up. He wrote:

Joe was killed by a roadside bomb – an explosively formed penetrator – in Baghdad in April 2007, just three days after he sent me this message.

I mourned his passing like no other and, upon hearing news of his death, went for a vicious run to clear my head. I could not have run any harder and, when I was finished, I felt physically spent and psychically raw. I delivered the contents of my stomach to the mountain. I had not shed a tear for many, many years but for Joe I made an exception. I don't know if he would have been proud or disgusted that his passing had such a profound effect on me. I tried to capture the spirit of this man in a poem.

 

Sonnet for Joe

A fearless being of strength, heart and soul.

A man of raw contrast like fire and rain.

A warrior of war who humbled all.

Your poignant passing is tainted with pain.

You have silenced hundreds in battles past,

Yet you espouse satirical humour,

And unlike human life, your art will last,

A legacy of your aesthetic hours.

Your stories as a scout remain untold,

Except for the privileged trusted few,

But soon all will read of those years of bold,

A testimony of a legend true.

A roadside bomb may have ripped you away,

But this sonnet for you is here to stay.

Back on Highway One, our convoy continued west for another 170 kilometres before we came to a bustling petrol station with several shops and a domed mosque nearby. We decided that we would try our luck and see if we could source petrol. Now we knew how Mad Max felt – driving through the desert while low on fuel. The area looked like a scene from the movie
From Dusk Till Dawn
. This was the Iraqi version of the Titty Twister, but where was Salma Hayek when you needed her?

Our vehicles were refuelled two at a time. The service station attendants refused to make eye contact, speak or liaise with us at all. It was as if they were scared of possible repercussions. But they wanted our US dollars and we needed the fuel, so our vehicles were filled while an uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Our team remained alert and courteous but offered nothing more. To act overfriendly might have been misconstrued as a sign of weakness. With our vehicles topped up, we resumed our journey without the added anxiety associated with running out of fuel.

According to my map, the next area of interest was the town of Ar Rutbah, 250 kilometres further west. This town would later become a major cause of concern as several private security details would be violently ambushed along this stretch of highway. In one instance, the insurgents wiped
out an entire convoy of 12 trucks loaded with accommodation trailers. They first targetted the two security vehicles, and once this had been achieved, they spent the next 20 kilometres systematically destroying all the others. No-one was spared. Twenty kilometres is a long way to drive an under-powered truck while being subjected to a merciless and brutal attack. The burnt-out carnage remained on the road for several weeks and was a stark reminder of the deteriorating situation. It was strange to see an accommodation hut freakishly positioned in the right-hand lane. Numerous bullet-holes and some slight damage from the relocation bore silent testimony to the attack, but otherwise it was pretty much intact. It was a surreal sight. I wondered if anyone had decided to move in.

We passed Ar Rutbah as the last rays of light sank beneath the western desert. Our four vehicles pressed on through the night, cutting through the dark like the penetrating stare of an owl. We were being transformed from diurnal creatures into creatures of the night. Who would adapt best to nocturnal operations? Who would become the hunter and who would be relegated to prey?

An icy gale battered our vehicles, as if we were being pushed around the highway by a remorseless bully. At last we came to a fork in the road: Syria or Jordan. All that remained between us and Jordan was 80 kilometres of desolate highway. Our vehicles devoured the kilometres of nothingness quickly, until we came across hundreds of sleeping trucks that were waiting for daylight and their safe passage out of Iraq.

After weaving our way through the maze of tonnage, we passed through the first checkpoint without any trouble. We continued to the final checkpoint and positioned our vehicles in an orange-gravelled open area adjacent to the crossing-point to Jordan. It had been a long, anxious drive. I established a two-man security piquet while the rest of the
team tried to snatch some sleep. But no-one could. Our vehicles became ice boxes as a deathly chill whipped, hissed and clawed at the vents and windows. When the sun finally rose, it too had a frozen heart, offering a sting to our eyes but little warmth.

We tried to freshen up before our clients arrived by splashing icy water on our faces and slicking back our hair. At the meeting, I issued a detailed brief to the clients that included not only the security situation in Iraq, but an insight as to what to expect on the roads and the set-up at the dam. Finally, and most importantly, I briefed the clients on what to do if an incident occurred. Our seven American clients were then allocated vehicles before our team magicians got to work.

Our clients had been informed to pack light, but I would hate to see what their idea of heavy was. Every vehicle was so jammed full of bags and equipment that there was no way whatsoever to see out the back. The last vehicle was the only exception – it was vital that the rear gunner was able to fire accurately if required. The clients were predominantly large men, but there was no whining about the lack of legroom. Their minds were occupied by far more pressing issues.

I informed the leader of the construction project that a lack of conversation in the vehicle should not be construed as anything personal. There would be plenty of time to get to know each other later within the safe confines of Haditha Dam. Now was work time, which for our guys meant total concentration, with little or no non-operational talk. We retraced our steps along Highway One and refuelled at the Titty Twister. Our overladen vehicles continued for several hours in relative silence until my command crackled through the speakers:

‘The turnoff for Highway Twelve is two kilometres east. Maintain spacing and close up only when overtaking. In the event of a disabled vehicle, all remaining vehicles are to continue through the incident area before propping and providing fire support. Clients and drivers are to remain in the vehicles. Over.'

‘Vehicle four – roger your last,' was the standard reply. It was not required that every vehicle confirmed receipt of the message, as that would mean excessive radio chatter. If the lead vehicle provided information then only the last vehicle was required to respond. In a large convoy of seven or more vehicles, then vehicles three or four might be briefed to repeat the transmission to ensure the signal was passed through the entire convoy. After all, a seven-vehicle convoy could easily be spread out over more than 1500 metres.

The team member who was later killed in the Mosul incident had renamed Highway Twelve ‘Ambush Alley'. Our clients had been briefed on the possible dangers of Highway Twelve, but nothing could have prepared them for the IED holes that lined the road. I announced the numerous craters during the journey, with the clients hanging on my every word. They quickly fell silent, apparently suffering from a sensory and information overload. I'm sure they were feeling pretty uncomfortable that armoured vehicles had not been sourced for this project. Their requirements would have changed, now that they had experienced the realities. But in the end, it all comes down to dollars.

It wasn't just the vehicles and equipment, or the lack thereof, responsible for my increasing sense of concern. Two members of my team were just not measuring up. The medic was beginning to fall apart from the stress, while my driver lacked skills and integrity. What a combo. Hopefully I could get rid of them before it was too late.

On a positive note, Pottie, my team 2iC, was proving himself to be solid. It would achieve nothing now to dwell on the shortfalls. We were deeply embedded inside the Sunni triangle and, unlike before, we now had seven men who had employed us to keep them alive. The weak links would have to be axed at a later date.

Another area of concern was what to do with our clients in the event that our vehicles were disabled and we had to break contact on foot. Most of these guys were reasonably fit, but there were one or two who were perhaps only one good meal away from a heart attack. I decided to employ a rearguard action where two or three contractors would attempt to delay any follow-up forces while the remainder of the team escorted the clients to a defendable location. If we received casualties, then it would be a matter of staying put and fighting it out. When travelling with clients, there was very little room to manoeuvre.

Our convoy reached Alasad Airbase in the early hours of the afternoon and, once again, our priority was to source fuel. We then re-entered the lion's den for the final, potentially violent, 40 kilometres of the journey. Even those clients who had initially put on a brave face couldn't hide their astonishment when they viewed this stretch of road. The two clients in my vehicle were tall men, but they lowered themselves nicely onto the back seat. They weren't accustomed to wearing heavy body armour or Kevlar helmets for five or six hours but there were no complaints. We also advised them to wear safety-glasses, as a window being shot out at speed would result in tiny shards of glass being propelled into their faces.

Being blinded in a contact would be terrifying. Not knowing where the enemy was, and having to put your complete trust in a stranger, would no doubt stir more than a little anxiety. I turned to see how our clients were faring, and the looks on their faces painted a picture of pure fear. Their mouths were open and their body armour appeared to be rising and falling rapidly with their laboured breathing underneath. One of the men was holding the upper sides of his armoured vest in a death grip. The tendons and veins on the rear of his hands were extended and his knuckles radiated white. I'm sure their hands were sweating – mine were. I had to continuously wipe them on my pants to prevent the sweat from making my weapon slippery.

The engineers were brave men. They weren't just scared; they were, in many cases, petrified. We security contractors could at least be partly reassured by the weapons in our hands. If all was lost we had our rifles to defend ourselves with. The rifles also offered one other possible solution in the most desperate of situations. Some of the men had discussed this explicitly, and it had a terrible but persuasive logic to it. Using a bullet on yourself would only ever be an absolute final resort, but Iraq was a place where last resorts were never far from your mind.

Images of one's head being hacked off and buzzed around the world via the internet was just not an option. A family would eventually find a way to cope with a loved one being killed in Iraq. But they would never recover from witnessing, or even knowing about, a barbaric beheading. This would haunt a man's family forever.

I had discussed this sort of thing with Colleen: ‘If I'm missing, then your nightmare is over and it's time to move on. I assure you that there's no possibility that you'll be exposed to a video of me chained up in an Iraqi dungeon and begging for my life. I'll make sure of it. My soul will be long departed from my body before you are even notified that something is wrong.'

 

Never

I will not be taken captive
and they will never steal my pride.

 

I will fight like a rabid dog,
until all my mates are gone.

 

I will then attempt to flee on foot and try to make it home,
unless my legs are taken from me,
then stay and fight I will.

 

Rest assured I'll keep on firing,
no doubt ending many lives.

 

But my final bullet saves my dignity,
I'm signing off goodnight.

Two months later, the Haditha Dam manager (an Iraqi national) approached the reconstruction project manager and delivered some startling information that resurrected
our thoughts of capture. He had been informed that the insurgents from Haditha, which had a population of 90,000, would ‘attempt to kill the security guards who drive the Pajeros and capture the American engineers'.

He stressed that this threat was very real, as the insurgents had informants working at the Haditha facility. These informants were providing information to their comrades about our team's composition, weapons and equipment, and movements.

The project manager immediately informed me. Naturally, as the leader of the security contingent, I was not overly enthused by their plan. Due to the quality and reliability of the source, I passed the information to Kuwaiti Ops and requested that all road travel cease for a 48-hour period. The request was approved.

Being captured was playing on the minds of the engineers, but it was also deep in the thoughts of some of the security contractors. Some weren't able to control their fear and requested to be removed from the project. A man would have to be beside himself to ask to be sent home before the end of his six-week rotation. Getting out of Iraq might preserve your sanity but to achieve it, other men's lives would face further risk due to an additional road move.

But confessing your inability to continue is crucial. Once a man succumbs to fear, he is only able to think about his own self-preservation. He thus becomes a liability. His sentiments are infectious and it is better to remove him immediately from the project, so that a single dose of fear doesn't become a pandemic. We read such thoughts on the faces of our engineer clients, but also on the faces of some of our consultants, who were employed to protect them.

We remained vigilant on the drive back to the dam, and fortunately our overladen vehicles made the return journey without incident. Once more we were stopped at the Azerbai
jani checkpoint, and I approached the guards on foot. Ten minutes later an American soldier granted us access. At least they were consistent.

After parking our vehicles, the entire team launched into a vigorous calf-burning workout as we unloaded them. Down seven flights of stairs, up seven flights of stairs, down seven, up seven. Breathe in a bit of methane gas and then walk up and down some more stairs. Up, down, breathe in methane, up down, gotta love the methane. Up, down and more stinking methane.

Even for someone who likes training, this was punishing. Added to this joy was the fact that several flights were in total darkness due to blown bulbs. Attempting to weave your way down a visionless stairwell with arms loaded high with stores was about as much fun as it sounds. Especially when you think the steps are finished and you stride out confidently expecting your right foot to settle at the same level as your left!

The evening was filled with briefs and admin duties. Just the thought of setting up stretchers made me want to drift off to sleep. Initially, we slept well but the evenings were frightfully cold – perhaps not quite a Siberian winter, but the chilling shadows that swept through the corridors via the broken windows and doors that were left ajar patrolled the stairwells like icy ghosts. The wintry wind that lashed the outdoor shower block was equally intimidating.

The clients were an intelligent bunch of men and impressively task-oriented. There were several among them who greatly believed in what they were doing and took a lot of pride in the fact that they were helping in the reconstruction effort. One man worth special mention was Glen, an incredibly kind-hearted soul. He was a former US marine aged in his mid-fifties. His love for his wife and children was impressive: he was a selfless man who put others first at
every step of his life. This must have been a tiresome journey for him. By the end of the project he was in a dire need of some rest. His wife sent a letter and Glen shared a small section with the project:

We remained at the dam for five days and, with the initial assessment complete, it was time to go. Most of the stretchers were buckled by the combination of bodies that were a little too heavy and stretchers that were a little too cheap. No-one likes a shoddy night's sleep. God help the insurgents: with our aching backs and impatience with freezing wind-whipped showers in the dark, taking us on would have been like trying to take a bone from a hungry dog. ‘We can return when the weather warms up a little,' laughed one of the clients. I didn't have the heart to point out the problem with this philosophy, but Haditha had nothing in between. Icy winds would be replaced by searing gales and dust. The transition, like two cars colliding, was abrupt. There was no balmy spring making life easier in between.

We thanked the US major and his operations staff before setting off. The journey along Highway Twelve passed without incident, and so did the client drop-off at Jordan. I was advised to depart for Baghdad only if I was certain I could make it back before last light. I knew we were going to be cutting it fine, but thought that the chances of being hit by a roadside bomb late in the afternoon were considerably less than first thing in the morning. We went for it.