and stuck
his SA80 out into the gloom. The GPMG turret
swung right as we passed through Saddam's
majestic gates. We were out of the compound.
Nobody said a word. Through a haze of dust
piling in through the mortar hatch, I'd caught the
occasional glimpse of clear starlit night. Now I
began to see bulbs. They dangled across the
streets like strings of big party lights, and led off
to concrete-block houses at either side. Normal
street-lighting had been fucked years ago.
Faded billboards advertised Marlboro and
Nescafé, and gave a message in Arabic that I
guessed said Gillette was the best a man could
get. The newest ones advertised Iraqna, the
country's mobile-phone network.
Washing hung from balconies above closed-up
shop fronts. Kids' Teletubby T-shirts and football
shirts were soon filthy again from the dustcloud
we kicked up. From this angle, I could have been
in the back streets of Naples.
The wagon came to a sudden halt. Dave
pushed down the lever on the big metal door and
let it swing open. No hydraulics on these old
things. He grabbed the top cover to tell him to
jump out with him.
Dom was confused. 'We there already?'
Through the open door, I could see the top
cover was already taking a fire position by a
wrecked car.
'Not yet.' Dave kept the door open and yelled
to Pete to jump out with his IR camera. 'There's
time to film if you want. One of the locations saw
where the rockets came from and called in a fire
mission. We can't go any further until it's done.'
Sonia eased her feet out of the way so
Pete could dismount, and Dom was close behind.
I followed, glad to be out of the wagon even
after such a short time. 'How long we got?'
'Just enough to make sure the fuckers don't hit
us as well as the firing points – it's only about a
K away.'
Dave pushed the door shut and Sonia locked it
from the inside.
'Who's firing?'
'The artillery. We've got a 105 from the COB on
the case. That's why we stay well back. Can't
trust them to shoot straight.' Dave chortled away
to himself.
I made sure Dom and Pete were in cover, then
sheltered in a doorway. Lights went out all round
us. I pictured kids and grannies being jammed
under tables for a bit of protection. The locals
knew as well as we did that shit was on its way.
If the Brits were static, they were a target.
12
The whole company was shaken out in all-round
defence along the road. My PRR was alive with
guys making sure all the arcs were covered.
Pete started filming as Riflemen pulled down
the night-viewing aids attached to their helmets
over their non-aiming eye. The NVAs on their
weapons were already switched on, ready to take
aim if they saw a target. Alot of them had chosen
to wear their normal dark green camouflage
smocks. Some had also covered their helmets
with dark green covers. It was a matter of
personal choice. They were fighting at night in a
town, not in a sandpit.
Nothing could be heard above the rumble of
the Bulldogs and the now much calmer chat
on the net. I'd just taken a couple of steps out of
my doorway to get closer to Dom when a loud
whoosh overhead was followed by an explosion
as a 105mm artillery shell slammed into the city
ahead of us.
Dave ran over to me as another whistled over
our heads. He crouched against a Datsun that
looked like it was held together with gaffer-tape.
'I bet they don't tell you about any of this shit
back home, eh? Can you imagine what the
papers would say?' He ran his hand along an
imaginary headline in the air. 'British Artillery
Shells Basra.'
A third 105 round landed, and seconds later an
AK opened up just ahead. Two Bulldog guns and
six or seven SA80s returned fire.
Two more AKs opened up. The PRRs were
jumping and the CSM got on the net. 'Leave 'em,
we've got things to do. Let's go, mount up.'
The Bulldogs' guns kept up the rates as guys
jumped back in. I grabbed hold of Dom and Pete.
Dave and the medic kept their covering positions
as Sonia held open the door. We scrambled in
and the others
his SA80 out into the gloom. The GPMG turret
swung right as we passed through Saddam's
majestic gates. We were out of the compound.
Nobody said a word. Through a haze of dust
piling in through the mortar hatch, I'd caught the
occasional glimpse of clear starlit night. Now I
began to see bulbs. They dangled across the
streets like strings of big party lights, and led off
to concrete-block houses at either side. Normal
street-lighting had been fucked years ago.
Faded billboards advertised Marlboro and
Nescafé, and gave a message in Arabic that I
guessed said Gillette was the best a man could
get. The newest ones advertised Iraqna, the
country's mobile-phone network.
Washing hung from balconies above closed-up
shop fronts. Kids' Teletubby T-shirts and football
shirts were soon filthy again from the dustcloud
we kicked up. From this angle, I could have been
in the back streets of Naples.
The wagon came to a sudden halt. Dave
pushed down the lever on the big metal door and
let it swing open. No hydraulics on these old
things. He grabbed the top cover to tell him to
jump out with him.
Dom was confused. 'We there already?'
Through the open door, I could see the top
cover was already taking a fire position by a
wrecked car.
'Not yet.' Dave kept the door open and yelled
to Pete to jump out with his IR camera. 'There's
time to film if you want. One of the locations saw
where the rockets came from and called in a fire
mission. We can't go any further until it's done.'
Sonia eased her feet out of the way so
Pete could dismount, and Dom was close behind.
I followed, glad to be out of the wagon even
after such a short time. 'How long we got?'
'Just enough to make sure the fuckers don't hit
us as well as the firing points – it's only about a
K away.'
Dave pushed the door shut and Sonia locked it
from the inside.
'Who's firing?'
'The artillery. We've got a 105 from the COB on
the case. That's why we stay well back. Can't
trust them to shoot straight.' Dave chortled away
to himself.
I made sure Dom and Pete were in cover, then
sheltered in a doorway. Lights went out all round
us. I pictured kids and grannies being jammed
under tables for a bit of protection. The locals
knew as well as we did that shit was on its way.
If the Brits were static, they were a target.
12
The whole company was shaken out in all-round
defence along the road. My PRR was alive with
guys making sure all the arcs were covered.
Pete started filming as Riflemen pulled down
the night-viewing aids attached to their helmets
over their non-aiming eye. The NVAs on their
weapons were already switched on, ready to take
aim if they saw a target. Alot of them had chosen
to wear their normal dark green camouflage
smocks. Some had also covered their helmets
with dark green covers. It was a matter of
personal choice. They were fighting at night in a
town, not in a sandpit.
Nothing could be heard above the rumble of
the Bulldogs and the now much calmer chat
on the net. I'd just taken a couple of steps out of
my doorway to get closer to Dom when a loud
whoosh overhead was followed by an explosion
as a 105mm artillery shell slammed into the city
ahead of us.
Dave ran over to me as another whistled over
our heads. He crouched against a Datsun that
looked like it was held together with gaffer-tape.
'I bet they don't tell you about any of this shit
back home, eh? Can you imagine what the
papers would say?' He ran his hand along an
imaginary headline in the air. 'British Artillery
Shells Basra.'
A third 105 round landed, and seconds later an
AK opened up just ahead. Two Bulldog guns and
six or seven SA80s returned fire.
Two more AKs opened up. The PRRs were
jumping and the CSM got on the net. 'Leave 'em,
we've got things to do. Let's go, mount up.'
The Bulldogs' guns kept up the rates as guys
jumped back in. I grabbed hold of Dom and Pete.
Dave and the medic kept their covering positions
as Sonia held open the door. We scrambled in
and the others
Similar Books
