Rover horn, and I spotted my driver looking impatiently at me through the heat haze and dust. I strode over to him.
“Are you looking for someone?” I enquired.
“Yes Sir - you,” he replied. “Land Rover to Camp Gibraltar?”
“Right, well I suggest you get out and give me a hand with my bags. If you’re not too busy, that is,” I added.
He looked for a moment as if he was about to say something, thought better of it, and reluctantly climbed out from behind the steering wheel. I strode off towards the officers’ accommodation, the driver trailing in my wake. Inside the tent I passed him my grip and webbing, leaving him wrestling with both as I carried my bergen and rifle out to the vehicle.
“Bloody hell, Sir, I’m a driver not a bag-carrier,” he grumbled as he caught me up.
“Really? Well I’m a cavalry officer and you’ll be a bloody toilet attendant if you don’t shut up and start providing some assistance,” I retorted. “I’m only asking you to carry a couple of bags, not parachute naked into an enemy minefield. I thought you were supposed to be a commando?” Peeved, the fellow just shot me a sidelong glance and went into a sulk.
Camp Gibraltar, the place where my arrival coach had stopped briefly a few short weeks earlier, was around an hour’s drive north of Camp Commando. The desert on either side of the highway was picture-book yellow, featureless and flat, punctuated only by the occasional camel train barely visible through the heat haze. My thoughts drifted as the Land Rover sped along the highway. It was still only February and already the air was starting to warm up viciously during the middle of the day. Carrying heavy loads, wearing body armour and NBC clothing and breathing through a respirator is difficult enough in any conditions, but the stifling heat of the Middle East meant that our troops would become physically degraded within a very short time. It didn’t take the brains of an archbishop to know that the war would have to begin before the real heat of the summer arrived - I reckoned the end of March was the latest possible kick-off date, perhaps even earlier depending on how quickly the hot weather snuck up on us.
After a time, through the dust, I made out a criss-cross of dirt roads cutting through the desert sand, and the earthwork ramparts of a temporary military encampment in the middle of nowhere. The Land Rover slowed and then veered off to the right hand side of the road, bouncing onto a dirt track running perpendicular to the highway. The driver quickly slid shut his window and closed the air vents as dust kicked up around the vehicle. I did likewise but nevertheless the leaky nature of the Land Rover meant we were covered in a fine film of dust even before we reached the first checkpoint, just a quarter of a mile from the tar road. A bedraggled looking soldier wearing goggles and an ill-fitting helmet asked us for some ID, which we duly displayed before driving on along the dirt road. At first there seemed to be no sign of the camp but then I saw that our dirt track was running parallel to the earthwork ramparts once again. We passed a large sign announcing the presence of the Commando Logistics Regiment, then shortly afterwards another announcing the home of 59 Commando Engineer Squadron. Finally, we swung into a gateway where a young looking Marine asked us for our ID again. Inside was row upon row of tents, many of which were flying union flags with a few Welsh dragons and St Andrew’s Crosses thrown in for good measure. The headquarters was positioned at the far end of all the accommodation tents, evident primarily from the numerous vehicles parked in close proximity. This, then, was the home of 42 Commando - and a more desolate armpit of a place one couldn’t have wished for. Beyond the earth walls of the camp there was nothing but empty desert for dozens of miles. Inside the camp there was nothing but the tents, a fistful of shipping containers, and a
“Are you looking for someone?” I enquired.
“Yes Sir - you,” he replied. “Land Rover to Camp Gibraltar?”
“Right, well I suggest you get out and give me a hand with my bags. If you’re not too busy, that is,” I added.
He looked for a moment as if he was about to say something, thought better of it, and reluctantly climbed out from behind the steering wheel. I strode off towards the officers’ accommodation, the driver trailing in my wake. Inside the tent I passed him my grip and webbing, leaving him wrestling with both as I carried my bergen and rifle out to the vehicle.
“Bloody hell, Sir, I’m a driver not a bag-carrier,” he grumbled as he caught me up.
“Really? Well I’m a cavalry officer and you’ll be a bloody toilet attendant if you don’t shut up and start providing some assistance,” I retorted. “I’m only asking you to carry a couple of bags, not parachute naked into an enemy minefield. I thought you were supposed to be a commando?” Peeved, the fellow just shot me a sidelong glance and went into a sulk.
Camp Gibraltar, the place where my arrival coach had stopped briefly a few short weeks earlier, was around an hour’s drive north of Camp Commando. The desert on either side of the highway was picture-book yellow, featureless and flat, punctuated only by the occasional camel train barely visible through the heat haze. My thoughts drifted as the Land Rover sped along the highway. It was still only February and already the air was starting to warm up viciously during the middle of the day. Carrying heavy loads, wearing body armour and NBC clothing and breathing through a respirator is difficult enough in any conditions, but the stifling heat of the Middle East meant that our troops would become physically degraded within a very short time. It didn’t take the brains of an archbishop to know that the war would have to begin before the real heat of the summer arrived - I reckoned the end of March was the latest possible kick-off date, perhaps even earlier depending on how quickly the hot weather snuck up on us.
After a time, through the dust, I made out a criss-cross of dirt roads cutting through the desert sand, and the earthwork ramparts of a temporary military encampment in the middle of nowhere. The Land Rover slowed and then veered off to the right hand side of the road, bouncing onto a dirt track running perpendicular to the highway. The driver quickly slid shut his window and closed the air vents as dust kicked up around the vehicle. I did likewise but nevertheless the leaky nature of the Land Rover meant we were covered in a fine film of dust even before we reached the first checkpoint, just a quarter of a mile from the tar road. A bedraggled looking soldier wearing goggles and an ill-fitting helmet asked us for some ID, which we duly displayed before driving on along the dirt road. At first there seemed to be no sign of the camp but then I saw that our dirt track was running parallel to the earthwork ramparts once again. We passed a large sign announcing the presence of the Commando Logistics Regiment, then shortly afterwards another announcing the home of 59 Commando Engineer Squadron. Finally, we swung into a gateway where a young looking Marine asked us for our ID again. Inside was row upon row of tents, many of which were flying union flags with a few Welsh dragons and St Andrew’s Crosses thrown in for good measure. The headquarters was positioned at the far end of all the accommodation tents, evident primarily from the numerous vehicles parked in close proximity. This, then, was the home of 42 Commando - and a more desolate armpit of a place one couldn’t have wished for. Beyond the earth walls of the camp there was nothing but empty desert for dozens of miles. Inside the camp there was nothing but the tents, a fistful of shipping containers, and a
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