Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq by H.C. Tayler Page A

couple of portakabin-style buildings which functioned as the ablution blocks for over 700 men. My spirits, already low, took a further battering as I realised the paucity of the living conditions compared with the Brigade Headquarters, which itself was hardly the lap of luxury. It was exactly the kind of isolated, frugal existence that the Marines would love, especially as it ensured that officers and men would share living quarters. (For reasons I have yet to fathom, this holds immense appeal to the egalitarian ranks of the Marine Corps.) Still, this wasn’t the moment for moping - there would be plenty of time for that in the weeks to come. I needed to introduce myself to the CO and his staff, and find myself a bed-space somewhere.
    My sulking driver dropped my bags outside the headquarters tent and sped off, presumably in a hurry to get away before I had the opportunity to task him with any more work. A stiff breeze was scudding across the camp, blowing little puffs of sand along the floor and ensuring that vehicle tracks and footprints disappeared almost as rapidly as they were made.
    On the far side of the camp a squad of Marines in PT kit ran along the perimeter wall, sand and dust billowing up in the breeze from the combined action of 20-odd pairs of training shoes. Overhead, the sun was beating down and I could make out the dull thump of distant rotor blades from a passing transport helicopter. Asides from that noise though, the camp seemed remarkably quiet. I lifted the flap of the tent and stepped inside.
    The commando headquarters tent was divided into three discreet sections. There was a large briefing area, into which I stepped, which also housed the duty signallers and the chief clerk. Beyond it lay a smaller briefing area, which housed a large map table and various workstations adorned with dust-covered laptop computers. This area was a hive of activity, with around a dozen officers and warrant officers all poring over a huge black-and-white aerial photograph of, I presumed, some not-too-distant part of Iraq. At the back of this briefing area hung a large curtain, beyond which was housed 42 Commando’s intelligence section. Nobody challenged my entrance to the ops room and all inside seemed engrossed in their various activities, so I placed my rifle in the rather homespun wooden rack provided and then stood for a few seconds and earwigged at the on-going conversation.
    “... if the Iraqis launch an armoured counter-attack, they’ve really only got two possible routes to follow - here, and here. We can get a blocking force deployed on those routes pretty bloody quickly once we hit the ground. That’s got to be our first priority. Then we can start sending probing patrols north and west to find out where the enemy depth positions are . . .” I peered into the group, but could not make out any of the detail of the air photograph they were examining. However, I knew from the Brigade Headquarters briefings that 42 Commando was flying directly onto the Al Faw peninsular, right on Iraq’s south-eastern tip. Equally, I knew the strategic significance of grabbing the Al Faw oil installations intact. It was a distinct possibility that the Iraqis would blow the high-pressure oil pipelines, thereby flooding the northern Gulf with crude. The environmental damage would be huge, and so would the PR damage back home, so the pressure was on to ensure that whoever landed on the Al Faw did it quickly and cleanly, and allowed the Iraqis the least possible opportunity to create any deliberate collateral damage. 40 Commando - the sister unit to the one I found myself in - would lead the assault, while 42 Commando landed on their north-western flank to deal with Iraqi depth positions and block any possible counter attack. The wide open spaces inland from the tip of the peninsular were potentially good country for armoured warfare, so 42 Commando was to have an attached squadron of Welsh Cavalry to provide an armoured recce