commander, I would carry a list of everyone's zap numbers with me, along with their blood groups.
Over that went my webbing. What you carry where is down to the individual. Personally, I have always hated jamming things in my leg pockets because it restricts movement, so I put everything into my webbing and shirt. Into the webbing's internal pocket went my maps. On the outsideof it were two grenade pouches, which were filled with other things because the company quartermaster didn't think it was right to issue us with grenades on a peacekeeping tour. There were also four more long pouches for rifle magazines.
In a place like that, I liked the boys to carry as much ammo as they could. The standard drill was six magazines of thirty rounds in each. But we always took out ten per bloke, plus a bandolier that held a further 150 rounds, packed into a piece of green material and slung around the shoulder. That made a total of 450 rounds of ammunition per man.
Field dressings were another must. You don't use your own on others; others use it on you. The idea is that everyone can see where it is immediately and rip it off you straight away. Most people tape them on to their webbing straps, and you write your blood group on them so the medic knows immediately what blood to pump into you. I always tried to carry two or three on me. A single dressing only holds one pint of blood, and then you'll need to smack another one on.
Wherever a soldier is, he must always carry enough food and water for twenty-four hours. So into the webbing would go most of that lot too, with a floppy water container known as a 'camel back' on your back.
Crammed into any other spare space was a silver compass, a handheld GPS device that gives an eight-figure grid reference accurate to within 12 metres, a torch, water bottles, a set of plastic handcuffs, language cards with basic Arabic, camouflage cream and a notebook. Finally, a vial of morphine and dog tags went around your neck.
Then there was what we had to carry.
The patrol commander is in charge of all the comms equipment, because he's the one that needs to talk to thedesk jockeys back at HQ. The main VHF set, a Clansman 350 or 351, went in my day sack on my back. In case that failed, I had a handheld walkie talkie radio and a normal Iraqi mobile phone on me as well.
Because of its remoteness, the comms were so bad at times in Maysan that we'd heard stories about units before us having to dial the Whitehall operator on a satellite phone in the middle of a firefight, and politely ask to be patched through to their battle group headquarters no more than a few klicks away.
Over the net, my patrol's call sign was always 'Alpha One Zero'. As its commander, my own personal call sign was 'Alpha One Zero Alpha'. The Ops Room at Cimic House was 'Zero', and Featherstone was 'Zero Alpha'. Being a radio operator was a bitch. Get one letter the wrong way round, and you've passed on an order to totally the wrong bloke.
So that the patrol itself could speak to each other, each soldier in it also carried their own Personal Role Radio (PRR). That was a microphone and an ear piece attached to a head strap and connected to a main transmitter box the size of a packet of cigarettes on your upper webbing. PRRs were on permanent receive, but to talk you had to press a button on the transmitter.
On your swede would be either a floppy hat or the regimental beret, to keep the sun off. You'd have to carry your hard helmets everywhere too in case things got hairy. They were only strong enough to stop shrapnel and glancing rounds. High-velocity bullets from close range will go straight through them.
A night vision monocle would also be in your day sack. It could either be head-mounted on your helmet, or worn around the neck on some string, as I did.
A decent knife, worn on the belt, was also a prerequisiteso you could cut through obstacles. These days, soldiers only kill with them in the movies. Everyone is trained to use
Over that went my webbing. What you carry where is down to the individual. Personally, I have always hated jamming things in my leg pockets because it restricts movement, so I put everything into my webbing and shirt. Into the webbing's internal pocket went my maps. On the outsideof it were two grenade pouches, which were filled with other things because the company quartermaster didn't think it was right to issue us with grenades on a peacekeeping tour. There were also four more long pouches for rifle magazines.
In a place like that, I liked the boys to carry as much ammo as they could. The standard drill was six magazines of thirty rounds in each. But we always took out ten per bloke, plus a bandolier that held a further 150 rounds, packed into a piece of green material and slung around the shoulder. That made a total of 450 rounds of ammunition per man.
Field dressings were another must. You don't use your own on others; others use it on you. The idea is that everyone can see where it is immediately and rip it off you straight away. Most people tape them on to their webbing straps, and you write your blood group on them so the medic knows immediately what blood to pump into you. I always tried to carry two or three on me. A single dressing only holds one pint of blood, and then you'll need to smack another one on.
Wherever a soldier is, he must always carry enough food and water for twenty-four hours. So into the webbing would go most of that lot too, with a floppy water container known as a 'camel back' on your back.
Crammed into any other spare space was a silver compass, a handheld GPS device that gives an eight-figure grid reference accurate to within 12 metres, a torch, water bottles, a set of plastic handcuffs, language cards with basic Arabic, camouflage cream and a notebook. Finally, a vial of morphine and dog tags went around your neck.
Then there was what we had to carry.
The patrol commander is in charge of all the comms equipment, because he's the one that needs to talk to thedesk jockeys back at HQ. The main VHF set, a Clansman 350 or 351, went in my day sack on my back. In case that failed, I had a handheld walkie talkie radio and a normal Iraqi mobile phone on me as well.
Because of its remoteness, the comms were so bad at times in Maysan that we'd heard stories about units before us having to dial the Whitehall operator on a satellite phone in the middle of a firefight, and politely ask to be patched through to their battle group headquarters no more than a few klicks away.
Over the net, my patrol's call sign was always 'Alpha One Zero'. As its commander, my own personal call sign was 'Alpha One Zero Alpha'. The Ops Room at Cimic House was 'Zero', and Featherstone was 'Zero Alpha'. Being a radio operator was a bitch. Get one letter the wrong way round, and you've passed on an order to totally the wrong bloke.
So that the patrol itself could speak to each other, each soldier in it also carried their own Personal Role Radio (PRR). That was a microphone and an ear piece attached to a head strap and connected to a main transmitter box the size of a packet of cigarettes on your upper webbing. PRRs were on permanent receive, but to talk you had to press a button on the transmitter.
On your swede would be either a floppy hat or the regimental beret, to keep the sun off. You'd have to carry your hard helmets everywhere too in case things got hairy. They were only strong enough to stop shrapnel and glancing rounds. High-velocity bullets from close range will go straight through them.
A night vision monocle would also be in your day sack. It could either be head-mounted on your helmet, or worn around the neck on some string, as I did.
A decent knife, worn on the belt, was also a prerequisiteso you could cut through obstacles. These days, soldiers only kill with them in the movies. Everyone is trained to use
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