Heavy Rescue.

Boom! Bang! Kapow!!!

This was not the first time this week that Jim had been blown up. In fact the three exploding shells that had just bracketed his position, which was currently face down in the sandy mud just below the road to Basra, were landing sporadically and at a comfortable 25 meters away; fairly sociable in the scheme of things. This was the third three round barrage that had been sent in his general direction after he and his team had taken cover and an unwanted distraction to their mission that was, ironically, to go forward into the mud plains and search for retreating enemy armour and report a secure route to the city. Perhaps a rather enthusiastic task for six, all be it very heavily armed, men in a light skinned vehicle.

The first burst of rounds had strafed the road a good 50 meters to the front of the vehicle and owing to the nature of the ground, that thick sticky mud that adds inches to your stature when it clings to your feet, being impossible to drive through and the time honoured tradition of Iraq being very heavily mined; recently and as a souvenir of the Iraq/ Iran war. It was for this reason that most of the mobility side of the Commandos operation relied heavily on open sections of road, elevated two meters above the floor on purpose built berms. The terrain on the journey from the salt marshes to the south had changed very little over the last few days, once across the Shatt al Arab River the floor was slightly dustier and more reminiscent of the terrain of the previous coalition expedition in 1990. However, right at that moment the ground had transformed back to the thick tar like substance Jim and his team had had first-hand experience digging into days before when the Iraqi 122mm shells had rudely landed around their position. Today the team had reacted alike and very simply. Stop, get out, grab stuff (anything and lots) and head for cover. The latter posed a problem in that, although the terrain had been sort of rolling, it lacked the BUND lines and other topographical features that appeared in many of the training areas in the UK, almost as if they were there for some purpose. The road construction did offer head height cover and by chance they selected the right side of the road by getting to the flank of the vehicle, down the slope and moving to a position to collect their thoughts and work out their next move as well as setting to work clearing and marking their immediate area for any unwanted Iraqi ordinance. On the horizon several kilometres away thick acrid black smoke pumped and choked the sky causing a murky orange haze in the air all around them, this being a parting gift from the departing Republican Guard who were igniting oil wells in their wake as they speedily departed to Baghdad or somewhere else.

Boom! Bang! Kapow!!!

The second group of shells landed close to the departed vehicle, sending gut wrenching tremors through the soles of the team’s feet and into their stomachs, even on the adjacent side of the road. The fragments of high explosive and metal shards could be clearly heard zipping by and striking the soft side of the vehicles chassis and tyres, one puncturing with a desperate rasp. At the rally point Jim rubbed his face with the sleeve of his desert fatigues and looked at the faces of his men. “Gen!” he said with a smirk. “Gen!” they replied. “So. What did we get?” he asked as he popped the clips of his daysack and started removing the high frequency radio, the size of which left little room for many luxuries in the rest of his pack. The team were without voice and karate chopped their hands at the hastily acquired ordinance at their feet. Jim was fairly impressed given the haste of their retreat: a MILAN firing post with its infra-red adapter, two K115 missiles and a box of 7.62mm link. Unfortunately the gun for the latter was still attached to the roll bar of the Haaglund- Puch vehicle and to be fair was a nause to remove in a hurry, just one problem they had encountered since their arrival in the middle east was the hasty botching and fixing of equipment and DIY to make things do the job when the mythical war stores failed to be plentiful in their supply. Not a great haul but a good effort none the less. Jim took the whip antennae from his bag and assembled the pieces and attached it to the ground spike. The tired clansman set sparked into life with an audible crackle into the handset into which Jim sent his initial contact report gathering information from a GPS and a sparse map. When there was an actual acknowledgement from the other end of the line six jaws dropped, agape at the marvel of wireless 1960’s technology. It was then the third volley of three rounds landed 25 meters to their front having overshot the covering road to Basra.

Boom! Bang! Kapow!!!

Jim had been at his girlfriend’s house in the south London Suburbs as she was tying her hair into a high golden ponytail, concurrently stuffing notes into a satchel as she prepared herself for a lecture at university, as his phone started to ring. An air of clairvoyance filled the room as if to say, “shit, this is that call isn’t it?” in light of the recent newsworthy developments that certain world leaders had come to in relation to the UK’s duty to the war on terror and the possession of WMD’s, whatever and wherever they were. Jim grinned and pressed the green answer button on his Nokia... It was. “Hello. Hi Chris. Yes. Yes. Tomorrow? Ok sir.” There was a short pause as the girl sat onto the edge of the bed with a fearful look in her blue eyes. “Ok” Jim continued. “Well the second one thanks. 42? Yeah suits me. See you tomorrow then. Cheers Chris”. Jim hung up the phone. This was to be his second trip to Iraq, whatever the excuse the politicians were trying to sell, Jims’ personal feelings were that he was returning to finish the job started in 1991 when he had visited Northern Iraq to protect persecuted groups from mass genocide. As far as he was concerned, Sadaam’s’ decisions in the early 90’s contradicted legality and had gone unpunished. “Well?” his companion asked. “That was Chris”. Jim replied and then quietly started in sing the chorus of John Denver’s leaving on a jet plane, wry smile badly hidden. The young blonde girls face flushed and a small tear formed in her right eye.

 Two days later the coach pulled up in the barracks on the edge of Dartmoor. Two days after that he was sitting in the lounge watching Electric Six on MTV in RAF Brize Norton. The next day he was in Kuwait. The mobilization from reservist back into the fold was that swift. A day spent at the mobilization centre to collect war office controlled stores, guns, unneeded binoculars and a prismatic compass, inoculations and a booze up with old colleagues prior to his demotion by one stripe so he could, at his own request, be in command of a fire support group in a Commando and not stacking blankets in brigade which was the job on offer for a Sergeant. Jim was still well known enough to slip back in to the Royal Marines comfortably and without too many feathers being ruffled. He still knew the right people that mattered and used his connections to his benefit and wisely, which sometimes ruffled a few feathers. He was aware that no matter how reputation was perceived, he was the only “rubber dagger” in the company and would have to work hard, or at least appear to be putting in the extra work to appear gleaming to those that mattered. A noble art but one Jim had mastered a long time before. This would require maximum effort also to those who were under his own wing and gaze. This not only ruffled a few feathers, but partially plucked some plumage around the areas that may smart a little. However, not ruffled himself, Jim had earned his stripes and if they were training for a war the training would be for real and relevant.

Boom! Bang!!

The rounds continued but seemingly less aggressively and still without much actual target acquisition. There was a reason for this. Moments before Jim had taken to the top of the berm amongst the dust and sparse desert grass, out of the mud and keeping his profile low had surveyed the desert for where the rounds might be coming from or who might be directing the fire, badly, towards their position. Sure enough the rounds were so far fairly ineffective but still negated the decision to make a run for it in the vehicle due to feeling of sensibility and the punctured tyre on the driver’s side. Also after 10 minutes of deliberate fire, the “Pinz” seemed to be the aiming patch being used as a reference point in this half arsed attack. The whole situation was a bit embarrassing really. Jim looked over his map and could see there was little obvious cover for miles. Overhead cables had long since been pulled down and besides the meandering rolls of the desert floor there was nothing nearby that could offer a solution. Was it more of the same artillery they had encountered before or something more sinister? To the North West there was another road built in the same fashion as their own about three or so kilometres away that lead into the city as well. On the horizon a faint wisp of smoke could be seen, then a thud in the air, followed by two rounds bursting to his left Boom! Bang!!

This time the explosions were accompanied by small wisps of dust being thrown up around the general area of the shell explosions followed by the sound of ripping cloth in the distance in the same direction. The detective work was pretty much done and Jim made a note of the grid reference of this position, most likely the enemy location and spun over onto his bottom and slid down the berm to where the rest of the team were waiting recumbently having cleared a large square of ground and placed themselves in the middle of it. As Jim arrived he was handed a large black mug of warm brown fluid recently brewed by a resourceful member of the team, if they had been pinged by an enemy why not get the wets on? Standard. “What’s the score Jim?” the tall Scottish lad from Forfar asked. Jim took a large sized slurp from the mug and tapped a Marlboro from a paper packet and lit it. “Aha gentleman, the game is afoot!” he said to blank expressions and then raised eyebrows and muttered expletives. Jim changed his composure. “So the score is this” Jim began, unfolding his map and knelt down. He went on to explain that: The fire was not likely artillery from a dodgy FOO, but from two, possibly three T54 tanks hull obscured by the adjacent stretch of road to the North. They were static, possibly damaged or obeying senseless orders on pain of torture (there was a lot of this going on) and there 100mm guns at best will hit a target 1500 meters away directly but they were firing elevated guns, hence the rubbish bombardment. “Oh and they are now firing the co axel machine gun in a botched sustained fire role vaguely as well.” He added, “best keep our heads down for a bit.”

So far Jim’s pussers’ holiday in the sun had not been without consequence. After about ten or so weeks in the Kuwait desert, while the coalition amassed and the politicians unsuccessfully generated justification, Jim trained along with his team and the rest of the company in a terrain that held no significant resemblance to the mud and marsh of southern Iraq. In this time there had been many visits from dignitaries and Sky news/ CNN/ BBC and days of tuning and honing skills as well as several 1000’s of rounds of small arms and heavy calibre ammunition being sent down make shift ranges. At the end of this transitional period the unit of 500 Marines were called to form a large hollow square where the CO arrived and wished them luck as the day of days was now upon them. Prior to the massed landing by sea, land and air, there as to be day of shock and awe when the artillery and Naval guns, along with strategic air strikes would pummel the southern end of the Al-Fawr peninsula. This was good news as the unit had already experienced incoming explosions from a handful of SCUD missiles landing uncertainly around the coalition locations with no real inconvenience caused besides several hours’ playing cards and reading inside tented accommodation in NBC suits and respirators. On one occasion while Jim had been tasked to take the General Purpose Machine guns into the desert and balance the gas settings, to obtain the correct cyclic rate of fire, several coalition US 155 shells landed disconcertingly close to his position. It was a assumed this was due to a drop short or misfire, although Jim had considered that perhaps that as a war on terror had been declared, some old feelings and grudges were still being held since the British had declared a similar war on terror and the likes of Mr Washington just two centuries before. Also a point to note was that Jim had found the American sense of humour lacked essential soldier dryness and comments like “back then you were the terrorists” were not well received.

On D day Jim’s team had waited on the helicopter landing site all through the night and through the next day when the RAF Chinook helicopter appeared from the south. Tragedy had already struck the brigade that evening when one of the US CH53 (baby Chinook) aircraft had catastrophic engine failure and crashed into the Kuwait desert, killing all of the advance force on board. As the Chinook approached Jim had moved, fully laden, to a position forward of the stick to signal the aircraft of where it was to land. He knelt with arms extended upwards, precariously balanced on one knee with his swaying backpack, that weighed the same as he did, cutting into his shoulders. Obscured by the downwash and harsh desert sand, Jim went seemingly unobserved by the pilot as the landing gear struck the top of his pack and sent him sprawling into the floor, removing the skin from his hands and jarring his neck in such a way that it failed to operate in the standard up, down, left and right functions. Minutes later, bruised and cut with a whiplashed neck, Jim was sat in the aircraft with the other men as the they flew over the crash site of the previous ill-fated flight, when suddenly their own helicopter hit a thermal with a sickening plummet in altitude and instability in the horizontal. This sudden action caused a reaction to their underslung vehicle sending it into a desperate spin on the end of its cable below and increasing the airborne dance of the Chinook. The whole team gasped in anticipation and fear by the harrowing movement and the audible thud of the rotas as they grabbed at the thin air, mostly fearful though of the RAF loadmaster’s hand that gripped the cable release ratchet, who was on all fours looking through the floor hatch at the vehicle below. No one amongst the team wanted to lose their means of transport, spare water, ammunition, noodles or confectionary that was stowed on board. With deep feelings of thanks the pilot banked the aircraft sharply and performed a 360 turn, gaining control of the vehicle. On landing Jim discovered that his GPS did not match the coordinates given for the rendezvous position, there was a distinct lack of activity in this position and the vehicle was bedded to the axels in this sticky mud and totally immovable; a four kilometre yomp followed with everything that they could carry to remain operational, weighing the same as about two Kylie Minogue’s each, silhouetted eerily in the darkness by the continuous flashes of explosions that seemed to erupt in all directions on the horizon. Once at the RV Jim organized the recovery of the mis dropped people carrier and harboured his team while order was being slowly restored by the company commander who had found troops were being dropped over various locations fairly nearby but not quite close enough to be an ideal situation. It was at this point when the 122mm shells landed.

Boom! Bang! Kapow!!!

One of which landed just behind Jim sending him sprawling, once again into the ground. “Gen!” Jim muttered as he told his men that this time they really should dig the fuck in!

The men were enjoying the comfort in the shelter of the berm to roll a fag prior to deciding whether they should stay or go. Their backs reclined on the edge of the bulldozed construction were finding Commando shaped divots in the earth and they seemed at ease, shoulders only hunching involuntarily at the occasional shell that dropped close by, the NATO tea had long since been passed round and drained the sandy bottoms of their black mugs.

Bang!

A single round blasted fragments from the other side of the road disconcertingly close, showering their helmets with sand and dust, as Jim stuffed his small self-purchased binoculars into the pouch (pronounced pooch) in his combat vest and secured the clip. This was an action that was taught religiously in training but Jim had been caught out a few days before when they had come under fire from the Iraqi Dads Army outside a port facility near Um-Qasr and while taking cover from fire had left one of his ammunition pouches (pronounced pooches) open and lost the entire contents in the kerbside of the street. “One would assume they are getting short of ammo” Jim commented. “Plan?” came a Welsh voice, its owner looking mildly concerned but not that fussed, “well the vehicle is in one piece but a little bashed with a flat” he replied. “Nowhere to turn it round, so reversing a few K on the rims is out” he added. “Take them on!” the Cardiff man offered. “Neg” said Jim, once again checking his crumpled map and reiterating their position in relation to the T54’s. “Three K and a bit, missiles wouldn’t touch them and best keep them for if they send any friends. Can’t really yomp along the berm and god knows what’s in the ground down here, however that is a desperate plan B if we have nothing left.” He picked up the HF set receiver, “I’ll see what we have in the area” he said pulling a face that had a shadow of doubt contained in it. “Tango two zero, this is tango two one alpha, over.” The dialogue that followed was a confirmation that there were next to no assets to help, no artillery in range and most of the air cover, as they were most likely accompanying the US column to the north, the Americans were on a spearhead to Baghdad at great speed, but were leaving huge areas of Iraq not cleared in their haste. “So what can you do?” Jim asked. After a long pause the reply came back, “sit tight, stay in cover and standby”, this was not received well with a communal slap of faces and “no shit” being the preferred response. Jim wiped his face and took his water bottle from his vest, took a sip. “Right, let’s get our shit together, picnics over”. He began to put the large radio set into his daysack when it occurred to him that there may well be people listening on the VHF set he was also carrying on his person. VHF would only cover a few kilometres around him and also vertically and was definitely a means to talk to passing aircraft. He pondered momentarily why he always had good ideas but ten minutes after he should have had them. “Any coalition call sign, this is tango two one alpha”. Jim broadcast a friendly and inviting message that said if anyone can help please do. The radio crackled static for several seconds then weakly he heard “Tango two one alpha this i…..”. Five bodies sat up sharply once again in disbelief, “unknown call sign two one alpha. Turn back, turn back. You are unworkable” Jim urged the welcome stranger. “Can’t hear any aircraft?” he said to his crew, whose interest in the proceedings had gone up several notches. The next few minutes painfully grinded by until confirmation came back through the smaller radio. “Tango two one alpha, we are a ground call sign in your area and can assist in figures one zero. Send sitrep, over”. “Gen” said Jim and sent an updated summary of where they were and “we are in a bit of a pickle if you can help”. “Sounds like British” the Welshman said, who was on a roll today and added, “He got the bit about tanks, right?” concerned that the response needed to be appropriate to the threat. “Two one alpha, roger, keep your heads down approaching from the north east five clicks out, standby” said the allied helper. Jim looked at his team and smiled again, “Did anyone get this character’s name?” he said. “I’ve got to see this” he added. Nods of agreement amongst the team as they team spread out sheepishly along the berm and with rifles cradled, crawled to the top and scanned the horizon through the weapons optic sites. Sure enough help was on the way, but not the usual angels from above, but an apocalyptic cloud of dust on the desert floor closing the gap towards the soviet tanks and within minutes the crack and thud of firing and impacting high explosive squash head 120mm shells around and more importantly, directly on the T54’s. “Challengers!!” several voices offered as the ensuing slaughter unfolded rapidly. Three Challenger tanks had covered the distance in no time and were firing on the move at the Iraqi position, turrets traversing as the armoured hull turned towards Jim’s position on the sweep through. The firing now complete, thick swathes of black diesel smoke appeared from the destroyed armour that had rendered them immobile and billowed skywards blending in with the already polluted sky; carbon footprints for a lifetime spent in a matter of minutes. “I don’t care who they are, that was a proper smash” said the man from Dorset. The British tanks descended on their position and halted abruptly at the top of the berm forming a triangle of terror around them, the gas turbine engines droned languidly for a few seconds and one after the other cut out. Jim stood up and involuntarily brushed himself off and unclipped his helmet. The cupola on the turret of the tank to his right flipped open and a young chubby beaming face appeared in black coveralls from its opening. “Alright lads” the man said. “Anyone want a sandwich?”