Read Online Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq by H.C. Tayler - Free Book Online
Authors: H.C. Tayler
Tags: Fiction
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interview but managed to stutter out a rough summary of my military CV: Bosnia, Northern Ireland, Congo, Kosovo, Sierra Leone, Afghanistan, plus a few exercises and the ubiquitous pass at Junior Staff College. The CO seemed entirely unimpressed, which rather took the wind of out of my sails.
“All very good, but what else have you done?” he asked. Then, to clarify, “Frankly, any medal-collecting war tourist could have managed a raft of peacekeeping operations. They’re two-a-penny these days. What I’m interested in is your tactical knowledge of armoured deployments. What makes you a particular expert on armoured warfare?”
This was much harder to answer as so much of my time had, as he alluded to, been spent away from my regiment. I waffled out a rather weak answer and pointed out that I had spent some time in both Germany and Bosnia with a Challenger squadron back in the mid-nineties. I was expecting another stiff questioning about my exact role but the answer seemed to placate him and the conversation moved on to the current political situation and the impending hostilities.
“So how long do you think we’ll be stuck here?” he asked, his impatience transparent through the question. “You’ve come from Brigade, what’s the word on the street about when we’ll cross the start line?”
This was potentially stony ground. I was rapidly realising that the ambition of most Royal Marines was simply to get stuck into a good fight sooner rather than later and this mindset wasn’t limited to the boys, it was reflected throughout the hierarchy as well. I was savvy enough to know that my inner craving for a peaceful solution to the situation - not to mention a rapid (and safe) return home to Blighty - would be as welcome as a jobby in a swimming pool. No, this was a time for a spot of the traditional Flashman bravado.
“Well Sir, there’s a huge air of expectation and impatience at Camp Commando,” I answered. “Division is keeping tight-lipped about the start date, but then most of those wankers are more interested in writing their own CRs than getting on with the war.” (6) The CO chuckled conspiratorially and I sensed I may have struck a chord, “The Americans are more forthcoming though. They’ll tell you pretty much everything over a cup of tea and a sticky bun - to the point where Div has gone apeshit about Marines talking direct with them - and they reckon we’ll be in Iraq in the next couple of weeks.”
“Well that’s heartening to hear,” he replied. “It’s bloody hard graft keeping 700 blokes motivated day after day. The Unit is doing well at the moment, but these interminable delays will inevitably take their toll on morale in the end. We’ve been ready to go for weeks. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner we get the green light, the better.”
Before I departed Camp Commando, I had taken time to find out a little about 42 Commando’s CO. A mountain leader by trade, he was something of a task-master who led from the front and had a reputation for expecting - and getting - the highest standard of work from all around him. Expecting high standards from his men didn’t faze me too much (although given the opportunity I generally prefer to shirk a day’s work wherever possible) but I was much more worried by his background as a mountain leader. Royal Marines mountain leaders are a rare breed of lunatic whose trade involves scaling slippery, rainswept cliffs at night, snurgling around in the dark like so many cat burglars and throttling unsuspecting sentries. They are an altogether unsavoury mob whose attitude to risk is significantly more cavalier than the rest of humanity. In itself that’s not necessarily a disaster: if a fellow is determined to kill himself in some ill-conceived enterprise, that’s his business and all power to him, I say. But when that same fellow is given command of 700-odd souls and told to take them into battle, the alarm bells start jangling. I hoped that 42
“All very good, but what else have you done?” he asked. Then, to clarify, “Frankly, any medal-collecting war tourist could have managed a raft of peacekeeping operations. They’re two-a-penny these days. What I’m interested in is your tactical knowledge of armoured deployments. What makes you a particular expert on armoured warfare?”
This was much harder to answer as so much of my time had, as he alluded to, been spent away from my regiment. I waffled out a rather weak answer and pointed out that I had spent some time in both Germany and Bosnia with a Challenger squadron back in the mid-nineties. I was expecting another stiff questioning about my exact role but the answer seemed to placate him and the conversation moved on to the current political situation and the impending hostilities.
“So how long do you think we’ll be stuck here?” he asked, his impatience transparent through the question. “You’ve come from Brigade, what’s the word on the street about when we’ll cross the start line?”
This was potentially stony ground. I was rapidly realising that the ambition of most Royal Marines was simply to get stuck into a good fight sooner rather than later and this mindset wasn’t limited to the boys, it was reflected throughout the hierarchy as well. I was savvy enough to know that my inner craving for a peaceful solution to the situation - not to mention a rapid (and safe) return home to Blighty - would be as welcome as a jobby in a swimming pool. No, this was a time for a spot of the traditional Flashman bravado.
“Well Sir, there’s a huge air of expectation and impatience at Camp Commando,” I answered. “Division is keeping tight-lipped about the start date, but then most of those wankers are more interested in writing their own CRs than getting on with the war.” (6) The CO chuckled conspiratorially and I sensed I may have struck a chord, “The Americans are more forthcoming though. They’ll tell you pretty much everything over a cup of tea and a sticky bun - to the point where Div has gone apeshit about Marines talking direct with them - and they reckon we’ll be in Iraq in the next couple of weeks.”
“Well that’s heartening to hear,” he replied. “It’s bloody hard graft keeping 700 blokes motivated day after day. The Unit is doing well at the moment, but these interminable delays will inevitably take their toll on morale in the end. We’ve been ready to go for weeks. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner we get the green light, the better.”
Before I departed Camp Commando, I had taken time to find out a little about 42 Commando’s CO. A mountain leader by trade, he was something of a task-master who led from the front and had a reputation for expecting - and getting - the highest standard of work from all around him. Expecting high standards from his men didn’t faze me too much (although given the opportunity I generally prefer to shirk a day’s work wherever possible) but I was much more worried by his background as a mountain leader. Royal Marines mountain leaders are a rare breed of lunatic whose trade involves scaling slippery, rainswept cliffs at night, snurgling around in the dark like so many cat burglars and throttling unsuspecting sentries. They are an altogether unsavoury mob whose attitude to risk is significantly more cavalier than the rest of humanity. In itself that’s not necessarily a disaster: if a fellow is determined to kill himself in some ill-conceived enterprise, that’s his business and all power to him, I say. But when that same fellow is given command of 700-odd souls and told to take them into battle, the alarm bells start jangling. I hoped that 42
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