Read Online Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq by H.C. Tayler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: H.C. Tayler
Tags: Fiction
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Commando’s staff would keep him reined in but in my heart I suspected that when push came to shove, we would be shoved firmly into harm’s way.
My interview - for that was what it felt like - with the CO over, I made my way blinking out of his tent, momentarily dazzled by the strong desert sun. I now felt as if I had formally joined the battle group but still had no accommodation and only a faint idea of the geography of the camp. It was time to find a home and get my bearings. I set off in search of the QM whom I assumed would be the man in charge of accommodation. When I eventually tracked him down, his answer was less than satisfactory. (7)
“Bloody hell, another new joiner.” I looked suitably dismayed, but he quickly shook me by the hand, welcomed me to this “armpit of a place”, and assured me he’d find some kind of accommodation before the day was done. I wasn’t entirely reassured but set off for a walk around the camp while he went in search of spare tentage.
Camp Gibraltar was essentially nothing more than a huge rectangle of earth walls, separated into three equal sections by dividing earth walls. It took me almost an hour to walk all the way around, my feet slipping in the loose sand that had already been churned up by hundreds of Marines running countless laps of the perimeter. In the section of the camp nearest the road lay the Commando Logistics Regiment and 3 Brigade’s Command Support Group. The place was full of shipping containers, fuel tankers, tents and vehicles, and festooned with radio masts, satellite dishes and other assorted communications paraphernalia. Fork-lift trucks and flat bed lorries moved antlike around the camp, shifting endless supplies of food, water and ammunition from one place to another. Sensibly, most of the troops I could see were sitting under canvas shade awnings with their feet up, relaxing in the midday heat. Logisticians seem to have an innate ability to know when it’s time to get busy, and that time was clearly not now.
The middle portion of the camp housed the gunners of 29 Commando Artillery Regiment, the Commando Engineers of 59 Squadron, and the Brigade Reconnaissance Force. A long line of howitzers ran parallel to the central dirt track, their barrels all neatly elevated to precisely the same angle. This was the artillery support for 3 Commando Brigade and they would be tasked with pounding southern Iraq with shells before the Marines flew in. The more HE they dropped, the better the chance that Joe Iraqi would be ancient history before I arrived, and that could only be a good thing as far as I was concerned. (8) It was, therefore, quite a heart-warming sight to see so many guns lined up and ready for action. Beyond them lay numerous accommodation tents, and on the far side of the camp I could discern small groups of men tinkering with the machine-gun mounts on a number of stripped-down Land Rovers. The vehicles alone would have marked them out as the Brigade Recce Force but there were several other obvious giveaways too. Several of their number were sporting beards, something which would never be tolerated outside a special forces environment. And all of them were wearing old-fashioned, hooded, russet-brown windproof smocks which looked remarkably like Luke Skywalker’s Jedi cloak. I had no idea what the attraction of such a garment should be, but it certainly served to tell the world they were something different. As I got closer I could also see that they had spray painted their rifles in various shades of desert yellow, something which run-of-the-mill soldiers would certainly not be allowed to do. It was the job of these foolhardy idiots to push miles forward of the commando units, deep into enemy territory, to assess Iraqi troop dispositions and to find suitable targets for airstrikes. And for this highly dangerous mission, they would have no armour whatsoever and be equipped only with open-top Land Rovers. The very thought made me shudder and I
My interview - for that was what it felt like - with the CO over, I made my way blinking out of his tent, momentarily dazzled by the strong desert sun. I now felt as if I had formally joined the battle group but still had no accommodation and only a faint idea of the geography of the camp. It was time to find a home and get my bearings. I set off in search of the QM whom I assumed would be the man in charge of accommodation. When I eventually tracked him down, his answer was less than satisfactory. (7)
“Bloody hell, another new joiner.” I looked suitably dismayed, but he quickly shook me by the hand, welcomed me to this “armpit of a place”, and assured me he’d find some kind of accommodation before the day was done. I wasn’t entirely reassured but set off for a walk around the camp while he went in search of spare tentage.
Camp Gibraltar was essentially nothing more than a huge rectangle of earth walls, separated into three equal sections by dividing earth walls. It took me almost an hour to walk all the way around, my feet slipping in the loose sand that had already been churned up by hundreds of Marines running countless laps of the perimeter. In the section of the camp nearest the road lay the Commando Logistics Regiment and 3 Brigade’s Command Support Group. The place was full of shipping containers, fuel tankers, tents and vehicles, and festooned with radio masts, satellite dishes and other assorted communications paraphernalia. Fork-lift trucks and flat bed lorries moved antlike around the camp, shifting endless supplies of food, water and ammunition from one place to another. Sensibly, most of the troops I could see were sitting under canvas shade awnings with their feet up, relaxing in the midday heat. Logisticians seem to have an innate ability to know when it’s time to get busy, and that time was clearly not now.
The middle portion of the camp housed the gunners of 29 Commando Artillery Regiment, the Commando Engineers of 59 Squadron, and the Brigade Reconnaissance Force. A long line of howitzers ran parallel to the central dirt track, their barrels all neatly elevated to precisely the same angle. This was the artillery support for 3 Commando Brigade and they would be tasked with pounding southern Iraq with shells before the Marines flew in. The more HE they dropped, the better the chance that Joe Iraqi would be ancient history before I arrived, and that could only be a good thing as far as I was concerned. (8) It was, therefore, quite a heart-warming sight to see so many guns lined up and ready for action. Beyond them lay numerous accommodation tents, and on the far side of the camp I could discern small groups of men tinkering with the machine-gun mounts on a number of stripped-down Land Rovers. The vehicles alone would have marked them out as the Brigade Recce Force but there were several other obvious giveaways too. Several of their number were sporting beards, something which would never be tolerated outside a special forces environment. And all of them were wearing old-fashioned, hooded, russet-brown windproof smocks which looked remarkably like Luke Skywalker’s Jedi cloak. I had no idea what the attraction of such a garment should be, but it certainly served to tell the world they were something different. As I got closer I could also see that they had spray painted their rifles in various shades of desert yellow, something which run-of-the-mill soldiers would certainly not be allowed to do. It was the job of these foolhardy idiots to push miles forward of the commando units, deep into enemy territory, to assess Iraqi troop dispositions and to find suitable targets for airstrikes. And for this highly dangerous mission, they would have no armour whatsoever and be equipped only with open-top Land Rovers. The very thought made me shudder and I
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