Read Online Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq by H.C. Tayler - Free Book Online Page B

silently wished them luck as I made my way eastwards past the Royal Engineers’ tents that were sprinkled throughout that portion of the camp. Beyond the dividing dirt wall, 42 Commando’s set-up looked remarkably like the mounting centre for a battalion engaged in the Zulu wars, rather than a 21st Century fighting force. The tents were arranged in serried rows, unit and Union flags fluttering from the apexes. Everything within the camp had been arranged in straight lines and neat squares. Even the portaloos stood proudly together in one long line. It smacked of a tight-knit, well-drilled unit and appealed immensely to the career military man in me. Unhappily, it also smacked of the kind of unit which would be first across the start line which, since I was now a part of it, was a deeply troubling thought. I pushed it out of my mind as I strode through the sand and instead focused on watching another group of Marines doubling past in PT kit, sweat-drenched T-shirts stuck to their backs while words of encouragement were shouted by the troop commander trotting alongside. You had to hand it to these fellows, they may be foolhardy but they were bloody keen too. My attention was diverted as I heard my name being shouted from across the camp. I picked out the QM who was stood outside a line of shipping containers, waving his arms at me and hollering. When I got to him, I was more than a little dismayed to see that he was stood atop a ragged bundle of dark green canvas which, he explained, was to be my accommodation.
    “I’ve looked into it Harry and all the accommodation tents are toppers,” he explained. “This is your only option mate.” I stared down at the canvas bag in disbelief. “The good news is, you won’t be lonely. We’re expecting a two-man combat camera crew to join the unit this afternoon and they’ll be sharing it with you. You might as well wait until they arrive to put it up, as it’s not really a one-man job.” I made no attempt to hide my disappointment - but at least I would have a roof over my head which was, I supposed, the main thing. The QM suggested I join him for a cup of tea which was undoubtedly the best idea I had heard all day, particularly since I was parched after my circuit of Camp Gibraltar.
    Much like Des & Kit’s place at the Brigade Headquarters, 42 Commando boasted a communal tea and coffee facility in the middle of the camp. Adjacent to the dining tent, this little haven of calm was frequented by everyone in the battle group and was consequently the centre of gravity for information exchange and gossip of every kind. Admittedly there were no good natured chefs doling out hot drinks but the self-service variety tasted almost as good and the very fact the facility existed gave an air of legitimacy to those wishing to while away hours doing very little. I was sure I would be spending much time there over the coming days. As the QM made tea, I eavesdropped on a conversation being held by a bunch of NCOs, which centred around the Commando’s newly-issued weaponry.
    “ . . .and bam! I got the shot off, then just waited and whack, a couple of seconds later, down he went. Proper job, hit him right in the middle of the chest - killed outright, he was.” I was sure I recognised this fellow and later I realised why - he had served in Afghanistan at the same time as me a year earlier, which is where his story came from. The conversation continued apace.
    “That’s gotta be bollocks about the range - I’m bloody certain you couldn’t get a kill at over a mile,” countered his colleague.
    “Pukka gen,” came the reply. “I know cos I used the laser rangefinder to find out. It’s cos the air’s thin at altitude, the rounds can travel further.” (9)
    “I get that bit, but 1800 metres is still over the top. And anyway you have trouble hitting targets at 300 metres on a range so what chance have you got of topping anyone at over a mile?”
    This was met with a good-humoured tirade of