Iraq be any different?”
In late 2001 six hundred Afghan and foreign prisoners cooped up in the Qala-i-Jangi fortress near the northern Afghan city of Mazar-i-Sharif had turned on their captors. They overpowered and killed Johnny Mike Spann, an operative from the CIA’s Special Activities Division (SAD), its paramilitary force. That was the trigger for an epic uprising, one in which the so-called prisoners seized the fort’s weapons store and armed themselves to the teeth. Againstthe six hundred were ranged one troop of SBS operators—Grey and Scruff included—plus a bunch of U.S. 10 th Mountain soldiers.
CIA operative Johnny Spann was the first allied casualty of the post-9/11 war in Afghanistan. A savage battle had ensued as the six hundred “prisoners” fought to the last man and the last round. They resisted repeated air strikes called in by the British and American forces, not to mention sorties by T-55 main battle tanks operated by the Northern Alliance.
Scruff and Grey had fought a desperate battle from the fort’s battlements, in which they used GPMGs and assault rifles to mow down waves of fighters attempting to rush their position. Many of the enemy sported suicide belts cobbled together from grenades, and they tried to blow themselves up right on top of the British operatives. Those repelling the assault—Scruff and Grey foremost amongst them—believed they were going to die in that fort, so unwinnable had the battle seemed.
With two dozen ranged against six hundred, the odds had been horribly stacked against them. The brutal siege had lasted eight bloody days, at the end of which a rump of enemy fighters remained barricaded in the fort’s dungeon. The only way to force them to surrender was to pour diesel fuel into the underground chambers and burn them out. But even that wasn’t enough to force the last diehards to give up. Thousands of gallons of cold water had to be pumped belowground before the few survivors were forced to surrender or face death by drowning. It took that level of base medieval brutality to force a few dozen survivors to surrender in Afghanistan; the grim reality of Qala-i-Jangi was forever burned into Grey’s and Scruff’s minds.
If there was one lesson they had learned from the siege of Qala-i-Jangi, it was that battle-hardened Muslim males weren’t generally up for surrendering to the infidel.
In light of that experience, the idea that a 100,000-strong Iraqi corps might choose to give themselves up to sixty lightly armed British soldiers seemed to stretch the bounds of credulity.
“Still, ours not to reason why, eh, mate?” Scruff remarked.
Grey forced a smile. “Yeah, once more into the breach and all that yada, yada, yada.”
In truth, Grey figured, there wasn’t a man in that tent who didn’t want to get on the ground in Iraq on this mission. Sure, Mucker, his quad biker, looked his usual grumpy self. And Gunner—the quad force commander—threw him a look that said: This is all total bullshit. But one glance at Moth and the Dude, and some of the other young guns, and he could tell they were right up for it. Even Sebastian—their highborn terp—had an expression on his face like Christmas had come early.
Grey knew he had a reputation for being a real grouch in the Squadron, and he didn’t always want to be the naysayer. He had to lead a number of the young guys, which meant that he had to enthuse and inspire, and he couldn’t forever be the downbeat voice. Plus there was a part of him that thrilled to the prospect of this mission. It was the kind of epic undertaking that he had trained for tirelessly over two decades of elite soldiering. Being in a Special Forces squadron was a little like being a top boxer: you could hit the bag all your life, but there was nothing to beat getting into the ring to fight for real.
Yet, once they got into the nitty-gritty of how to plan and execute the mission, he was going to have to air a note of caution and raise some
In late 2001 six hundred Afghan and foreign prisoners cooped up in the Qala-i-Jangi fortress near the northern Afghan city of Mazar-i-Sharif had turned on their captors. They overpowered and killed Johnny Mike Spann, an operative from the CIA’s Special Activities Division (SAD), its paramilitary force. That was the trigger for an epic uprising, one in which the so-called prisoners seized the fort’s weapons store and armed themselves to the teeth. Againstthe six hundred were ranged one troop of SBS operators—Grey and Scruff included—plus a bunch of U.S. 10 th Mountain soldiers.
CIA operative Johnny Spann was the first allied casualty of the post-9/11 war in Afghanistan. A savage battle had ensued as the six hundred “prisoners” fought to the last man and the last round. They resisted repeated air strikes called in by the British and American forces, not to mention sorties by T-55 main battle tanks operated by the Northern Alliance.
Scruff and Grey had fought a desperate battle from the fort’s battlements, in which they used GPMGs and assault rifles to mow down waves of fighters attempting to rush their position. Many of the enemy sported suicide belts cobbled together from grenades, and they tried to blow themselves up right on top of the British operatives. Those repelling the assault—Scruff and Grey foremost amongst them—believed they were going to die in that fort, so unwinnable had the battle seemed.
With two dozen ranged against six hundred, the odds had been horribly stacked against them. The brutal siege had lasted eight bloody days, at the end of which a rump of enemy fighters remained barricaded in the fort’s dungeon. The only way to force them to surrender was to pour diesel fuel into the underground chambers and burn them out. But even that wasn’t enough to force the last diehards to give up. Thousands of gallons of cold water had to be pumped belowground before the few survivors were forced to surrender or face death by drowning. It took that level of base medieval brutality to force a few dozen survivors to surrender in Afghanistan; the grim reality of Qala-i-Jangi was forever burned into Grey’s and Scruff’s minds.
If there was one lesson they had learned from the siege of Qala-i-Jangi, it was that battle-hardened Muslim males weren’t generally up for surrendering to the infidel.
In light of that experience, the idea that a 100,000-strong Iraqi corps might choose to give themselves up to sixty lightly armed British soldiers seemed to stretch the bounds of credulity.
“Still, ours not to reason why, eh, mate?” Scruff remarked.
Grey forced a smile. “Yeah, once more into the breach and all that yada, yada, yada.”
In truth, Grey figured, there wasn’t a man in that tent who didn’t want to get on the ground in Iraq on this mission. Sure, Mucker, his quad biker, looked his usual grumpy self. And Gunner—the quad force commander—threw him a look that said: This is all total bullshit. But one glance at Moth and the Dude, and some of the other young guns, and he could tell they were right up for it. Even Sebastian—their highborn terp—had an expression on his face like Christmas had come early.
Grey knew he had a reputation for being a real grouch in the Squadron, and he didn’t always want to be the naysayer. He had to lead a number of the young guys, which meant that he had to enthuse and inspire, and he couldn’t forever be the downbeat voice. Plus there was a part of him that thrilled to the prospect of this mission. It was the kind of epic undertaking that he had trained for tirelessly over two decades of elite soldiering. Being in a Special Forces squadron was a little like being a top boxer: you could hit the bag all your life, but there was nothing to beat getting into the ring to fight for real.
Yet, once they got into the nitty-gritty of how to plan and execute the mission, he was going to have to air a note of caution and raise some
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