Then there was Ray. Private Chris 'Ray' Rayment from Mortar Platoon had the most uncanny knack of getting mortared everywhere he went. So much so, he became known as the Mortar Magnet. Every sangar he did sentry duty in would get a round landing either directly on top of it or just feet away. Ray would always emerge bruised and covered in dust, but otherwise unscathed.
Luckily, he had a great sense of humour about it too. He'd tell everybody to steer clear of him. And whenever he left his barracks room for a sentry shift, he'd say something like: 'Right, that's me off now, lads. If you hear Front Sangar getting mortared, don't worry – it's only me.'
Ray was a gobby little so and so. He never held back on giving you his opinion about what you were doing with a sharp bit of wit. But he had a heart of gold underneath it, and that made him one of the best-loved characters in the company. Ray was also a bit of a ladies' man, and he never gave a hoot if they weren't good looking. 'Any hole's a goal' was his catchphrase. He was the perfect private soldier. You knew he'd always do what you'd ask of him and you never needed to check.
Three other blokes weren't so lucky. They'd crept back into the prefab accommodation block one evening to get a good night's kip away from the sweaty mass. They knew it was out of bounds now, but they risked it anyway. A mortar round came straight through the roof and fragged the lot of them. Only a few deep cuts and some bad bruising, nothing too serious. They didn't get much sympathy though. It was the last time anyone tried that trick.
A political crisis in Maysan at the end of May played in the OMS's favour. Their power thrived off anarchy, whereas ours would only grow with security.
Maysan's governor Riyadh Mahood had got out of town fast after he was heavily implicated in the murder of his own chief of police. The copper ended up with a bullet in his face during a row with the governor and his brother Abu Hatim in a hospital foyer. Styling himself Lord of the Marshes, Abu Hatim was a senior tribal chief and for two decades had led a terrorist resistance force in the province against Saddam.
The brothers were obviously struggling with the whole idea of being statesmen rather than hoods after so long. The rumour was they'd gone to lie low in Baghdad. From then onwards, exactly who the new governor should be was hotly disputed by all and sundry, not least the OMS. Endless rows in the governing council made it harder for Molly Phee to get things done.
Soon afterwards, Route 6 down to Basra was put out of bounds to all routine military traffic. Ever more successful OMS bombs and ambushes made it impossible to pass down the road in any degree of safety. As it was our main supply line, that was a big headache. Everything – men, bombs, beans and bullets – had to come in and out by Hercules aircraft via the landing strip at Sparrowhawk. It was just like living in South Armagh during the worst of the Ulster Troubles. We were surrounded by bandit country in Maysan too.
Were we bothered though? Not a bit of it. For every new obstacle, we'd find a way of dealing with it. The more the OMS tried to fuck us over, the stronger our resolve became. It was the traditional plucky British spirit, and the lads throughout the whole company were always excellent like that.
It wasn't just stubbornness. A newspaper article stuck up on the company noticeboard by some of my platoon typified the mood. Next to a particularly ugly photo of Moqtada al-Sadr, its headline read, 'Rebel leader warns US: I am ready to face martyrdom'.
The lads had drawn crosshairs on Moqtada's forehead and scrawled over it in marker pen, 'British Snipers warn: We will help you get there!'
We grew to relish the challenge the OMS laid down. The excitement and the adrenalin rush was like a drug; we were all slowly becoming addicted to it.
15
The only real downer across the battle group, and it wasn't a big one, was that we weren't getting any write-ups back home. Concern had been slowly growing about why there was almost no media coverage in Britain about what we were doing in Al Amarah. At first, we couldn't understand it. We'd been war fighting harder than the invasion force had to a year before, so why was no one interested?
It mattered most to the younger lads. When the newspapers arrived two weeks late (as they always did) for the dates over Pimlico and Waterloo, H was especially put out. Private Andy 'H' Hawkins was a good little soldier and always keen to impress. Like Smudge, he had a bit of an image thing. He came storming up to the roof clutching a brand new pile of papers. He hurled them down in disgust.
'I've been through every single fucking one of these papers, and there's not a fucking word about the PWRR in any of them. Not even a paragraph in the Sun and they're always the best at doing squaddies' stuff, aren't they? What the fuck is wrong with them all?'
Lads like H needed to know they were getting respect back home for being in that shit hole. They believed in Queen and Country and they wanted to go home heroes, so everyone in their local pub would want to buy them a drink.
They regularly scanned the Internet and watched Sky News for even the smallest passing reference, when the satellite dish hadn't been blown down. But for months there was nothing.
The older ones among us worked it out soon enough. It was confirmed during a visit from the brigadier who was based down in Basra. The papers weren't writing about us because they hadn't a Scooby any of this was even going on. The MoD was doing an excellent job of simply not telling them. The government had local elections in June. The last thing they needed was pictures of big old tanks on the streets in southern Iraq.
With the kidnappings and beheadings of westerners in Iraq in full swing now, it was also far too dangerous for journalists to make their own way up to Al Amarah. They needed the military's assistance. A TV crew from ITN had been flown up in early April, but the OMS had given their normal warm welcome and thrown a blast bomb at their convoy of Snatches. Nobody was injured, but they caught it all on tape and it made great viewing. That gave the sweaty-palmed media officers at Division thoroughly twisted knickers. No more press came up after that until long after the shooting was over.
We had to thank the MoD and their head-in-the-sand policy for one thing, though. It made calling home a hell of a lot easier. I'd only spoken to my girlfriend Sue once in the almost two months we'd been there. We'd all been so busy, I'd hardly had the chance. Everyone got twenty minutes' free talk time a week on satellite phones. But you had to wait in a long queue and the satellite link was often awful.
I'd barely even given her any thought. Now that I did, it felt very strange. My mind went back to her cosy house in Catterick, the walks we used to take on the moors, the laughs we had in her local boozer. It all seemed a very long way away now. It was more than a few thousand miles away. It was a different world.
Despite that, I did miss her. I was desperate to tell her all about what we'd been up to; the excitement, the amazing highs and the grim lows. 'Guess what I've been doing, love?' and all that. When it actually came to it, I told her absolutely nothing. I just couldn't find any words that she would understand.
'Hiya, Dan. Wow, it's really good to hear you.'
'Yeah, you too. You OK?'
'Yeah, don't worry about me. What about you? Some place called Nafaj is on the news a bit, something about a fat Muslim priest. That anywhere near you?'
'It's Najaf. No, love, it's not that near us.'
'I'm so worried about you, Dan. Are you sure you're nowhere near the fighting? We never hear anything about your regiment. Please tell me everything is OK.'
It felt like talking to someone in a foreign language. If I even began to tell Sue any of it, it would have come out all wrong and scared the hell out of her. How do you even begin to explain what it's like to watch a bloke get his leg torn off and then pick it up and put it under his arm? How do you then say you weren't actually that bothered by seeing it? Yes. Best to just say nothing.
'No, don't worry, love. It's all quiet here, nothing much going on. Tell my mum everything's fine and not to worry either.'
With my kids it was easier, because I just turned the conversation roun
d and asked about them. But I kept the phone calls home to a minimum after that.
Chris was on the satellite phone just after me. He came back up to the roof looking puzzled.
'What did you tell your bird then, mate?'
'Nothing, Danny. I had all my tales lined up, but I didn't tell her a fucking thing. I just didn't think she'd get it.'
*
Towards the end of May, I started to push for more and more freedom for the platoon. We'd proved what we were capable of over many hard weeks of fighting already. All we wanted was the liberty to do the best soldiering we could; it's all good snipers ever want. We'd keep up with all our regular company tasks, but we yearned to take the fight to the OMS whenever we could too. It was far better fun than waiting for them to hit us, and the only way we thought they'd ever be beaten. So we started to do just that.
I'd plan all our own patrols. We went into areas of town where we knew we'd come across the bad boys. That meant an inevitable exchange of rounds for a bit, before they usually lost their bottle and fucked off. We worked as one seamless unit, and we had total confidence in our own abilities. We took the view that if we wanted a fight, we should be allowed to go looking for one. And we got damn good at fighting them too. We began to live for it.
Sooner or later, our enthusiasm was always going to lead us into conflict with the company's two senior officers, Major Featherstone and his 2i/c Redders. The more kills we notched up, the more nervous they got. No matter how legitimate they all were, or how we'd always get back in one piece.
Officers worry a lot about things like that, because they're the ones who get the heat from the politicians when the bullets start to fly. Whitehall always gets very cross whenever it emerges that, bizarrely, Iraq isn't a Garden of Eden. Luckily, as regular soldiers we didn't have to worry about the bigger picture – just doing our jobs. That meant killing the enemy before they killed us.
With Redders, it was always more of an unthinking gut reaction. He was the only one of the two commanders who ever challenged anything we did on the roof.
As a person, Captain Peter 'Redders' Redgrave was a very friendly and sociable guy. He was everyone's mate, and would always call us by our first names; a nice touch from officers. But he had a bit of a nervous disposition, and it came out worst when we were under fire.
This was bad news because he was responsible for running the company's Ops Room. It's not an easy job at all. As well as knowing what all your blokes are up to, it also means you're the link between the company and the battle group Ops Room in Abu Naji. That's like playing two games of chess at once. It's vital to have a cool and calm head at all times. Unfortunately, sometimes Redders flapped. He wasn't a bad bloke, and perhaps any 25-year-old in his highly stressful position would have done the same. It just didn't help much.
One night after I'd left the roof, the lads thought they'd got another fix on a mortar team. Redders heard the rounds go down from the Ops Room and legged it up to the roof to find out what they were shooting at.
'A mortar team, sir. We're putting down some harassing fire, it will get them to move on.'
'Yes, well, that's not the point. From now on, you ask the Ops Room for permission to open fire. Is that clear? Good.'
Chris waited until Redders was halfway down the stairs.
'Don't forget your stick, sir.'
Redders had made an appalling call.
One of the most important principles of sniping is having the ability to take the shot when you can. You might not get another chance. All of my guys were fully qualified, very well versed in the rules of engagement (ROE), and excellent soldiers. It had to be their call, or we'd be no better than the sort of robots that Saddam forced his army to be.
When the boys told me the next day, I was livid.
'Hundred per cent bollocks, lads. We ain't ever going to fucking do that. If you get a legitimate target, then you destroy it. I don't want you ever to ask for permission. If Redders tries to have a go at any of you again for that, you come straight to me and I'll fucking sort it out.'
I was shouting so loudly Redders probably heard. He didn't mention it ever again. It was just typical Redders in an unthinking moment. In fairness, everybody knew he was under a lot of pressure and he probably regretted making the call the moment he said it.
My problems with Major Featherstone were different. The tension was slow boil. It wasn't just an enemy bodycount thing with him. It was the fear of ours too. As the boss, a lot of casualties would – rightly or wrongly – look very bad for him. I was convinced that's what dictated his cautious calls. That way he could remain in control.
Sometimes he was right. Even I knew I could be a bit gung-ho at times. But at the same time I was convinced that our cautiousness was starting to seriously hinder the effect we were having on the enemy.
One night, we went out on a patrol to the bus depot on the north bank. It was a popular spot for OMS fighters to gather. They'd chat there, plan an attack and move off.
We set up a covert OP (observation post) nearby in some rough ground to monitor any activity that there might be there. Around midnight, about a dozen shady-looking characters with weapons turned up. Unfortunately, right at that moment some idiot on the Cimic roof decided to throw up some 51mm mortar illume. The OMS men spotted us immediately and opened fire.
We were in good enough cover to hide until the illume went out. Then I threw together a quick plan for a snap ambush on the fighters. If half the patrol dog-legged round to the left quickly, we'd catch them on their flank and kill them.
I told the Ops Room my intention. After a short pause, Featherstone came on the net.
'The answer is no, Dan. I want you to come back to camp.'
I couldn't believe it. We had to sit there and wait for a Warrior to come and extract us instead.
A week later, I had taken a multiple of about ten blokes over to the north bank again one morning to investigate three large Katyusha rockets that were all wired up and ready to fire at Cimic. We were about to destroy them with a 30 mil round from a Warrior.
Suddenly, peels of gunfire erupted from the big road junction at Green 5. It was one of the boys in black's favourite ambush points. A look through the binos revealed one of our fuel convoys in the shit. Three Snatches driven by Royal Fusiliers had been escorting a couple of petrol tankers down Route 6. The tankers had managed to drive through it, but one of the Snatches had been disabled so the other two stopped to help it out.
It was some distance from us, but the Fusiliers were clearly in a lot of trouble. And anyway, it was a good chance for us to get involved in something.
We ended up having to run across 900 metres of waste ground to get there. As we jogged, I got on the radio.
'Hello Zero, Alpha One Zero Alpha. Contact Green 5. Wait out.'
Featherstone was on to me immediately.
'Danny, you're not to get involved in that contact.'
'Too late sir, we're here now,' I replied, with still 500 metres to go. Bollocks to that. We weren't going to run away from the enemy.
'Danny, for fuck's sake. I've told you you're not to get involved in that contact. I'm sending the Warriors round to pick you up.'
We reached a long three-foot wall 150 metres from Green 5 that gave us a strong position to start engaging the enemy from. They were in clumps on the junction's single- and two-storey rooftops. The weight of our suppressing fire gave the Fusiliers time to rig up a tow rope to the crippled Snatch, and within a few minutes they were all out of there.
Then the Warriors turned up. Sgt Chris Adkins was their commander, a mate of mine. He understood what was going on.
'Come on, Danny, get on the back. We've been told to get you out of here. Please, mate.'
I felt like a naughty schoolboy. As we trundled off, I saw through the Warrior's back window an RPG man running across the junction in broad daylight waving his weapon in the air. We'd let the enemy feel they'd won again.
This time I was furious. What were w
e wearing the uniform for? Why did Featherstone let us carry rifles if we're not allowed to use them?
It all came to a head between the OC and me one particularly hot evening thanks to a drunken Iraqi policeman.
We were patrolling in the souks off Baghdad Street when gunfire broke out just around the corner. We sprinted back to the main road to find a fat old police sergeant on a motorbike wobbling all over the place, and blasting rounds from a pistol in the general direction of anybody he saw. He was pissed out of his head.
Chris, Ads, Pikey and I waited until he'd wobbled just past our corner before we jumped out with rifles raised.
'Kif! Kif!' we shouted, which is 'stop' in Arabic. 'Assila,' we said, which is 'weapon', and pointed to the floor.
We got him off the bike and tore strips off the fat fool. He looked very sheepish. I explained to him we were taking his pistol and the keys to his bike, and he could come and pick them up the next morning from Cimic House when he'd sobered up.
As we set off back to Cimic, I relayed the information back to the Ops Room and explained the reason for the gunfire.
'Happy with that, Danny,' Redders said.
Five hundred metres down the road, Redders came back on again.
'Alpha One Zero Alpha, this is Zero. Ignore my last. Can you go back to the policeman and give him his weapons and keys back, please? Sorry, new orders. We can't be seen to be undermining the IPS.'
There was no point arguing the toss with Redders. I knew exactly whose orders they were. It was Featherstone's worst call yet. I was seething.
The cop was still sitting on his bike feeling sorry for himself. He got his pistol and keys, but I had unloaded the magazine and put the ammunition in my pocket. The cop began to giggle as we walked off. We had lost a huge amount of face with the crowd that had now gathered to watch the whole ludicrous charade.