|
|
|||||||
|
|
|||||||
|
News Search
|
|
April 1, 2003, The Scotsman HOME THOUGHTS THAT HURT AS THE BLACK SNOW FALLS Gethin Chamberlain WHEN they awoke, it was everywhere, the oily cinders coating every surface, falling like tiny flakes of black snow. It was in their sleeping bags, on their skin, in their hair, melting into diesel-dark streaks and seeping into their pores. Overnight, the wind had changed, and the black clouds from the burning oil pipelines and the fire pits lit by the Iraqis, which had darkened the skyline to the north and east for days, had drifted over the camp, leaving a trail of ash and soot in its wake. Now the cloud had passed, but the black dust continued to fall, creeping into the vehicles, into the food and into early -morning cups of tea and coffee brewed on the stoves dug into little pits outside every clump of tents. Everything it touched turned black. Hands washed moments earlier were now flecked with oily spots like some strange skin condition. Some older hands who remembered the first Gulf war recalled how the ash had coated their lungs and how the doctors had told them later of the damage it had done; but most took it with the usual resigned dismay, another inconvenience in a country full of little inconveniences. It seemed a small thing compared to the artillery that had opened up in the middle of the night, rocking the camp. The Black Watch's own guns pounded away at an enemy somewhere in the distance, shells soaring overhead, burning red in the night sky. Even as their tents were buffeted by the blast from the firing, they thanked whoever they prayed to that they were not the ones beneath that onslaught. In their tents or in their sleeping bags, perched on the back of trailers or in the back of trucks, they lay awake feeling the blast wave roll through them, the whistling scream of the shell soaring far overhead, a dull thud as it broke the sound barrier, then, a few seconds later, the rumble of the air disturbed by its passage. Another explosion, another shell, each one sending shock waves through the camp. It was claustrophobic in the darkness and the sound seemed to come from all directions at once. Sometimes they could hear the distant sound of the explosion, sometimes just see the flash away to the north or east. If it sounded like that from here, they wondered, how must it be on the receiving end? Last night, there was a rumour they would be home in six weeks, taken out of the line, away before the heat of the Iraqi summer brought more flies and drove them out of their baking tents in search of the non-existent shade. The rumour swept the camp, but no-one really believed it. Last week, the rumour was that Saddam was dead, or that his family had been buying jewels in some Middle Eastern country, and no-one really believed that either. From the captains who had been to the O-groups - the Orders groups - with all the other officers to hear what was really happening, came word that the Americans had decided to take a break for ten days to rethink and regroup. Ten days in and they were planning to rest up already, and the soldiers wondered what had happened to all their talk of shock and awe. It could be longer, the captains said, maybe two weeks. The man at the top was pleased with what they had done so far, the men were told. Brigadier Graham Binns, commander of 7th Armoured Brigade, had sent words of praise for the way they had set the pace. Baghdad first, they said, then Basra. Cut off the head and hope the body stops twitching soon. This scrap in the south could be home for weeks. Basra showed no signs of falling, they said, but the outlying towns seemed to be falling into line. In Az Zubayr - AZ, as they had come to call it - there were signs that some people were beginning to trust the strangers who had turned up uninvited and taken over their town. A family had arrived in one of the compounds, asking for help for their children, injured by mines laid to stop the soldiers' advance. They treated the children; the family were full of thanks. Not every day can be wham-bang action. Yesterday, it was someone else's turn to do the fighting, to get shot at and shelled. The snipers are still out there, playing cat-and-mouse with the men with the RPGs. The Warriors are preparing to go out on patrol in Az Zubayr, rekindling memories of their days in Northern Ireland and Bosnia.
|
|
||||
|
................................................................................................................. Copyright ©2004 Gethin Chamberlain. All rights reserved. |
|||||||
