News Search Search this site or the web powered by FreeFind Site search Web search Story archive		April 6, 2003, Scotland on Sunday DEADLOCK ON THE EDGE OF BASRA Gethin Chamberlain THE heat is stifling, sapping the spirit, sending the soldiers slinking into what little shade they can find. Lying under their vehicles, sprawled beneath canvas sheets, slumped in the slit trenches they dug the day they first arrived when they still feared the sudden attacks which sent them scampering for cover, they lie listlessly, moving only to find another bottle of the water which has been baking in the sun for hours. Camped around the outskirts of Basra, they have been waiting for days for something to happen, launching sporadic raids, testing out the resolve of the defenders, wearing them down. But there have been raids every day, and still no one will give the order to move into the city, the city with its promise of shade and shelter from the deadening heat, the city whose capture will take them another step closer to home. The British commanders are ready, the men are ready, but still the orders to advance don't come. So they wait and listen to the radio with its news of dramatic US advances and troops deep in the suburbs of Baghdad. Maybe it was always planned this way: Baghdad first, Basra later. Maybe the generals still believe they can take the southern city without a fight if the capital falls. Maybe, but no one here really believes it. They think they will be fighting again within days, battling their way past the sandbagged bunkers which line all roads into Basra, facing the rocket -propelled grenades which have become the militia's weapon of choice. For now though, they can only wait, and sweat, and curse diplomatic games that left them sitting in this hellish place amid temperatures they hoped they would never have to face. Around the camp there is barely a sound, the odd vehicle scurrying along the shimmering tarmac the only noise to break the silence. Last week the militia were still a threat . Shells exploded without warning among the armoured columns, every stretch of open road was a potential trap. Now the militia have left town, run away into the centre of Basra or just put down their weapons and given up the unequal battle. There is no one here left to find. Today, sunburn and thirst are the enemies. The silence is broken by the rhythmic thumping of the rotor blades of a giant Chinook helicopter, swooping low over the vehicles parked up in the sand, adding clouds of dust to the list of little irritations which make up the day. What it is doing and where it is going no one knows, but it offers a moment's diversion before it lifts into the sky again and tilts away, its twin rotors spinning almost lazily through the air, and it drifts into the distance, the sound receding, returning the camp to silence. Listening to the radio it is clear things are very different in the north: the Americans are making progress, the promised Iraqi opposition failing to materialise. Last night there was talk of capitulation, that the Iraqis might give up without a fight. More hope than informed intelligence, it seemed, but some were happy to believe it. It was only a few days ago that the CO was striding down a main street of Az Zubayr, the last little town on the road to Basra, helmet abandoned in favour of his Tam O'Shanter, chatting to the crowds who clustered round the first foot patrol to venture out, such a beautifully British moment. But even he has withdrawn to the shade of a canopy draped above a couple of threadbare sofas and that glorious moment now seems an age away. Under their tarpaulins, soldiers flick at flies which torment them. The sun has passed the mid point of its traverse across the sky and a few armoured vehicles are heading off towards the bridges into Basra. In a few days, or even hours, they could be back in the thick of battle, their crews consumed once more by the thrill of the fear coursing through them as the bullets fly again. On the radio the Americans are still advancing and the Stop the War is planning another demonstration, but for now, in the baking heat of southern Iraq, there seems precious little war to stop.
		................................................................................................................. Copyright ©2004 Gethin Chamberlain. All rights reserved.