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March 31, 2003, Press Association The following is a pooled despatch from Gethin Chamberlain, of The Scotsman, with the Black Watch on the outskirts of Basra. When they awoke it was everywhere, the oily cinders coating every surface, falling like tiny flakes of black snow. On their sleeping bags, on their skin, in their hair, breathing it in, impossible to brush off, melting into diesel-dark streaks, 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, into the early morning cups of tea and coffee freshly brewed on the stoves dug into little pits outside every clump of tents. Everything it touched turned black, hands washed moments earlier now flecked with oily spots like some strange skin condition, the clothes already smeared with grime where the soldiers had tried to knock it off destined to bear the marks until they were finally discarded, a little souvenir of Iraq no-one had planned to take home. 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 to make life a little more uncomfortable in a country full of little inconveniences. And anyway, it was a small thing compared to the broken sleep, the artillery that had opened up in the middle of the night, rocking the camp, their own guns pounding away at an enemy somewhere in the distance, the 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 underneath that onslaught. The gun line, somewhere to the rear but close enough to sound as if it was sitting outside their tents, had been firing for days, their AS 90 self-propelled howitzers hurling the 90lb, 155mm shells, 25km forward on to the Iraqi positions, the roar of the guns deafening, shaking everyone from their sleep. 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. Those who had gone through the mortar attacks of the last few days jumpy, not sure whether each blast signalled the start of a new raid to send them scurrying for shelter. Shell after shell, disorientating, disconcerting. Claustrophobic in the darkness, the sound seeming 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 to be on the receiving end, sitting trembling in the dark, waiting for the next shell to fall? 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 and 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 or other, 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 10 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. An army which had arrived to fight had already moved into counter-insurgency mode, they said, and now came the peacekeeping, but everyone knew that they would have to fight again some time. A difficult time, they said, something new to get used to, going against the received wisdom that a fighting force should not be used to keep the peace. But 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. Around the camp, word spread that the plans had changed, or that they had always been that way. 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. Why risk more lives, the soldiers reasoned, just to make life easier for a few discredited politicians whose predictions had already proved to be so wrong? And yet they still had to face the daily fear of attack, the men with the RPGs and maybe suicide bombers too. The Israelis had learnt to live with it on the West Bank, and maybe they would too. After all, in 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, and the family were full of thanks. And there were still some reasons to be cheerful. British Forces Broadcasting Service was back on their radios, and with it word from home. The BBC World Service depressed them, describing a war they did not recognise, a war of American advances and political squabbling and people they thought of as their enemies complaining about everything they were doing, accusing them of waging war against innocents, never mentioning the constant fear of the rocket from the darkness or the sudden mortar rounds exploding around their tents. People in countries they had never visited hating them, telling them they should go home. They would go home if they could, they said, but what choice did they have? They didn't really want to be here, in a country that didn't seem to want them. They had been told they would be welcomed as liberators, but whenever they ventured out, people tried to kill them. But BFBS was a voice they recognised, feel-good radio that didn't hate them. It brought them messages from home, music they knew, news about the places they were fighting. All around the camp, radios were being tuned in to the FM band and those without radios were on the hunt. There were stocks of wind-up radios sitting in a truck somewhere in the camp, the word went out, but they were not being issued. They did not know why, but were not surprised. Around the camp, people washing clothes, shaving, trying to make themselves feel a little more human. Mail arrived and they pounced on it eagerly, desperate for news from home, ripping open the envelopes as they walked away to sit alone and read about how their sons and daughters were getting on at school or how the garden was growing or whether the new sofa had arrived. "I'm going to be a father," one said, and tried hard to smile, not cry. Some newspapers arrived but they were old and spoke of the days before this all started. WAR, shouted the front page of one, but they knew that already. More papers arrived, with talk of early victories. Basra was about to fall, the MoD had said, but that was when they were still sitting on the border waiting for orders to cross, and it had not been true then, and was not true now. On the radio, 3 Commando had taken a town to the south of Basra but one soldier was dead in an ambush. They were storming into the suburbs, said the voice from a long way away, but those streaming out of the city did not seem pleased to see the British Army. Those inside the city were attacking them with mortars and machine guns and RPGs mounted on the back of pick-up trucks, but they had been doing that to the Black Watch for days. The Commandos would soon get used to it. The Americans, the radio said, were worried about suicide bombers, but who wasn't? An angry Iraqi woman on the World Service said she would fight to her last drop of blood to keep the invaders out of her country, but she was in Cairo. Jordanians said they thought that war was a bad thing, and wanted it to stop, and they were not alone. And that's the just the way it is today. Not every day can be wham-bang action. Today it is 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 Al Zubayr, rekindling memories of their days in Northern Ireland and Bosnia. The war goes on. Donald Rumsfeld is on the radio, assuring anyone who will listen that the campaign is going to plan, but among the British troops they wonder: if someone, somewhere, sat down and planned to invade a country this way, what in God's name were they thinking of?
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................................................................................................................. Copyright ©2004 Gethin Chamberlain. All rights reserved. |
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