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31 March 2003 Enemy's in our sights
By Gethin Chamberlain with the Black Watch near Basra IT WAS the tank crew which spotted them first, four men in civilian clothing jumping out of the back of a pick-up truck carrying a rocket-propelled grenade launcher in the heart of Al Zubayr. Corporal Mark Harvey was the first sniper to react, dropping to his knee and fixing the man carrying the RPG in his sights. One shot, the militia man dropping like a stone, dead before he hit the ground. A clean shot to the head. The three others with him stopped in their tracks, grabbed his body and pulled it into bushes by the roadside, then took off towards nearby houses. But in the Challenger tank, their every move was being watched. As they ran into what they thought was the safety of the rabbit warren of ramshackle buildings, the sniper teams' radios were guiding them in. Moments earlier they had been sitting in the back of a Warrior armoured vehicle waiting to set out for what looked likely to be another day of waiting and watching, covering a small arc of land near the bridge, as they waited for a target to appear. Now they were running towards the houses, all thoughts of cover forgotten, racing headlong towards the doorway into which their quarry had vanished. In the lead was Corporal "Pedro" Laing, SA80 rifle in hand. He reached the door and never paused, raising his boot and kicking hard against the woodwork, sending it flying open. Inside an old man looked up startled, and was thrown roughly out into the street, past Corporal Mark Harvey and Lance Corporal Scott "Robbo" Robertson, the pair hot on Pedro's heels. Then a milita man pulled the pin from his grenade and hurled it at Pedro's head. The corporal ducked, the grenade flying over his head, exploding in the street outside, shrapnel whizzing past his friends outside, fragments hitting Robbo at the top of his legs. As Pedro got back to his feet, he looked up to see that the man had snatched his AK47. As he hit the ground again, a burst of bullets whistled over his head. On his feet once more, he saw that the man had now grabbed the RPG launcher and down he went again, diving out of the doorway, the rocket missing him by inches. The explosion sent Harvey somersaulting over a mound of sandy soil. Jumping up, he fired one shot at the man, killing him instantly. Then Robbo and Pedro were in through the doorway, throwing grenades on the run, one, two, three, four, exploding in front of them. As the grenades went off, the pair opened up with their rifles, finishing off the militia men, four lads from a mortar platoon rushing in to help make sure none got away, clearing the building, killing everyone in their way. For the snipers, it was a rare moment of hand-to-hand fighting, the closest they had been to an enemy they normally only saw through the telescopic sights on their rifles. In this new cat and mouse war, the sniper was king. Eight days and 17 kills. They had arrived in the town, 18 men with one thing on their minds. Days went past as they sat in their observation posts, scanning the arc of land ahead of them. Among their number is Lance Corporal Vincent Polus, 24, of Glasgow. For him, it is eight days and three kills, the rest of the time spent lying still for hours on end. Living off cold rations, no chance to light a fire, an empty plastic bottle and clingfilm serving as his latrine. Nine bullets in the rifle magazine, single shot and bolt action, is the Black Watch sniper's weapon of choice. Vincent said: "Your eyes are on the target area all the time. If a target comes into view you report it to command and ask permission to fire. "You have to get the breathing right, a couple of deep breaths then you start breathing normally and as you start to release your breath you squeeze the trigger. That's the moment you are at your most steady." The first time he fired he had been stationary for three hours in a building near the centre of the town. Then a group of men dressed in civilian clothes appeared with a bodyguard carrying a folded AK47 and magazines of ammo in his belt. Six in total. The militia men moved forward, then stopped, half hidden from view.Half an hour went by, their heads sometimes visible, but never a clear enough shot -no point in firing at one or two and risking the others getting away. Then they climbed into a flat-bed pick-up truck, the bodyguard crouching in the back. Vincent spoke into his radio mouthpiece, asking for permission to fire, never taking his eyes from the target for a moment. Permission given, he adjusted his aim. Seven hundreds and fifty metres, no wind. He began his breathing, two short and then one normal, the air beginning to leave his lungs. In the back of the pick-up, the bodyguard fumbled, the AK47 slipping forward in his lap. Vincent squeezed the trigger. He said: "Through the sight I saw him fall back out of the truck and then the truck drove forwards." The truck disappeared from view, but still Vincent did not move. He said: "I just kept watching and when the truck appeared again I shot the driver -he fell out of the side of the wagon and went into a ditch." Nearby, Sergeant Mark Cameron, 31, of Brechin, was also waiting for his moment. He fired twice at the passengers inside the pick-up, killing both. The others ran away, but four out of six lay dead. Mark is wondering whether anyone back home will understand what they go through, hunting down an enemy who can melt away in a moment, put down his weapon and become just another face in the crowd.
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Copyright ©2011 Gethin Chamberlain. All rights reserved. |
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