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March 31, 2003, The Times The sniper is king in patient battle of cat and mouse Gethin Chamberlain near Basra The tank crew 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 of the snipers to react, dropping to his knee and fixing the man carrying the launcher in his sights, one shot, a moving target, the militiaman 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, pulled his body into the bushes by the roadside, then took off. In the Challenger tank, their every move was being watched. As they ran into what they thought was the safety of a warren of ramshackle houses, the sniper team's radios were crackling in their earpieces, guiding them in. Moments earlier, the snipers had been sitting in the back of a Warrior armoured vehicle, waiting to set out for what looked likely to be another day or more of waiting and watching. 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, sending it flying open. Inside an old man looked up startled and was thrown out into the street, past Corporal Harvey and Lance Corporal Scott "Robbo" Robertson, hot on Pedro's heels. Inside, a militiaman pulled the pin from his grenade and hurled it at Pedro. The corporal ducked and the grenade flew over his head, exploding in the street, shrapnel whizzing, fragments hitting Robbo's legs. As Pedro got back to his feet, he looked up to see that the man in front of him had snatched up 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 grabbed the grenade launcher and down he went again, diving out of the doorway, the rocket missing him by inches, hitting the embankment on the opposite side of the street, the explosion sending Corporal Harvey somersaulting over the mound of sandy soil, landing heavily on the other side. Later, he would realise that the fall had crushed a vertebra and that he could not stand up, but not now, not in the heat of the action. Jumping up, he fired one shot at the man now in the doorway, a single round from his Accuracy International L96 sniper's rifle from 20 metres, 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, the tank outside pouring chain gunfire into the roof. As the grenades went off, the pair opened up with their rifles, finishing off the militiamen, four men from a mortar platoon rushing in to help to make sure that none got away, clearing the building, killing everyone in their way. They could have left it to the tank to smash the place to pieces, but there were other houses next door, innocent people trying to get on with their lives. For the snipers, it was a rare moment of hand-to-hand fighting, the closest they had been to an enemy they normally see only through telescopic sights bound in dusty rags on their rifles. Eight days of lying in the dirt, crouched on rooftops, waiting to pick off the militiamen who slipped from building to building, emerging to fire their grenade launchers. The snipers had feared that they would play little part in an open desert war, but as Iraqi soldiers threw away their uniforms and ran back into the towns and the militiamen became the true enemy, the snipers came into their own. In this new cat-and-mouse war, the sniper is king. Eight days and 17 kills. They had arrived in town, 18 men with one thing on their minds. Among their number Vincent Polus, 24, a lance corporal born in Inverness. 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. "Your eyes are on the target area all the time, you keep your eyes on that area," he said. "If a target comes into view you report it to command and ask permission to fire, then you check your elevation and adjust for the wind. "You have to get the breathing right, a couple of deep breaths, then you start breathing again 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, sitting in a building near the centre of the town. Three hours in, the frustration beginning to creep over him, no sign of anything moving, trying to keep alert, his colleague at his side, scouring the arc with his telescope. Then the moment they had been waiting for: a group of men in civilian clothes and a bodyguard carrying a folded AK47 and ammunition in his belt. Six of them in total. Unaware of the two pairs of eyes following them from down the street, the militiamen moved forward, then stopped, half-hidden. Half an hour went by, their heads sometimes visible but never a clear enough shot, no chance of taking all six down, no point in firing at one or two and risking the others getting away. Then they were moving again, climbing into a flatbed pick-up truck, the bodyguard crouching in the back. In his hideaway, Vincent spoke a few words into his radio mouthpiece, asking for permission to fire, never taking his eyes from the target, the muzzle of his rifle fixed on the bodyguard's chest. Permission given, he adjusted his aim, checking the sights. Seven-hundred 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. "Through the sight I saw him fall back out of the truck and then the truck started to drive forwards. My sergeant put a couple of rounds into it, but it was driving away and there were civvies coming out and picking up the dead guy," he said. The truck had disappeared from view, but still Vincent did not move, sure that the sun behind him would have blinded anyone looking in his direction to the muzzle flash. "I just kept watching and then the truck appeared again. That's when I shot the driver. I couldn't see much because of the sun on his windscreen, but I knew where I was aiming. I hit him in the head and he fell out of the side of the wagon and went into a ditch." Corporal Harvey is in Cyprus now, lucky not to become the third British soldier to die in a grenade attack in the town. He, Pedro and Robbo are in line for a commendation. * This story is pooled copy for the British press by Gethin Chamberlain of The Scotsman.
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................................................................................................................. Copyright ©2004 Gethin Chamberlain. All rights reserved. |
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