|
|
|||||||
|
|
|||||||
|
News Search
|
|
September 25, 2004, Scotsman BLACK CLOUDS LOOM OVER BRITISH TROOPS IN BASRA Gethin Chamberlain THERE is a cloud of black smoke hanging over the area of Basra adjacent to the Shatt al Arab waterway as the Land Rovers approach the palace that Saddam Hussein built but never used. The soldiers providing top cover are the first to see it. Someone says they heard a bang from that direction as they left the police station a mile or so away. They head towards the smoke, thick and black, which drifts south in the brisk, hot breeze blowing across the city in the late-September afternoon. Over the radios comes the confirmation of their suspicions: an improvised explosive device has detonated outside the gates at the entrance to the palace. The details are sketchy. The first message has one person dead, another injured. Later, another message says two dead, both Iraqi. It was a big bomb; there is not much left of them. The soldiers ease themselves back through the hatches on the roofs of the Land Rovers and clamber out on to the baking tarmac, taking up positions five metres away, then moving out to 20 metres, scanning the area for signs of trouble. One vehicle moves forward towards the edge of the bridge over the filthy canal ahead of them in which young Iraqi boys and men splash about. Two boys are sitting on the parapet, readying themselves to jump back in; another takes huge gulps of the stinking, polluted water. Two of the soldiers step on to the bridge. They begin to search the vehicles attempting to cross from the direction of the blast zone, checking the drivers, looking inside the passenger compartments, opening the boots, looking for something that might suggest the occupants were involved in some way. Once they are satisfied, they smile and say shukran (thank you) and wave the cars on. Most drivers accept it without grumbling. Some chat to the soldiers. They heard the explosion too; they trade information on what they know. This is Basra. In Baghdad, there would be more soldiers, more shouting, more and heavier weapons pointing at the cars. There would be helicopters thundering low overhead, armoured vehicles clattering through the streets, a total lockdown. But this is Basra. They do things differently here. FOR much of July and August, British forces in Basra were under the cosh. August was the worst month. They lost three soldiers in the space of a few weeks as bombs and ambushes took their toll. Militants loyal to Muqtada al -Sadr, or in his pay, were emboldened by the stand-off in Najaf. In Basra, they launched concerted attacks on coalition patrols. In Amarah, the British could hardly move. Platoons guarding some key buildings found themselves cut off from their colleagues. The British forces could have hit back hard, taken on the militants just as the Americans had tried to do in Fallujah and Sadr City. Plans were drawn up, but then abandoned, to avoid devastating large areas of the city and placing the lives of the population at risk. The decision to hold back, to abandon patrols around sensitive areas where Sadr's supporters were waiting to take them on, did not please everyone. Soldiers want to fight, one young officer explains. It is not in their nature to just sit back and take a battering without hitting back. Lt-Col James Cowan, the commanding officer of the Black Watch, says the all -out assault was a calculated attempt to prevent a further escalation in the violence. "We did not go for the jugular," he says. "There were plans but we knew the vast majority of people were peaceful, wanted to get on with their lives. To have had a battle for the heart of Basra would not have been in anyone's interests." Major Robin Lindsay, the officer commanding D company of the Black Watch, says most Iraqis have little time for Sadr's militia, calling them "foreigners", but admits the decision to avoid direct confrontation had not been popular in all quarters. "There were a few suggestions from people in the city about 'When are you going to do something about it?', and if you speak to the Jocks the soldiers they are always up for a scrap; of course they were frustrated." Yet for the moment, restraint appears to be working in Basra, although no-one is quite sure where the militia have gone. They seem to have melted back into the population. Perhaps they are biding their time, or have lost interest, or have turned their attention back to low-level crime. Many are common criminals attracted by easy money. Sadr pays them dollars 50 to join, and there is more money for killing soldiers. Other forces are at work; the Iranians are blamed for everything, by everyone. From the Iraqi prime minister down, the finger points at Tehran. In the Ministry of the Interior, the intelligence officials are in no doubt; the Iranians are arming the militias, passing information, maybe even training them. But little by little, the British and their allies in the multinational force - Romanians, Lithuanians, Italians, Danes, a handful of Norwegians and Australians - have been making progress. The commanding officer in Amarah now talks to his opposite number in Sadr's Mahdi army. When a patrol is attacked, or a bomb goes off, he rings him up and asks why. Young hotheads, comes the answer, teenagers with nothing to do, no work. Try finding them something to do and maybe they will change. AMARAH is a uniquely violent place, its people notoriously ungovernable. Even Saddam with his security apparatus gave up and left them to their own devices. They will fight anyone. But the trouble in Basra is, if anything, of greater concern to the coalition, because its people generally welcomed the British last April, coming out on to the streets to wave at the tanks. Somewhere along the way, it went wrong. The country remains broken; more than 17 months after Baghdad fell, there are too few signs of progress in restoring the basic infrastructure that is the key to putting Iraq together again. The British Army in the south estimates it will take 15 years to get the electricity grid up to a standard acceptable in a western city. It has not helped that much of Basra's power has been diverted to Baghdad. No-one really knows where the water pipes run, and those that can be found are crumbling. The sewerage system is a complete mystery. This is the background against which the coalition forces are trying to establish order. It is chicken and egg. Only once security can be guaranteed will companies be prepared to put in the investment that will create jobs and kick-start the economy. But there is little hope of establishing security while young men with nothing to do accept a handful of dollars to fight coalition forces and attack the oil pipelines, electricity pylons and water pipes essential for the country to run smoothly. On the way into the city from the west, a long line of traffic queues up to pass through a vehicle checkpoint. Iraqi police officers supervised by a detachment of Black Watch soldiers search perhaps one in five of the cars passing through. A vicious wind blows across the edge of the city, hammering sand into their eyes. They don't wear sunglasses; eye contact is important, they explain. The drivers say they have nothing to hide. ALONG the waterfront north of the palace, a Black Watch patrol makes its way through light traffic. It is mid-afternoon, siesta time. There is hardly a soul about. Now and again, vehicles stop, and all but the driver get out while they negotiate bridges or pinch points, confined spaces where they are at their most vulnerable. Soldiers say the militants prefer to aim at large targets such as Land Rovers. Smaller targets which can fire back are a less attractive proposition. Even if they get one of the soldiers, the rest will still be firing back. They negotiate each obstacle without any drama and remount. In a police station set back from the waterfront, down a street lined with shops selling shoes, suits, watches - the sort of things on sale in any city anywhere in the world - there is a blue-painted police station. Inside, an old man sloshes water down the stairs, regardless of anyone below. There are a few policemen around, not many. Maj Lindsay asks the most senior officer where the jailer is. He wants to see inside the cell. The man is nowhere to be found. The others think he has gone to get something to eat. They say they have three prisoners, two in for fighting, one for theft from the market. The prisoners' families have brought them food. In Saddam's time, they would have brought money, too, for the officers. The theft victim would have paid for the recovery of his goods, the thief would have paid for his freedom. Not now, or not while the soldiers are watching, anyway. The key is not forthcoming; Maj Lindsay peers into the darkness with his torch. The men have cigarettes, water, a bite of food. There is a toilet. Outside, Captain William Colquhoun and his men wait for an Iraqi patrol. Foot patrols resumed only three days ago. They are venturing further afield, accompanying the Iraqi police officers on their rounds. Two police officers amble down the street, AK-47s in hand. They greet the few people out and about, stop and chat. The soldiers have slipped back into Northern Ireland mode, old techniques passed on or remembered; the occasional scurry across a junction, crouch into firing position, scan the street. Then back up, walking cautiously, eyes everywhere. The past month was a blip, Colquhoun says. People still want them; they say the police are corrupt and take bribes. There is still a feeling that if the British left, the police would go back to the way they were. It is searingly hot, the wind offering no relief. The soldiers plod on. Some are on their first tour, some back for the second time in little more than a year. Some are just tired of the whole business, tired of being asked to leave families behind again to plug the widening gap between Britain's military resources and its commitments. Men with young children say they have seen them for perhaps one year out of three. It is no life, they agree. Many of them are talking about making this their last tour, handing in their papers. IT IS a day later in Umm Qasr, the port on the Al Faw peninsula, south-east of Basra. It is election day, only the second in Iraq since the fall of the old regime. This is for council elections; it is a dry run for national elections scheduled to take place in four months. A steady flow of people is passing through the gate. One man complains to an official that he has not been allowed to cast all his family's votes as they used to do under Saddam. One person, one vote, he is told. The names of the candidates are typed in Arabic on a list; there are 29 names, though in this polling station, a school building, people can vote for only 11. They show their identity papers; officials check their names off on their lists. They get a yellow piece of paper with four boxes into which they must write the names of candidates they want. There are no voting booths, but at least it is better than under Saddam where you had to fill in the form in front of the Baath Party official, says Khalid Hashin, one of the men waiting to vote. Outside the school, security is provided by Iraqi police, but the Danish military police are in real control. On the roof there are British soldiers standing guard. Security levels are high; the voters do not know it, but Ayad Allawi, the interim prime minister, is on his way to see the voting for himself. The elections are crucial if Iraq is to have a government which can claim the backing of the majority. The RAF Chinook carrying Allawi lands; moments later, there are gunshots from houses across the road from the school. Iraqi police cars, lights flashing, set off to investigate. The multinational forces and private security guards do not show too much concern; celebratory fire, one officer says. It happens all the time. After all, they have been up since 4am throwing a security net around this place so tight that they are confident nothing would get through. Allawi arrives, pronounces himself satisfied. People are keen to take part in the elections even if some say the security situation is hindering the process, he says. A Chinook flight later, he is sitting at the head of a long table in a room in the governor of Basra's office. Iraqi officials mingle with Iraqi security guards and the hired guns. Allawi needs to be seen to be in control, to be able to stand on his own without the coalition. He is explaining why he was late. "I was delayed at the airport," he says. "If we ran the airport, I would not have been late. It just goes to show we are more efficient than the coalition." The eyes of his US personal security detachment flick around the room. As politicians berate Allawi about the lack of investment in Basra, the men he hired to protect him speak softly into personal radios. If they register Allawi's words, if they wonder why they, and not his own forces, have been chosen to be the last line of his defence, the Praetorian guard, they do not show it.
|
|
||||
|
................................................................................................................. Copyright ©2004 Gethin Chamberlain. All rights reserved. |
|||||||
