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Looking For Trouble |
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April 1 |
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(Published April 2) TAM O' Shanter perched atop his head, pistol secured in its holster on his belt, steel-rimmed glasses pushed back on to the bridge of his nose, Lieutenant-Colonel Mike Riddell-Webster, the commanding officer of the Black Watch, is striding through the crowded market place in the centre of the town of Az Zubayr. Yesterday, this street was thought still too dangerous to drive down in a soft-skinned Land Rover, but the CO has decided - enough is enough. After days of sitting back and watching his troops come under attack from militia men armed with mortars, AK47s and rocket-propelled grenades, he has decided that he and his men are not going to be forced to hide behind the safety of the armoured plates of their Warriors any longer. The order has gone out that the Black Watch is going to patrol the streets of Az Zubayr. On foot. The dozen or so officers and infantrymen chosen to accompany him on the first sortie into the town have been told that they can keep their helmets on if they wish, but he will be donning his "T.o.S" with the distinctive red hackle of the Scottish regiment. A quintessential British moment. It is 8am and already the town is teeming with people pouring in from all around in their battered trucks laden with tomatoes and their carts towed by donkeys. Men stand in huddles, talking and watching other men standing in huddles. Women in their black chadors carry empty plastic containers towards the place where the water bowsers park up. There are children everywhere, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dirty but cheerful. It is a fine morning, the temperature already soaring to the high 20s. On the streets, Warrior crews keep watch over the entrances to the town. Challenger tanks stand on the open ground that sprawls in front of the market place, guns pointed into the open country beyond. Out of the gate stride the British officers, the CO in the lead, chatting earnestly to the man by his side, divisional staff officer Lt-Col Roger Warren, a fluent Arabic speaker. They stroll forward side by side, heading towards the blue-domed mosque, past the place where the mortars fell and scattered the crowd gathered for the first attempt to distribute aid last week, heading straight for the centre of the town. Those gathered round the trucks of tomatoes look up, bemused, as the men approach, but the CO does not break his stride. Hand outstretched, he greets the first wary Iraqis on the edge of the gathering. The crowd parts, engulfing the men, the soldiers given the thankless task of protecting a man apparently determined to place himself at maximum risk trying to hold back the curious throng. Hands in his pockets now, the CO listens as Lt-Col Warren addresses the crowd. They are not there to hurt anyone, he tells them, they are there to help the people of the town. Around them, the crowd is growing in number, children pushing between the men, eager to see these strange foreign soldiers in their unfamiliar hats who have appeared in their town and driven out the other army. Now the crowd has found its voice. They talk all at once, gesturing with their hands, pointing to their mouths. Water is the most important thing, Lt -Col Warren tells the CO - they say they want water. It is coming soon, the CO assures them. We understand, he tells them. The men jabber at him again. The electricity is broken, they say. A team of engineers is on its way to fix it, the CO replies. He wants to know if there are any water engineers in the crowd, someone who can tell him where the pumps can be found, how to switch them back on. Lt-Col Warren translates, but the men are talking over each other, each with his own point to make. A man with a luxuriant moustache in pristine white jelabbah shoves his way to the front. People have been taken prisoner by the British, he says. The British are too aggressive, with all their tanks and their guns. He is angry, little flecks of spittle glistening on his moustache, shouting and waving his hands. The people are afraid of all the troops, he says. Hands on hips, the CO leans his head forward to listen to the translation, Lt -Col Warren breaking off to shush the crowd . Finally, he looks up. There is no need to be afraid of us, he tells them, once the shooting has stopped we are here to be your friends. They must learn to trust the British, they are there to help. But the men are not convinced. They are still afraid because the British are here, they say. The big boss of the water engineers is afraid of the British, he is afraid to come out. Everyone is desperate for water. We are surrounded by a mass of humanity, all clamouring for water. Each newcomer says the same thing. They need water, they must have water. They have not had water to drink, or wash for days. The heat and the smell of so many bodies crushed together tells its own story. Lt-Col Warren listens, interrupting occasionally, soaking up their anger. They are still afraid, he tells the CO, whatever I say to them. They are afraid of us and they are afraid of what will happen to them if we go away. They say that the old regime is not gone away, just moved to Basra. When the British leave, he explains, the people fear that the Baath Party will be back. The CO tries again. There will be no problem and there is no need to be afraid as long as the militia go away, he says. The old regime is not coming back. We are here to stay. There has been regime change. They have had a difficult regime for 30 years, but now they are gone. He catches the eye of the nearest soldier and a path is cleared, those behind the CO eased aside to allow him passage, on again towards the centre of the town. The heat is stifling as they make their way past the mosque, with its blue -grey marble entrance and arched wooden doors, the finest building in the town, the crowd singing and clapping, trailing in their wake like disciples following some new prophet. Picking their way through a group of men pumping up tyres at the roadside, a young boy trying to run ahead stumbling, the CO grabbing his arm, steadying him. On past a barber's shop, the men inside staring out, smiling at Lt-Col Warren's greetings, past more trucks loaded with tomatoes, past an old man sitting in the shade of a shop wall. Next to a shattered shop-front, they stop, and the crowd gathers round again. Bricks have fallen on to the pavement and the windows are gone. It was a barber's shop, Lt-Col Warren explains. They say it was hit by a tank shell. Down the lane, there are ducks waddling through the rubbish piled outside the buildings. Further along, a restaurant, its windows shattered. The men want compensation. One says his car was destroyed by a tank. He was in it, he says, but he survived. The CO looks him up and down, but the man shows no signs of injury. You were lucky, he tells him. My men were being shot at, he says - a week ago, there was war and we were fighting. He walks on, unconvinced by their entreaties. This is the street where D company faced a real battle, he recalls. They were being hit with rocket propelled grenades from all sides. It is not so surprising that there was some damage. They want compensation, but that's not the game he is in, he tells them. He walks on, past sandbagged bunkers next to bags of grain, bundles of herbs stacked high on shop counters, brightly-coloured jars of spices, pyramids of baby milk, bags of rice and lentils, bottles of Pepsi and orange fizzy drinks emblazoned with Arabic script, past tables set out in the street selling batteries and lighters and socks and cigarettes and plastic watering cans and all the assorted oddments that can be found in markets anywhere in the world. Past piles of vegetables laid out on the side of the road, onions, scallions, tomatoes, potatoes, covered in clouds of flies that rise up as they walk by, past dozens of large silver fish, gutted and stinking in the heat, through mounds of rubbish lying in the gutters and across the pavement, past low mesh pens of chickens, past a stall grilling kebabs over charcoal, the smells merging into each other, becoming one. They have plenty of food, the CO says, slightly exasperated, they don't need more food. Yesterday, when the army drove down the street, many of the shops were still closed up, but now they are open again, life is returning to normal. A man stops him, tells him everything is good, or would be, if only they had water. Be patient, the CO says, be patient. He asks what the man thinks of the town, wants to ask him what he thinks of the regime but Lt-Col Warren warns there are too many people around for the man's own good if he answers honestly. The man tells him it is a peaceful area but people are afraid. Everyone is afraid of you, he tells the British officers, pointing to the rubble left by the fighting. The fighting is over now, the CO says. On and on, past a cobbler working next to a pile of battered shoes, past a barrow selling cigarettes - 50 cents, the man tells the CO, or 2,025 dinar, a fair price. And then at the end of the street, a hospital. In its courtyard, lined with pink-painted concrete balustrades, a rare tree offering some shade, casting shadows over the sandbagged foxholes dug in front of the single-storey building. Inside, lines of women, clutching babies, waiting to be seen by the one doctor who is left. He is angry, frustrated. No-one can help him, he says, he helps himself. In his smart grey trousers with a neat crease, his cardigan and clean shirt, he is working behind a table across the doorway to the consulting room. He has told the soldiers he needs water and electricity but everything else he has. This is a medical centre, he has to see more than 100 people a day. He is the only GP here. He is exhausted, he says. The CO says army doctors will be available, but the doctor tells him there are Iraqi doctors but they are in Basra and can't get to the hospital. He is calming down. He says his name is Dr Basl and that if there is an engineer who can help then that might be good. The CO says things will get better and Dr Basl wonders whether that is a promise. He apologises for having nothing to offer his visitors to drink. He says he knows the British like their tea, but he has none. Outside, the CO gets on the radio, calling for engineers and for water to be brought to the hospital. A child trots past, pulling an empty can on a piece of string as a toy. The CO walks on down the street, past more people clamouring for water . The crowd is drifting away and the CO turns to survey the town and he says what is on his mind: "Water is everything now. It is win or lose in this town. We are going to win or lose this by getting them water."
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(Original copy) TAM O' Shanter perched atop his head, pistol secured in its holster on his belt, steel-rimmed glasses pushed back onto the bridge of his nose, Lieutenant Colonel Mike Riddell-Webster, commanding officer of the Black Watch, is striding ahead through the crowded market place in the centre of the town of Az Zubayr. Yesterday this street was thought still too dangerous to drive down in a soft-skinned Landrover, but the CO has decided that enough is enough. After days of sitting back and watching his troops come under attack from militia men armed with mortars, AK47s and rocket propelled grenades, he has decided that he and his men are not going to be forced to hide behind the safety of the asrmoured plates of their Warriors any longer. The order has gone out that the Black Watch is going to patrol the streets of Az Zubayr on foot. The dozen or so officers and infantrymen chosen to accompany him on the first sortie into the town have been told that they can keep their helmets on if they wish, but he will be donning his T.o.S with the distinctive red hackle of the Scottish regiment. A quintessentially British moment. It is 8am and already the town is teeming with people, pouring in from all around in their battered trucks laden with tomatoes and their carts towed by donkeys. Men stand in huddles, talking and watching other men standing in huddles. Women in their black chadors carry empty plastic containers towards where the water bowsers park up. There are children everywhere, dark haired, dark eyed, dirty but cheerful. It is a fine morning, the temperature already soaring to the late 20s. On the streets, Warrior crew keep watch over the entrances to the town. Challenger tanks stand on the open ground which sprawls in front of the market place, guns pointed into the open country beyond. Out of the gate stride the British officers, the CO in the lead, chatting earnestly to the man by his side, divisional staff officer Lt Col Roger Warren,a fluent Arabic speaker. They stroll forward side by side, two men apparently without a care in the world, heading towards the blue-domed mosque, past the place where the mortars fell and scattered the crowd gathered for the first attempt to distribute aid last week, heading straight for the centre of the town. The people gathered round the trucks of tomatoes look up, bemused, as the men approach, but the CO does not break his stride. Hand outstretched, he greets the first wary Iraqis on the edge of the gathering. The crowd parts and engulfs the men, the soldiers given the thankless task of protecting a man apparently determined to place himself at maximum risk trying to hold back the curious throng. Hands in his pockets now, the CO listens as Warren addresses the crowd. They are not there to hurt anyone, he tells them, they are there to help the people of the town. Around them, the crowd is growing in number, children pushing between the men, eager to see these strange foreign soldiers in their unfamiliar hats who have appeared in their town and driven out the other army. Now the crowd has found its voice. They talk all at once, gesturing with their hands, pointing to their mouths. Water is the most important thing, Warren tells the CO, they say they want water. It is coming soon, the CO says. We understand, he tells them. The men jabber at him again. The electricity is broken, they say. A team of engineers is on its way to fix it, the CO replies. He wants to know if there are any water engineers in the crowd, someone who can tell him where the water pumps can be found, how to switch them back on. Warren translates, but the men are talking over each other, each with his own point to make. A man in a luxuriant moustache and pristine white jelabbah shoves his way to the front. People have been taken prisoner by the British, he says. The British are too aggressive, with all their tanks and their guns. He is angry, little flecks of spittle glistening on his moustache, shouting and waving his hands. The people are afraid of all the troops, he says. Hands on hips, the CO leans his head forward to listen to the translation, Warren breaking off to shush the crowd, snapping crossly at a man trying to tug on his sleeve, telling him to wait and listen. Finally, he looks up. There is no need to be afraid of us, he tells the man, once the shooting has stopped we are here to be your friends. The people must learn to trust the British, they are there to help. But the men are not convinced. They are still afraid because the British are here, they say. The big boss of the water engineers is afraid of the British, he is afraid to come out. Everyone is desperate for water. The crowd is pressing in tighter still, the soldiers struggling to maintain even the smallest space around their officers, people pressing in from all sides, no room to move arms or legs. They are surrounded by a mass of humanity, all clamouring for water. Men with their scarves wrapped around their faces, only their suspicious eyes showing through a narrow gap. Each newcomer says the same thing. They need water, they must have water. They have not had water to drink, or wash for days. The heat and the smell of so many bodies crushed together tells its own story. Warren listens, interrupting occassionally, soaking up their anger. They are still afraid, he tells the CO, whatever I say to them. We have got to get through this fear, he tells the CO, but it is going to be difficult. They are afraid of us and they are afraid of what will happen to them if we go away. They say that the old regime is not gone away, just moved to Basra. When the British leave, he explains, the people fear that the Ba'ath party will be back. The CO tries again. There will be no problem and there is no need to be afraid as long as the militia go away, he says. The old regime is not coming back. We are here to stay, he says. There has been regime change. They have had a difficult regime for 30 years, but now they are gone. He catches the eye of the nearest soldier and a path is cleared, those behind the CO eased aside to allow him passage, on again towards the centre of the town. As he walks, the CO is lost in thought. The heat is stifling as they make their way past the mosque, with its blue-grey marble entrance and arched wooden doors, the finest building in the town, the crowd singing and clapping, trailing in their wake like disciples following some new prophet. Along the cracked and pitted pavements they stride, past rusting iron gates, stepping around the crushed tomatoes rotting in the sun. Picking their way through a group of men pumping up tyres at the roadside, a young boy trying to run ahead stumbling, the CO grabbing his arm, steadying him. On past a barbers shop, the men inside staring out, smiling at Warrren's greetings, past more trucks loaded with tomatoes, past an old man sitting in the shade of a shop wall. Next to a shattered shop front, they stop, and the crowd gathers round again. Bricks have fallen onto the pavement and the windows are gone. It was a barbers shop, Warren explains. They say it was hit by a tank shell. A man points to a hole punched through the wall across an alleyway. Down the lane, there are ducks wadling through the rubbish piled outside the buildings. Further along, a restaurant, its windows shattered. The men want compensation. One says his car was destroyed by a tank. He was in it, he says, but he survived. The CO looks him up and down, but the man shows no signs of injury. You were lucky, he tells him. My men were being shot at, he says, a week ago there was war and we were fighting. He walks on, unconvinced by their entreaties. This is the street where D company faced a real battle, he says. They were being hit with rocket propelled grenades from all sides. It is not so surprising that there was some damage. They want compensation, but that's not the game he is in, he says. He walks on, past sandbagged bunkers next to bags of grain, bundles of herbs stacked high on shop counters, brightly coloured jars of spices, pyramids of baby milk, bags of rice and lentils , bottles of Pepsi and orange fizzy drinks emblazoned with Arabic script, past tables set out in the street selling batteries and lighters and socks and cigarettes and plastic watering cans and all the assorted oddments that can be found in markets anywhere in the world. Past piles of vegetables laid out on the side of the road, onions, scallions, tomatoes, potatoes, covered in clouds of flies which rise up as they walk by, past dozens of large silver fish, gutted and stinking in the heat, through mounds of rubbish lying in the gutters and across the pavement, past low mesh pens of chickens, past a stall grilling kebabs over charcoal, the smells merging into each other, becoming one. They have plenty of food, the CO, says, slightly exasperated, they don't need more food. Yesterday when they drove down the street many of the shops were still closed up, the CO says, but now they are open again, life is returning to normal. A man stops him, tells him everything is good, or would be, if they only had water. Be patient, the CO says, be patient. He asks what the man thinks of the town, wants to ask him what he thinks of the regime but Warren warns there are too many people around for the man's own good if he answers honestly. The man tells him it is a peaceful area but people are afraid. Everyone is afraid of you, he tells the British officers, pointing to the rubble left by the fighting. The fighting is over now, the CO says. Another man pushes forward. Friends, he says. They are afraid for themselves, not of the British, he says, glaring at the first man. They want a new regime. Welcome, welcome, he says. On and on and on and on, past a cobbler working next to a pile of battered shoes at the side of the road, past a barrow selling cigarettes - 50 cents, the man tells the CO, or 2,025 dinar, a fair price. A young boy points up at the sky where, far overhead, the vapour trail of a jet is cutting through the blue. Thankyou, thankyou, he says. And then at the end of the street, a hospital. In its courtyard, lined with pink painted concrete ballustrades, a rare tree offering some shade, casting shadows over the sandbagged foxholes dug in front of the single storey building. Inside, lines of women, clutching babies, waiting to be seen by the one doctor who is left. He is angry, frustrated. No-one can help him, he says, he helps himself. In his smart grey trousers with a neat crease, his cardigan and clean shirt, he is working behind a table across the doorway to the consulting room. He has told the soldiers he needs water and elecrtricity, he says, but everything else he has. This is a medical centre, he has to see more than 100 people a day, he is the only GP here. He is exhausted, he says. The CO offers him doctors, but the doctor tells him there are Iraqi doctors but they are in Basra and can't get to the hospital. But he is calming down. He says his name is Dr Basl and that if there is an engineer who can help then that might be good. The CO says things will get better and Dr Basl wonders whether that is a promise. He apologises for having nothing to offer his visitors to drink. He says he knows the British like their tea, but he has none. Outside, the CO gets on to the radio, calling for engineers and for water to be brought to the hospital. A child trots past, pulling an empty can of baby milk on a piece of string as a toy. The CO walks on down the street, past more dirty buildings, a cat sitting watching from a rooftop, past rugs slung over walls to air, past more people clamouring for water. And finally they are at the end of the street, and the crowd is drifting away and the CO turns to survey the town and he says what is on his mind: "Water is everything now. It is win or lose in this town. We are going to win or lose this by getting them water."
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(News copy Published April 2) THOUSANDS of boxes of children's medicines seized by British troops on a raid on a militia headquarters in the town of Az Zubayr, near Basra, are being given out to parents by army doctors in the town in an attempt to win over the local population. British troops found enough medicines, including antibiotics and treatments for pneumonia and tapeworm, for 10,000 children when they searched a health centre last week which had been taken over by the Baath Party and militia in the town. Now they have decided to try to get the medicine, which had been left in a storeroom, into circulation by setting up their own clinic in a temporary military compound in the town. Three army doctors have been made available to see children who are being brought to the compound by their parents, and British military officials hope that the move will convince the local population that they are there to help. One of the first cases brought into the hospital involved two women and two young children whose car had hit a land mine. Both women had serious leg and foot injuries and a piece of shrapnel had severed a muscle in an arm. The youngest child, an 18-month old baby, suffered minor facial injuries and the other child, a boy aged about nine, had shrapnel wounds to his legs and arms. Yesterday, Lance Corporal Fred Simpson, one of the army medics who treated them said: "The shrapnel had come through the floor of the car and the ladies both had foot injuries from the shrapnel. They were both very shaken up and one of them was in severe pain. The young lad was more shocked and dazed than worried by the injuries." He said the mine, believed to have been laid by the Iraqi army, was a "jumping jack" which is catapulted up to waist height before exploding to cause maximum injury rather than to kill. British doctors have also a treated a number of injured Iraqi soldiers. But attempts to recruit Iraqi doctors and translators have hit problems because people say they are scared of reprisals from the Iraqi regime. Lieutenant-Colonel Kevin Beaton, senior medical officer with the Black Watch battle group, said he was concerned that those who were helping the British could face death. "There are absolutely petrified of helping," he said. "The militia are definitely still out there, they have got a grip on the psyche, almost in a Northern Ireland type of way." He said he was concerned for the safety of one young man who had volunteered to act as a translator in the British health clinic. "I just hope he doesn't get topped for talking to us," he said.
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(Original news copy) THOUSANDS of boxes of children's medicines seized by British troops on a raid on a militia headquarter in the town of Az Zubayr, near Basra, are being given out to parents by army doctors in the town in an attempt to win over the local population. British troops found enough medices, including antibiotics and treatments for pneumonia and tapeworm, for 10,000 children when they searched a children's health centre last week which had been taken over by the Ba'ath party and militia men in the town. Now they have decided to try to get the medicine, which had been left untouched in a storeroom, back into circulation by setting up their own health clinic in a temporary military compound in the town. Three army doctors have been made available to see children who are being brought to the compound by their parents and British military officials hope that the move will convince the local population that they are there to help. One of the first cases brought in to the hospital involved two women and two young children whose car had hit an anti-personnel mine in the town. Both women had serious leg and foot injuries and a piece of shrapnel had severed a muscle in an arm. The youngest child, an 18-month old baby, suffered minor facial injures and the other child, a boy aged about nine, had shrapnel injuried to his legs and arms. Yesterday Lance Corporal Fred Simpson, one of the army medics who treated them, said they were brought in by an army ambulance alerted to the accident by the sound of the explosion. He said: "The shrapnel had come through the floor of the car and the ladies both had foot injuries from the shrapnel. They were both very shaken up and both were in pain. One of them was in severe pain. The young lad was more shocked and dazed than worried by the injuries themselves." He said the anti-personnel mine, believed to have been laid by the Iraqi army, was a "jumping jack" which is catapulted up to waist height before exploding to cause maximum injury rather than to kill. The most seriously injured woman is not expected to be able to walk again for at least six months. The casualties were taken to a British field hospital after initial treatment because British officials believe that the main hospital in the town will not offer help to civilians unless they are members of the Ba'ath party. "The Ba'ath party still has a grip on the hospital which is very frustrating because we know we could treat them better there. The doctors can't dish out medicine becasue the Ba'ath party is holding on to it," he said. He said they were pleased with the number of people who had started turning up at the makeshift clinic and four or five people each day were being sent on for further treatment at field hospitals, mainly suffering from burns from attempting to cook on open fires. One young girl was brought in after falling into a bowl of boiling water and yesterday about a dozen women with children were waiting outside for medical attention. "The majority of people are pleased to see us but they are very very scared of reprisals at the moment," he said. British doctors have also a treated a number of injured Iraqi soldiers, including one man -belived to be a Republican Guard member - who appeared to have been beaten by his own side. "He had a head injury which we treated which was a couple of days old but he died in the field hospital," he said. "It looked like it was done by his own people - it looked like he had been malleted." But attempts to recruit Iraqi doctors and translators have hit problems because people say they are scared of reprisals from the Iraqi regime. Lieutenant Colonel Kevin Beaton, senior medical officer with the Black Watch battle group, said he was concerned that those who were helping the British could face death. "There are absolutely petrified of helping," he said. "The militia are definitely still out there, they have got a grip on the psyche, almost in a Northern Ireland type of way. "The hospital is run by the Ba'ath party for the Ba'ath party and we want yo get control of it and tell them it is under new management. I have had two doctors who want to work for us but they are petrified." And he said he was concered for the safety of one young man who had volunteered to act as a translator in the British health clinic. "I just hope he doesn't get topped for talking to us," he said. The translator said he was worried for his safety but intended to continue to help. "I came to help but the Ba'ath party think I am a spy," he said.
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