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Looking For Trouble |
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March 30 |
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(Published March 31) IT WAS the tank crew who 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 Az Zubayr. Corporal Mark Harvey was the first of the snipers to react, dropping to his knee and fixing the man carrying the RPG in his sights. He had one shot at a moving target, but the militia man dropped like a stone, dead before he hit the ground. Cpl Harvey had administered one clean shot to the head. The three others with him stopped in their tracks, grabbed the body of their fallen comrade and pulled him into the bushes by the roadside, then took off towards the 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 crackling in their earpieces, guiding them in. Then they were running towards the houses, all thoughts of cover forgotten, racing towards the doorway into which their quarry had vanished. In the lead was Corporal 'Pedro' Laing, 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, to find himself grabbed roughly and thrown out of the doorway into the street, past Cpl Harvey and Lance Corporal Scott 'Robbo' Robertson, the pair hot on Pedro's heels. Inside the building was a militiaman, who pulled the pin from his grenade and hurled it at Pedro's head. The corporal ducked and the grenade flew over his head, exploding in the street outside. The shrapnel whizzed past his colleagues outside, and fragments hit Robbo at the top of his 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 now grabbed the RPG launcher and down he went again, diving out of the doorway. The rocket missed him by inches, hitting the embankment on the opposite side of the street. The explosion sent Cpl Harvey somersaulting over the mound of sandy soil, landing heavily on the other side. Jumping up, he fired one shot at the man now standing in the doorway and, as the soldiers would say, 'slotted' him with a single round from his sniper's rifle from 20 metres. The man was killed instantly. Then Robbo and Pedro were in through the doorway, throwing grenades on the run. As the grenades went off the pair opened up with their rifles, finishing off the militiamen. Four lads from a mortar platoon rushed 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, bound in dusty rags and fixed to the top their rifles, the long muzzles masked by more scraps of cloth in an attempt to prevent any glint of metal which would give their position away. For eight days they have been lying in the dirt and crouching on rooftops, waiting to pick off the militiamen preying on their friends, the militiamen who slip from building to building, emerging out of the dark to fire their RPGs, then disappearing back into the mass of houses that make up this troublesome little town. The snipers had feared they would play little part in the battles to be fought in an open desert war, but as the soldiers threw away their uniforms and ran back into the towns and the militiamen became the true enemy, they came in to their own. In this new cat and mouse war, the sniper was king. In eight days, there have been 17 kills. They arrived in the town nine days ago, 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, waiting for the enemy to make a mistake. Among their number was Vincent Polus, 24, a Lance Corporal born in Inverness and brought up in Glasgow. For him it is eight days and three kills, the rest of the time spent lying still for hours on end, with no chance of returning to the relative safety of the rear. Living off cold rations, with no opportunity to light a fire, an empty plastic bottle and clingfilm serve as his latrine. Sometimes the snipers work in pairs, sometimes there are half a dozen of them stretched out across the position they have taken up - a hole in the ground or a gap in a building, a window or a ledge on the rooftops. There are nine bullets in the rifle magazine, with its single shot and bolt action, the favourite weapon of the Black Watch sniper. "Your eyes are on the target area all the time, you keep your eyes on that area," the corporal 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 waiting in a building near the centre of the town. Three hours in, the frustration began to creep over him. There was no sign of anything moving and he faced a constant battle to stay alert, his colleague at his side, scouring the arc with his telescope. Then the moment they had been waiting for came, as a group of men appeared. They were dressed in civilian clothes and a bodyguard carried a folded AK47 and magazines of ammunition in his belt. There were six of them in total, unaware of the two pairs of eyes following them from further down the street. The militiamen moved forward then stopped, half hidden from view. 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, Cpl Polus spoke a few words into his radio mouthpiece, asking for permission to fire, never taking his eyes from the target for a moment, the muzzle of his rifle fixed on the bodyguard's chest. Permission given, he adjusted his aim, checking the sights. He was 750 metres away and there was no wind. He began his breathing - two short and then one normal - the air beginning to leave his lungs. In the back of the pickup, the bodyguard fumbled, the AK47 slipping forward in his lap. Cpl Polus squeezed the trigger. "Through the sight I saw him fall back out of the truck and then the truck started to drive forwards," he said. "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." The truck had disappeared from view, but still Cpl Polus did not move, sure that the sun behind him would have blinded anyone looking in his direction towards the muzzle flash. "I just kept watching and then the truck appeared again. That's when I shot the driver," he said. " 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." Nearby, Sergeant Mark Cameron was also waiting for his moment. Now the 31 -year-old, from Brechin, seized his chance, firing twice at the passengers inside the pickup, killing both. The others ran away, but four out of six lay dead. Mark Harvey is back in Cyprus now, out of the theatre of war. He, Pedro and Robbo are in line for a commendation for their bravery. Sgt Cameron is wondering whether anyone back home will really be able to understand what they are going through - day in and day out, hunting down enemies who can melt away in a moment, putting down their weapons and becoming just a few more faces in the crowd.
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(Original copy) IT was the tank crew who 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 Az Zubayr. Corporal Mark Harvey was the first of the snipers to react, dropping to his knee and fixing the man carying the RPG in his sights, one shot, a moving target, 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 the body of their fallen comrade and pulled him into the bushes by the roadside, then took off towards the 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 crackling in their earpieces, guidng 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 or more of waiting and watching, covering a small arc of land near the bridge, never relaxing 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, found himself grabbed roughly and thrown out of the doorway into the street, past Corporal Mark Harvey and Lance Corporal Scott "Robbo" Robertson, the pair hot on Pedro's heels. Inside the building, a milita man, pulling the pin from his grenade and hurling 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 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 now grabbed the RPG 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 Mark somersaulting over the mound of sandy soil, landing heavily on the other side. Later, he would realise that the fall had crushed a vertebrae in his back 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 standing in the doorway, slotted him, as the soldiers would say, a single round from his Accuracy International L96 sniper's rifle from 20m away, 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 gun fire into the roof of the building. 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. 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, playing no part in the war. 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 bound in dusty rags fixed atop their rifles, the long muzzles masked by more scraps of cloth, the better to prevent the glint of metal which would give their position away. Eight days of lying in the dirt, crouched on rooftops, waiting to pick off the militia men preying on their friends, the militia men who slipped from building to building, emerging out of the dark to fire their RPGs then disappearing back into the mass of houses that make up this troublesome little town. The snipers had feared they would pay little part in the battles to be fought in an open desert war, but as the soldiers threw away their uniforms and ran back into the towns and the militia men became the true enemy, they came in to their own. In this new cat and mouse war, the sniper was king. Eight days and 17 kills. They arrived in the town on the Saturday [22nd], 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, waiting for the enemy to make a mistake. Among their number Vincent Polus, 24 years old, a lance corporal born in Inverness and brought up in Glasgw. For Vincent, it is eight days and three kills, the rest of the time spent lying still for hours on end, no chance to return to the relative safety of the rear. Living off cold rations, no chance to light a fire, an empty plastic bottle and clingfilm serving as his latrine. Sometimes they are in pairs, sometimes there are half a dozen of them stretched out across the position they have taken up, a hole in the ground or a gap in a building, a window or a ledge on the rooftops. Nine bullets in the rifle magazine, single shot and bolt action, the favourite weapon of the Black Watch sniper. "Your eyes are on the target area all the time, you keep your eyes on that area," he says. "If a target comes into view you you report it to command and ask permission to fire, then you check you 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 waiting in a building near the centre of the town. Three hours in, the frustration begining 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 dressed in civilian clothes and a bodyguard carrying a folded AK47 and magazines of ammunition in his belt. Six of them in total. Unaware of the two pairs of eyes following them from further down the street, 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 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 flat bed 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 for a moment, the muzzle of his rifle fixed on the bodyguard's chest. Permission given, he adjusted his aim, checking the sights. 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. "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 says. 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 saide of the wagon and went into a ditch." Nearby, Sergeant Mark Cameron was also waiting for his moment. Now the 31-year-old, from Brechin, seized his chance, firing twice at the passengers inside the pick-up, killing both. The others ran away, but four out of six lay dead. Mark Harvey is back in Cyprus now, casevac-ed out of theatre, lucky not to become the third British soldier to die in an RPG attack in the town. He, Pedro and Robbo are in line for a comendation for their bravery. The snipers are climbing back into their Warriors for another day of waiting, another day in the fight to finish off the militia and make safe the town. Mark Cameron is wondering whether anyone back home will really be able to understand what they are going through, day in, day out, hunting down an enemy who can melt away in a moment, putting down his weapon and becoming just another face in the crowd.
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(News copy published March 31) BRITISH troops in Basra say they have found prohibited Al Samud missiles housed in a university building. The missiles, which UN weapons inspector Hans Blix ordered to be destroyed, were discovered on Saturday in what British forces described as a university building in the south-west of the city. Troops who entered the building found 13 missiles. The discovery is the latest in a series of weapons finds in the area. Last week troops found a massive armoury housed in a heliport and a child health clinic converted into a militia base, complete with weapons armouries next door to storerooms packed with unused medicines. The find was made in one of a growing number of raids into Basra designed to weaken the Iraqi regime's grip on the civilian population. It is hoped that Iraqis will eventually feel confident enough to rise up and overthrow the authorities .
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(Original news copy) BRITISH troops in the Iraqi city of Basra say they have found prohibited Al Samud missiles housed in a university building. The missiles, which UN weapons inspector Hans Blix ordered to be destroyed, were discovered on Saturday in what British forces described as a university building in the south west of the city. Troops who entered the building found 13 missiles. The discovery is the latest in a series of weapons finds in the area. Last week troops found a massive armoury housed in a heliport and a child health clinic converted into a militia base, complete with weapons armouries next door to storerooms packed with unused medicines. The find was made in one of a growing number of raids into the city designed to weaken the Iraqi regime's grip on the civilian population. Military commanders hope that Iraqis opposed to Saddam Hussein will eventually feel confident enough to rise up and overthrow the authorities in the city. But privately military leaders are disappointed at the time it is taking to win over the population and hopes that the city would fall quickly have proved unfounded. Raids such as the one on Saturday in which troops pushed 4km into the city have been regarded as a success, with a number of militia positions destroyed, but the Iraqi defenders have continued to fight back with mortar and rocket propelled grenades. Captain Rob Sandford, with the Black Watch outside the city, said they still believed they could take the city, but it would take longer than some people initially expected. "Now that the hype has been disipated and all predictions by people not involved in the situation have not come to pass we are getting on with the serious business of how we are going to be succesful and that will be a matter of time," he said. "Forces will not be committed for the sake of speed at the cost of lives. I think people now accept that this campaign will go on longer than was anticipated in many quarters but the delay has increased because we are trying to avoid collateral damage to the civilian population and loss of life on both sides." Among some of the troops there is a feeling that the much promised campaign of "shock and awe" has failed to materialise in the south and that they have been left to fight a messy guerilla war while the Americans push on up the country. But Captain Sandford said that the nature of the opposition which they were facing meant that massive aerial bombardments and head on assualts would be too costly in terms of lives lost. "The nature of the resistance is such that the overwhelming force the US can bring to bear cannot be used, " he said. The Iraqis have accused coalition forces of killing a number of civilians in military action in and around Basra, but British commanders insist that they are attempting to target militia units. The task has been complicated by the mobile nature of the militia forces, which have made good use of pick up trucks with mortars and machine guns mounted on the back and which are capable of moving quickly around the city launching attacks when the opportuity presents itself. Meanwhile units of the Black Watch are continuing to suppress opposition in the nearby town of As Zubayr, claiming that information from the civilain population indicates that the influence of the Ba'ath party and militia is on the wane. A French journalist, Frederick Gerschel, who was kidnapped in the town five days ago has been released unharmed, although his car and all his equipment was stolen. |