Mesopotamian Interlude

Foray into Al Amarah

At the following morning's briefing, we are told that the proposal for the Reconnaissance and Arrest Operation on the 'Ali Baba' house has been given the go ahead. A few hours later, we are back in the Ops Room to receive our orders. Ollie has prepared the plan and will lead the operation. The operation will be conducted by three teams. The first team will conduct a covert close target reconnaissance in a local taxi with the Sheikh acting as driver and guide. Two teams, mounted in Land Rovers will follow the reconnaissance team at a distance of 400 metres and will stop short of the target house. If the presence of the 'Ali Baba' gang is confirmed by the reconnaissance team, the follow-up teams will conduct a 'hard knock' of the target house, arrest the occupants and we will all return back to base for tea and medals. The operation will kick-off at 1600hrs, so that the reconnaissance team will be on the target house shortly before dusk. Ollie places me as the medical support with the reconnaissance team in the taxi.

At the appointed time, we move down to the taxi rank and cross deck into the taxi. We cover our heads with shemaghs to try to avoid looking like a bunch of British soldiers. The back of the taxi is cramped and although we try to keep our weapons out of sight, I have little doubt that our attempt at disguise is not particularly convincing. We start the journey to the target house.

As the journey progresses, it becomes clear that the 'Ali Baba' house is not actually in our Area of Operations in the rural hinterland, but somewhere in Al Amarah city, stomping ground of 1st Battalion, King's Own Scottish Borderers Battlegroup. This has the potential to cause all sorts of operational headaches. A group of troops operating in a civilian taxi on someone else's patch without their knowing could have disaster written all over it if things turn messy. We wait by the roadside at Al Amarah city limits to get clearance to proceed. On the journey in, I have had time to consider my role in the plan. I am concerned that the taxi is not the best place for me to be if things go wrong; I need to be close enough to any action to be able to rapidly get to any casualties rather than being in the thick of it. In my mind's eye I can visualise a worst case situation where wounded men are dying because I have become a casualty myself due to my selfish desire to be in the forefront of any action. I quietly voice my concerns to Ollie. He agrees; I cross deck onto one of the Land Rovers.

About an hour later, we get the word from Brigade Operations that we have clearance to proceed with our mission into Al Amarah. We jump aboard our vehicles and join the early evening traffic; the setting sun is a pale disc that casts an eerie glow on the cityscape as it sinks towards the western horizon ahead of us. We move with 'top cover' up - the men in the back of each vehicle standing up and facing outwards to provide 360 degree protection. As a nurse, I am armed for the protection of myself and my casualties only; I am not permitted to take part in any offensive action. I therefore have a choice of sitting in the back of the Land Rover as a passenger and remaining passive, with my back to any external threat, or I can stand up with my rifle facing outwards. I choose the latter, justifying the action that I am poised to defend myself, pre-emptively if necessary; if I am going to be hit, I would prefer to take a bullet in the chest to the arse. As we drive along, we maintain communications with each other via Personal Role Radios, each vehicle notifying the other of the movement of traffic moving past the vehicles. Even on metalled roads, it can be a bumpy ride and maintaining an upright and stable body posture is physically tiring; we pull our rifle butts into our shoulder with our right arm and grip onto a roll bar with the right elbow, gripping onto another roll bar with the left hand.

We make our way into a district on the eastern fringe of Al Amarah. Ollie comes onto the radio net to notify us that he is about to conduct the Close Target Reconnaissance. The two Land Rovers begin to 'satellite' the target area by driving around the block until we get the word to move in for the 'hard knock'. Tension mounts. The first time we move around the block, we are likely to arouse interest, the second time, we are setting a pattern, the third time, we are vulnerable to attack, the commander does what he can to vary the route, but his choices are limited. Rather than make a fourth circuit, we go static and dismount, taking a defensive posture. The call to prayer echoes across the city from countless mosques, forming a discordant unison of song that drifts to the heavens. After a wait of ten minutes, Ollie comes back on the net to inform us that the reconnaissance has been fruitless, there is nobody at home. I am disappointed, but also have a sense of relief that at least there will be no casualties today. We mount up and move out of the city back to the taxi rank near our patrol base. Once we are clear of the city limits we are able to relax a little. We park up at the taxi rank and the Sheikh invites us to join him for tea, we accept his offer of hospitality and talk with him for a while. About fifty years old, tall, and bearded with a bulbous nose, the Sheikh speaks fluent English and tells us that he spent time in Britain as a young man. He asks us all where we are from and kindly tells us that he is able to provide us with anything that we like. This offer appears to include Persian rugs from across the border, Johnny Walker whisky and, if we like, girls. The Sheikh is clearly a man of some influence and affluence; eloquent and mercantile; a crook.

I form the suspicion that the 'Ali Baba' house was actually the base of a competitor in the black market that the Sheikh was hoping we would conveniently put out of business. I also decide that I would not be surprised if his men were the 'Ali Baba' gang that we have heard so much about; two additional very good reasons to be grateful that tonight's operation did not go ahead as envisaged. Our tea finished, we make our excuses and leave. The Sheikh bids us farewell, shaking each of us by the hand. As he shakes my hand, his eyes light up.
"My darling," he says. "I love you! You can come and see whenever you want and I will give you anything you desire."
He holds onto my right hand a little longer than I am comfortable with. I am amused, embarrassed and fucking terrified all at once. The guys are going to have a field day with this. I thank him for his kind offer and tell him that I will let him know - in about fifty fucking years! As we leave the taxi rank, I have to suppress my desire to break into a run. One of the lads turns to me and starts pulling my leg,
"Fucking hell, Sarge!" He laughs, "I think you've pulled there."
Safely away from the gaze of the libidinous old Sheikh, I can see the funny side.
"Well, he is only human after all. His eyes aren't painted on and his heart isn't made of wood!" I reply. Laughing we jump onto the back of the Land Rover and make our way back to the Patrol Base. I never once dreamt that losing my anal virginity would be a threat I would face in Iraq.

After the anti-climax of the dodgiest pseudo-black op in military history, we are back patrolling along the border, day and night. We encounter few people, and stop off at various abandoned Iraqi installations along the way to have a nose around. There are barracks and concrete bunkers and tank sheds that have been bombed to shit. The only evidence of human habitation are some random files containing photocopied military personnel documents and identification cards and a few sandals that lie at random amid the rubble strewn compounds. Not knowing exactly what they are, we take the files for intelligence to have a look at. The patrols are tedious, tiring and for me, unceasing. Having maintained a punishing schedule of twenty hour days for a couple of weeks, I am constantly working at the extremes of my endurance.

A couple of days later I come in from a night patrol, have a meal, shave and brush my teeth before mounting up for a morning patrol. As I sit in the back of a Land Rover feeling nauseous and dizzy with fatigue, I realise that I have reached my limits and need rest. Thankfully, the patrol is cancelled. It is too hot to sleep in our tents, so I lie down in the shade on the hard standing outside the Operations Room and using my webbing as a pillow, fall into a deep sleep for about two hours. After this, I take things a little easier and only go on the patrols that are most likely to result in a casualty, or where the patrol route is more than twenty minutes away from the Patrol Base.

Conditions in the camp are starting to take their toll on the men, the sanitary facilities consist of a deep trench latrine over which a wooden superstructure providing a degree of privacy and a bench seat with a round holes is placed. Unfortunately, not everybody has the self-discipline to exercise good field hygiene and it is clear that some people smoke, drink, eat and engage in other less savoury activities during their visits to the latrine. Petrol is poured onto the latrine every two or three days to burn the shit. This does not deter the flies which get everywhere and despite my best efforts at encouraging good hand hygiene to prevent the spread of illness, there is a general theme of at least one or two soldiers being ill with diarrhoea and vomiting on a daily basis.

The soldiers have the luxury of being bedded down sick and letting the illness take its course, with oral or IV rehydration as necessary, the Company cannot afford the luxury of having officers go sick. Officers are given loperamide tablets to slow down or stop the diarrhoea. One day, an officer who will remain nameless approaches me, walking with an awkward gait and explains that he has just shat himself. I discreetly provide him with the medication he requires and wish him a speedy recovery.

A few days later we are told that we are moving location to Ali as Sharqi, a town to the north of al Amarah.