right. There was a Walkman on the dash. When the guys got bored I guessed they’d treat themselves to a blast of Eminem.
The matt green paintwork had been chipped, rubbed and worn down to bare steel and aluminium. Danny Connor was right: American troops hadn’t been prepared for the sort of war they were fighting now. Someone had secured sets of body armour to the doors. Before that, there’d have been just a thin sheet of steel between them and the enemy.
These guys had been prepared and trained for a fast, mobile and aggressive war, not the guerrilla action they were being treated to round here. As Danny Connor had said, it was like Belfast, only worse. I almost felt sorry for them, driving these big vehicles down narrow streets, open to attack every inch of the way. They had no protection at all against RPGs and only sandbags in the footwells as some kind of barrier to the IEDs. There was so much rubbish in the streets they were impossible to spot.
As we drove I tried to make it look as if my head was bouncing around like everybody else’s, so I could get a decent view of where we were going. I thought it might make me feel better if I could get a rough idea of where I was.
I wasn’t scared, just pissed off.
I caught the glint of sun on water, and recognized the silhouette of the bridge over the Tigris. I’d looked at it often enough from my hotel room. Shit, it was hot in here.
46
We piled past queues of traffic. The collapsed shopping mall came into view, then, a minute or so later, the large colonial building with shuttered windows and a big fuck-off Union Jack on top. British soldiers in desert camouflage were on stag: a line of Warrior AFVs were parked up amid walls of sandbags and rolls of razor wire.
My shirt was soaked with sweat and stuck to the PVC seat cover. I could feel the body heat of the MP beside me. My hands were swelling beneath the plasticuffs, and I tried to lean forward to relieve the pain. Each time I did, the MP pulled me back.
We passed an American checkpoint. Helmets and sunglasses. M16s. Sandbags. Wire. The river was on our right, a wall topped by short railings on our left. Beyond it was a mass of palm trees. Against the brilliant blue sky they looked more Beverly Hills than Baghdad.
The driver stood on the brakes and took a sharp, ninety-degree left. I lifted my head: we were passing a run of low, rectangular concrete buildings with flat roofs. Some had been destroyed; the walls of others had been covered with tarpaulins. There were US military vehicles everywhere. Green army towels and BDUs hung from makeshift washing lines. Sat dishes pointed skywards. I could hear generators.
We rounded another corner and passed a row of Iraqi tanks with their turrets hanging off, and a bunch of other scorch-marked vehicles that had been given the good news.
Iraqis were being herded off a line of trucks that had been backed up against a series of blockhouses with small, barred windows. My heart sank.
The wagon stopped with a jolt and rusty iron gates creaked shut. The Hummer’s doors were thrown open and the sergeant and MP next to me jumped out.
I heard a ‘sssh’. I knew what was about to happen. Shutting my eyes and clenching my teeth, I got my head down and tensed myself.
Hands reached in and grabbed me, dragged me out of the vehicle and immediately let go. I dropped to the ground.
They didn’t speak. All I could hear was laboured breathing and grunts as I was pulled upright.
Jerry was somewhere behind me. ‘I’m an American citizen. Check my passport.’
I heard a dull thump as the punch landed, then the sound of him retching. A mouthful of vomit splashed on to the sand.
They dragged me away, my feet only just touching the ground. The grip on my arms didn’t relax as we entered a building. It was suddenly cooler. I opened my eyes again and peered below the blindfold. The soles of worn desert boots squeaked either side of me as I got marched across not-so-recently polished black and white tiles.
The grip on my arms was now almost as painful as the plasticuffs on my wrists. I tried to keep the balls of my feet in contact with the ground, to take some of the pressure. I heard Jerry moan and try to catch his breath.
Another door opened and we went through. There was still an echo, but no more squeaking soles. We were on green carpet now. We stopped abruptly and I was swung around. My legs hit a chair and I stumbled backwards. The MPs grabbed me and forced me down.
Time to close my eyes, tense up and grit my teeth.
My hands were agony. I tried leaning forward, but somebody behind me grabbed my hair and pulled me back.
Jerry groaned. ‘Why are you doing this? I’m an American. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
The blindfold was ripped off. I’d been transported into a Hollywood fantasy version of eighteenth-century France. The walls were gilded. In front of me was an enormous, ornate gilt desk with a red leather top. Scattered around the room were plush velvet sofas. One had a big slash in it.
Eight guys in soaking wet T-shirts stood at the ready, poised to climb aboard us if we did something stupid.
Jerry looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘Nick, what—?’
I turned away. I hoped he’d switch on soon and shut the fuck up.
I took in some more of the room. The new owners had done it up a bit, but it had obviously taken a bit of a pasting during the war. The odd bit of plaster still hung off the ceiling, tiles were still missing from the wall, and fluorescent lights dangled from exposed wiring, but that’s what happens when Mr Paveway comes to visit.
To my right, a small window had been patched up with perspex. I couldn’t help but grin when I looked through it. I could see a tower of some sort out there, with the usual picture of Saddam waving – except that his face had been replaced by a big yellow Smiley. I caught the eye of one of the guys standing guard and he smiled too.
‘Why am I here?’ Jerry was getting more and more agitated. ‘I’m an American.’
Nobody replied because everyone knew it. He’d said it enough times. Besides, they were here to enforce, not answer questions, and they wouldn’t hesitate to make him vomit again if he got boring.
47
‘Jeral, I know you are.’
The Texan drawl came from behind us, near the door. ‘And if you keep quiet, this won’t take long.’
I didn’t turn round.
‘I’m an American journalist. I have a right to know why we’re here.’ Jerry was doing too much talking and not enough listening.
Two men in uniform came and leaned their arses against the desk in front of us. Both were in their mid- thirties, and had identical, Brylcreemed short-back-and-sides with the kind of parting you can usually only get with a fretsaw. Their BDUs were so perfectly pressed they could have stepped straight out of a Chinese laundry. I looked down at their boots. They were broken in, but they weren’t scuffed and fucked like the MPs’.
