‘Target getting out of the car now. Closes the car door. Going to the boot, and opens it up. Has a rummage about.’
‘Aha.’
‘Target is taking a long wrapped package out of the boot. Could be a weapon. Target closes the boot.’
‘OK.’
‘He’s taking the package back to the front seat again, this time passenger’s side. Puts package down beside him into the foot well. Target stationary again. Target now picking his nose.’
‘OK, mate. Roger all of that.’
Number Two will still commentate even if Number One can see everything perfectly well for himself. A running commentary confirms what his own brain is already telling him. That allows him to focus his mind 100 per cent on carrying out the kill.
Our personal weapons would also go up to the roof with us along with our battle webbing, just in case we needed them in a hurry. And we also made sure there were at least two GPMGs set up in or close by to each of the roof’s sangars. Nothing we had was going to stop a determined bomber quicker than a Gimpy.
Technically known as an L7 General Purpose Machine Gun, the Gimpy has been the much loved mainstay of the British infantry for decades now since it first came into service in the 1960s. It was designed to put down 750 rounds a minute of heavy suppressive fire. And that was just how we used it outside the OMS building during our first contact.
The Gimpy weighs 14 kilos and is fed by belts of 200 rounds, which come in tin boxes that hold 800 in each. With its flip-up sight and mounted on a tripod, a GPMG can be effective at ranges up to 1,800 metres, thanks to its 63cm-long barrel. But you can also use them in what is known as map-predicted mode, like mini-artillery pieces. If you point the barrel up into the air, the rounds will fall down onto the target in an arc, giving you ranges of up to 3,000 metres. It’s a very skilled art form, but very impressive when done properly. Because of the 7.62’s higher calibre, you have to change its barrel after every 2,000 or so rounds fired, because the barrel will have become so hot and in danger of melting. It can literally glow orange. So each machine gun is set up with a bag of two fresh barrels next to it.
As the fighting in Najaf and Baghdad continued, we also got regular taskings from the Americans to look out for Mehdi Army battle casualty replacements passing through our AO. Route 6 was one of the two main roads to both cities from Basra and Iran. Thousands of Shia Muslims flocked from both to join their brothers pitted against the Great Satan. They often travelled together in coaches with flags and posters hanging out the windows. I’d put up an extra pair to scan for them along the Red Route — which was Route 6 when it hit Al Amarah — and where it crossed the Tigris at Yugoslav Bridge. Once we’d identified them, the Americans would often lie in wait for them further up the road.
The task was known as Operation Tiger. Sometimes, it was just speculative spotting. On other occasions, there was specific intelligence that the Americans wanted us to confirm. They often gave us not only the colour and make of the buses, but a four-hour time window when we could expect to see them. It was amazing how accurate some of the intelligence was.
Des and Oost loved volunteering for Op Tiger. It allowed them to salivate at the enemy.
‘Hey Oost, look what we’ve got coming,’ the Number Two Des would say, staring through his binos. ‘Two white buses 50 metres apart. What was the int again?’
‘Two white buses.’
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s 5.46 a.m. That’s almost bang in the middle of the time frame. The Yanks said between 4 a.m. and 8 a.m. Fuck, their green slime are good.’
‘Yeah. Shit, man, I wish we could just slot a few right here and now.’
‘Yeah I know, man. Would save the Yanks the effort. Maybe we could just say that my finger got a spasm.’
Despite their bloodlust and the immense temptation, Oost and Des never did open fire on the Mehdi Army convoys. They were too professional for that.
There were also the permanent watches over the regular trouble spots that we had identified. After a few days, the enemy’s octopus-like pattern of movement slowly began to come clear.
Four of their favourite sites for shenanigans became so infamous that we gave them their very own codename. It saved a wordy explanation each time we wanted to report activity over the radio to the Ops Room.
They were christened after precious metals. Gold was a stretch of waste ground on the north bank concealed from our eyes by ruins. It was a popular mortar-firing position. Silver was a road junction over to the north-east where the OMS used to set up their own illegal vehicle checkpoints. It was also a regular ambush spot. Bronze and Zinc were two more favoured mortar points, the first 300 metres to our east amid the old houses, and the second a park 1,500 metres to our south down Tigris Street, conveniently on the other side of the road to the OMS building. The lazy sods could pop a few rounds down the tube while they were waiting for the kettle to boil.
The CO had been right to take the gloves off the battle group as early as he did. What Daz and I thought might have been the end of the OMS’s resistance in Al Amarah proved only to be the end of its beginning. From the day Daz was blown up, they kept up a regular barrage of violence against us. During the day that meant opportunistic attacks on patrols. And every night without fail, at least one RPG or mortar strike on Cimic. By the end of our first ten days, the whole company had seen their first contact. Some had already had to fight their way out of two or three.
We had no choice but to keep up with the pace the enemy had set. We had to learn how to do that fast.
9
As snipers, we were busy as buggery. Our dual role of manning the roof and keeping up with the patrol programme ran us ragged. With all our skills, Major Featherstone had decided we were his most potent force and wanted us to be doing as much as possible. It was ironic. Only a month ago back in Tidworth, we had wondered whether there would be a role at all for the platoon in Iraq.
The daily routine was particularly hard on me and Chris. One of us would be up commanding activities on the roof half the night. When he staggered in, the other would go up to take over. Then in the morning it was time to crack on with the patrols again. But we wouldn’t have had it any other way. The excitement kept us going.
‘It’s weird, Danny,’ Chris told me. ‘I should be bleeding unconscious with the lack of kip I’m getting, but I feel right as rain. D’ya think they’re putting cocaine in the scoff?’
We learnt most out and about on foot patrols in town.
We got to know the warning signs when trouble was about to kick off. Empty streets in the middle of the day always spelt bad news. Before the shooting started, the OMS would often tip the locals off first to allow them to get under cover. Men running about on rooftops was another combat indicator. The enemy used high spots to signal to each other, flapping bits of cardboard around. We also learnt we should never stay in one place for longer than five minutes. That’s all the time the OMS would need to organize an ambush. Going too close to houses with black flags hanging off them was also a bad idea. It was the colour of the OMS and its owners would see our presence as a challenge. For the same reason, the city’s mosques were also put out of bounds. There was no point in picking a gun fight just for the sake of it.
Not all of Al Amarah’s people hated us. We still got friendly smiles from the law-abiding majority as we patrolled. Some even willingly engaged us in conversation to practise their English. But from one street to another the mood could turn dramatically and without any warning. On one early patrol, we popped our heads into a metalworks to say hello. We had been told it was a friendly area. Nobody would talk to us. Instead, all the workers started banging away as loudly as they could at their desks. It was calculated to intimidate, and it did. We quickly left.
We also learnt about Al Amarah’s history. One place more than any other brought that home to us. We first came across it on a foot patrol. We had known it was there, and it was marked on our maps. But we had been foolishly expecting to come across neat rows of gravestones because of what you see in northern France. Behind a
