sound of rounds going down all around him to make his contact reports heard.
‘Do you copy? We’re pinned down, Sarn’t Major. We’ve got no fucking comms with anyone apart from you. We need a Warrior down here to extract us. Now.’
Dale was always a calm and reassuring presence. ‘Keep going mate, you’re doing a good job.’
Daz Wright explained where the enemy’s main four firing positions were. The most lethal was on the north bank across the river, almost at right angles to them. With their longs at the ready, Ads and Fitz were in Rooftop Sangar facing directly east. There was no time for a Number Two to set up. On hearing Daz Wright’s report, they immediately started scanning the area he had identified on the north bank. From Cimic, they had a good and uninterrupted view over most of it.
‘If you see anything at all let me know immediately, lads,’ boomed Dale as he crouched beside them and peered through a set of binoculars.
It was time for Ads and Fitz to use all the empathy they could muster. You have to ask, Where would I want to be if I was the enemy? Normally that means the high ground, buildings or rooftops — anything that offers good cover. Then, you tell yourself to look out for any shape or aspect that seems unusual in the landscape. Nine times out of ten, that’s exactly where they are.
Ninety seconds later, Ads spoke up. ‘Sarn’t Major, I’ve got him. I’ve got a shoot on here.’
Ads was lying flat on his stomach with the L96’s bipod legs up. The rifle’s long, camouflage-sprayed barrel was pointing over the small lip of the wall. At a distance of more than 800 metres away, all he had seen was a long thin piece of metal poking out from a large bush. A hard looking shape sticking out of a round mass of greenery was unusual enough to attract his attention. He had concentrated on it for 20 seconds. When he finally saw a long spurt of yellow flame blast out of it, he knew what he was looking at was eight inches of an AK47 gun barrel.
‘Are you sure, Ads?’
‘Yes, Sarn’t Major — hundred per cent.’
‘If you’re happy, mate, take the shot.’
It was a hell of a long way away, so Ads got to work quick. First, he ranged the gunman’s position. He was 828 metres away. So Ads did his calculations, and adjusted the sight’s range drum by eighteen clicks, setting it to precisely 830 metres. He looked back through the sight, and ever so slightly raised the L96’s barrel to put the bush back into his crosshairs. In the movies, snipers aim off and above targets to take account of distance and wind. That’s a load of bollocks. The crosshairs are always dead on the target.
There are a total of thirty-two different clicks on the windage drum. You choose which one to set it on depending on whether there is a light breeze or a Force Nine gale blowing. Ads looked harder at the bush through his scope to see if any leaves were moving on it. It fitted comfortably into the middle third of the sight. It was perfectly still, so he left the drum on zero.
Next, the gunman himself. From just the end bit of the barrel that Ads could see, he estimated exactly where the gunman’s head might be. You aim for the largest part of the body visible. Normally that means the torso. You don’t need to demolish someone’s brain to take them out of action, a 7.62 in the kidneys is more than sufficient. But this time it had to be a head shot, because the gunman was lying flat on the ground and his head offered the greatest surface area. Ads looked down into the bush directly following an imaginary line from where the barrel was pointing. The head was roughly 12 inches further back from where the barrel ended, he calculated, and set his eyes on one specific leaf behind which he believed his prey lay. He was ready.
It had taken him no more than three minutes from start to finish. A novice might have taken half an hour, and still only be in with a fifty–fifty chance.
The sweat was running down his brow hard, but he ignored it. He controlled his breathing, gripped the weapon firmly and took up the pressure on the trigger. Then, he took in a deep breath and held it. After staying perfectly still for five more seconds, he took the shot. One slow and steady movement of his index finger, not a snatch. Total control.
A 7.62mm ball round fired from an L96 travels at 875 metres a second. So Ads’s round took just a fraction less than a full second to hit the target. Immediately, the barrel sticking out from the bush fell onto its side. Its iron sight was no longer visible, and it didn’t move again.
Five seconds later, Ads exhaled slowly. With perfect calm, he sat up and quietly announced, ‘I got him.’
He pulled back the bolt of the L96, pulled out the bullet’s empty casing, and popped it in his pocket.
‘I’m keeping that.’
He lay the L96 back down on a sandbag next to him, and lit up a Lambert and Butler cigarette. A cheeky little grin then spread right across his face. He had killed the gunman stone dead without ever even setting eyes on him. One shot, one kill. It was perfection.
10
For Daz Wright’s patrol, the kill had the effect of taking a considerable amount of fire off them so they could begin to look up over their garden wall and return fire. That gained them a foothold in the battle. Ten minutes later, Warriors arrived to extract them with the patrol suffering no further casualties. Daz Wright later had a chance to inspect Ads’s work behind the bush. The gunman was still lying there. The shot had taken the whole of the back of his head off.
For the rest of the day, Ads was the platoon hero. He taunted Pikey repeatedly about it.
‘Who’s the fucking daddy, eh, Pikey?’
The kill had a great effect on all the platoon’s morale. Everyone was proud of Ads, but it was a platoon triumph as well, as it could have been any of us. We had proved our trade by saving comrades in dire peril. The satisfaction wasn’t warped bloodlust. It was entirely professional. Just like a bricklayer who’s just built his first house, and knowing he can do it — and damn well at that.
Company morale was also high at that time, despite the steep learning curve we were all going through. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t the odd bit of tension. With 106 fully grown men living in such close proximity, it would be a miracle if there wasn’t the odd tense situation.
It came in the shape of Louey, and his arch nemesis Private John Wedlock. An enormous Fijian in Recce platoon in his mid-twenties, John Wedlock was the only bloke in the whole company even bigger than Louey. He was a very keen rugby player, and he was seriously hard. When he initially applied to join the British Army in Fiji, he was told he couldn’t because he had too many tattoos on his arm. So he cut them out with a pen knife.
Louey and Wedlock had a massive rivalry over who was the biggest bloke in the company. They hated each other with a rare passion, and it went back as far as anyone could remember. They had already had a few scraps back at Tidworth. His rivalry with Wedlock was the single and only time Louey ever got into trouble. But in Iraq it got even worse. As far as they saw it, they were now representing their platoon’s honour in a war zone. Louey was Sniper’s big boy, Wedlock Recce’s.
One day early on in the tour it flared up again. Wedlock mumbled something under his breath as he passed Louey while coming in from a patrol on Cimic’s front driveway. That was Louey’s cue to launch his favourite Wedlock piss-take. In his cool Caribbean lilt, he mercilessly took the piss out of the Fijian’s broken South Pacific accent.
‘Orr, hellor Wedlock. You do nice patrol or you bit hot boy now?’
Wedlock retorted with his usual insult at Louey.
‘I may be black, but you’re a lot darker black than me, man. Look at you, you’re ugly black.’
Louey stood up straight and tall and eyeballed Wedlock with a stare that would have turned most of us to stone.
‘Say that again, Wedlock.’
Luckily, Major Featherstone walked out of Cimic just at that moment. With reluctance, the two giants parted looking daggers at each other.
The only racism I ever heard in the battalion was between those two. And they were both black. How they were going to peacefully coexist within the same 100 square metres for the next six and a half months we had no idea. It was Clash of the Titans, and secretly, everyone longed for the next instalment.
That evening’s O Group finally brought news about Daz. It had been twelve days since we had last seen him or known anything about him. Once a bloke disappears out of the battalion’s area of responsibility, it’s very hard to
