another REMF hang out.
‘Eh, lads, look at this place,’ said Pikey, as he jumped off the lorry and dusted himself down from the journey. ‘It’s fucking Slipper City here.’
‘No, it’s not, it’s Abu Napa,’ quipped Ads.
So that was it. The unsuspecting tourist resort of Aya Napa in Cyprus had just given its name to British Forces HQ, Maysan Province. From that moment onwards, nobody in the platoon called it Abu Naji ever again.
Ads and Pikey were two of the platoon’s strongest characters.
Private Adam Somers was a 22-year-old South Londoner, and a typical cockney. He came to the army from the City, where he had worked for two years as a trader in the Stock Exchange. He traded futures and options and even used to wear a silly bright yellow jacket. But as far as we could tell from his stories, all he learnt in the City was about whorehouses. He was eventually sacked for losing ?128,000 in one day, and decided to join the army to do something exciting with his life.
Ads was a cheeky sod. He used to love calling me Granddad. But he was a right charmer too, and was always the first to crack a joke. Whenever he went out on the town, he was famed for bringing back the fattest bird he could find and shagging her as noisily as he could.
More than all of that, he was an excellent soldier. He loved fighting, in or out of uniform. A keen boxer, he would never miss a punch-up if there was one going in Tidworth. And he was the most tenacious in the platoon during combat exercises. But he was also always in and out of trouble with the army over women or alcohol — the only thing that stopped him from being made an NCO.
Private Geoff ‘Pikey’ Pieper was twenty years old and got his nickname from his family. They were proper gypsies, and lived in caravans. He was the best fixer I’ve ever known, a fantastic wheeler and dealer. If the platoon ever needed some piece of equipment, I’d put Pikey on to it.
‘I’ll see what I can do, boss,’ he’d say — and he’d always get it. Fuck knows from where, and I didn’t ask. Pikey’s room used to look like Steptoe’s yard, or Delboy’s living room. He’d always come back off leave with something off the back of a lorry to flog to the rest of the company: shirts, watches, mobile phones, perfume, aftershave, sex toys. You name it, he flogged it. He did have a bit of a bad habit of nicking things, but never off the platoon.
I found him a thoroughly good and dependable soldier, who never avoided confrontation and was a brave little terrier in a fight. But like Ads, he also had a bit of a problem with authority, especially when his temper was up. Once when we were in the pub in Tidworth, Pikey had got too much booze inside him and he pulled a knife on one of the lads after some minor argument. He would have done him too, if I hadn’t stepped in.
They might make a bit of trouble for you every now and then, but both Pikey and Ads were your archetypal British Army soldier, the backbone of the nation. They may not mix very well with peacetime, but sweep them out of the pub, pick them out of the gutter, and when they sober up give them a bayonet and tell them to charge. They’ll fight out of their skin for you. From the Peninsular War to Iraq, their sort were what made the British infantry the greatest fighting force in the world. And it’s exactly the same today.
The next day, another convoy of eight tonners took most of Y Company into Al Amarah. Our destination was Cimic House, the opulent former home of the governor of Maysan province slap bang in the middle of the city. It had been taken over by the coalition forces, for now. It served as both the US-run Coalition Provisional Authority’s headquarters and the battle group’s only foothold in the city. It was a busy place.
The journey in was our very first taste of a Middle Eastern town. It wasn’t a nice one. Al Amarah was the capital city that Maysan province truly deserved. It was a squalid, stinking dump.
If you’re being kind, Al Amarah is a place well past its heyday — if it ever had one. At worst, it’s a filthy truckstop for petrol and a punch-up, before they take off again as quickly as they can. It wouldn’t surprise me if the River Tigris runs twice as fast as it normally does when it goes through Al Amarah. Nobody wants to stay there for longer than they have to.
4
The smell of the place is the first thing that hits you. And the smell of its people’s rotting shit will stay with me for ever. It was everywhere. The sewage system had long since packed up and shit and piss, along with bathwater and cooking waste, ran openly down every street’s drainage gutters for everyone to see and smell. Piles of uncollected rubbish were everywhere.
We gawped out of the back of the trucks at our new home. Almost nothing differentiates the city’s dull blocks of single- or two-storey houses from each other, laid out on a US-style grid system. Almost every building is sand coloured — nobody seemed to bother with paint.
Most of the cars on the streets were also in a shit state, a good indication that there was little money about the place. But money or not, I could never understand how Al Amarah’s 350,000 people could care so little about their own surroundings.
If what was there wasn’t bad enough, the town is pretty much constantly slapped by a strong wind that blows across the empty plains. It burns the back of your throat when it gets really hot and dumps a thin layer of dust over everything.
Children were playing in the overflowing shit-filled gutters, covered in grime and dirt. ‘Mister, mister,’ they shouted as we went past. It’s an upsetting sight when you have kids of your own the same age.
A few groups of men hanging around on street corners gave us the evil eye as we drove past. The uprising in Najaf led by Moqtada al-Sadr’s militia had swiftly hardened the population’s stance to our presence.
If there was one thing Al Amarah people do care for it was their religion. For a lot of them, Islam and Moqtada were inseparable. The biggest thugs in town were the holy nutcases, hired guns and vicious gangsters of Al Amarah’s Office of the Martyr Sadr (OMS). Named after his father, this was Moqtada’s official fan club and local HQ for the Mehdi Army. People did what they said — they paid no attention to the police who were by and large an irrelevance.
Depending on the political climate around Iraq, the OMS’s fighting strength numbered anything from a hardcore of around 400, to several thousand. They dressed in black. The OMS was also a convenient umbrella under which people who wanted to resist the coalition’s presence grouped. They welcomed all comers, from tribesmen with blood feuds against us to settle, to frustrated former Ba’ath party officials and jobless young men just wanting to earn a few dinars. With a lot of the male Iraqi population having undergone conscription at some stage under Saddam, most of the OMS’s ranks had some form of military training.
It may be only nine miles from Abu Naji, but Cimic House took up to an hour to get to. Convoys in and out varied their routes as much as possible to avoid being caught by improvised explosive devices (IEDs), also known as roadside bombs. That could mean crossing the river three times.
When our convoy pulled up at Cimic House, the city was peaceful. During the daytime over the last few days, it had been quiet. The bad boys came out to play at night.
CIMIC stood for Civil and Military Cooperation, the army’s term for reconstruction projects, improving the infrastructure and general tree-hugging. Getting Iraq back on its feet, and all that. It was the basic reason we were all there. The whole compound is around 200 metres long, from north to south, and 100 metres across from east to west, at the widest point.
On two sides, there is water. The vast River Tigris runs past its northern perimeter, and one of its tributaries passes by its western edge. Since the Tigris stretches from the northern mountains of Kurdistan down through Baghdad as well as a dozen other towns, it was thoroughly filthy by the time it reached Al Amarah. It escaped into the Arabian Gulf just past Basra. It wasn’t uncommon to see dead dogs and cows floating by, as well as the odd badly bloated human body.
The main road that approaches Cimic House from the south also snakes past its southern and eastern boundary, a thick concrete wall six feet high and reinforced by Hesco bastion bollards and sand-filled bollards.
You get into the place by two gates, each preceded by a series of 50-metre-long chicanes. All traffic is filtered through them to stop suicide bombers. The front gate, two sheet metal doors, is at the southern end of the compound and was used most often. It opens onto a long wide paved driveway that leads up to the main house. It was used as the vehicle park, and it was where we debussed from the eight tonners.
