Mesopotamian Interlude

Ali as Sharqi

The move to Ali as Sharqi takes several days to organise. The decision is made to shift with various elements of the infrastructure that we have built for ourselves at ALBERT. This includes the large plastic water tank that we have appropriated, the refrigerator container and the superstructure for the deep trench latrine. All of these large items are loaded onto flatbed trucks that have been provided by a local contractor and we eventually move in two packets, via the Al Amarah ring road onto the northern highway.

The journey passes without event, but we remain vigilant throughout. The slower moving convoy is escorted by Land Rovers to provide an element of Force Protection that drive at the front and rear of the column, pulling over and moving up and down the line when the convoy passes places where it will be vulnerable to attack by small arms or roadside bombs. They resemble a pair of sheepdogs, seeing the flock of slower moving logistic vehicles to its destination. I am travelling in the front cab of the Battlefield Ambulance with my driver. The Ambulance is not that slow moving, but is packed full of equipment that, despite my protest that the ambulance needs to be configured to treat and move any casualties, the Company Sergeant Major has insisted we carry for Company Headquarters. I lost the argument which came down to a game of 'paper, scissors, Badge of Rank'. I did manage to successfully argue against the case for the Company's supplies of additional ammunition to be carried in the back of the ambulance, which would compromise the protected status of both ambulance and its occupants. It is impossible to mount top cover in the ambulance, so the best I can do for self-protection is to scan the horizon and use the wing mirrors to warn the driver and any other vehicles in the convoy of potential threats. The cab is unbearably hot; the air-conditioning is barely effective and the side windows offer little ventilation. I am becoming a sweat-sodden mass inside my body armour and despite near-constant drinking, soon have a pounding dehydration headache. When we stop for a piss-break, I am not surprised that I produce little more than a few millilitres of concentrated urine and a jet of steam.

After a road move that lasts about three hours, we arrive at Ali as Sharqi. Our new home is an old Iraqi Army camp surrounded by a drab grey concrete wall on which are painted murals of charging soldiers, Iraqi flags and what appear to be training illustrations of Soviet era gas masks and weapons, that I assume must date back to the Iran-Iraq War. We are living in a degree of comfort in tents and on camp cots. Once again we are fed centrally in a tented field kitchen. The chef cooks two meals a day, breakfast and dinner. Lunch is the soldier's traditional fare; hard tack biscuit dipped into a small tin of greasy meat pâté that tastes like dog meat, with a chocolate bar or boiled sweets for dessert. It is a meal that has not changed drastically since the days when my grandfather fought in Italy in 1917.

The next couple of days are almost restful and I take the time to catch up on sleep. The biggest change with our move is the weather. It is now very cold at night and we have a couple of days where, instead of the sunshine we have become accustomed too, it pours with rain. The desert sand in the camp turns to quagmires of mud and our tent leaks. Joyful.

From our new base we mount a couple of patrols back into the border area. Most of them are uneventful, but on one occasion, we have shots fired at us. It is a night patrol. We have been observing for suspicious activity, scanning the landscape with night vision equipment and we must be clearly silhouetted against the skyline. We are just about to mount our vehicles and continue our patrol when the unmistakable crack and zip of bullets passing overhead disturbs the night. Through his night vision goggles, Joe, the patrol commander has eyes on an unlit vehicle about 400 metres away that is high-tailing it towards a cluster of farm buildings.

We mount up and the drivers put pedal to metal as we go in hot pursuit. There is a dry riverbed between us and our assailant and we have to take a dog-leg detour to find a suitable crossing point. When we come emerge, we have lost sight of the vehicle, but drive as fast as we can towards the farm complex on the horizon. I am thrilled by the high speed chase across the rough desert, after weeks of the senses being blunted by countless patrols on which nothing happens, we finally have some action. The Land Rovers screech to a halt at the entrance to the farm complex, we provide cover from our vehicle, while the occupants of the other vehicle, led by a young Corporal whom I know only as 'H', dismount and search the complex. The next few minutes are filled with tension as we wonder what, and who, they might find.

After about five minutes, 'H' and his team return, they have found nothing, but 'H' seems quite spooked and shouts at us to move out. We pick up our planned patrol route and move on to our next rendezvous point. 'H' has calmed down now and tells us the story of what they found back at the farm complex.