The Easy Day Was Yesterday (39 page)

The drive on NVGs was horrendous. The dust totally enveloped Captain Lyle’s Abrams in front making following almost impossible. Continuous driving on NVGs can make you feel nauseous because of the sensory fuck-up with depth perception — like being on a merry-go-round for hours on end. Eventually the driving became too dangerous and, due to the limited threat, we went to white light. By 4.45 am, I had been driving for more than 28 hours and awake for almost 50 hours. I had to sleep a little so, given that we were using white light, I allowed Jeff to drive for two hours and I died in the back seat for 120 minutes of solid sleep.

By first light we had arrived at the preparation area. The Iraqis inside As’ Samawah were dropping artillery onto Charlie Company to our east, and the Paladins were retaliating with 155 mm artillery shells. The Kiowa helicopters were firing hellfire missiles at opportunity targets inside the city including the scud missile sites. Tension mounted among the troops as H-hour was continually put back. The whole day was spent on standby. Then word came that the assault was planned for first light.

I rolled out my sleeping bag next to the driver’s door and slept for a few hours. The rest of the crew slept in Betsy. They didn’t want to sleep on the ground for fear of a mortar attack. I couldn’t convince them otherwise, but I needed some rest before all hell broke loose and wasn’t going to get that sitting behind the wheel of Betsy.

The next morning I was up at 4.00 am for the dawn attack, which didn’t happen. Despite being dog-tired, I was routinely woken through the night by the continuous bombing of As’ Samawah. I assumed that the Americans were softening the target for the dawn attack.

Later that day we moved closer to As’ Samawah to form up for the attack. The attack was planned for 3.00 pm. I hoped these guys weren’t relying on the element of surprise because that was certainly gone, as was the initiative. The Iraqis were working their arses off establishing their defensive positions. Captain Lyle and I had a quiet chat about the forthcoming battle. He told me I could position the vehicle wherever I wanted, but to expect a ‘Black Hawk Down’ type of firefight. Intelligence reports suggested that the Fedayeen (a specialist unit in the Iraqi army commanded by Uday Hussain, Sadam’s oldest son) were recruiting local men to assist in fortifying the town. They had built gun emplacements on most buildings in the city, so the firefight was going to be big. I thought the same, but was confident that the 10 Abrams and Bradleys in front of me, and the Kiowas overhead, would clear a good path through the city so Old Betsy would take limited fire — at least I hoped they would.

As preparation for the assault continued, I heard the dull thud of artillery being fired. I heard six dull thuds and thought the Americans had fired a salvo behind us. Then they impacted. The explosions were deafening as the six shells smashed in about 50 metres from Old Betsy. One man lay screaming on the ground and another was thrown into the back of one of the vehicles. Someone tended the injured while the rest of us scrambled for our vehicles and moved. The Iraqis had us in their sights and their first barrage was on target, so we expected a dozen more rounds to follow in quick succession. The only thing we could do was move and move quickly.

Momentum had been well and truly lost, along with the initiative. Intelligence reported that the Fedayeen were bringing families into their town headquarters. They gave the men an AK47 and instructed them to go and fight the Americans or lose their families who were kept as hostages. We pulled back to a night position about 10 kilometres west into the desert. F16s then proceeded to bomb the shit out of the town all night. The Americans were showing the Iraqis what weapons of mass destruction were all about.

That night I finally got some decent sleep — about five hours — but it was bloody cold. People assume the desert nights are as hot as the days, but the nights were arctic. I wore thermal pants and shirt, my Kuwaiti-made uniform, NBC jacket and pants, arctic jacket, gloves and beanie, I was in my cold weather sleeping bag which was inside my bivvy bag, and I was still cold.

In the morning, after a lazy breakfast of MREs and a hot cup of tea, we moved out on a reconnaissance of a bridge with Apache Troop. This seemed to be just something to keep us occupied for the day while future plans were made for the war. We arrived at the bridge and spoke to the locals who seemed a friendly bunch and happy to see us. All the vehicles were lined up adjacent to a railway track except Captain Lyle’s. It was parked on the high ground on the other side of the railway line. Jeff and I were standing in front of Captain Lyle’s Abrams chatting when two men stepped out of a hut about 120 metres away. They both carried RPGs and fired them at Captain Lyle’s Abrams. Due to their haste in firing, both missiles missed their targets, but the noise of the rockets being fired was enough to ensure that everyone ducked and grabbed a weapon. Captain Lyle’s machine-gunner was manning his weapon and immediately opened fire. Jeff and I turned and ran back to Betsy as we watched both men’s bodies jump and dance as about 20 rounds lifted them back into the hut. We returned to the firm base with some speed, but it was a quiet drive home. I suppose the crew now realised that this was a war, people were going to die and we were right in the middle of it.

Back at the base camp we received orders to move, so again, Jeff and I ensured that Betsy was doing okay and we loaded up with MREs, fuel and water. Every time we stopped I pulled out a garbage bag and hung it from the side of Betsy and made sure all our rubbish went into the bag. When it was full, I dug a deep hole and buried the rubbish, ensuring that at least 50 centimetres of sand was loaded on top. The Americans, on the other hand, were absolute pigs. They left rubbish everywhere they went. They just threw it on the ground until the winds carried the rubbish off into the desert. They were also unhygienic. They didn’t dig holes to shit. They just shat on the desert floor and the used toilet paper flew across the desert. It was bloody disgusting. I gave my crew a lesson on bush hygiene and how to use the toilet. It always included a shovel and a very deep hole. If the Iraqis wanted to see where the Americans had been, they just had to follow the piles of rubbish.

We finally received orders to push forward to a location north of Najaf. Apparently we were going to secure a series of bridges over the Euphrates River. Captain Lyle gathered us around the front of his Abrams and delivered a set of orders for the move that would be led by his company. We were to be the forward element on the western side of Iraq, heading north. I got settled in to listen to Captain Lyle’s orders when, after about five minutes, he asked if there were any questions. I waited and no-one said or asked anything. I couldn’t believe it. It was the worst set of orders I’d ever heard. Captain Lyle was a top bloke, but he had spoken for five minutes and told us nothing. He had a map spread out over the front of his tank and most of us only had a view of his back. We were driving about 100 kilometres north into enemy territory where contact with the Iraqis was almost certain and orders lasted five minutes! ‘Ah, yes. I have some questions,’ I tentatively asked as Captain Lyle looked at me. ‘What will the order of march be?’

‘As per normal. You guys will follow my Abrams,’ replied Captain Lyle. ‘Any other questions?’

‘Ah, yes. What are the actions on contact?’

‘Well, we will return fire.’

Fuck me, I’m getting nowhere with this.

‘Any further questions? Right, we’re leaving in 30 mikes.’

I decided to have a chat with Captain Lyle once everyone had left. I confirmed with him that, in the event of an ambush, I would use his tank for protection and that I would allow enough room for him to rotate his turret without removing my roof rack so he could return fire. I also told him I’d be travelling without my lights on, as I didn’t want to attract fire to the soft-skinned vehicle. Captain Lyle accepted this and I went to get ready for the move, but I still couldn’t believe that the whole convoy was moving with lights on. This was just wrong and went against everything I knew.

By 9.00 pm we’d been travelling for about an hour with an average speed of 40 kph. In front I could see the lights of 10 Abrams and Bradleys and behind I could see a line of headlights that seemed to go on forever. Then it started. Charlie thought they were flares. I knew they were tracer rounds. We were being ambushed from the right. The line of tracer seemed to be coming from a machine-gun set on a fixed line as the tanks just drove straight through the fire and the bullets ricocheted off the side of the tanks. I knew we couldn’t just drive through the fire because those bullets would easily cut through Old Betsy and all of us inside and then punch through the other side. I accelerated to the left of Captain Lyle’s Abrams as bullets smashed into it. All the tanks had now stopped and turned into the ambush and returned fire. The Bradleys opened up with their 20 mm cannons and the tanks used their 50 cal machine-guns. Two of the Abrams fired 120 mm shells from their main guns into the ambush and the explosion on their arrival was deafening. No-one could survive that amount of firepower. The firing stopped and the convoy pushed further north. The crew was now on edge. We had just survived our first ambush — and it wouldn’t be our last.

A further 10 kilometres up the road it started again, but this time from the left, although we also took some fire from the right. Captain Lyle swung his turret from side to side engaging targets with his 50 cal machine-gun and main 120 mm gun. I put on my NVGs and could see the ambush on the left about 200 metres away. Incredibly, people were running around with weapons looking for better positions from which to fire. It was strange seeing so much activity in the ambush. RPGs were launched at the tanks, and one landed in front of our vehicle. I watched as three RPGs were fired from the ambush and knew one was aimed at Betsy. I watched it fly straight at the vehicle and grabbed the door handle hoping the blast might throw me free. I cringed slightly as it got closer and waited for the impact, then saw it appear over the right of the car. It must have missed by centimetres. Movement in the ditch about five metres from Betsy caught my eye. This guy seemed to be looking at me as he raised his AK47 and, a millisecond later, his body jumped backwards as it was hit by a five-round burst from the machine-gun of the Bradley behind me. The Americans called in an A10 Warthog, which fired its mini-guns into the ambush. It sounded like the aircraft was letting out a continuous fart as it fired 6,000 rounds per minute and then, for good measure, dropped a 500 lb bomb into the ambush location. That was the end of that and we moved on.

We continued on through very thick palm plantations and I waited for the next attack. This was great ambush country and I spent 90% of my time scanning the plantation on either side with my NVGs looking for indications of an ambush. It was now after midnight, which made the date 25 March, the day I turned 37.

The convoy slowed down, which made us better targets, and eventually we stopped. A patrol of soldiers ran past us and told me the first Abrams had collapsed the bridge we were to use to cross the Euphrates. With the bridge gone we turned around and drove back the way we had come and I couldn’t believe we weren’t attacked. Retracing your steps is a definite no-no. The engineers loaded the stranded tank with explosives and destroyed it in position. At 1.30 am, on the northern edge of Najaf, we stopped for five hours. I didn’t sleep because we seemed to be surrounded by buildings and the Americans were terrible at letting us know what was going on. In fact, when I asked Captain Lyle what the plan was, he seemed not to know either.

After five hours we were told to continue towards the bridges over the Euphrates, but via a different route given that the other was blocked by the destroyed tank. At the same time, a severe dust storm rolled through and I couldn’t see more than 20 metres. I wrapped my head in a shamagh (scarf) and put on my goggles in case I needed to exit Betsy. The drive took about 90 minutes, but we hadn’t gone very far when the action started. The convoy was getting smashed by small arms fire and rockets from the left and right. I couldn’t take cover behind the Abrams because rounds were coming from both directions. The Iraqis couldn’t see what they were shooting at because of the dust storm, so they came closer to the road. They thought they couldn’t be seen because they couldn’t see the convoy. Foolish. The US soldiers could see them very clearly through their thermal imagery. The Iraqis just fired indiscriminately at the noises. Every vehicle had bullet impact marks except Betsy — bloody lucky. Poor old Betsy’s soft skin wouldn’t have coped with striking bullets. There were rounds landing all around our vehicle and, during a break in the fire, the crew from the tank behind came to see if we had a casualty, and to look at the bullet holes in Betsy — thankfully there weren’t any. Apparently they saw a guy through their thermal imagery firing directly at old Betsy. Must have been a crap shot.

We continued on through the pea-soup dust as the firing intensified. The Iraqis were really laying down some heavy fire from both sides of the road. By now the team had their ballistic helmets on and I suggested they turn and face the doors. The rationale was that the bullet-proof vests had ballistic plates in the front and rear, but if they got hit on the side, the bullets could easily penetrate the Kevlar. So facing the door meant penetrating bullets would, hopefully, hit the ballistic plates.

Through the dust, I realised I was driving around a roundabout, when I saw a white mini-van parked on one of the entry roads to the roundabout. The side door of the van was flung open, and three Iraqis leapt out and started firing at Captain Lyle’s Abrams in front of us. Captain Lyle swung his turret around and his gunner let them have it with about five rounds each. Idiots! Why would they attack a tank with AK47S? And why did they shoot the tank and not Old Betsy? We were just as close. Mind you, I’m glad they decided to shoot the tank. They mustn’t have seen Old Betsy, but I decided then that I really had to find a weapon to protect myself and the team — this was getting out of control.