The Easy Day Was Yesterday (40 page)

We finally arrived at the bridge to find three Iraqis on the ground next to a Multiple Launch Rocket System (MLRS). They were taken away by the intelligence guys for a chat while the rest of us had a good look at the MLRS and, more importantly, what they had in the back of the truck. They had so much ammo in there and I wasn’t sure why they hadn’t sent some down range at the approaching Americans. Maybe they hadn’t realised we were there. Maybe they just hadn’t wanted to die. I later learnt that the Kiowa helicopters had thrown a hellfire missile at these guys (which would explain the bits and pieces of human remains scattered about the place) and I suppose this had prompted them to lay down their arms. In the back of the truck I also spotted three AK47s and about 10 magazines and made a mental note to come back and borrow one of them later.

The next day we continued to be hammered by the dust storm. The crew and I were pretty knackered as the dust, combined with sporadic attacks on the perimeter, kept us all up most of the night. That morning the intelligence guys reported a number of T72 tanks and BMPs (Soviet-style armoured personnel carriers) heading towards our location from the north. I moved Old Betsy to a safer location behind a building and faced her south in case we had to do a runner. A group of B52 bombers dropped twenty-six 2000 lb bombs along the road to the north and on top of the supposed attack. The explosions were horrendous and felt like an earthquake measuring 9 on the Richter scale. That was the end of the attack. We later learnt that what the spy planes thought were T72 tanks and BMPs were actually hundreds of camels walking on the road!

I remembered those AK47s in the back of the abandoned truck and decided to borrow one and a handful of mags. I wrapped it in my jacket and found a quiet old shed and pulled the weapon apart and cleaned it. I wanted to ensure that, if I pointed the thing, it was going to work. It seemed to be in good condition and sounded better with a light oil on the internal working parts. I put a magazine on the weapon, cocked it and, with the safety catch on, placed it next to my driver’s seat. It was certainly a comfortable feeling having the extra protection. It was about this time that the other soldiers started asking why I didn’t have a weapon and offered to find one for me if I thought I needed one.

Later that afternoon, Captain Lyle yelled out across the position, ‘Hey, SAS, have you seen an AK47? We seem to be missing one.’ People laughed.

‘No,’ I replied, ‘but I have one if you want to buy it.’

So that was it; everyone now knew that I had a weapon. Then some soldiers decided to do me a favour by giving me extra AK47 magazines. By the time I’d received 20, I had to say, ‘That’s enough, thanks.’

The next day, with my newly acquired weapon wedged beside my seat, we pulled 40 kilometres back down ambush alley to a rest position to sleep and reload. The rear guys had set up a shower facility and kitchens. The showers were as hot as hell and I had a good sweat going by the time I got out. The food was processed, but a nice change from the MREs.

Finally, I was able to get a full six hours’ sleep and it was nice lying on the desert floor watching hundreds of rockets flying overhead and onto the next town. We spent two days in that location, managed to have a boiling hot shower every day, and ate two meals a day in the field kitchen. We also resupplied our food, water and fuel. On the second afternoon we got orders to move early the next morning to Karbala to act as a blocking force.

Charlie became confused with timings the next morning and had us all up two hours before necessary. We had time to pack all our kit away and have a cuppa. Walt needed at least an hour to stow his kit. At 4.00 am we were following Captain Lyle in his Abrams. All the other Abrams and Bradleys had been loaded onto semi-trailers for part of the travel to Karbala. It was a cold morning and, after a few minutes of driving, we stopped to allow another brigade to pass.

By mid-morning we were two-thirds of the way to Karbala when we stopped and they unloaded the Abrams and Bradleys and drove to a position about 10 kilometres south of Karbala and 100 kilometres south of Baghdad. Captain Lyle told me they were expecting trouble that night, possibly in retaliation for the 300 Close Air Support (CAS) missions planned for Karbala. Then it started — and didn’t stop. The noise was unbelievable and relentless. Fuck me, I’d hate to be on the end of that barrage. Karbala must have been getting totally smashed. The Iraqis returned some artillery which landed about two kilometres away. They were positioning their artillery pieces in schools and hospitals making it difficult for the coalition to retaliate.

I spent my time digging a huge garbage pit; big enough to bury our rubbish and for the four of us to take cover if the Iraqis got a bit more accurate with their artillery. I explained this concept to the crew and told them to jump straight in if the artillery got too close.

The next day we held fast and listened to the hundreds of shells pouring into Karbala in front of the infantry assault. I could just imagine the troops getting stuck into some serious fighting at reasonably close quarters.

At ‘O dark hundred’ the next morning, Charlie had me up telling me he saw a desert dog wander around Old Betsy and he was concerned it would come close. I rolled out of my warm sleeping bag, had a close look at the ‘dog’ with my NVGs and saw tumble weed rolling around.

That afternoon we attended another ordinary orders group and were told we were moving to act as a blocking force as the 1st Brigade moved through to secure the final bridge to Baghdad. We were told to be ready to leave at 4.00 am.

The next morning Charlie struck again and had us up at 2.30 am telling me that we had 40 minutes to be ready. We sat around until 6.00 am, but at least we had time for a hot brew on that cold morning.

We finally got moving and drove fast over formerly ploughed fields. It was bloody tough going on Old Betsy and we struggled to keep up with Captain Lyle. After about two hours the column of armoured vehicles fanned out into extended line and I sensed they were moving into attack formation. In the distance I could see a white and orange sedan and people piling into the vehicle. I later learnt that this was an Iraqi taxi. The taxi withdrew, Captain Lyle’s Abrams had its main gun trained on the withdrawing taxi and I was certain he was going to fire. He didn’t. Apache Troop continued to the abandoned position that included a number of old Soviet-style anti-aircraft guns. Captain Lyle directed his tank to drive over the top of one of the guns. But the tank didn’t roll directly over the top and slightly missed one of the barrels which slammed down on top of the tank behind Captain Lyle’s turret and head. Instinctively, Captain Lyle dropped into his tank and, a millisecond later, the gun fired. The tank rolled to a halt and I was certain Captain Lyle was dead inside the Abrams. I pulled up next to the Abrams and climbed on top of the tank expecting to see carnage inside. Instead, I saw Captain Lyle bleeding from his face where his helmet had been ripped off his head by the 20 mm shell. His gunner was calling over the radio for a medic while I applied direct pressure to his face. It was a foolish thing for Captain Lyle to do and he nearly paid the ultimate price.

We pushed on for a few more kilometres and then stopped for the night and to refuel. The crew and I managed to get our heads down by about 11.00 pm, but the next morning I woke to a savage attack on our position. Hundreds of bullets were being fired and I rolled out of my sleeping bag and grabbed the AK47. I then realised the fucking Americans were all test-firing their weapons and there was no contact. Bastards — I nearly had a heart attack. I wandered over to Captain Lyle’s tank, got his attention as he directed his gunner on the 50 cal, and motioned with my AK47 that I was going to fire as well. He gave me the nod, so I fired 10 bullets on semi-automatic and two 5-round bursts on full auto.

We received word to drive to our blocking position south-west of Baghdad. In single file, we wove our way through the back roads in the southern districts of Baghdad, then started to enter built-up areas. Women and kids ran from houses waving white flags and cheering the arrival of the Americans. We eventually found ourselves on a major freeway heading north towards the western suburbs of Baghdad. Five of the armoured vehicles in front crashed through the barriers and drove on the other three lanes heading south and Captain Lyle’s Abrams and five vehicles remained on the three lanes heading north — I stayed behind Captain Lyle.

The convoy travelled at a reasonable speed — perhaps 70 kph — and, looking in the mirror, I could see vehicles on both sides of the roads as far as my eyes could see. Any wonder the Iraqis were waving white flags; what fool would take this lot on? It seemed like the finale to this war was going to be a fizzer. Then the first crack rang out, and then another, and then it was on.

The houses on each side of the freeway — maybe 200 metres away — seemed to erupt. People were running to their verandahs and firing wildly at the convoy. RPG rockets filled the gaps in the air where there were no bullets. There were hundreds of people firing at the convoy and everyone in the convoy was firing back. The noise was unbelievable. Machine-guns on the Abrams seemed to fire continuously and only stopped when the main 120 mm gun was ready to fire. In between the racket I could hear the Bradleys firing their 20 mm cannons into houses, vehicles and people. Captain Lyle was directing his machine-gunner to targets and firing his M4 at separate targets. Bullets and rockets were being fired from both sides of the freeway so there was nowhere to hide Old Betsy from the impact. I tensed, waiting for bullets to start hitting Old Betsy. The guys had their helmets on and seemed to slide down in their seats.

The closer we got to Baghdad, the more intense the fire became — if that was possible. Charlie was trying to film without compromising our position by filming a road sign or significant feature, while Jeff and Walt looked for anyone specifically targeting Old Betsy. But the noise was just too loud and, most of the time, I couldn’t hear Walt’s concerns and Jeff would have to yell in my ear. Unbelievably, things got more intense and violent. F14s started firing missiles into specific strongholds and, when they’d dropped their payload, the mortars and artillery started smashing dangerously close. Those artillery guys were really working overtime as the explosions on each side of the road were continuous. For us, it was just a matter of hanging on and not getting too close to Captain Lyle’s Abrams, as it was taking a lot of hits and we hadn’t taken any at that time.

Every 200 to 300 metres, Captain Lyle’s tank stopped and his turret rotated towards a target; the barrel was raised to the correct elevation and then, BOOM! The sound was deafening and the over-pressure immediate; I was continually forced to pop my ears.

Finally we arrived at the overpass near the Abu Ghraib prison and the troop positioned in all-round defence. I found a dip between the freeways that offered some dead ground protection for Old Betsy and the crew. The firing continued so we remained in the centre of the road for the night. The only problem was that three armoured personnel carriers (APCs) decided to park next to us and it wasn’t until well after dark that I discovered the hard way that these were mortar APCs and they fired missions all night.

By morning the firing had become sporadic and we decided to drive east to the forward edge of the troop’s position along the road to Baghdad. The carnage along the road was shocking. Dead bodies littered the roads everywhere. Some lay next to burnt-out Iraqi tanks, others next to civilian vehicles and others just lay where they had been shot. When we got to the forward edge we saw the results of the battle that had occurred a few hours earlier. The troop had destroyed six Iraqi tanks and close air support had destroyed three. More bodies littered the area. These soldiers seemed to have died horrible deaths. Bits and pieces of bodies were strewn all over.

Jeff and I went to have a look at the destroyed Iraqi tanks and BMP. Jeff took some photos and we returned to Betsy to continue work. Then Jeff said, ‘Hey that guy moved.’ I turned and saw one of the many ‘supposedly dead’ Iraqis sit up. We both had just been looking at the guy. I ran back to him while Jeff ran to the nearest US vehicle to report the matter. The guy put up his hands, surrendering — he had no weapon. He was an officer in the Special Republican Guard. He had terrible wounds to his right leg and great chunks of his butt were gone. He looked bloody frightened and seemed to think we were going to kill him. I grabbed his extended hand and made sure he was aware I was there to help. He cried and started kissing my hands. ‘Oh mate, don’t do that,’ I muttered in disgust, making a mental note to scrub my hands when this was done.

Charlie and I gave him some water and he threw it up and went unconscious for a while. I checked his wounds, plugged the craters where he was bleeding and decided to give him an IV. A young soldier arrived with the IV gear, but didn’t know how to use it, so I put the IV line in. The man was very dehydrated and had lost a lot of blood, so finding a vein was hard work — almost impossible, in fact. I tried the usual spots for a vein: behind his thumb on his wrist and the inside of the elbow, but there was nothing — he was flat. The tourniquet had been tight above his bicep for a few minutes now and I saw a thin, faint blue line on his bicep and decided to have one last go. The cannula went in smoothly, but I got no flashback of blood to confirm that I was in the vein. I assumed this was because he was so low on blood, but I was pretty sure I was in the view and confirmed this when I hooked on the fluid and it ran through. I opened the line up so the fluid entered his veins as fast as possible. I contemplated putting another line in his neck when the medic APC arrived with a doctor on board. The doc took over and they stretchered the Iraqi officer into the APC and departed. As I watched the APC leave, I wondered if the Iraqis would treat an Aussie or Yank casualty so well. I decided it didn’t matter; we had done the right thing.

Walter really got some mileage out of that incident on CNN, and he said some nice things about me, so I was grateful. All the while I was treating the Iraqi, Walt was talking to Anderson Cooper in Atlanta and, a couple of times during the event, Walt referred to me as Anderson. No dramas. At the end of the day it was a good morale boost for the crew as we’d been surrounded by death and destruction for too long and it was nice to do something good. Later, when Jeff and I talked over the incident, I laughed as I said, ‘You would have shat yourself if the guy sat up while you were taking a photo of his supposed dead body.’ ‘Yer damned right,’ replied Jeff in his southern drawl.