Bravo Two Zero

The demolition party took cover on target, aware that they had very little time before the charges detonated. According to Mugger, as the seconds ticked away one of the blokes screamed out, “The timers! We need cover! We need cover!”

“Cover?” Mugger shouted back, mindful of the tons of steel that was about to fall around their ears. “You’ll be getting all the fucking cover you need in a minute!”

As he spoke, the fire-support team aboard the Pinkies found their targets, and with the enemy temporarily suppressed, Mugger’s gang was up and ru

Vehicles and equipment had taken many hits, but there were no casualties. The following day, however, it was discovered that it wasn’t only Mugger and his gang who’d had a scary time: two blokes found bullet holes in the fabric of their smocks.

On another occasion, one of the patrol commanders had aborted his mission when he saw the flat, featureless terrain. Believing that it was impossible to achieve his aim where he was, he had got his men back on the helicopter and returned to base. He questioned his own integrity because of it. Personally, I feel that it was one of the bravest acts of the war. I wish I was made of the same sort of stuff.

The Iraqis found the body of Vince Phillips and delivered it to the Red Cross, who in turn had him brought back to the UK. The bodies of Bob Consiglio and Steve “Legs” Lane were on the same flight home.

Legs was awarded a posthumous MM (Military Medal) for what the official obituary described as “unswerving leadership.” For me he showed this during the contacts and even more in the E amp;E. It was Legs who wanted us to find a better ambush point for the hijack, and it was just as well he did-otherwise it would have been two truckloads of troops we were stopping, not an old American taxi. And it was Legs who got Dinger into the water when swimming over a quarter of a mile of freezing Euphrates was the last thing he wanted to do. That’s leadership.

Bob, too, got the MM that night. Either he made his choice or it was made for him, but he went forward like a man possessed and tried to fight his way out of the contact. In doing so he drew a fearsome amount of enemy fire, and this diversion, without a doubt, helped the rest of us get away. He was hit in the head by a round that came out through his stomach and ignited a white phosphorous grenade in his webbing. He died instantly.

As is the custom, we held a dead man’s auction. All the men’s kit was sold off to the highest bidder, and the proceeds given to the next of kin or squadron funds. The practice is not macabre; it’s just the culture within the Regiment. If you worried about people getting hurt and killed you’d spend your life on antidepressants. The pressure release is to take the piss out of everything and everybody. A bloke fell off a mountain once when we were away, and it took us about three hours to get the body back down to our base camp. A helicopter came in to fetch it, and one of the blokes was straight into the kit to get his rum and all the other goodies.

“Well, he ain’t fucking going to need them now, is he?” he said, and quite rightly so. Before anybody said a word, he’d got the man’s jumper on and was away with all the rest. When we returned to Hereford, all the borrowed kit was returned and auctioned. It’s accepted, but it doesn’t mean to say you’re not upset. The bloke who’s dead is not going to worry about it, and anyway, he’ll have been to other people’s auctions and done exactly the same.

Bob had a big Mexican sombrero in his locker at work, a typical tourist souvenir that I knew for a fact had only cost him ten dollars because I’d been there when he bought it. I took the piss out of him on many occasions for wasting his money on such a bit of tat. At the auction, however, some idiot parted with more than a hundred quid for it. I kept it at home for a while, then took it to his grave with some MM ribbon for him and Legs.

We had some problems at the joint funeral in Hereford.

Legs was cremated, and Vince and Bob were buried in the regimental plot. Afterwards there was a wake in the club-curry and drinks. A group of Vince’s male relations started to give me a bit of a hard time. As far as they were concerned, there was no way such a tough man could die of hypothermia. I tried to explain that it doesn’t matter how good you are or how strong you are: if hypothermia hits you, there’s not a lot you can do about it. I appreciate that grief takes different people in different ways, but I hope that in time Vince’s relations will come to accept the truth.

The following week, taking advantage of British Airways’ “two for the price of one” offer to Gulf servicemen, Jilly and I went camping in California. It was a fantastic holiday, and it really helped put everything behind me.

A fortnight later I went back to work. Mark was in a rehabilitation unit, where he remained on and off for the next six months before returning to squadron duties. Chris went to training wing as one of the instructors in charge of Selection. Dinger had already left on a one-year job abroad. Stan, too, was away within two months, and once the medics had finished with my hands and teeth, so was I.

Epilogue.

Our heating bills have been horrendous since I got back. It’s nice to be warm. When it rains now and I’m indoors, I get a big brew of tea and sit by the window, and I think about all the poor blokes stuck on tops of hills.

As my stress-test score showed, I’m not emotionally affected by what happened. I certainly don’t have nightmares. We are big boys and we know the rules that we play by. We’ve all been close to death before. You accept it. You don’t want it to happen, of course, but sometimes, there you go-occupational hazard.

In a strange way I’m almost glad I had my Iraqi experience. I wouldn’t like to repeat it, but I’m glad that it happened.

Some things, however, will live with me for ever.

The jangle of keys.

The crash of a bolt.

The rattle of metal sheeting.

A hatred of zoos.

The smell of pork.

I joined the army to get out of the shit I was in with the law, but there was never any intention to stay in for the full twenty-two years. I’ve been very fortunate. I’ve been all around the world, doing things that were outrageous but great fun. Now it’s time to get on and do something else. I’m 33 going on 17, because I’ve always been too busy playing the soldier. I want to do the things I’ve always wanted to do.

Our big joke in prison used to be, “Well, at least it can’t make us pregnant,” and I have learnt that nothing is ever as bad as it seems. Things that might have bothered me in the past are less likely to now-the car not working, red wine being spilt on our light-colored carpet, the washing machine flooding, something valuable getting lost. I know my limitations better now, yet I feel more positive and self-assured. I no longer take anything for granted. I appreciate simple, everyday things much more; instead of going downtown in the car, I’ll make an effort to walk through the park.

The Regiment used to have priority; the job always came first. Now, if it’s Katie’s school sports day, I’ll make the effort to be there and cheer her on.

During my time in Baghdad, and when I got back, I kept going over the decisions I had made, trying to work out if they had been right or wrong. The conclusion I came to was that I made some good ones, some bad ones, and some indifferent ones. But at the end of the day they had to be made. You’re presented with a problem, you make your appreciation, and you make your decision. But make no decision at all and you’re dead. Should I have gone for the border instead of hiding up? The answer undoubtedly is yes. Should I have appeared to give in to the Iraqis when I did? Again, yes-I know I did the right thing. Tactically, and morally.