Andy McNab - Bravo Two Zero

“This is fucking outrageous!” Dinger screamed.

I smelled petrol and smoke, and pork-the smell of burning bodies. One Iraqi lolled out of the passenger seat of the truck, his face black and peeling. Bodies writhed on the ground. I could tell the 203s had done their job by the number of fearsome leg injuries. When they go off, slivers of metal are blown in all directions.

All we wanted to do now was get away. We didn’t know what might be in the next wave. As we started moving back to the berg ens rounds kicked into the ground behind us. The surviving APC, a half mile away and surrounded by bodies, was still firing, but ineffectively. There was no time to hang around.

Night would be our cover, and it would be dark soon. The APC had backed off but was moving forwards again. Infantry followed in its tracks, firing wildly. We heaved the berg ens onto our shoulders. There was no point going south because they would have guessed that was our direction of travel. The object of the exercise was to put as much distance between them and us as we could. The only way to go was west, which meant running the risk of coming into line of sight with the S60s.

We wouldn’t be patrolling now. We would be moving as fast as we physically could with berg ens on to get out of the contact area. It was an infantry maneuver known as getting the fuck out.

Two trucks with infantry turned up from our east, came over the brow, and spotted us. They braked, and soldiers spilled out of the back and started firing. There were maybe forty of them, which was a colossal amount of fire bearing down on us.

They started coming forward. We turned to the east, got rounds down at them, and moved backwards to the west, firing like maniacs. Fire and maneuver, fire and maneuver, but this time away from them: two men turned round and ran, then turned to give covering fire for the other two.

We were going up a gradual slope. As we hit the brow we came into line of sight of the AA guns on the northwest position. They started firing with a deep, booming bass sound. The 57mm rounds screamed past us, all of them trace red The shells thundered into the ground, blasting rubble all around us.

Chris and I turned round together to fall back. He was running 6 to 10 feet to my right when I heard what sounded like a massive punch. I looked across just as Chris went down. He’d been hit by an antiaircraft shell. I ran over to his body, ready to jab a Syrette of morphine into what was left of him-if he wasn’t already dead.

He was wriggling, and for a split second I thought it was death throes. But he was very much alive and struggling with his bergen straps. He released himself and staggered to his feet.

“Fuck that!” he said. His bergen smoldered where the round had smashed into it.

We ran on a few strides and he stopped. “Forgot something,” he said.

He ran back to the shattered bergen and rummaged in the top. He came back with a silver hip flask in his hand.

“Christmas present from the wife,” he grinned as he caught up. “Couldn’t leave it behind: she’d kill me.”

The rest of the blokes were also binning their berg ens I hoped that Legs had managed to retrieve the patrol radio from his.

The APC was moving up quite aggressively, firing sustained and accurate bursts. Two Land Cruisers full of infantry had also joined the fray.

We stopped and got some fire down with the 203s. The vehicles braked sharply as the 40mm bombs exploded in front of them. Jundies spilled out, firing in a frenzy.

Mark and Dinger got severely pinned down by the S60s. They threw out their white phos and thick dirty white smoke billowed around them. The trouble with isolated smokescreens is that they immediately draw the enemy fire, but there was nothing else they could do. The Iraqis knew the blokes were covering their withdrawal, and they emptied their magazines into the cloud. A couple of 203 rounds into the Iraqi positions slowed their rate of fire. Mark and Dinger jumped to their feet and ran.

“Cor, good here, ain’t it?” Dinger said in a pissed off tone of voice as he rushed past me.

We kept moving back and back. It was getting to last light, and they finally lost contact with us in the gloom. We were well spread out, and as darkness fell there was a danger of the patrol getting split. As we ran, we scanned the ground for a suitable rally point. Anybody in the patrol could make the choice.

There was a loud shout 150 feet to my half-right. “Rally, rally, rally!”

Whoever it was, he’d found some cover where we could get down and consolidate ourselves. This was good news, because at the moment we were fragmented, all fighting our own little dramas to get back. A rally point is much the same as an ERV except that it’s given there and then and not prearranged. Its purpose is to get everybody together as quickly as possible before moving off. If anybody didn’t make it, we would have to confirm that he was dead, if we hadn’t done so already. Otherwise we would have to get back the “man down.”

I ran over and found Chris and Bob waiting in a dip in the ground. I immediately put on a fresh mag and prepared my weapon to carry on firing. The three of us waited in all-round defense, covering all the arcs, waiting for the others to come in on us.

I counted heads as they rushed past and took up a firing position. It was five or six minutes before the last man appeared. If anybody had been missing, I’d have had to ask: Who was the last one to see him? Where did you see him? Was he just down or dead? If not, we’d have had to go forward and try to find him.

The headlights of tracked vehicles were frantically crisscrossing in front of us, no more than 1000 feet away. Now and then in the distance there was a burst of gunfire and shouting. They must have been firing at rocks, and probably at themselves. There was total confusion, which chuffed us no end.

The eight of us were closed up in a small area of a couple of square feet. People quickly sorted themselves out, taking off their sweaters and tucking them into their belt kit or inside their smocks. Nobody had to be told what was required. They knew we were either going for the helicopter or we were going for Syria. Either way, we would be doing a fearsome amount of tabbing.

“Got the radio?” I asked Legs.

“There was no way I could get to it,” he said. “The fire coming in was outrageous. I think it was wrecked anyway because my bergen got shot to fuck.”

I knew he would have got it if he could. But it didn’t really matter anyway. We had four TACBEs between us and could get in touch with AWACS within fifteen seconds.

I was still out of breath and thirsty, and took a few gulps of water from my bottle. I dug a couple of boiled sweets out of my pocket and shoved them in my mouth.

“I’d only just lit that fag,” Dinger said ruefully. “If one of them bastards has picked it up, I hope he chokes.”

Bob giggled, and suddenly we were all laughing like drains. It wasn’t particularly what Dinger had said. We were all just so relieved to be unscathed and back together after such a major drama. We couldn’t give a damn about anything else at this stage. It was great to be all in one piece.

We had used a quarter of our ammunition. We amalgamated it and put fresh mags on. I still had my 66-the only one left, because like a dickhead I had left it with my bergen.

I adjusted my clothes, pulling my trousers right up to prevent leg sores and doing up my belt again to make sure I was comfortable. It was starting to get cold. I’d been doing a fearsome amount of sweating and started to shiver in my wet shirt. We had to get moving.

“Let’s get on the net now,” Legs said. “They know we’re here. We might as well use the TACBE.”