James Ashcroft - Making a Killing - The Explosive Story of a Hired Gun in Iraq

What the Humvee drivers saw as they turned the last bend was absolute carnage, trashed and smoking vehicles on the far side of the road, dead bodies sprawled out, glass everywhere, the Bradley looming over the checkpoint. And there we were, armed with AKs with Americans on the gate pointing a battery of guns at us.

I raised the flag as high as I could and gave it another jiggle as the Humvees deployed in a zigzag. There was another intermission. This was normal. Everyone was being cautious. In South Armagh, if you shoot two rounds from your rifle there’s a Board of Inquiry. The Americans don’t bother with that sort of thing in Iraq unless you raze a couple of towns. They had a shoot-first policy, a shoot-first mindset. Still, they didn’t want to get a reputation for wiping out their allies with friendly fire.

As the Humvees stopped, the rear gunner was facing back down Route Irish, the two middle gunners were pointing into the buildings to their left and the gunner on the lead vehicle was pointing his Mk19 grenade launcher straight at us.

The door on the lead Humvee cranked open and two US soldiers climbed out, a black sergeant with four stripes on his helmet and an Hispanic sergeant with three stripes. They took a look at us, they studied the shot-up vehicles, they gazed at the peppered buildings across the way, then the four-stripe sergeant sauntered slowly towards us, alone, M16 pointing at the ground.

‘I’ll take this,’ I called to Seamus.

He nodded. It’s normal. Security isn’t top-heavy. Everyone deals with outsiders at all levels from the dustman to government ministers.

The sergeant stopped about ten feet from me. He was closely shaven with sparkling eyes like a Baptist minister. He was wearing 3rd Infantry insignia and the name ‘Willows’ was embroidered on a patch on his broad chest.

‘You want to break out some ID?’ he said.

I showed him my pass. ‘We’re escorting an American reporter into the zone, Staff Sergeant,’ I explained.

‘Uh-huh.’

He glanced at Lori. Les stood with his arms protectively around her shoulders.

‘They’re getting younger,’ he said and I smiled. He continued, ‘OK, that’s no problem, sir. You probably had some hassle because these guys aren’t used to dealing with civilian contractors and they have to shut the gates down if there is an incident. I’ll go ahead and sort them out.’

A whole bunch of guys had climbed out of the Humvees, rifles covering their sergeant. He waved that everything was OK and they turned their rifles towards the street. He slung his rifle over his shoulder but I kept mine pointing left, just in case, you know, for the hordes from Black Hawk Down . We ambled unhurriedly towards the checkpoint.

‘These guys are cool,’ said Willows when we reached the gate, indicating us with a thumb.

The soldier behind the 249 didn’t look too convinced, so I went into my Rupert routine and laid on a frightfully, frightfully accent.

‘That was a very worrying contact,’ I said. ‘I do understand. We are under a lot of stress and I do so hope that everyone over here is all right. What I’d really like to do is get our principal inside. An American reporter ,’ I emphasised. ‘ She’s really rather shaken.’

The Americans usually responded to all this British stuff and I laid it on thick for good reason: I didn’t want us to have to go through the standard procedure of them shutting down the gate and sending us to another entry point. With the delays in picking up Lori at the BIAP we were in real danger of missing free lunch in the CPA canteen.

Meanwhile down the road the commander on board the Abrams popped out of his hatch grinning and punched the air.

‘Way to go!’ he howled up at us.

Yeah, way to go, you tosser , I thought to myself. You just fucked our windscreen .

The guys on the checkpoint were jumpy still. They all looked frightened and very young and kept their weapons trained on our two-car package. They only calmed down when Willows finally said he was going to escort us in. I turned and circled my index finger rapidly: the sign for my people to prepare to mount up.

I walked back with Willows. This guy was in no hurry. He asked me how much we contractors earned. I assured him that I didn’t get out of bed for less than two grand a day and that during the time it had taken to stroll back to our cars I had just earned another $100.

‘War’s good business,’ he said.

Seamus was scooping out the glass from the Opel.

‘Staff Sergeant Willows is going to escort us in,’ I told him.

‘Thanks, Sergeant.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he said.

Lori Wyatt was smiling, the danger forgotten. She had lived through a real gunfight in Baghdad and would get to write about it. She was writing something in her notebook that moment. I would learn later that it was the number of her satellite phone, which she passed to Les. Les Trevellick, also known as Studley von Goodshag, scores again. Bastard.

When we reached the lead Humvee, I made a point of shaking Willows’s hand and saying thanks to his men. I really felt for these guys; the 3rd Infantry were still taking huge numbers of casualties. A lot of GIs who had earned combat ribbons in the first Gulf War (1991) thought the second war was about the second Bush getting revenge for the errors of the first. They wanted to serve out their time and get home with a pension. The situation was even worse for the thousands of National Guardsmen who had never expected to be posted to Iraq and were there because they couldn’t pay back their college loans to the army. You take the shilling and you serve your time.

Staff Sergeant Willows pulled himself up into his vehicle. I raced back to the Opel. Seamus climbed into the passenger seat and I got in beside him. The engine had been running the whole time.

‘Nice one, Ash,’ he said. Ash was my army nickname and that’s what people called me when Krista wasn’t around. She hated the army.

Two Humvees passed us and, with two CF vehicles front and rear, we were escorted the last 20 metres down Route Irish into the BIAP Gate.

I stopped and leaned out of the window. ‘Thanks once again, gentlemen, I will see that you are highly commended in my report.’ I flashed a winning smile at the guard on the gate.

Les had got his window down. ‘You fucking cunts,’ he bellowed. ‘Couldn’t you fucking see who we were? You blind cunts.’

Hank the Yank doesn’t like the ‘C’ word. The soldier’s face turned sour.

‘Excuse me, sir –’

‘Don’t fucking stand around here with the sir bollocks,’ said Seamus, leaning over me and shouting out of my window, ‘you want to get up there into those buildings and make sure they’re secure. Go and see if there’s any fucking injured ragheads and bring ’em in as well as any weapons. See if there are any wounded civvies that need help. And get your arses over the road and see if your mates on the other fucking gate are all right.’

‘As I said, thank you so much for your assistance,’ I added, interrupting Seamus seamlessly. I was still beaming brightly at the soldier. ‘Good day.’ Before international relations were strained beyond breaking point, I put my foot on the gas, only for Les to join Seamus as we drove past the Abrams and both of them leaned out of the right-hand windows to give the commander a similar piece of their mind with much gesticulating, use of the ‘C’ word and pointing at the shattered windscreen.

We carried on towards the CPA building. Les and Lori were whispering together in the back seat. Action is a drug. It gives you a high.

I zipped into a space in the parking lot big enough for Etienne to pull in beside me. We locked our longs in the Nissan, seeing how the Opel had a bloody great hole in the windscreen. We unloaded, firing off the pistols into one of the big oil drums full of sand, and strode through the marble halls of Saddam’s palace slapping each other’s shoulders as we followed the smoky aroma of burgers on the grill in the canteen.