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

‘What state do we carry these around in?’ Les asked.

Seamus indicated his rifle.

‘Longs to be unloaded or made safe while you’re in the compound, make ready only as you leave, and unload into the drums when you get back,’ he replied. He tapped the Browning 9 milly in his own waistband. ‘Shorts you can carry how you want but they go everywhere with you at all times, in the bog, in the shower, everywhere.’

‘Have you got any holsters?’ asked Les.

‘No, mate,’ replied Seamus. ‘We have a load sitting in a container in Kuwait ready to be trucked up once the passes are stamped.’

‘You can borrow one of mine. I’ve got a couple,’ I said and turned back to Seamus. ‘What about plates for our vests?’

Without them the vests were only good for stopping shrapnel and pistol rounds. Hard plates front and back were essential for protecting the lungs and heart from high-velocity rifle fire.

‘In Kuwait. In the Golden Container.’

The arms permits from the US State Department that would allow us to import decent weapons were signed, sealed and, according to our logistics team, would be in our hands ‘within the week’. But something we would quickly come to learn in Iraq was the legend of the ‘Golden Container’.

Anything that was mission critical you would be assured by HQ was sitting in a box in Kuwait or Jordan and would be in Iraq in the next ten days. Bullshit. If we had waited for the Golden Container we would have been mooching around Baghdad without vehicles and with nothing but steak knives to defend ourselves.

Instead we had acquired our weapons on the black market and would later barter for the hard plates in our Kevlar vests from a Lieutenant Colonel in the CPA. We would get fourteen plates in exchange for two bottles of Jack Daniels and five of our faulty Iraqi AKs that the guys in his unit wanted to take home as souvenirs.

Les and I took a moment to sign for weapons and ammunition from Phil, each taking eight magazines for the AKs. I cleared my rifle, pointing it at the floor away from the others, placed the safety catch on and put on a full magazine. Les did the same. I loaded my pistol, cocked it, put the safety on and shoved it into the back of my belt.

‘Let’s go get some lunch and meet the rest of the gang.’ Seamus jerked his thumb at the door.

We trooped out with Phil locking up behind us.

Seamus waited while Les and I dumped our rifles and magazines on our beds. I gave Les the holster from my bag and we both threaded them on to our belts and holstered the Brownings. I had a double mag pouch as well, for my spare 9mm magazines. I put the spare AK mags into a bum bag with a strong waist belt in case I needed them to be handy later.

In the communal dining room, Seamus introduced us to the rest of the gang. There were two teams of Brits and South Africans on their way down south to Basra. We all shook hands and I tried to remember their names.

As for HQ staff there was Phil, who functioned as the storeman, armourer and company accountant in-country. There was Angus, my mate from the Dukes, who had got me over there, just as Seamus had brought in Les. It was all very incestuous. The only woman was Jacky Clark from Yorkshire, who was in charge of all administration.

Jacky and Phil covered for each other when one of them was on leave, but her primary task was to deal with the vast flow of paperwork and phone calls generated by having to get us in and out of the country, obtain passes, travel warrants, insurance and a million other details I was only too happy not to know about. Jacky and Phil also dealt with procurement of materials, supplies and equipment. Angus teamed up with the managing director to go out on sales pitches and win contracts.

We helped ourselves to plates of food, but before we could get tucked in, the MD got to his feet and introduced himself.

‘My name’s Adam Pascoe. Welcome to Baghdad and welcome to Spartan. It’s good to have you on board.’ He looked cheerful and professional. He glanced at Jacky. ‘Jacky here will see you contracted and documented right after lunch and then I think you’re off to the range.’

He looked at Seamus who gave an affirmative nod.

‘Things are fluid right now. We are in a good position with quite a few contracts coming through, so be as flexible as you can.’ He glanced across the room at me. ‘The first change concerns you, James,’ he said. ‘I know you expected to be going down to Basra after being processed here, but we have a new tasking coming up that may need a man of your experience. I’d rather like to keep you in Baghdad.’

‘Aye,’ said Angus. He had sworn blind I would be sent down to Basra, not that I actually cared. The action was in Baghdad and that was where I wanted to be.

‘My pleasure,’ I said.

By the time Adam Pascoe had sat down, Dai Jones had scoffed his food. He finished his Coke in one long swig and got up from the table.

‘Seeya losers,’ he announced. ‘I’m off home.’

‘Give her one for me,’ Seamus said, and Dai gave him the finger.

Dai liked to think of himself as Welsh but I would learn that his father had been in the army and Dai had grown up all over the UK learning to speak the generic brand of army cockney. He disappeared along with two other men headed out on leave.

I could hear Hayder’s escort team loading magazines and starting engines outside. I also noticed that as the three outgoing men filed past the hallway with their bags, they were fully armed. I asked Seamus about that.

‘We have a Spartan locker at the Jordanian border and leave weapons there,’ he explained. ‘The CF boys get a bit shitty sometimes and Hayder just brings the lot back with him if that happens.’

I turned back to my lunch, which was distinctly underwhelming. Cold hotdogs.

The men around me were tanned, fit and in their forties. Seamus did the introductions. Etienne, Hendriks and Cobus were ex-South African Defence Force officers, the Yaapies. They stuck out big scarred gnarled hands the size of dinner plates and crunched the bones in my hand one after the other.

‘ Gut to have you, James…’

There was a mixture of Jim and James and I put everyone straight once and for all.

‘Ash,’ I said. ‘Everyone just calls me Ash.’

‘Izzit?’ said Hendriks, and he fixed me with his cold grey eyes.

Spartan at that time was unusual in that it would only take on ex-army South Africans. Many companies were hiring South African policemen. Later, this policy would change as security boomed and the manning requirements went through the roof. Just like all the other firms operating in Iraq, we then signed on dozens of former Special Task Force officers, ‘Taskies’, we called them, and I would discover that after a career on the tactical unit for the police force in South African cities, these guys had had more contacts and firefight experience than I had dreamed of.

As we munched away, Seamus explained the course of events for the afternoon.

‘Right, Les and Ash,’ he said, tasting the name for the first time. ‘You’ll need to get administrated by Jacky after lunch and then we’re heading out to the All American range to zero personal weapons and test-fire some kit from the armoury. It’s one o’clock now, we’ll aim to be wheels up at two.’

People assume that you get a weapon out of the box and it will work just fine. A firefight in downtown Baghdad was not the place to discover that you have a bum rifle or a faulty magazine. Each weapon and each magazine has to be tested.

We handed our plates to the Iraqi housekeeper in the kitchen. Les and I went into the admin office where Jacky was waiting. She was a petite, pretty girl in her mid-twenties. She was ex-army as well, from the AGC (Adjutant’s General Corps) and had been running her own human resources business before taking this job. She had a small-calibre Beretta in a cross-draw position on her left hip and an MP5 tucked under her desk.