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

It was doubly disappointing for Colonel Hind. It had been his strategy to park the trucks in the water depot and race them at daybreak into Baghdad under the radar of the insurgents. The fact that a third of those tankers disappeared meant that there was something fundamentally wrong with the plan.

Hind had created the package, all hush-hush. But it didn’t matter how top secret it was; it was doomed to failure because any Iraqi employed as a driver was likely to be in the pay of the black market or the insurgency. When you employed locals you were either hiring the enemy or giving information to the enemy. The only way to prevent trucks hot-wheeling off from the convoys was to employ American drivers. Or turn the job over to private security.

John Hind had wanted to present a clear-cut success story at the CPA and, rather than acknowledging that we had lost 21 tankers, he described a full-on battle where we had managed to salvage 43. He described how the drivers had fled from their vehicles in fear after the initial explosion and bandits had taken over the trucks and driven off in them. The missing drivers never turned up to refute his story and as Spartan received credit at various meetings in the CPA, Adam was delighted by the positive publicity.

I did wonder when it was all over how many of those 43 tankers that we had successfully escorted to Baghdad would simply be driven into the city to disappear into the black market anyway.

Angus McGrath was going on leave and promised to email me photos of his sexual conquests back home.

‘With a woman this time, right?’ I joked.

He made a gun from his fingers and shot me.

I stuck my empty plate back in the kitchen and eyed up the fruit bowl. I was looking in vain for an apple that had no obvious maggot holes to stick in my daysack for later. Apples were a treat.

Seamus had only just left the dining room and ran back in with all his kit, strapping on his vest.

‘Jacko’s team’s been hit in Karrada. Wheels up now.’

‘I’ll be in Ops,’ Angus said, and went running out.

I was wearing my vest. I snatched my rifle from where I’d left it in the hallway and ran for the door. Les was already behind the wheel in the lead vehicle. I jumped up with Seamus and Sammy. He’d started out as an asset. He was now one of the team. I caught a glimpse of Etienne in the beaten-up Nissan. He was ashen, all the blood had drained from his face. Etienne had recruited two of his best friends into Spartan. Both were in Jacko’s gang. Cobus was driving with Hendriks manning the rear window and Dai in the back seat. He’d just got in from leave.

We accelerated at high speed through the morning rush in two 4 × 4s, ignoring traffic lights and mounting the pavement if the traffic was blocked.

‘Left here, Mister Les.’ Sammy leaned forward between the two front seats and indicated the road. He returned to speaking on the phone in Arabic, his voice tense and rapid.

Jacko’s team had been hit by an IED close to the supermarket on one of the main streets in Karrada. They had not sent a contact report but Hayder, Angus’s Iraqi assistant in Ops, had recognised them on his way into work. Hayder was now on the phone to Sammy from Spartan, directing us to the hospital. The guys had been taken in an Iraqi ambulance, along with the Iraqi casualties. This came as a surprise, given the growing tension those last weeks, and the only explanation for it was that Jacko’s team had Union Jacks in their windscreens, showing they weren’t American. We usually went without markings. They flew the flag. There was no rule, but the choice made that day by Jacko and his team might well have led to the attack in the first place.

The Spartan casualties had already been in the hospital for forty minutes. FPS and Iraqi Police casualties were often followed into hospitals and finished off by the fanatics. We wanted to make sure that if they tried it on with us they’d have a nasty surprise.

Sammy handed the MCI forward. Seamus listened for a few moments, acknowledging with the occasional ‘Yes’.

‘OK, listen in, here’s the situation,’ he said, handing the phone back to Sammy and speaking at the same time on the radio handset so that the guys in the back vehicle could hear as well. ‘The Brit wagon took the main hit. At least one dead and one VSI. The South Africans are OK, just minor injuries from broken glass.’

VSI (very seriously injured) was bad news. It meant that you had suffered a life-threatening injury.

I could almost hear the sigh of relief from the vehicle behind. Etienne must have been wondering how he was going to break the news to their families. No one wishes ill to members of other teams, but you can’t help being grateful when it is someone else that’s caught it and not your friends.

‘We’re about two minutes from the hospital,’ Seamus continued. ‘As soon as we get in I’ll speak to the surgeon and see how bad the VSI is. Ash and Hendriks, do a check on hospital security. Cobus, set up the RPD and stay with the vehicle. Les, Dai and Etienne, be ready to drive straight out with the remainder of Jacko’s team to the Cash.’

The Combat Support Hospital in the CPA, or CSH aka ‘The Cash’, was a state-of-the-art American military hospital capable of dealing with every type of battlefield trauma.

‘Les, soon as you get to the Cash, establish comms with Sierra Zero, give them a full casualty report,’ Seamus added. ‘I’ll try and get HQ to organise a casevac for our casualty now.’

‘Roger that,’ said Les.

Sammy was leaning over again indicating and Les swung left across the oncoming traffic into a walled compound containing the hospital. Johannes and Pieter were standing beside their 4 × 4, rifles at the shoulder, scanning in all directions. They were Etienne’s friends. Both had blood smeared across their faces and looked less shaken than bloody angry. Badger was in the car giving Jaki basic first aid, but Jaki needed to get moving to the Cash to get proper medical attention.

We pulled in next to them and de-bussed, ready for action. Seamus asked the South Africans for a report. Etienne could not speak but the way he hugged his mates said it all. Cobus set up an RPD on the hood of our car facing the entrance gates on to the main road. Seamus looked grim when he returned from speaking to the South Africans.

‘Jacko’s dead. Steve Campbell’s in a shit state. The others have cuts from broken glass but can self-evac to the Cash and get stitched up. Les and Dai, you lead the way. I also want you to try and reach Mad Dog and get the CF out here to collect Jacko’s body and casevac Steve. I’ll try and find out from the medics whether Steve can be moved or not.’

Colonel Hind had done so well saving all those oil tankers he now had two assistants, Sergeant Harvey and another full colonel, Steve ‘Mad Dog’ McQueen. While Hind was growing his empire within the CPA, he had tasked Mad Dog to liaise with us directly and do the dirty work out in the Red Zone; i.e. outside the steel barriers at the CPA.

I remembered that day when Jacko had said he was going to quit being a hired gun and try and get into Sandhurst. I’d heard other soldiers say the same. It was a dream that would never come true for Jacko Jackson.

Seamus dragged at his moustache, and turned to Sammy. ‘Sammy, can you try and get the full score from the doctors? I’ll wait here with Cobus until you get back.’

‘I am ready.’

Sammy marched off and Seamus called after him.

‘Thanks, man,’ he said, and the old wing commander saluted.

Patients took their guns into hospital with them, but Sammy could enter in safety. Seamus in his kit stood out like the flame above the Dora oil refinery at night.