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

The timing for a Shia revolt couldn’t have been worse. Coalition Forces that morning had launched Operation Vigilant Resolve, attacking Fallujah with a full division of US Marines comprising 1MEF (1st Marine Expeditionary Force) and units from the Iraqi Civil Defence Corps (ICDC), so Sunnis in Baghdad were running around causing havoc in support of their brothers in Fallujah. To make matters worse, it was also the anniversary of Saddam’s downfall. We decided it was probably a good idea to stay indoors and watch some DVDs. It looked like the weights bench and rowing machine on the roof were going to get a good seeing-to.

Two days later, the Brits were back in control in Basra, but there was no other good news. The Spanish contingent was still fighting in Diwaniyah, and the offensive in Fallujah, planned long before this revolt broke out, had drawn many US resources away to the west. CF units in Baghdad were stretched and had been fighting running battles in Sadr City. Night-vision equipment was giving them the advantage but only just.

We sent out the order to our guards at external locations that they were to hide their uniforms and weapons and wait until they received a report from us that the fighting was over. The Mahdi Shi’ites and the enraged Sunnis were shooting anything that looked vaguely official, and the CF were shooting any local with a gun, including in some cases their ICDC allies. According to Mad Dog, the previous night at least one ICDC unit turned on the Americans they were working with, and there had been a deadly short-range firefight in the street. No statistics yet but apparently the Americans recovered from the surprise and dealt with them with brutal efficiency.

Faisal and Sammy both dropped in for dinner every night and stayed until midnight. It was touching since we knew that they both had a long drive back through the city where the streets were a death trap and coming across Shia, Sunni or Americans could end up with them being killed. We knew that they were keeping an eye out for us but naturally both denied this vociferously.

By contrast, Colonel Ibrahim seemed to be delighted with the progress his brother Shi’ites were making and, despite living close by, disappeared early from the office every day. We wondered if he was off helping them plan their ops. I checked our guard force ammunition status with Ali, a Sunni, who confirmed that no ammo had gone ‘missing’. It was well known that we had an armoury and ammunition store, so we let everyone know that we took the keys from Ali every night to avoid the possibility of someone kidnapping his family to coerce him into allowing them access.

One night Sammy and I were talking alone on the roof and he passed me a piece of paper with lines of Arabic script.

‘This my address. Keep here.’ He tapped the pass-holder around my neck. ‘If there is very problem and you are alone, you must take taxi and come. I am ready. I will take you to Jordan.’

I looked at the paper and handed it back. ‘Thanks, Sammy, but I can’t keep it on me. If I’m killed or captured and the enemy finds your address, they will come for you and your family.’

‘Pah.’ He made a gesture of dismissal, then laughed. ‘If they kill you and look for me, that is good. I will not have to go look for them and kill them.’

‘I’m not joking, Sammy, you’ve got your wife and half your clan living at your place. I can’t take this, it’s too dangerous.’

He slipped the address into my chest pocket. ‘Mister James, trust in Allah and tether your camel. I am ready.’

Defence of the house was our main priority. Every morning, sitreps (situation reports) came in by email and by telephone of PSD houses like ours being attacked by small arms and RPGs. Hart, one of the private security outfits, had a house overrun in Kut. The PSDs fought their way to the roof and waited in vain for the local Ukrainian CF to come and get them. One of the team, a South African named Bran Grayfield, was killed and had his head cut off.

Photos and news had come out from Najaf where, on the first day of the revolt, Mahdi forces had been repelled by Blackwater ex-Special Forces PSDs fighting for nearly four hours from the roof of the CPA building with a handful of MPs and Marines. Running out of ammunition and with wounded men on the roof, it was a Blackwater civilian helicopter that flew in under fire to drop off ammo and evacuate a wounded US Marine. It was one of the rare times that the Marines and private security had fought side by side and a nice twist that it was hired guns that came riding to the rescue.

It was unlucky that we were three men down during the spring madness. Cobus and Etienne were home on leave and Dai was stuck in Jordan because he couldn’t cross the desert during the troubles. The poor sod was in the Grand Hyatt eating Chateaubriand and lying beside the pool all day. To add insult to injury, he called one evening to say that he was going to take a two-day trip to Petra to see the sights.

We stockpiled extra ammunition and water on the roof and spent more time on the range. We added fitness to the shooting competitions, for example, running up and down the sand berms. We discovered that we Brits had the edge on the Yaapies and started winning some of our money back. Wayne immediately stopped taking part, saying that gambling was un-Christian.

We chased up sand hills, put rounds into targets and lifted weights in the spring sunshine on the roof. I was just getting into the routine when at three o’clock one morning there was a deafening roar of gunfire that sounded as if it were coming directly from the other side of the sandbags I’d stacked up against my window. I rolled out of bed shouting ‘Stand to,’ and could hear the words being echoed from Seamus and Les’s room down the hall.

We were all veterans of both real contacts and hundreds if not thousands of hours of surprises in training exercises. Fifteen seconds after the first shots, everyone in the house had grabbed their armour and rifles and was piling up the stairs to the roof. Les and I were first up. I flipped off my safety and covered the doorway while Les unlocked the steel grille in case there was already someone up there waiting for us.

The door opened on to an empty roof and we ran out, crouching down below the wall. Our neighbour, an Iraqi policeman, was on his roof firing out magazines on full automatic into the night. The dark streets were full of running figures shouting in Arabic and waving weapons above their heads.

I tracked one of them with the illuminated cross hairs of my scope for a couple of seconds before realising it was one of our own guards. He was not wearing his baseball cap. I hissed a warning to the others and everyone acknowledged. In the cold of night it was common for the guards to wear their own coats and hats. The intruders appeared to be on the run, but in the dark, with our guards all over the neighbourhood, it was impossible to tell who was friend and who was foe.

We scanned the streets and rooftops for any potential firing point for thirty tense seconds. Then another thirty seconds. Occasionally one of us would see a suspect figure and indicate to the others with urgent whispers or hand signals. In every case, we eventually identified one of our own guards.

I glanced at the others, spread around the roof. Wayne was fully dressed, including his boots, which was odd; Seamus and Hendriks had boxer shorts and bare torsos under their armour, while Les was stark bollock naked under his. I was wearing a long-sleeved white T-shirt under my vest. Not a great idea when fighting at night. I considered trying that thing that women do where they remove their bra without taking off their shirt. Forget it. I unclipped my lock knife and reached up under my body armour. Ten seconds later my white shirt was in shreds on the ground.