Dan Mills - Sniper One

But credit where credit’s due, most fought when they had to with just the same tenacity as the rest of us. The millionaire record producer, who showed particular balls, even said he was pleased he could finally stand up and be counted having watched us do all the defending so far. And at the head of the lot of them and always spurring them on with steely Glaswegian growls was Ken Tait. Without fail, a Benson and Hedges permanently smouldered on his lower lip as he prowled the walls. Inside, he’d been a coiled spring. Outside, he was in his element.

It was ironic, but just about the only thing the OMS’s umpteen mortar rounds still hadn’t destroyed was the Iraqi flag on Cimic’s roof. It still fluttered proudly on its pole — shredded a little maybe, and the white part was now grey with soot, but still very much there. We didn’t give a shit about it at first. Then it became a talking point, and after a new barrage someone would always have a peak out of a sangar to see if they’d finally nailed it or not.

‘Flag’s still there.’

‘Still? After that lot?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Blimey.’

The day after the first Dad’s Army show, we were treated to something really special.

As well as the Beast, Buzz had another pretty smart string to his bow. The time had come to use it.

That morning, we took two more direct hits from mortar rounds on the roof, leaving two more crumbled concrete craters covered in nasty scorch marks. Everyone had managed to get their heads down in the sangars before the hot shrapnel shards had zipped off in every direction. But it had been uncomfortably close. One of the flying embers had smacked into the barrel of one of the boys’ longs, putting it — and almost him — permanently out of action. Both rounds had come from Zinc, the big park opposite the OMS building.

It was their best mortar base plate spot by far. Annoyingly, they were getting more and more rounds on target from there every day. It was also a piece of piss for them to use. They’d come straight out of the OMS building and set up in permanent pits already dug in the grass.

The Beast couldn’t touch them because a big white warehouse three-quarters of the way down Tigris Street on the riverbank obscured our entire view of the park.

I let out an idle thought.

‘Fuck, it would be nice to go down there and take those bastards on with a big stick.’

That plunged Buzz into thought.

‘How far is it from the park to the nearest buildings, Danny?’

‘Depends where in the park. A good hundred metres or so. Maybe three hundred at the furthest point.’

‘That should be far enough.’

‘Why?’

‘To avoid collateral damage.’

Buzz looked up from the Beast’s sight and turned to face me.

‘I can bring some air down on that fucking place, you know.’

As with all soldiers of his ilk, Buzz had the knowhow to call in close air support. He had also brought down from Baghdad the radio and frequencies he would need to do that.

It didn’t take long to persuade Abu Naji to authorize the bombing. Zinc was bang in the middle of a crowded city that was home to a third of a million people. On any normal tour, an air strike on a place like that would have been totally unthinkable. This wasn’t any normal tour. Our time was also running out.

Since it was unlikely that there would be kids picnicking in there with their mums while the Mehdi Army was hurling mortars out of it, Zinc was declared a legitimate air target.

The fast air request for that night went in to coalition air command. At sunset, the message came back that we’d have six jets on call; three pairs of two. They’d last us the whole night. Now all we needed was for the OMS crew to turn up.

We got smacked by base plates in a lot of places in town that night, but none of them was in Zinc. Surely the OMS hadn’t picked the one night we had something big to hurt them with to have their annual summer barbecue? That would be just our luck. In all my born days I never thought I’d ever pray to get mortared. That night I did.

My prayers were answered. Just after 1 a.m., a barrage rocketed up at us from right in the middle of Zinc. It was heavy stuff too: another 82mm tube.

We were on.

The Ops Room told Abu Naji and Buzz switched on his radio gear. Half an hour later, his radio came to life. The voice had an English accent.

‘Hello, Buzz? Buzz, are you reading me?’

‘Is that you up there, Jimbo?’

‘Yes, mate, it is.’

Buzz and this bloke Jimbo obviously knew each other so well they didn’t even bother using their official call signs. First name terms. Simple. Jimbo was the air controller in an RAF Nimrod MR2 spy plane. That meant he was probably from the same unit too. The Nimrod was somewhere in the night sky up there above us, cruising at an altitude of around 25,000 feet.

‘Oh, you took your fucking time getting here. There’s a war on down here, you know, Jimbo.’

‘Sorry, mate, we came up from the Gulf. What can we do for you then?’

At that very moment, another crump erupted out of Zinc. The team had begun their second barrage.

‘Did you catch that one, Jimbo? Directly south from our position, about one point seven klicks.’

‘Yeah, copy that. We’re on to it. Six mobile heat sources moving around a static one. That will be the mortar tube. I can see you too now, Buzz, if that’s you in that highest sangar. Ugly as ever, I see.’

Amazing. We couldn’t even hear the bloody Nimrod. The wonders of modern technology.

‘Wait out for a few minutes, Buzz. I’m tasking the fast air now. By the way, they’re putting another round down the barrel now.’

‘OK, thanks.’

Three seconds later, we heard the crump.

Buzz had done his bit. From then onwards it was over to Jimbo to bring the jets on to the base plate in Zinc.

Now this was a major event for us at Cimic. During major engagements, the Ops Room makes a point of keeping everyone informed of what’s going on over the PRRs. As far as we were all concerned, an air strike qualified as a major engagement. Word of it had already spread like wildfire around the compound long before anything was ever mentioned over the PRRs.

It was close to 2 a.m., but the whole of the house was wide awake. There were blokes craning out of every window on its southern side trying to catch a glimpse of something. The entirety of Sniper Platoon had crammed into the two roof sangars. Mortar barrage or not, there were people hanging off the fucking chandeliers to see this.

It wasn’t just Y Company either. We later found out that anyone in Abu Naji who could get to a VHF had done so once they heard there was an air strike on. The general call sign when a message goes out to all ranks is recognized across the British Army as Charlie Charlie One.

‘Charlie Charlie One, be advised. Fast air coming is two F16s,’ said Redders from the Ops Room across our PRRs.

‘F16s? Oh yes!’ yelped Rob Green. ‘Come on son, bring it on.’

In Top Sangar below us were Rob and Smudge. Rob had unfortunately lost his cool totally by then. So had Smudge.

Rob was a full screw in the platoon. A course had kept him behind in England and he’d only joined the tour in July. He was normally a quiet and consummate professional. That night he was a snot-gobbling adolescent just like the rest of us. He had decided to video the whole thing from start to finish on his digital camera.

For Smudge’s benefit, Rob also insisted on launching into a speech on everything he knew about the aircraft the moment it was identified. It wasn’t much.

‘F16 Fighting Falcon, Smudge. That’s the fastest jet in the world. They fly off carriers in the Gulf. They can see everything. They’ve got the heat-seeking fucking shit and all.’