Dan Mills - Sniper One

‘Full respect, Sergeant, but I think it is wrong to leave. You know, man, Cimic is our home.’

Right. I had to tell Captain Curry about the strength of the boys’ feeling in the O Group. I felt it was important he knew. All the multiple 2i/cs and the CIMIC boss were brought in especially for it that night too. It was an important occasion. As it happened, Captain Curry asked for our thoughts first before I even got a chance.

‘Right, chaps. The CO has been on. He’s very uncomfortable at having to send the battle group back into the city if we pull out of it. Some are saying we could do it when Najaf is all over. But you and I and he all know the OMS won’t let that happen peacefully in a million years.

‘He’s spoken to the brigadier and persuaded him that the final decision should rest with the men on the ground. Only we know what we’re capable of. So whether we leave or not tomorrow is now up to me. That’s why I’ve got you all in. I want to know what you think.’

We discussed the merits of both arguments for almost an hour. To my delight, other platoon commanders reported back the same thing. Nobody wanted to leave.

One of the junior officers made the best speech.

‘Look, sir, we’ve had a fair few nasty injuries and even more close shaves, admittedly. But we haven’t actually had a single fatality to hostile fire yet. We’re fighting brilliantly and we’ve still got a bit of ammo left.’

‘That’s true, sir,’ confirmed Dale.

The officer concluded. ‘The point is, sir, we don’t need to pull out yet . I say let’s see if we can finish the job.’

There were furious nods and ‘hear hears’ all round. Captain Curry waited ten seconds for any last comments, then gave his reply.

‘Fine. I agree wholeheartedly. In fact, I was secretly hoping you might all say that. If you want my opinion, I don’t see why we have to hand over this place to the modern day equivalent of the Nazis. We’ll withdraw when we’re ordered to, or if we really have to. Until then, we’re going to sit it out.’

The decision got a spontaneous round of applause and a room full of proud smiles. We walked out of the hot and sweaty briefing room into the cooler night air and back to our respective platoons with our chests puffed out and a renewed sense of determination in our stride. We were professional British Army soldiers doing what we were paid to do. It was in our blood to stand our ground.

The boys were pleased too when I told them the news. Despite our exhaustion, it gave us a fresh new burst of confidence.

That night proved to be the quietest of the whole siege so far. It reaffirmed everything we had begun to suspect about the new rebel alliance. First there was their piss poor attempt at a compound assault. Now, they could barely be bothered to lob in more than one or two mortar rounds at us.

Yet again the Int boys had heavily overexaggerated the threat they really posed. Maybe they had all turned chicken at the sight of the air strike on Zinc. Whatever the cause, it was clear to us that the numpties were already beaten. Pikey was right: Abu Hatim was a pussy after all.

With not much fighting to be done and the tension swiftly receding, conversation on the roof that night for the first time turned to home. We were a good two-thirds of the way through the tour, so we allowed ourselves a start at that traditional end-of-tour conversational gem: what our dream first meal at home would be. It’s a conversation that never normally lasts less than a month.

Quiet precedes most storms. Even hurricanes.

It turned out the previous assault had been no more than an elaborate dress rehearsal to gauge our firepower.

The next morning, the mortaring returned with a vengeance. It didn’t stop Pikey from banging on tirelessly about jellied eel served with deep-fried Mars bars. We’d opened a can of worms with the first meal chat there.

The incoming got heavier as the day went on. By the afternoon, Pikey had shut up. By darkness, we were on the end of one of the heaviest daily poundings we’d had the whole tour. It was relentless. After the calm of only the night before, and our absolute certainty the worst had passed, the renewed heavy incoming confused the hell out of us. If these fuckers knew they were beaten, what was the point in mortaring us so hard?

The onslaught continued overnight and throughout the next day too, with just the same intensity. Yet more of the camp was being blown to bits. Repeated blasts left sand and shrapnel everywhere, and the sniper screen fencing had begun to collapse. Nobody could clear it up. All we could do was hunker down in the sangars and pray against direct hits.

Our confusion at what it all meant was nothing compared to what we felt the morning after that.

I got up at dawn after finally coming down from the roof at 2 a.m., when the mortaring had still been incessant. The first thing I noticed before I’d even opened my eyes was the extraordinary quiet. I think it was peace that woke me up.

By the time I was on the roof fifteen minutes later, the sun was steadily rising over a ghost town. There was very little traffic on the streets, very few people going to work on the pavements. By 8 a.m., all of the souks were still closed. That was very odd, because it was a Monday. We’d never seen the city like that. It felt like a dream.

‘It’s fucking weird,’ said Chris, who’d gone up to the roof when I went to bed.

‘How long’s it been like this?’

‘The mortars packed up just before dawn. Then nothing, Danny. Not a bloody thing. It’s like they all know something that we don’t.’

It didn’t take very long for the penny to drop. Silence was the most obvious of all combat indicators. The whole town must be in on this one, whatever the hell it was.

We stood-to, just in case. Dozens of belts of GPMG 7.62 link were hung over the sandbag walls of every sangar. Tins of 5.56 ammo were stacked outside each entrance, alongside crates of water, all ready for the off.

We waited for hours as the August sun just burned us redder.

Oost couldn’t stand the tension.

‘Where the fuck are these shits, then? They’re doing my nut, man.’

When still nothing had stirred by 11 a.m., half the company stood down. It was too hot for the enemy to try anything then, and concentrating on nothing drains people unnecessarily. I went down to the Ops Room and volunteered for a shift on the radios so the 2i/c could get some kip. We’d all stand-to again at 3 p.m., when it was cooler.

The enemy guessed we’d do that. So they attacked at midday on the dot.

It started with snipers on the old town rooftops and a new heavy mortar barrage from two different positions. They were smacking stuff in on us from both Zinc and the north bank at the same time.

‘Stand-to! Stand-to!’

A dozen frantic shouts were coming from every sangar in the compound.

All over, blokes were throwing on their body armour and helmets. Fast-moving bodies crammed the corridors and crashed up and down the main staircase.

I legged it up the stairs to the roof three steps at a time. I looked down to guide my feet. Bugger it. I still only had my sandals on. I’d left my boots in the Ops Room. Too late. Just before I reached the roof door, the steady thumping of Top Sangar’s Gimpy opened up. I burst out on to the roof to feel the crack and snaps in the air as bullets zipped past splitting the atmosphere around them.

‘Fucking get down!’

As my body hit the floor a neat burst of four rounds smacked into the door frame behind me.

Thank God for the roof’s all-round three-foot wall. Nobody could raise their heads even a centimetre above it because the air was thick with flying lead. Small chips of stone and concrete shot off its exterior on all sides. Enemy bullets also piled into the sangars’ sandbags every few seconds with puffs of dust erupting from each one. Noise was everywhere.