drivers actually owned these weapons. Farid explained that possessing their own assault rifle had been one of the prerequisites for the job; as well as being able to drive, that is. Andy could understand the lad’s rancour, an AK cost a month’s salary.
In the following Cruiser was Erich carrying the other AK, Ustov the Ukrainian contractor, the second driver Salim, and two more men from Carter’s platoon. Bringing up the rear were the other three Land Rovers, with Sergeant Bolton on top cover in the last of them.
Lance Corporal Westley was in full flow, as he had been pretty much since they set off at five that morning.
‘—and the other fuckin’ idiots in second platoon like, was wearin’ them shemaghs thinkin’ they was right ally with it man,’ continued Tim Westley’s stream-of-consciousness one-way conversation. Mike listened and nodded politely at all the right moments, but from his expression Andy could see the Texan couldn’t understand a single word he was hearing.
‘—an’ it’s right naff, man. Aye, was all right first time round, like - Desert Storm an’ all, but right fuckin’ daft now, mind. Only the TA scallys wear ’em now. You can spot those soft wallys a mile off . . .’
The convoy slowed down to a halt, and with that, Lance Corporal Westley finally shut up as he wound down the window and stuck his head out to take a look-see.
Up front, Andy could see Lieutenant Carter had raised his hand; a gesture to his platoon to hold up there for a moment. Beyond the leading Rover he could see a swathe of coarse grass and reeds leading down a shallow slope towards the River Tigris, and over this a single-lane bridge that led across the small fertile river valley into the town of Al-Bayji beyond. On the far side of the bridge, some 500 metres away, he could see the first dusty, low, whitewashed buildings topped with drab corrugated iron roofs. Beyond them, taller two and three-storey, flat-roofed buildings clustered and bisected randomly with the sporadic bristling of TV aerials, satellite dishes and phone masts along the rooftops.
With his bare eyes he could see no movement except for a mangy-looking, tan dog that was wandering slowly across the bridge into the town, and several goats grazing on the meagre pickings of refuse, dumped in a mouldering pile that had slewed down the far slope of the small valley into the river. He spotted several dozen pillars of smoke, dotted across the town skyline, snaking lazily up into the pallid dawn sky. The columns of smoke seemed to be more densely grouped towards the centre of the town.
‘It looks like they had a lot of fun last night,’ muttered Mike.
Andy could see Lieutenant Carter had pulled out some bin-oculars and was slowly scanning the scene ahead.
‘We should just go for it,’ said Mike quickly checking his watch. ‘It’s almost seven already.’
Andy nodded in agreement. Through the town was the only way, flanked as it was by fields lined with deep and impassable irrigation ditches.
If they put their foot down and just went full tilt, they’d be out the far side and heading down open road towards the British encampment before anyone could do anything about it.
Come on, come on.
But then, what if there was an obstruction, a burned-out vehicle, or a deliberately constructed roadblock? They’d find themselves stuck. Andy decided, on reflection, that the young officer’s caution was well-placed. But time was against them, the sun was breaching the horizon now, and even from this side of the bridge, he could sense Al-Bayji was beginning to stir, perhaps readying itself to face a second day of sectarian carnage.
Lieutenant Carter raised his arm once again, balled his fist and stuck a thumb upwards.
‘All clear ahead,’ said Westley, translating the hand signal for them.
And then the officer patted the top of his helmet with the palm of his gloved hand.
‘Follow me.’
Carter’s vehicle lurched gently forward with a puff of
In the following Cruiser was Erich carrying the other AK, Ustov the Ukrainian contractor, the second driver Salim, and two more men from Carter’s platoon. Bringing up the rear were the other three Land Rovers, with Sergeant Bolton on top cover in the last of them.
Lance Corporal Westley was in full flow, as he had been pretty much since they set off at five that morning.
‘—and the other fuckin’ idiots in second platoon like, was wearin’ them shemaghs thinkin’ they was right ally with it man,’ continued Tim Westley’s stream-of-consciousness one-way conversation. Mike listened and nodded politely at all the right moments, but from his expression Andy could see the Texan couldn’t understand a single word he was hearing.
‘—an’ it’s right naff, man. Aye, was all right first time round, like - Desert Storm an’ all, but right fuckin’ daft now, mind. Only the TA scallys wear ’em now. You can spot those soft wallys a mile off . . .’
The convoy slowed down to a halt, and with that, Lance Corporal Westley finally shut up as he wound down the window and stuck his head out to take a look-see.
Up front, Andy could see Lieutenant Carter had raised his hand; a gesture to his platoon to hold up there for a moment. Beyond the leading Rover he could see a swathe of coarse grass and reeds leading down a shallow slope towards the River Tigris, and over this a single-lane bridge that led across the small fertile river valley into the town of Al-Bayji beyond. On the far side of the bridge, some 500 metres away, he could see the first dusty, low, whitewashed buildings topped with drab corrugated iron roofs. Beyond them, taller two and three-storey, flat-roofed buildings clustered and bisected randomly with the sporadic bristling of TV aerials, satellite dishes and phone masts along the rooftops.
With his bare eyes he could see no movement except for a mangy-looking, tan dog that was wandering slowly across the bridge into the town, and several goats grazing on the meagre pickings of refuse, dumped in a mouldering pile that had slewed down the far slope of the small valley into the river. He spotted several dozen pillars of smoke, dotted across the town skyline, snaking lazily up into the pallid dawn sky. The columns of smoke seemed to be more densely grouped towards the centre of the town.
‘It looks like they had a lot of fun last night,’ muttered Mike.
Andy could see Lieutenant Carter had pulled out some bin-oculars and was slowly scanning the scene ahead.
‘We should just go for it,’ said Mike quickly checking his watch. ‘It’s almost seven already.’
Andy nodded in agreement. Through the town was the only way, flanked as it was by fields lined with deep and impassable irrigation ditches.
If they put their foot down and just went full tilt, they’d be out the far side and heading down open road towards the British encampment before anyone could do anything about it.
Come on, come on.
But then, what if there was an obstruction, a burned-out vehicle, or a deliberately constructed roadblock? They’d find themselves stuck. Andy decided, on reflection, that the young officer’s caution was well-placed. But time was against them, the sun was breaching the horizon now, and even from this side of the bridge, he could sense Al-Bayji was beginning to stir, perhaps readying itself to face a second day of sectarian carnage.
Lieutenant Carter raised his arm once again, balled his fist and stuck a thumb upwards.
‘All clear ahead,’ said Westley, translating the hand signal for them.
And then the officer patted the top of his helmet with the palm of his gloved hand.
‘Follow me.’
Carter’s vehicle lurched gently forward with a puff of
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