Free The Circuit by Bob Shepherd Page A

us staying there. He told us it wouldn’t be a problem. We were chuffed to bits. We were prepared to sleep rough in the desert on our own. Now we had the luxury of sleeping rough surrounded by barbed wire. For the media, however, the hub’s facilities – tents, trailers and no showers – must have seemed dreadfully basic.
    We set up camp in the car park on the ground next to our vehicle. That way, if the hub was attacked in the middle of the night, we could move off quietly and crack on with our assignment. It may sound harsh, but we couldn’t afford to get side-tracked into a battle between the Fedayeen and the troops at the hub. Our sole reason for being there was to find Fred and Hussein. We had to stay focused on our mission for their sakes.
    The temperature had plummeted to near freezing by the time we settled in for the night. The Iraqis had set fire to oil pipelines around Basra to deter missile strikes from coalition aircraft and the smell of burning oil polluted the crisp night air. As I crawled into my sleeping bag, images of the incident area flooded my head. I wondered if Fred and Hussein were alive somewhere behind the fires encircling Basra. I dearly hoped so.
    Martin and I woke just before first light. We’d spent the night in bivvy bags; Gortex covers that can serve as one-man tents or as an extra layer over a sleeping bag. They were just the ticket for protecting us against the freezing climate. Thankfully, I knew what to expect weather-wise. During the first Gulf War, Iraq had one of its coldest winters on record. I spent six weeks with my squadron sleeping and operating in the open air; no tents, not even covered vehicles. The conditions were so bitter that the skin on our hands cracked and bled to the point where we found it difficult to cock our weapons.
    I only wished that this time we had weapons to handle. Not every assignment on The Circuit calls for an adviser to be armed. I’ve worked in places for example where local law wouldn’t allow me to carry weapons. Arming in the West Bank and Gaza made no sense; it would have increased the risk to myself and my clients by classing us as combatants.
    On this assignment, however, weapons were a must. Not only were we in an active war zone, but Terry’s fate had demonstrated that the Fedayeen regarded all westerners, including journalists, as targets. We needed to be able to defend ourselves effectively. That’s not to say that if we did manage to procure weapons we’d flaunt them or abandon our TV cover. We wanted to move around as inconspicuously as possible.
    The night before, we’d asked one of our military hosts at the hub if he could find us some weapons. He said he’d see what he could do. Martin also phoned one of his infantry contacts operating in our vicinity to see if he could help us out.
    After a quick wash with the ‘man wipes’ Martin and I headed to the canteen for a brew and breakfast. The hub kindly supplied us with ration packs; something I hadn’t tasted for nine years. Sadly, they hadn’t changed. After breakfast, our lot improved quickly. One of our hub ‘hosts’ came through with two 9 mm pistols with magazines and ammunition. I told Martin I felt better but I’d feel a whole lot better if we could get our hands on assault rifles. Someone’s ears must have been burning because no sooner had I said it than Martin got a call on his satellite phone; it was his contact, an ops officer operating locally with a British military unit. He told Martin he had something for him.
    We drove a couple of miles north of the hub to where the British military had set up a FOB, forward operations base. The ops officer was very busy but he found time to shake our hands and chat briefly about the war. We asked him when he thought Basra might be taken. He said the Brits could have done it already but politics, specifically American agendas, were dictating the timing of the invasion. He said he hoped it would be a matter of days and not