Free Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq by H.C. Tayler

abuse and the conversation moved on to the state of the camp food. The QM returned with two polystyrene cups brimming full of tea.
    “So what brings you to 42?” he asked.
    I told him the tale of how I had come from a cavalry regiment to be attached to the Brigade Headquarters, and how that had eventually metamorphosed into a job with a commando unit. He seemed far from surprised.
    “There are more people being shifted from one job to another at the moment than you can shake a stick at. Half the augmentees here were mobilised to do a different job. Under normal circumstances I’d say the whole G1 plot was a mess, but I suppose these aren’t normal circumstances.” (10) I agreed with him here - divisional deployments didn’t happen every day and most of the planning staff had never been through this process before, or at least never on this scale. “The good bit is the quality of blokes we’re getting - most of them seem to be mega switched-on, which is a good thing, because we’re going to need some good blokes when this thing kicks off.”
    I took the opportunity to get a brief on the camp layout and who the key movers and shakers were. Quartermasters, in my opinion, are usually a highly reliable source of information. Anyone who needs equipment usually has to interface with them - which means they quickly get to know almost everyone in the battalion. Plus they typically have over 25 years of service behind them, which means they have seen a thing or two and can often make good judgement calls about the quality of the people around them. They typically come in two forms: the approachable, nothing-is-too-difficult type, and the stand-offish, don’t-bother-asking-because-I-won’t-be-any-help type. Judging by the reception I had been given, and the number of blokes saying a friendly hullo in passing, 42’s QM fell squarely in the former category. Unfortunately I didn’t get as long as I would have liked to get a full download on how he saw the current situation, since he drank his tea in record time and disappeared back into the headquarters tent at a rate of knots.
    An hour or so after the QM left me, I spotted a dust-covered Mitsubishi 4x4 entering the camp, which heralded the arrival of the combat camera team. I strode over to greet them and was surprised to discover that the two-man team consisted of a Royal Marine corporal and a Royal Navy lieutenant. Neither of them had served with 42 before so they were as new to the set-up as I was. I explained the accommodation problem and pointed to the scruffy canvas bag still lying in the sand where the QM had dropped it. Neither of them seemed remotely perturbed by the situation and with barely a word they started unravelling the canvas bundle. I pitched in and in a matter of minutes we had a slightly wobbly aluminium frame assembled, over which the heavy canvas outer needed to be dragged. This done, we hammered dozens of steel pegs deep into the loose sand, in the hope of giving the thing some stability in the event of the wind picking up. I dragged my bergen and kitbag inside and they emptied the contents of their 4x4 into our new home. Next stop was a much-needed cup of tea over which I was able to impart most of my new-found knowledge of what life was like in the Commando. When I mentioned the food, my Navy roommate just laughed and gestured towards the Mitsubishi parked outside. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” he said. “Camp Doha isn’t so far away and the wheels are ours for the foreseeable.” It was music to my ears. I had only been in this dusty hellhole a matter of hours, and already we had an escape vehicle. My spirits soared. By early evening we had arranged the inside of the tent to resemble something like a home. Camp beds were erected, we had purloined a couple of folding chairs, and the combat camera chaps had produced their piece-de-resistance, a roll of carpet which did a neat job of stopping sand getting kicked into all our kit. Or