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

of this routine, I had little doubt that every man in the Commando was more than proficient with every item of equipment. My cavalry colleagues took a slightly more sanguine view of proceedings and, as long as their vehicles were in good condition and they were confident in their skills, the pace of life was usually a little less frenetic than that of their Royal Marines colleagues. By lunchtime the desert sun would be baking the sand once again and as the temperature soared the pace of activity declined accordingly. Lunch, in the form of MREs, would be taken sitting on camp chairs outside the accommodation tents, usually wearing little more than a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. A hardcore element of the Marines would ditch their T-shirts and eat lunch prone on their camp beds in a seemingly endless quest to get an ever deeper tan. Afternoons consisted largely of physical exertion of one kind or another, something which I successfully managed to avoid throughout the deployment.  Squads of them would double around the camp in full battle kit, being overtaken only by their fellow Marines who chose to run in shorts and T-shirts. A shipping container full of weights and rowing machines had been brought over from the UK, and this provided a rudimentary gym, which was permanently overcrowded. Following hours of exercise, late afternoons were designated as admin-time, in which the chaps could do whatever needed doing to keep them and their equipment in full working order. To a large extent this consisted of a growing obsession with spray painting everything desert yellow. With the exception of their rifles, which they weren’t allowed to deface, the Marines’ equipment changed colour in its entirety. Webbing, bergens, vehicles, radios, jerrycans and carry-cases of all kinds all received liberal spray-gun treatment. Over a period of weeks, the entirety of 42 Commando’s equipment metamorphosed from dark green to yellow/brown. But the time could equally be spent exchanging broken or damaged items of kit, cleaning weapons, and doing the thousand and one little jobs that keep a man and his equipment in good working order. Admin completed, the evening briefings would begin, followed by dinner which, in my case at least, often meant a jaunt to Camp Doha with the combat camera team, since the food at Camp Gibraltar was consistently revolting and best avoided. Then back into our shabby green tent for bed and a fitful night’s sleep, before the whole daily cycle would begin again the following morning. Despite the indefatigable cheerfulness of the Marines I found it a dismal, repetitive existence and any little break from the routine was cherished.
    After a couple of weeks of workaday life in the camp, the Operations Office announced at an evening briefing that the unit would shortly begin rehearsals for the helicopter assault that would eventually land us in southern Iraq. This was a significant step forward in the run-up to war and there was an immediate buzz of excitement among the officers present at the briefing. The repetitive routine of camp life had started to take its inevitable effect on morale and it would, according to the company commanders, be much easier to motivate the men in the knowledge that action was drawing nearer. I was in two minds about this development. On one hand, any break from the daily grind would doubtless be a good thing. But on the other, rehearsals for an assault meant that the real thing was getting a lot closer, and that was disconcerting news in the extreme, made worse by the discovery that we were to be flown into Iraq by the US Marines. Their fleet of helicopters was decrepit - many of them had been commissioned in the early 1970s and had seen service in Vietnam - and I suspected the quality of their pilots would match the aircraft. The British helicopter effort had, it seemed, been devoted to 40 Commando, so we were stuck with the Yanks. Rehearsals were due to start in a couple of days and would