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Chris and I turned round together to fall back. He was running 6 to 10 feet to my right when I heard what sounded like a massive punch. I looked across just as Chris went down. He’d been hit by an antiaircraft shell. I ran over to his body, ready to jab a Syrette of morphine into what was left of him-if he wasn’t already dead.

He was wriggling, and for a split second I thought it was death throes. But he was very much alive and struggling with his bergen straps. He released himself and staggered to his feet.

“Fuck that!” he said. His bergen smoldered where the round had smashed into it.

We ran on a few strides and he stopped. “Forgot something,” he said.

He ran back to the shattered bergen and rummaged in the top. He came back with a silver hip flask in his hand.

“Christmas present from the wife,” he grinned as he caught up. “Couldn’t leave it behind: she’d kill me.”

The rest of the blokes were also binning their berg ens I hoped that Legs had managed to retrieve the patrol radio from his.

The APC was moving up quite aggressively, firing sustained and accurate bursts. Two Land Cruisers full of infantry had also joined the fray.

We stopped and got some fire down with the 203s. The vehicles braked sharply as the 40mm bombs exploded in front of them. Jundies spilled out, firing in a frenzy.

Mark and Dinger got severely pinned down by the S60s. They threw out their white phos and thick dirty white smoke billowed around them. The trouble with isolated smokescreens is that they immediately draw the enemy fire, but there was nothing else they could do. The Iraqis knew the blokes were covering their withdrawal, and they emptied their magazines into the cloud. A couple of 203 rounds into the Iraqi positions slowed their rate of fire. Mark and Dinger jumped to their feet and ran.

“Cor, good here, ain’t it?” Dinger said in a pissed off tone of voice as he rushed past me.

We kept moving back and back. It was getting to last light, and they finally lost contact with us in the gloom. We were well spread out, and as darkness fell there was a danger of the patrol getting split. As we ran, we scanned the ground for a suitable rally point. Anybody in the patrol could make the choice.

There was a loud shout 150 feet to my half-right. “Rally, rally, rally!”

Whoever it was, he’d found some cover where we could get down and consolidate ourselves. This was good news, because at the moment we were fragmented, all fighting our own little dramas to get back. A rally point is much the same as an ERV except that it’s given there and then and not prearranged. Its purpose is to get everybody together as quickly as possible before moving off. If anybody didn’t make it, we would have to confirm that he was dead, if we hadn’t done so already. Otherwise we would have to get back the “man down.”

I ran over and found Chris and Bob waiting in a dip in the ground. I immediately put on a fresh mag and prepared my weapon to carry on firing. The three of us waited in all-round defense, covering all the arcs, waiting for the others to come in on us.

I counted heads as they rushed past and took up a firing position. It was five or six minutes before the last man appeared. If anybody had been missing, I’d have had to ask: Who was the last one to see him? Where did you see him? Was he just down or dead? If not, we’d have had to go forward and try to find him.

The headlights of tracked vehicles were frantically crisscrossing in front of us, no more than 1000 feet away. Now and then in the distance there was a burst of gunfire and shouting. They must have been firing at rocks, and probably at themselves. There was total confusion, which chuffed us no end.

The eight of us were closed up in a small area of a couple of square feet. People quickly sorted themselves out, taking off their sweaters and tucking them into their belt kit or inside their smocks. Nobody had to be told what was required. They knew we were either going for the helicopter or we were going for Syria. Either way, we would be doing a fearsome amount of tabbing.

“Got the radio?” I asked Legs.

“There was no way I could get to it,” he said. “The fire coming in was outrageous. I think it was wrecked anyway because my bergen got shot to fuck.”

I knew he would have got it if he could. But it didn’t really matter anyway. We had four TACBEs between us and could get in touch with AWACS within fifteen seconds.

I was still out of breath and thirsty, and took a few gulps of water from my bottle. I dug a couple of boiled sweets out of my pocket and shoved them in my mouth.

“I’d only just lit that fag,” Dinger said ruefully. “If one of them bastards has picked it up, I hope he chokes.”

Bob giggled, and suddenly we were all laughing like drains. It wasn’t particularly what Dinger had said. We were all just so relieved to be unscathed and back together after such a major drama. We couldn’t give a damn about anything else at this stage. It was great to be all in one piece.

We had used a quarter of our ammunition. We amalgamated it and put fresh mags on. I still had my 66-the only one left, because like a dickhead I had left it with my bergen.

I adjusted my clothes, pulling my trousers right up to prevent leg sores and doing up my belt again to make sure I was comfortable. It was starting to get cold. I’d been doing a fearsome amount of sweating and started to shiver in my wet shirt. We had to get moving.

“Let’s get on the net now,” Legs said. “They know we’re here. We might as well use the TACBE.”

“Yeah,” said Vince, “let’s get some fucking shit down.”

He was right. I got out my TACBE, pulled the tab, and heard the hish. I pressed the transmit button and talked.

“Hello AWACS, this is Bravo Two Zero: we are a ground call sign and we’re in the shit, over.”

There was no reply.

I repeated the message.

Nothing.

“Hello any call sign,” I said, “this is Bravo Two Zero.”

Nothing.

I kept trying for thirty seconds without success.

Our only hope now was to get a fast jet overfly so we could contact them by TACBE on the emergency frequency. It was very unlikely, however, that jets would be going over, unless one of Legs’s signals had got through during the compromise phase and the FOB had scrambled some support aircraft. There certainly hadn’t been an auto acknowledgment Maybe they knew we were in the shit, maybe they didn’t. There wasn’t a lot we could do about it.

I did a quick appreciation. We could either tab 200 miles south to Saudi, head north towards Turkey, which meant crossing the Euphrates, or go just 100 miles west to Syria. There were infantry and armor in the immediate area. We were compromised and they were looking for us. They would naturally think that we were heading south towards Saudi. Even if we could make the heli RV, there was a chance of us being followed-and that could mean enemy activity in the area while the Chinook came in.

I decided that we had no choice but to head for Syria. We would initially move south as part of the deception plan, because that was the presumed way to go; then we’d head west to box around the area, and finally turn generally northwest. We would try to be on the other side of the MSR before first light because this would probably be the psychological perimeter of their search south. Then we could start heading for the border.

“Is everybody ready?” I said.

We started south in a single file. Vehicles were zooming backwards and forwards around us about a quarter of a mile away. We’d only gone a few hundred meters when one of them, a Land Cruiser, headed straight at us, its headlights blazing. We hit the ground, but we were out in the open. We turned our faces away to prevent the reflection and to save our night vision. The vehicle was 650 feet away and closing. If it came any nearer, we would be seen. I braced myself for another major drama. There was a shout. I flicked my head up and saw another vehicle flashing its lights about 1000 feet to our left. The Land Cruiser changed direction and sped off towards it.