Sea beyond Oman – more than a million square miles in all. It was a very big area to cover. Also, it was surprisingly cold, especially at night.
The first thing the SAS men learnt was that they could not phone home, their mail would be censored and normal radio transmissions were restricted. And, of course, they could not drink alcohol – not even here in the desert, for the Bedouin still often passed the camp on their camels. Similarly, the men had to respect Muslim customs and not flaunt their Western habits or religious preferences, except in the privacy of their tents.
‘Should this make you resent the fact that we’re here to defend the Kuwaitis,’ Hailsham said, ‘I would remind you that we have our own interests at heart. In fact, we’re here to safeguard Arabian oil, which furnishes over two-thirds of the world’s needs, including ours. To lose it to Saddam would have devastating consequences for the West, including Great Britain. I’d also remind you that there are approximately thirty thousand expatriates in Saudi Arabia who need our protection. To give them that, we need the trust of the Bedouin. Please don’t forget it.’
In their view, the men were not compensated for such restrictions by being treated like lords. On the contrary, their living conditions were basic, with portable showers, chemical toilets and meals consisting mainly of sausages and baked beans, sometimes curry with rice, spooned up from mess-tins as quickly as possible to stop sand or dust from getting on it, then washed down with hot tea.
The freezing nights were long – about eleven hours of darkness – and the men, stretched out beside their tanks and armoured vehicles or huddled up in their slit trenches, could do little to pass the time other than listen to the restricted programmes of Forces Broadcasting or study the brilliant stars over the flat, featureless, seemingly endless black desert.
From the BBC they learned that back in England Wing-Commander David Farquhar had lost secret documents and a laptop computer containing an outline version of the American war plan. The fact that this news was conveyed by the BBC even before it was known officially to the Coalition Forces in the Gulf caused much sardonic mirth among the men. They also learnt that the Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, had been replaced by John Major, whom many thought would not be as supportive of them as had been the Iron Lady.
‘Not my cup of tea,’ Major Hailsham said, summing up the general feeling among the men, ‘but at least she always stuck by her guns. She also stuck up for the Special Forces. I don’t know that John Major will. This could be a bad blow to us.’
‘We’ll survive,’ Sergeant-Major Ricketts replied.
For the SAS, the first five months of the crisis had been a time of intense frustration. As Britain’s leading exponents of desert warfare, they were, by January, the only Regiment without a certain role in any war with Iraq, even though an FOB had been established in the Gulf since August, with D and G Squadrons carrying out intensive exercises in the desolate area of the Rub Al Khali, or the Empty Quarter, testing men and equipment. At that stage, their primary function was supposed to be the rescue of the hostages being used as a human shield by Saddam; but with the release of the hostages in the second week of December, that function had become redundant and left them with no clearly defined role.
‘At the moment,’ Hailsham explained to Ricketts, ‘with the cooperation of the American Special Operations Central Command, we’re working hand in glove with the 5th Special Forces Group, the Amphibious Sea Air Land, or SEAL, units, the US Air Force special force and the Psychological Operations and Civil Aid or, to be brief, Psyops and Civaid. Also, since it’s perfectly clear that the outcome of any war with Saddam Hussein will be determined by air power, we’re boning up on the use of lasers for target designation with the Tornado and similar bombers. Front-line reconnaissance, however, is still under the control of the 5th Special Forces Group and US Marine Corps recon specialists. This isn’t raising the spirits of the men to any great heights.’
‘Presumably we need the permission of our imposing US Commander-in-Chief, Norman Schwarzkopf, to take a more active role,’ said Ricketts.
‘Unfortunately, yes – though I have it on the best of authority that General Sir Peter de la Billière, our former SAS commander and now commander of the British forces here in Saudi Arabia, is putting in a good word for us.’
‘I should bloody hope so,’ Ricketts replied.
‘Apart from that we’re just twiddling our thumbs.’
‘There are worse vices, boss.’
Hailsham grinned. ‘Anyway, it’s bound to happen soon and I think we should consider our course of action. My view is that we should revert to the kind of campaign David Stirling ran during World War Two – deep-penetration, hit-and-run raids behind enemy lines, destroying their planes on the ground, attacking their lines of communication, ambushing their patrols and causing general disruption and mayhem.’
‘In armed Land Rovers.’
‘Right. The Pink Panthers. In and out in clouds of dust with all guns firing. Personally, I’d love it.’
‘Then let’s hope we get to do it,’ Ricketts said. ‘Come on, boss, let’s go for chow.’
They were just about to leave the tent when the telephone rang.
‘I’ve called you together,’ Major Hailsham addressed the troopers assembled outside his lean-to on the edge of the city of tents spread across the desert plain, ‘to tell you that plans for the liberation of Kuwait are already well advanced and the operation’s been codenamed “Desert Storm”.’
When the men burst into applause and cheering, it hit Hailsham just how frustrated they had been during the past few days, not knowing exactly why they were here and fed up with the repetitive lessons on survival in the desert or the use of the latest high-tech equipment. While this FOB was busy and noisy all day, with helicopters constantly taking off and landing, aircraft roaring overhead and Challenger tanks and armoured vehicles being put through their paces, the activity was purely of a time-filling nature, albeit masquerading as practice. Meanwhile, the ‘Pink Panther’ Land Rovers and motorcycles were sitting idly outside the tents. What Hailsham’s men wanted, he now realized, was more positive action and a clearly defined reason for being here. Now at last they were getting it.
‘The basic plan,’ Hailsham continued when the men had quietened down, ‘is for battleships of the US Navy to bombard the Iraqi coastal positions and offshore islands of Kuwait while US Marines make an amphibious landing from the Gulf. At the same time, Arab elements of the Coalition forces will head overland, straight for Kuwait. Meanwhile, US Marine Corps will be engaging the Iraqis due north of them. The Syrians and Egyptians will push to the north, make a right-handed swing, and come into Kuwait City from the west – hopefully, if things go as planned – meeting up with the Coalition Arab forces already there. No Western forces will enter the capital until it’s been cleared by Islamic troops.’
‘Very decent of us,’ Geordie said sarcastically.
‘Very sensible of us,’ Ricketts pointed out. ‘It shows that this war is for the Kuwaitis and we’re simply supporting them.’
‘Correct,’ Hailsham said. ‘The city must be liberated by Muslim forces to avoid accusations of exploitation or desecration by Christians. We’ll follow them in.’
‘So what’s the state of play at the moment?’ Sergeant
