Mercenary Mum: My Journey from Young Mother to Baghdad Bodyguard by Neryl Joyce Page B
Authors: Neryl Joyce
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the ready.
I sat directly behind Baloo so that I could scan the road to his left and to the rear of our left-hand-drive vehicle. I didn’t know much about the guy in the front passenger seat, but I knew he would be scanning the front and right-hand side of the vehicle. All in all, we had a 360-degree view around our vehicle.
Baloo turned over the engine, and we started out, passing through a number of military checkpoints. I could see there was only one more between us and Route Irish. The call came over the radio for everyone to “make their weapons ready”. I cocked my AK and placed my thumb on the safety catch. If we were attacked, all I would have to do was release the safety and let the bullets fly.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, gritted my teeth and lightly brushed the cross – a gift from my mother – that I wore around my neck. This was it. We moved through the final checkpoint, and then we were off. Large concrete walls flanked the road, but they were only there to protect the checkpoint area. In a matter of metres, there were no more walls: we were out in the open.
I noticed that the advance vehicle was way out in front of us, and the CAT vehicle way behind. Effectively, there was no protection for our vehicle – the client vehicle. This went against everything I had learnt about close protection. If we were attacked, neither vehicle would be close enough to provide blocking drills to protect us. Maybe they were running this way because I was not a ‘real client’? Maybe the strategy was different because we were in soft-skinned vehicles and not armoured ones? Maybe this was just how it was done in Iraq?
As we raced along Route Irish we passed open fields and then old square buildings, which sat on either side of the double-lane highway. The buildings were about 200 metres from the road, and looked to be an excellent place for an insurgent to take a pot shot at us. The traffic was light so we were able to weave in and out of it with little problems. As we passed cars, I glanced inside. There were old men driving alone. There were families of six squashed in all together. Some women wore headscarves; others were dressed in black robes that covered everything apart from a small window showing their eyes. The men wore shirts I suspected had been unloved since the seventies, and the children looked no different to any kid back home. Not many wore what I thought of as traditional Arabic garb. These were just normal people going about their lives.
We continued to tear-arse along the road. As we got closer to the Green Zone, the buildings seemed to close in on us. Along this stretch, the buildings were about 20 metres from the road. I searched for snipers on rooftops or anyone peering out of a window. Traffic grew denser and vehicles began to drive closer to us. I scanned vehicles more intently now, looking for weapons or any suspicious behaviour from passengers.
As we neared the first overpass, I heard the call that the bridge was clear. I knew that meant there was no obvious sign of anyone hanging around, waiting to drop a grenade on us from above. After going through the underpass, Baloo began to slow down. We were approaching the Green Zone checkpoint.
Our car eased closer to the checkpoint. With some of the team wearing their shemaghs, it was easy for the soldiers to mistake them for locals, Baloo said. If we approached the checkpoint too quickly, or before we’d been waved forwards by the soldiers, we risked being shot at by friendly forces. So we pulled up with care, eyeing the other vehicles around us. I hoped desperately that no one was feeling like blowing themselves up that day.
We made it through the checkpoint and into the Green Zone. Baloo visibly relaxed: his shoulders dropping and his frown lines easing. The zone’s perimeter was lined with huge concrete walls, and there were gun posts set up at regular intervals around the boundary. The greatest threat to those within the Green Zone
I sat directly behind Baloo so that I could scan the road to his left and to the rear of our left-hand-drive vehicle. I didn’t know much about the guy in the front passenger seat, but I knew he would be scanning the front and right-hand side of the vehicle. All in all, we had a 360-degree view around our vehicle.
Baloo turned over the engine, and we started out, passing through a number of military checkpoints. I could see there was only one more between us and Route Irish. The call came over the radio for everyone to “make their weapons ready”. I cocked my AK and placed my thumb on the safety catch. If we were attacked, all I would have to do was release the safety and let the bullets fly.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, gritted my teeth and lightly brushed the cross – a gift from my mother – that I wore around my neck. This was it. We moved through the final checkpoint, and then we were off. Large concrete walls flanked the road, but they were only there to protect the checkpoint area. In a matter of metres, there were no more walls: we were out in the open.
I noticed that the advance vehicle was way out in front of us, and the CAT vehicle way behind. Effectively, there was no protection for our vehicle – the client vehicle. This went against everything I had learnt about close protection. If we were attacked, neither vehicle would be close enough to provide blocking drills to protect us. Maybe they were running this way because I was not a ‘real client’? Maybe the strategy was different because we were in soft-skinned vehicles and not armoured ones? Maybe this was just how it was done in Iraq?
As we raced along Route Irish we passed open fields and then old square buildings, which sat on either side of the double-lane highway. The buildings were about 200 metres from the road, and looked to be an excellent place for an insurgent to take a pot shot at us. The traffic was light so we were able to weave in and out of it with little problems. As we passed cars, I glanced inside. There were old men driving alone. There were families of six squashed in all together. Some women wore headscarves; others were dressed in black robes that covered everything apart from a small window showing their eyes. The men wore shirts I suspected had been unloved since the seventies, and the children looked no different to any kid back home. Not many wore what I thought of as traditional Arabic garb. These were just normal people going about their lives.
We continued to tear-arse along the road. As we got closer to the Green Zone, the buildings seemed to close in on us. Along this stretch, the buildings were about 20 metres from the road. I searched for snipers on rooftops or anyone peering out of a window. Traffic grew denser and vehicles began to drive closer to us. I scanned vehicles more intently now, looking for weapons or any suspicious behaviour from passengers.
As we neared the first overpass, I heard the call that the bridge was clear. I knew that meant there was no obvious sign of anyone hanging around, waiting to drop a grenade on us from above. After going through the underpass, Baloo began to slow down. We were approaching the Green Zone checkpoint.
Our car eased closer to the checkpoint. With some of the team wearing their shemaghs, it was easy for the soldiers to mistake them for locals, Baloo said. If we approached the checkpoint too quickly, or before we’d been waved forwards by the soldiers, we risked being shot at by friendly forces. So we pulled up with care, eyeing the other vehicles around us. I hoped desperately that no one was feeling like blowing themselves up that day.
We made it through the checkpoint and into the Green Zone. Baloo visibly relaxed: his shoulders dropping and his frown lines easing. The zone’s perimeter was lined with huge concrete walls, and there were gun posts set up at regular intervals around the boundary. The greatest threat to those within the Green Zone
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