crew had been apprehended by the Fedayeen. The bridge rose in an arc over the canal. At its apex, it stood thirty feet above ground level. That meant that we’d be blinded driving up the bridge but have an excellent point from which to assess the road ahead once we reached the top.
I pulled out my binos and surveyed the landscape across the waterway. It was very similar to the incident area; flat desert broken up by patches of scrub and burned-out Iraqi armour. The road connecting the bridge to the city was approximately a mile long and flanked on both sides by metal telegraph poles and the odd building.
Attack helicopter blades clubbed the air above us as I folded away my binos. The sky was still clouded with soot from burning oil pipelines, punctuated by darker plumes drifting up from deep inside the city where the odd air strike had hit. There was no mistaking this was a full-scale war zone.
I stopped for a moment to think about what we were about to do; two unsupported civilians travelling in a soft-skin 4x4 through hostile territory hoping magically that we’d see a sign or meet someone who could lead us to the missing lads. I felt nervous, more nervous that at any other point during our mission.
It was late morning and traffic was moving steadily over the bridge. Martin and I agreed it was a good time to get going because we could merge with the flow and not stick out too much.
We turned onto the main highway just as two British military armoured recce vehicles drove past in the opposite direction. They were returning from a probe inside Basra and had strike marks on the sides and front where they had been hit with RPGs. Even with their superior firepower, the Brits weren’t getting it all their own way. The Fedayeen may have been outnumbered, but they were tough – and often lethal.
My nerves grew raw as the bridge drew closer.
‘Well, mate, here we go,’ I said.
We kept up with traffic as we ascended the bridge, blind to any potential dangers lurking on the other side. When we hit the apex, the road into Basra spread out before us; I could see the outline of the city in the distance. To our right lay a burnt-out Iraqi tank with a fully loaded, heavy machine gun still mounted on the turret. The tank must have just been in a battle because the Iraqis hadn’t stripped it yet for parts.
We cleared the apex and descended into the outskirts of Basra. There were no signs of Iraqi authorities as we advanced towards the city; no police, no military, no Fedayeen. We continued up the highway, passing pedestrians and the odd house and shop. I couldn’t believe the buildings were still occupied. As we drove, Martin and I looked everywhere for possible clues; buildings, people, the landscape in between.
The glances from the faces we passed grew increasingly suspicious the closer we got to the city. People were paying very close attention to the road and our vehicle in particular. About five hundred yards short of the city’s edge, we approached a shop where five men were gathered outside. As we drove into their line of vision, the men stopped talking and stared directly at us.
At that point, I knew we were pushing our luck. We drove forty yards past the shop and pulled over on the hard shoulder of the highway. We were so close to the city, we could have hopped there on one foot.
Martin and I looked at Basra as if it were a jewel dangling in front of us, but until the city was taken, it was too dangerous to go cold-calling on people when we couldn’t be certain of their loyalties. Desperate as we were to get on with our investigation, we’d have to turn back.
By our fifth day on the ground, the morning chill had all but vanished from the air. The weather had locked step with the war; both were heating up.
We headed out early again for our meeting with Tariq. The day before had been enormously frustrating for Martin and me and we both had fingers crossed that Tariq would come back with a promising lead for
I pulled out my binos and surveyed the landscape across the waterway. It was very similar to the incident area; flat desert broken up by patches of scrub and burned-out Iraqi armour. The road connecting the bridge to the city was approximately a mile long and flanked on both sides by metal telegraph poles and the odd building.
Attack helicopter blades clubbed the air above us as I folded away my binos. The sky was still clouded with soot from burning oil pipelines, punctuated by darker plumes drifting up from deep inside the city where the odd air strike had hit. There was no mistaking this was a full-scale war zone.
I stopped for a moment to think about what we were about to do; two unsupported civilians travelling in a soft-skin 4x4 through hostile territory hoping magically that we’d see a sign or meet someone who could lead us to the missing lads. I felt nervous, more nervous that at any other point during our mission.
It was late morning and traffic was moving steadily over the bridge. Martin and I agreed it was a good time to get going because we could merge with the flow and not stick out too much.
We turned onto the main highway just as two British military armoured recce vehicles drove past in the opposite direction. They were returning from a probe inside Basra and had strike marks on the sides and front where they had been hit with RPGs. Even with their superior firepower, the Brits weren’t getting it all their own way. The Fedayeen may have been outnumbered, but they were tough – and often lethal.
My nerves grew raw as the bridge drew closer.
‘Well, mate, here we go,’ I said.
We kept up with traffic as we ascended the bridge, blind to any potential dangers lurking on the other side. When we hit the apex, the road into Basra spread out before us; I could see the outline of the city in the distance. To our right lay a burnt-out Iraqi tank with a fully loaded, heavy machine gun still mounted on the turret. The tank must have just been in a battle because the Iraqis hadn’t stripped it yet for parts.
We cleared the apex and descended into the outskirts of Basra. There were no signs of Iraqi authorities as we advanced towards the city; no police, no military, no Fedayeen. We continued up the highway, passing pedestrians and the odd house and shop. I couldn’t believe the buildings were still occupied. As we drove, Martin and I looked everywhere for possible clues; buildings, people, the landscape in between.
The glances from the faces we passed grew increasingly suspicious the closer we got to the city. People were paying very close attention to the road and our vehicle in particular. About five hundred yards short of the city’s edge, we approached a shop where five men were gathered outside. As we drove into their line of vision, the men stopped talking and stared directly at us.
At that point, I knew we were pushing our luck. We drove forty yards past the shop and pulled over on the hard shoulder of the highway. We were so close to the city, we could have hopped there on one foot.
Martin and I looked at Basra as if it were a jewel dangling in front of us, but until the city was taken, it was too dangerous to go cold-calling on people when we couldn’t be certain of their loyalties. Desperate as we were to get on with our investigation, we’d have to turn back.
By our fifth day on the ground, the morning chill had all but vanished from the air. The weather had locked step with the war; both were heating up.
We headed out early again for our meeting with Tariq. The day before had been enormously frustrating for Martin and me and we both had fingers crossed that Tariq would come back with a promising lead for
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