us.
On our way to the meeting, we saw a British unit holed up away from the highway in a battered university complex. We pulled over to see if they could tell us anything about when the Brits would finally make their move. Talking to the soldiers, it was obvious they were frustrated by the delays. They knew that the longer they waited to launch a full-scale invasion, the more they exposed themselves to death and injury. They told us that the probes in and out of Basra were very hazardous. One light-tank commander described an ambush in which a Fedayeen soldier played dead on the side of the road, only to jump up and whack an RPG into the side of his tank. ‘The Fedayeen are maniacs,’ he said.
The suicidal tactics of the Fedayeen weren’t their only worries; several of the more experienced soldiers we spoke with felt the Brits needed more boots on the ground to secure the city after the invasion.
The consensus was, the sooner the Brits invaded the better for everyone. One tank commander was fairly certain they would get the go-ahead within twenty-four hours.
I asked one of the APC commanders in the unit, an Irish lad, if Martin and I could get a ride with him into the city once the invasion started.
The commander looked at me like I was barking mad. Then he realized I was serious. ‘I’d have to get top cover to run that one by,’ he said. 4
It looked like Martin and I would have to go in alone. We wished the unit good luck and good hunting.
I poked my head out the window as we drove away. ‘Don’t run over our soft skin with your tank!’ I shouted.
‘You’ll be fine so long as you wear your helmet,’ the commander shouted back.
Tariq was bang on time for our meeting. Once again, he was accompanied by his son and business associates. Martin and I were desperate to hear what he’d learned overnight.
Tariq looked sullen as he walked towards our vehicle. I braced myself for a blow.
‘I have bad news,’ he said. ‘The Fedayeen man I want to meet, the one who know about your friends, he killed last night in fighting with British.’
It wasn’t just bad news – it was the worst possible news.
‘What about his family and associates? Would they know what happened to the men we’re looking for?’ I asked.
Tariq said he’d already talked to the man’s friends and family. Some knew that two journalists had been killed by the Fedayeen, but no one had a clue where the bodies might be. He had managed to pick up a few new details about ‘the white person’ who’d been wounded during the incident; he was told that the man had been put on a green minibus and taken towards Basra. Again, Martin and I assumed Tariq was referring to Terry.
We thanked Tariq for the information, gave him our contact numbers and asked him to call us if he learned anything new. Martin and I watched again as he headed back to the city which for the time being was off limits to us. We were stumped. What could we do next? It was gut wrenching to think we’d come this far only to have to sit and wait for our phones to ring.
CHAPTER 12
Trying to keep an operation under wraps when you’re surrounded by dozens of journalists is next to impossible. Every night at the hub Martin and I were barraged with questions from overly inquisitive correspondents wanting to know how we were getting on with our search for the two missing ITN lads. We’d offer bits and pieces for them to chew on, but never the whole story. 5 A handful of journalists were genuinely concerned about the missing men. Some, however, were digging for something to report. Sitting in the desert day after day with nothing to do was having a corrosive effect on them. The press corps was tired of waiting for Basra to fall. On that point at least, Martin and I could empathize with them.
Day six of our investigation began with the news we were all waiting for: the main assault on Basra was finally under way. Martin and I learned of it from one of our military contacts who
On our way to the meeting, we saw a British unit holed up away from the highway in a battered university complex. We pulled over to see if they could tell us anything about when the Brits would finally make their move. Talking to the soldiers, it was obvious they were frustrated by the delays. They knew that the longer they waited to launch a full-scale invasion, the more they exposed themselves to death and injury. They told us that the probes in and out of Basra were very hazardous. One light-tank commander described an ambush in which a Fedayeen soldier played dead on the side of the road, only to jump up and whack an RPG into the side of his tank. ‘The Fedayeen are maniacs,’ he said.
The suicidal tactics of the Fedayeen weren’t their only worries; several of the more experienced soldiers we spoke with felt the Brits needed more boots on the ground to secure the city after the invasion.
The consensus was, the sooner the Brits invaded the better for everyone. One tank commander was fairly certain they would get the go-ahead within twenty-four hours.
I asked one of the APC commanders in the unit, an Irish lad, if Martin and I could get a ride with him into the city once the invasion started.
The commander looked at me like I was barking mad. Then he realized I was serious. ‘I’d have to get top cover to run that one by,’ he said. 4
It looked like Martin and I would have to go in alone. We wished the unit good luck and good hunting.
I poked my head out the window as we drove away. ‘Don’t run over our soft skin with your tank!’ I shouted.
‘You’ll be fine so long as you wear your helmet,’ the commander shouted back.
Tariq was bang on time for our meeting. Once again, he was accompanied by his son and business associates. Martin and I were desperate to hear what he’d learned overnight.
Tariq looked sullen as he walked towards our vehicle. I braced myself for a blow.
‘I have bad news,’ he said. ‘The Fedayeen man I want to meet, the one who know about your friends, he killed last night in fighting with British.’
It wasn’t just bad news – it was the worst possible news.
‘What about his family and associates? Would they know what happened to the men we’re looking for?’ I asked.
Tariq said he’d already talked to the man’s friends and family. Some knew that two journalists had been killed by the Fedayeen, but no one had a clue where the bodies might be. He had managed to pick up a few new details about ‘the white person’ who’d been wounded during the incident; he was told that the man had been put on a green minibus and taken towards Basra. Again, Martin and I assumed Tariq was referring to Terry.
We thanked Tariq for the information, gave him our contact numbers and asked him to call us if he learned anything new. Martin and I watched again as he headed back to the city which for the time being was off limits to us. We were stumped. What could we do next? It was gut wrenching to think we’d come this far only to have to sit and wait for our phones to ring.
CHAPTER 12
Trying to keep an operation under wraps when you’re surrounded by dozens of journalists is next to impossible. Every night at the hub Martin and I were barraged with questions from overly inquisitive correspondents wanting to know how we were getting on with our search for the two missing ITN lads. We’d offer bits and pieces for them to chew on, but never the whole story. 5 A handful of journalists were genuinely concerned about the missing men. Some, however, were digging for something to report. Sitting in the desert day after day with nothing to do was having a corrosive effect on them. The press corps was tired of waiting for Basra to fall. On that point at least, Martin and I could empathize with them.
Day six of our investigation began with the news we were all waiting for: the main assault on Basra was finally under way. Martin and I learned of it from one of our military contacts who
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