FOR ME AT
LEAST, the first Gulf War stopped at 0800 hours local
time on 28th February 1991. The Iraqis had now collapsed
completely and were streaming back north to Baghdad, and
it had got to the point where continuing to attack them,
in my estimation, was no longer morally justifiable.
This opinion was shared to a greater or lesser degree by
most of my colleagues. Enough was enough.
We only now began to get a true feel for the scale of
the Iraqi defeat – and it was enormous. We were told
that they had lost 3,008 tanks; 1,856 armoured personnel
carriers; and 2,140 artillery pieces, mainly abandoned
in their retreat. The Americans were planning to blow up
most of the abandoned Iraqi equipment, except for some
remnants that were to be kept for “exploitation” or
display purposes – the latter a euphemism for war booty.
JHQ sent out a demand for captured enemy equipment which
made us all hoot with laughter, including as it did 100
T72 tanks, 100 BMP infantry fighting vehicles, and so
on, which was just total cuckoo-land. I think in the end
we recovered only three T72s, and even they were stolen
from the Americans, if I remember correctly.
The battlefields were awash with weaponry, and every
unit was determined to get at least one tank, plus a
slack handful of other assorted lorries, small arms, and
other trophies, back home to Germany or the UK to
display on the regimental square or in their regimental
museums. Fairly strict guidelines about all of this were
issued almost immediately, but it wasn’t too long after
the end of hostilities that some idiot Army Air Corps
officer flew back from the Gulf into RAF Brize Norton
and presented HM Customs & Excise with two AK47 assault
rifles which he wanted to import.
That piece of crass stupidity effectively queered the
pitch for everyone else. I was quite keen that 4RTR
should have something or other to commemorate all the
officers and men who served with other units in the
Gulf, and I went to some lengths to secure a couple of
ex-Iraqi rifles when I got back to Germany. I even got
as far as getting display cabinets made for them, but
then I lost track of them when I was next posted. To
this day I don’t know what became of them.
All efforts were very quickly directed (by us) towards
getting out of the region as soon as was humanly
possible. We had all had more than enough of the Middle
East in general and Saudi Arabia in particular, and were
desperate to get home. Optimism soared as we began to
calculate just how soon we might be able to leave Saudi
Arabia. Some said as soon as within six weeks, assuming
the first of 7 Armd Bde could move in about ten days
time, working on the ancient army principle of “first
in, first out”. There was a definite sense of fin-de-siecle,
and it seemed all we had to do was exchange
prisoners-of-war quickly, extract all our stuff, and we
were offski. Brilliant. We couldn’t wait.
There was another side, a darker and less happy one. The
Division reported that it was finding living on the
battlefield a very harrowing experience. They found
themselves amongst long columns of burnt out enemy
vehicles, full of Iraqi dead, and the enemy prisoners
they had taken were stuck out in the middle of the
desert with little shelter. The realisation had also
begun to dawn that the ratio of reported casualties did
not really paint the picture of a hard fought campaign.
The Coalition had suffered “only” 200 or so dead,
whereas figures of up to 100,000 were being quoted for
the Iraqis.
I had an interesting conversation with one of our press
briefers, a man for whom hitherto I had had little time,
on the morality of continuing to attack a defeated
enemy. I always remembered a veteran CO of the Falklands
War, who had subsequently taught me at Staff College,
describing how he had ordered his men to stop firing on
retreating Argentinians after one of the battles around
Port Stanley because, as he had put it, it was no longer
morally sustainable.
I had been mightily impressed by this. Ten years later
the same dilemma was taxing a number of people, and this
briefer was of the opinion that the last twenty-four
hours of our current war had been quite unnecessary. I
agreed. It was rather like one of the old colonial wars
I thought, where charging spear and shield-waving
natives had been mown down by modern rifle fire. As
Hillaire Belloc famously wrote:
“Whatever happens, we have got
The Maxim gun, and they have not.”
The conflict had turned out to be a bit too one-sided
for my peace of mind.
Within twenty-four hours of the cessation of hostilities
I had one of my all too rare days off. When we had first
arrived in Riyadh there had been far too much to do to
afford such a luxury, and we had worked all day every
day. Within a month or so, however, it had become clear
that we were going to become stale and fed up very
quickly if we continued in this vein, so every so often
we got a break.
The problem was, though, that there wasn’t that much for
us to do outside working. Generally speaking nobody else
was off at the same time, so there was little
opportunity to go off in company to play sport, explore,
go shopping, or whatever. Riyadh wasn’t exactly
conducive to R&R, being a bit of an urban wasteland of
motorways on concrete stilts and unfriendly high rise
office blocks in the American idiom. Reminiscent of
central Birmingham, perhaps, minus women and bars and
with the heating turned fully on.
I tended, therefore, to stay in the Marriott, catching
up on my sleep, writing interminable letters home, and
reading the many books sent to me by friends, family,
and well wishers. There was an outdoor swimming pool and
the weather was usually good enough to sit outside and
do a little sunbathing. The pool was always swarming
with RAF personnel, who I have to say provided some of
the most egregious examples of scruffy servicemen in
uniform that I have ever seen, anywhere. I was
constantly amazed that their officers never did anything
about it. Perhaps they didn’t care.
The hotel itself was depressing. It wasn’t that it was
uncomfortable, because it was as good as any hotel of
that type I’ve stayed in, but it had no soul. There was
nowhere to go outside your room, and on venturing out
regardless there was only ever a gaggle of Saudi and
Kuwaiti men drinking endless cups of coffee in all male
family groups. The corridors and foyers were full of
noisy, chattering Kuwaiti refugee children at all hours
of the day and night; they didn’t have anywhere to go
either until they could go back home.
Worst of all was the television. I still have bad dreams
about Saudi television, with its (to our eyes)
hopelessly amateur Saudi programmes and a staple diet of
overwhelmingly mediocre, and heavily censored,
programmes imported from the USA. These were interrupted
several times a day by the call to prayer, and nothing
wrong with that, except if you were watching a film it
would keep running during prayer time behind the
schedule and therefore you always rejoined it having
lost about five minutes of the plot! Saudi TV would
undoubtedly have driven me to drink had any been
available.
After my day off I returned to work with the day shift,
a welcome relief after seven weeks of constant
nightshift. There was now very little for me to do. “All
out in 42 days!” became the cry, but for the moment we
all sat around waiting for something to happen. I moved
back to my equipment-oriented job as a host of related
matters now came to hand. Not least of these was the
urgent need to find out how our and the Iraqis’
equipment had actually worked for real.
A number of data collection organisations then moved
into theatre to glean the relevant information. Rather
uncharitably, perhaps, we saw them as overly keen to get
in on the act and play desert warriors before it was all
over. This was one of the great paradoxes of the time;
the Gulf was full of people like me whose only thought
was to get out as quickly as was humanly possible,
whilst elsewhere there were scores of people who were
quite desperate to get involved.
I remember a Johnny-Come-Lately in my own Regiment
telling me how lucky he thought I was to have been there
all through the war, and me thinking how daft he was. I
would have swapped with him any time to be honest.
To come in Part 28; into Kuwait, or what was left of it. |