Regards, Ivan
Posted on 03/16/2003 5:58:53 PM PST by MadIvan
THE moon lights up the desert for miles around, as the Warrior pitches forward into a deep trough in the sand throwing those inside out of their seats.
Then it rises again, the nose of the armoured car pointing towards the stars, and crests the ridge, plunging on across the sand.
"Smudge," says a disembodied voice from the back, addressing the driver, "you owe me one for that, that hurt."
Even with the help of the moon, a clear sky and the benefit of night sights, it is not always possible to predict the vagaries of the sand formations, the unexpected berms - small dunes which seem to appear from nowhere, like giant sleeping policemen - or the soft sand that sends the engine into overdrive, the vibration shuddering through those pressed tightly into the space inside.
But in a couple of nights time, the moon will be full, and visibility will be at its best, enhanced by the night sights which amplify whatever light source they pick up, turning night into green-tinged day.
A bombers’ moon, they call it, and many of those with the British battle group camped out in the sand 25km from the Iraqi border believe that within a couple of nights the skies that are now so clear will be filled with US and British jets, hurtling towards targets at the other side of the border. If that happens, they will be followed by wave upon wave of tanks and other armoured vehicles, racing across the desert past the Kuwaiti oil fields and on over the border into Iraq.
With war imminent, tonight they are honing their skills, ensuring that they can find their way to whatever targets they are given to attack and take.
In the turret, commanding the armoured personnel carrier, is Lance Sergeant Mark Cole, of the Scots Guards, attached to 7 Platoon, B Company of the Black Watch. He stands up on his seat, head and shoulders above the open hatch, guiding the vehicle across the barren landscape as surely as if he were following road signs.
In front of him is the unfortunate Smudge, driver Paul Smith, and behind him a space for seven rather bruised infantry soldiers.
Tight and uncomfortable, the smell of diesel fumes and engine oil mingle in the warm air inside the turret and the body of the Warrior.
The interior, lit by a dim red glow, is packed with dials, switches, gun sights, radio equipment and shells for the 30mm cannon mounted in the turret.
The seat beside the vehicle commander is reserved for the gunner, who loads and fires the cannon or the chain-fed machine gun.
They clamber on board over the front of the Warrior, taking care not to use the gun barrel as a support to avoid knocking its sights out of balance.
Helmets and flak jackets protect them from the rigours of the ride and sand goggles keep out the dust picked up by the wind and thrown out by the tracks of vehicles in front.
The Warrior accelerates, it takes the roughness of the terrain in its stride, its twin tracks ironing minor obstacles as it rolls forward.
Ten foot up in the air in the turret, the 20kph at which it is travelling to avoid kicking up too much dust and blinding other vehicles, or drawing attention to itself seems fast, but it can go much quicker, its 17-litre engine propelling it across the desert at 40kph under normal conditions.
Initially, on firm ground, the ride seems smooth but as it moves away from the camp in the area of Kuwaiti desert where Britain’s 1st Armoured Division has made its home, the vibrations begin to shake the vehicle.
In the driver’s seat Smudge is using his night sight to pick a way across the sand, taking his instruction from Mark, whose task is to use a global positioning satellite device to navigate his way from checkpoint to checkpoint across an area of sand with no discernible landmarks in sight.
They hit the first checkpoint spot on and swing right towards the next.
On the horizon, the lights of the Kuwaiti oil fields are burning brightly, and beyond them is Iraq. Smudge uses the lights as a marker to navigate by, as Mark keeps up a constant stream of directions - right hand down, left hand down, on (straight ahead) - to guide them in.
But what started as a gentle ride across the desert is becoming less comfortable by the moment.
The turret is cramped and legs are forced into awkward positions as the body is tossed from side to side by the rolling of the vehicle.
Dust and diesel fumes blow back into the eyes, hot and stinging, forcing those exposed to them to reach for their goggles for protection.
The vibrations as the Warrior lurches across the soft sand are so strong they make the teeth chatter and the body shake.
Suddenly, the nose of the vehicle drops away and it crashes down into the hollow between two small dunes, jarring every bone in the bodies of those inside.
It tilts alarmingly, lurches sideways and then steadies itself, pitching up again and then back down.
Mark is apologetic: "You can see how difficult it is to judge the terrain, even with the night sights, but at least it keeps everyone awake."
For the hapless Smudge, there is a mild rebuke: "Steady, you know those berm lines are there."
Those in the back, hot, crowded and unable to see what the others can see, are in an unenviable position. Bumped and jolted around, they know that at any moment the Warrior could stop and over the radio will come the orders to jump out of the back and engage in enemy they have not seen and whose strengths they do not know.
Tonight, a few bumps and bruises aside, the exercise has been a success and the 25km circuit is completed without further incident.
But unless there is a diplomatic miracle, they will travel the same distance again very soon, only this time it will take them across the border, and on into Iraq and war.
Regards, Ivan
IMO i think some of us will be spending saint patty's day watching the news and waiting to see if tonight is the night,and of course the betting pool is gonna have its result too
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