Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq Read Online Free Page A

first-class compartment and watched England’s rather soggy and not-so-pleasant landscape pass by the window until we reached Exeter St David’s, where I had to change trains. Again I had a few minutes to kill and, asides from pestering La Woodstock with yet more lurid messages, I amused myself by counting the number of Royal Marines recruits I could spot on the station. (1) Eventually the Plymouth train rolled in and with a heavy heart and a strong sense of deja vu I clambered aboard. Less than an hour later and the feeling was stronger than ever, as I shuffled out to the taxi rank in front of Plymouth station, feeling the cold coastal drizzle dampening my cheeks and hearing the cabby’s west country burr as he asked where I was going.
    “Stonehouse, if you please,” I answered.
    “I thought you must be goin’ there,” he responded. “I seen ‘em bags of yours and I thought aye aye, that’ll be another arrival destined for the desert. There’s been plenty of ‘em during Christmas Leave, I don’t mind tellin’ you.” Well at least I won’t be the only Johnny-come-lately in the mess, I thought to myself, a few more new arrivals to keep me company will be no bad thing.
    Stonehouse Barracks was exactly as I remembered it: a beautiful Victorian stone quadrangle with offices and accommodation mixed higgledy piggledy on all sides, and the entrance to the officers’ mess nestling in a far corner. The setting would have had more impact if the centre of the quad had not been used as a regimental car park, but even with the addition of a hundred or so cars it was a very picturesque scene. Plymouth was hardly somewhere I would ever wish to be based but I couldn’t help thinking quietly to myself that such a glorious headquarters was somewhat wasted on the Marines, most of whom would have been just as happy in prefabricated squalor dating from the 1970s - as indeed was proven by the living quarters of 42 Commando, just a few short miles down the road. (2) I showed my ID card briefly to the young chap manning the main gate and loped across the courtyard to the mess, where the porter relieved me of my bag (but left me wrestling with the bergen) and showed me to my room (or cabin, as the Marines insist on calling them, in a transparent attempt to remind the rest of the world that they are part of the Senior Service), a pokey little hovel on the ground floor, complete with creaking pipes and peeling paint. Still, it would do for a couple of nights and would no doubt seem the height of luxury compared to whatever deprivations lay ahead. I unpacked the few personal items I had brought with me in a futile attempt to make the room a little more homely. Its saving grace was a proximity to the bar, where I had every intention of spending as much of the ensuing 48 hours as possible. Many of life’s little luxuries would probably be lacking in Kuwait and the absence of alcohol was a racing certainty. In addition to a carefully secreted bottle or two in my bags, I planned to smuggle as much out in my bloodstream as humanly possible. Having hung up my kit and partially emptied my bags there seemed little point in loitering around my bedroom, so I made my way through to the lounge to see whether there was anyone else on-board.
    As it turned out there were numerous officers of assorted cap badges adorning the bar. A heated debate was taking place and I had difficulty making out what the discussion was about, so I ordered myself a beer and shuffled closer to the group. At first I mistakenly thought the conversation was about whether Britain should be sending troops to the Gulf at all. The UK as a whole was divided by the issue and these debates were taking place in messes and clubs up and down the country. The hawks were determined to sock it to Saddam while the doves reasoned that the UN should be given more time to deal with him and anyway, what was the rush to invade when we couldn’t properly quantify the threat that Iraq posed.