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

For Flashy at least, the debate had reached resolution: if I was on the nominal of troops to be sent to the Gulf, then clearly the UK should not be taking part in such folly. I was about to offer my two pennies’ worth on the topic, when I spotted the chap at the centre of the group and overheard a snapshot of conversation, accompanied by some emotional gesticulation.
    “Well, what can I do?” (Waving of hands and shrugging shoulders.) “We are all in zee military, non? So I must do as I am told. But zat doesn’t mean I ‘ave to agree wiz it. It’s a stupid decision, tres bete. And very frustrating for me, ziz you must understand. I would love to go, of course, I am a professionelle, juste like you.”
    By this stage I had a clear view of the individual and could see that he was sporting French uniform, which only served to beg the question of what a frog was doing in the officers’ mess of 3 Commando Brigade Headquarters. The discussion was quickly halted as said frog spotted me from across the bar and waved the group aside.
    “Anyhow, we have a guest,” he announced, waving me into the group. “I apologise monsieur, we did not mean to be so rude. You must be new here.” He outstretched a hand in greeting, which I shook, in spite of my inveterate dislike of all things French.
    I introduced myself to the Frenchman, who I could now see was a captain in the French commandos, and to the rest of the group, which consisted of a Navy doctor, OC Brigade Recce Force, an attached officer from the Royal Artillery, and an assortment of Royal Marines staff officers - the usual group of skivers and drinkers that one finds in a mess on any given weekday afternoon. Funny how quickly a headquarters changes its staff: I could remember none of them from Afghanistan less than a year earlier.
    Light was soon shed on their conversation. The French officer was on a two-year attachment to 3 Commando Brigade, and the French government had just issued an instruction that, since their troops were not to be involved in any action against Iraq, he was not to deploy with the Marines. His line, or at least the line he was taking when talking to the British, was that he was part of Brigade Headquarters and should therefore be perfectly entitled to go on operations with them. It takes one to know one, as they say, and I had delivered enough bluff and bravado in my time to have my suspicions of what his real emotions might be. I must admit feeling a fair pang of envy -the lucky swine would presumably waft his way back to Paris and spend a happy six months whoring and drinking Chablis while the rest of us were forced to slog it out in the fetid heat of the Middle East. Amongst his military peers, missing out on the deployment wouldn’t matter a farthing, since the French government had already made it plain that no French troops would be committed unless there was a fresh UN resolution which, as they held a veto on the Security Council, seemed highly improbable. Instead the opportunistic bastards would simply sit on the sidelines and wait for the shooting to finish before muscling in on the most lucrative reconstruction contracts, all shrugging shoulders and Gallic charm, no doubt. Fair weather allies, aye, and when the clouds roll in just look at ‘em run, I thought to myself.
    I invested the remainder of the afternoon in getting quietly sozzled and chatting to the assorted chaps in the room, gleaning as much information as I could about the forthcoming operations and the various characters I would need to interface with. The artillery officer was particularly useful to talk to, since he was also an attached Army rank. He had admittedly completed his Commando Course so had turned partly native but nevertheless he saw the Corps of the Royal Marines through Sandhurst-trained eyes, which was helpful, at least to me. I knew the layout of a brigade operations room well enough to know that during the deployment, nestling among all the other staff