At an 'open day' for journalists at the British Army base in Essex, Kathy Sheridan spoke to officers and men - some of them Irish - preparing to travel to the Gulf
It's media facility day in the vast army base that is Colchester and the lads of 16 Air Assault Brigade are posturing for Britain. Some 57 media organisations have turned up at 24 hours notice in a windy field to shoot the breeze with officers and men due imminently in the Gulf, pumped to put their necks on the line for . . . what? Hard to say. Urbane and courteous as many of them are, the officers are there to push the party line and to "police" the men, gliding alongside as soon as you stop to chat. The men just want to stay out of trouble.
So when I put the "why" question a second time to Sgt Furlong, a likeable, 32-year-old Wexford man in the Royal Irish Regiment, and he repeats apologetically that "I'm a professional soldier, I live in a democracy and this democratic government wouldn't send me out to do something that's not morally correct", we look at one another ruefully.
"I don't want to sound like a robot . . . I'm a son, a father, a husband . . ." he starts to explain, upon which Major Sean Lundy (English-born, father long since left Mayo) moves in to deliver the speech. Twice. "At times like this, as professional soldiers, we have to stay focused on the job. If we didn't do that, we would be putting ourselves and the operation in danger . . ." So do they talk about it at all? Clearly. The Baptist chaplain of 3 Para has had a few more men than usual seeking his guidance since their deployment. Fortunately for the generally gung-ho paras, the Rev Cole Maynard is not afflicted by doubt: "I believe this is a just war. Saddam is a man who has systematically killed those who oppose him".
In her memoirs, the BBC war reporter, Kate Adie, described how a morning spent with several thousand American GIs based in Saudi at the onset of Gulf War 1, 10 years ago - "10 per cent women, over 30 per cent black and 100 per cent dim" - elicited the information that they hadn't a clue where they were, still less why. By contrast, she asked a bunch of British tank soldiers why they were there. "Oil," they chorused, astonished at the ignorance of the lofty BBC. "Fancy you not knowing that."
In Colchester, most soldiers grin broadly at the story. Some officers raise a knowing eyebrow. One or two, discomfited, look away. The public stance is that the army's discussion phase is over. "Of course we talked about it," says one officer. "It's dangerous for soldiers not to know where they're going and why, if only because you understand the people more and have compassion in your approach . . . You must have that knowledge and understanding to have compassion. I've just been talking to journalists who've been in Baghdad and I'm told the Iraqis are very like us [the British\]."
"Greed and religion . . . they're the two biggest problems in the world," says another quietly, drawing on impressions from tours in Kosovo and Northern Ireland. "Nearly everywhere you see problems like that, it's about perception. They still perceive a threat from something that probably happened back in their grandparents' day. But we British understand this. We don't need to barrel in there gung-ho. We haven't rushed into this."
But this is different, and they know it. This is not peacemaking or peacekeeping. This time, they are the operatives in a massive and not universally popular war machine. One NCO voices the fear that Iraq could be another Vietnam.
"Everyone is saying that Saddam will fall or crumble, but maybe he won't. Everything we do has the potential to turn into another Vietnam. Supposing we're there for four years . . . ? We should be thinking about that."
"I think personal opinion goes out the window when you sign the dotted line," says a personable officer. "You either go with the party line or you don't . . . The soldier is an obedient beast but it's all about blokes' lives at the end of the day. I can't believe that politicians would send guys to war unless they were certain in their minds that it's right."
Eventually he concedes that there are serious reservations on the part of the British public. "I think things aren't quite as clear right now to the general public as they should be . . . " he says slowly. "I think things will become clearer in the near future." What can he mean? "It's my hunch."
Behind us, a "section attack" is under way, in which dummy ammunition is being blasted into a thicket of trees for the delectation of the TV cameras. "That means eight blokes attacking two at the top there," explains a helpful solder from the 3rd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment. "No offence but would prefer not to have my name in an Irish paper . . . Five tours in Northern Ireland . . ."
The same para - we'll call him Corporal Jack - is the "Alpha" part of a Mortar Fire Controller duo (his mate, of course, is "Bravo") and has his stall laid out beside him. A featherweight tent of net and fake foliage partially conceals a thermal imager and laser binoculars on a tripod which, used in conjunction with his GPS equipment, can pinpoint a target to within a square metre. The radio is for passing the coordinates to the firing lads. Having patiently explained the technological wizardry of it all, he then whips a mundane-looking pair of rubber-covered binoculars from a breast pocket and declares, "But these are better".
To go into battle, Jack has to carry all this on his back, along with two to four days' worth of rations (boil-in-the-bag meals, chocolate, boiled sweets), water, first aid kit, notebook, maps, two kinds of compass, helmet, bayonet, SA80 rifle (modified to stop it jamming at awkward moments - "it does the job, it stops people"), grenades, ammunition. All told, they weigh the same as a 10 stone man and Jack hardly weighs much more than that.
For this operation, they also need respirator masks. These seal the head from airborne gases but make the wearer sweat like a pig. "You wear your respirator on a cold day like this, it's okay," interjects Jack's senior officer. "But try it in a 10 mile battle-march, carrying all your kit, racing to get to an objective in one hour 45 minutes. That has to be debilitating."
Does the biological/chemical threat worry them? "It's not a decent way to fight, is it?" But Jack looks sanguine enough. He is fresh from his first foray into the desert, training with the Jordanian special forces. "The culture was a lot different, mostly Muslims. The people in Jordan are excellent people, they're really friendly, lovely people," he says with genuine enthusiasm. "So all those back here who say all Muslims are suspect, it's not true."
But the Americans, now . . . well, that's something else. Many officers and men here exude disdain for them. There may be a smidgen of envy at the billions being poured into the American military, when - as one officer points out - the British army is now too small to warrant a Field Marshal (rather like ours doesn't merit a full General). But Jack says it's because of the Americans' reliance on firepower - technology, gadgetry - to do the fighting for them. "The Americans think they're God's gift to the world. We once had an empire and now we have a tiny little country. When you're that small and you need a dig-out, you can't order in a B-52 with daisy-cutter bombs. It's no good relying on technology all the time - it breaks down and it brings on complacency. Soldiering is an art; it's like being a car mechanic. You take pride in your work. You've got your kit - your rifle and your bayonet and maybe some grenades and the guys around you. When all the technology breaks down, that's what it comes down to . . . We don't need the Americans."
Back in the hospitality tent with its fresh coffee and surprisingly delicate little fairy cakes, I ask an officer what differences he perceives between the British and American armies. There's a theatrically-raised eyebrow and a suppressed laugh: "The American army's . . . eh . . . bigger," he says before fleeing to less controversial territory.