Basra way (uh-huh, uh-huh) I like it

(Originally written 20/9/2005, in response to a news item on a riot in Iraq, where a British armoured vehicle had one or two petrol bombs thrown at it. I described it as a tank, but my pal Neil - "The Sarge" - insists it was an Armoured Personnel Carrier. He's almost certainly right, because he used to be in command of a tank, and I daresay he knows his armoured vehicles. The word "tank" was funnier, though, so “tank” it remains. The chap leaving the vehicle, the attack on the police officer and the prison break really happened. Gunner Pratt is fictional.)

Let me just check that I've got this right...

In the most peaceful city in Iraq (measured, of course, by revolutions per minute), a British tank comes under attack from a mob armed with petrol bombs. Despite tanks being constructed to certain standards ("Withstands bullets, small shells, having large objects dropped on it and burning petrol. Really, we're not kidding about the petrol thing." - Challenger owners manual.) at least one member of the crew reckons he'll be safer making a few points face to face with aforementioned mob and bloody GETS OUT. Mmm, wouldn't you like to be there at the debrief? "Gunner Pratt, you are charged with abandoning your equipment, namely, one tank, and acting the bleedin' idiot. How do you plead?" "Well, sir, I -" "SILENCE when you speak to an officer!" "Sorry, sergeant."

At or near the same time, two "plainclothed" troops decide to take a shot or two at an Iraqi police officer, possibly on the basis that every other group in Iraq are shooting at police officers and not to do so might blow their cover. "Hello, that grubby native just passed a copper without attempting to separate him from his breath. You reckon he's CIA?" "Nah, SAS. The CIA bloke is over there, in the Calvin Klein dish-dash with the curly cable coming out of his ear."

Given that Iraqi police officers are notoriously jumpy even on a good day, let alone when there's a burning tank down the street with a tank commander yelling "Come back, Claude, what am I supposed to tell the Sergeant Major? Claude, STOP asking if anyone has a fire extinguisher in their car!", a mob yelling a variety of slogans on the "Death to the tyrant!"/"Hooray for the tyrant" theme, someone selling Socialist Worker (there's always someone selling Socialist Worker) and the owner of the Texaco garage three doors down is hanging off his sleeve and asking how much he can charge for a bottle of petrol, because the pumps don't recognise less than a litre, and the mob came with empty 330 ml Coke bottles... it's not entirely surprising that arrests took place.

Am I OK so far? Good. So, a singed tank, Claude nowhere to be seen, and two soldiers, complete with their plain clothes, in chokey. Enter a British armoured vehicle. Through the wall of the top Basra lock-up. Pausing only to collect our lads, the armoured car exits. 150 Iraqi criminals immediately devise an exit plan and leg it. Once the Governor of Basra has been calmed down, he releases a statement calling the jailbreak "a barbaric act of aggression", which is a sight better than the first draft which called into question the parentage of Tony Blair, the Queen, Winston Churchill, Bobby Moore, PG Wodehouse and every other British cultural icon he can think of, including Edd the Duck.

Right... if my summing up of the situation is correct, may I ask one question?

WHO THE HELL ARE WE SUPPOSED TO BE FIGHTING?

I used to think that I'd quite like the job of Foreign Secretary, after all, it's mostly indoors, no heavy lifting, generous travel allowance, plenty of duty free fags, a slap-up feed from time to time... Well, here’s notice that I no longer want the job. I mean, I don't fancy talking to a grim-faced Iraqi Ambassador bearing a rolled-up copy of the latest attempt at a Constitution in one hand and a tube of lubricant in the other. Nor do I like the idea of dealing with a phone call from the Commissioner of Police (Basra Division) who wants to talk about the reconstruction of Iraq, specifically the reconstruction of his wall, through which "Fingers" Al-Haroun has just slipped. All that, plus Claude's parents are on the other line, desperate for news of their son, and the last known intelligence suggests that he's sold his equipment, his uniform and his passport for a half-share in a kebab stall in downtown Fallujah.

You know what? I think I'd prefer to be on patrol in Tikrit, at night, alone, with a busted radio, wearing a luminous uniform and a neon badge that flashes "I am Donald Rumsfeld, and we own you."

Babba - wondering how many people in the Middle East, Europe and the US went to sleep tonight only to wake up as terrorists tomorrow.