I did a quick appreciation. We could either tab 200 miles south to Saudi, head north towards Turkey, which meant crossing the Euphrates, or go just 100 miles west to Syria. There were infantry and armor in the immediate area. We were compromised and they were looking for us. They would naturally think that we were heading south towards Saudi. Even if we could make the heli RV, there was a chance of us being followed-and that could mean enemy activity in the area while the Chinook came in.

I decided that we had no choice but to head for Syria. We would initially move south as part of the deception plan, because that was the presumed way to go; then we’d head west to box around the area, and finally turn generally northwest. We would try to be on the other side of the MSR before first light because this would probably be the psychological perimeter of their search south. Then we could start heading for the border.

“Is everybody ready?” I said.

We started south in a single file. Vehicles were zooming backwards and forwards around us about a quarter of a mile away. We’d only gone a few hundred meters when one of them, a Land Cruiser, headed straight at us, its headlights blazing. We hit the ground, but we were out in the open. We turned our faces away to prevent the reflection and to save our night vision. The vehicle was 650 feet away and closing. If it came any nearer, we would be seen. I braced myself for another major drama. There was a shout. I flicked my head up and saw another vehicle flashing its lights about 1000 feet to our left. The Land Cruiser changed direction and sped off towards it.

We carried on at a brisk pace. Several times we had to stop and get down as vehicles came near. It was annoying: not only did we want to get out of the area quickly, but we also needed to keep going to keep warm. We only had smocks on over our shirts because we didn’t want to sweat too much, and the temperature seemed to be dropping all the time now.

I was severely pissed off about AWACS not responding to our signal, and the thought of having to cover more than 100 miles to get to Syria didn’t do much to lift my spirits.

After what seemed like a lifetime of tabbing, we looked back and saw that the headlight activity was focused in the distance. We were out of the immediate danger area, with a bit of cover from a dip in the ground. If we wanted to try TACBE again, it would have to be on this southern leg. Bob and Dinger immediately moved back onto the lip of the depression with their Minimis to cover the rear in case we had been followed. Everybody else was down in all-round defense. I got on my TACBE again, to no avail.

Everybody with a TACBE had a go. It was unbelievable that all four radios were playing up, but that seemed to be what was happening.

Mark made a nav check with the Magellan and worked out that we’d tabbed 15 miles. We’d covered it so quickly that with luck the Iraqis wouldn’t believe it possible and would have been thrown off the scent.

“We’ll head west now to get well clear of the area,” I said. “Then we’ll start heading north to get over the MSR before first light.”

All I heard was abuse directed at the manufacturers of TACBE. We would not use it again now unless we got a fast jet flying over. We didn’t know whether the Iraqis had aircraft up or not, but we’d just have to take the chance. We were in the shit, and freezing cold shit it was, too.

We got Dinger and Bob back in, gave them the good news, and off we tabbed. We’d only stopped for a minute or two, but it was good to get moving again. It was bitterly cold, and a strong wind blasted the chill deep into our bones. There was dense cloud cover, and we were in pitch darkness. We couldn’t see our footing correctly. The only plus was that at least it made it a lot harder for them to find us. There was still the odd vehicle, but in the far distance. We had left them well behind. I was almost feeling confident.

We pushed west for 10 miles, moving fast on a bearing. The ground was so flat that we’d be warned well in advance of any Iraqi presence. It was a balance between speed and observation.

We stopped every hour to rest for five minutes, which is the patrolling SOP. If you go on and on, all you do is run yourself down, and you’ll end up not being able to achieve what you set out to do. So you stop, get down, get some rest, drink some water, sort yourself out, get yourself comfy again, and off you go. It was freezing cold, and I shivered uncontrollably when we stopped.

We had one of our five-minute rests at the 10 miles mark and did a Magellan check. I made the decision that because of the time factor, we’d have to turn north now to get over the MSR before first light.

“Let’s just get over that road,” I said, “then we can go northwest to Syria.”

We’d gone about another 6 miles when I noticed gaps appearing in the line. We were definitely moving more slowly than we had in the beginning. There was a problem. I stopped the patrol, and everybody closed up.

Vince was limping.

“You all right, mate?” I said.

“Yeah, I hurt my leg on the way out in that contact, and it’s really fucking starting to give me gyp.”

The whole aim of the game was to get everybody over the border. Vince clearly had an injury. We’d have to do all our planning and considerations around the fact that he was in trouble. None of this “No, it’s Okay, skipper, I can go on” bollocks, because if you try to play the he-man and don’t inform people of your injuries, you’re endangering the whole patrol. If they’re not aware of your problem, they can’t adjust the plan or cater for future eventualities. If you make sure people know that you’re injured, they can plan around it.

“What’s the injury like?” Dinger said.

“It just fucking hurts. I don’t think it’s fractured. It’s not bleeding or anything, but it’s swollen. It’s going to slow me down.”

“Right, we’ll stop here and sort ourselves out,” I said.

I pulled my woolen bobble hat from my smock and put it on my head. I watched Vince massage his leg. He was clearly annoyed with himself for sustaining an injury.

“Stan’s in shit state,” Bob said to me.

Dinger and Mark had been helping him along. They laid him down on the ground. He was in a bad way. He knew it, and he was pissed off about it.

“What the hell’s the matter?” I said, sticking my hat on his head.

“I’m on my chin strap mate. I’m just dying here.”

Chris was the most experienced medic on the patrol. He examined Stan, and it was obvious to him that he was dangerously dehydrated.

“We’ve got to get some rehydrate down him, and quick.”

Chris ripped open two sachets of electrolyte from Stan’s belt kit and tipped them into his water bottle. Stan took several big gulps.

“Look, Stan,” I said, “you realize that we’ve got to go on?”

“Yeah, I know that. Just give us a minute. Let’s get some more of this shit down my neck, and I’ll sort myself out. It’s this fucking Helly Hansen underwear. I was sleeping with it on when we got compromised.”

Dehydration is no respecter of climates. You can become dehydrated in the depths of an Arctic winter just the same as in the middle of the day in the Sahara.

Physical exertion produces sweat, even in the cold. And the vapor clouds we see when we exhale are yet more precious moisture leaking from our bodies. Thirst is an unreliable indicator of dehydration. The problem is that just a few sips of liquid might quench your thirst without improving your internal water deficit. Or you might not even notice your thirst because there is too much else going on that needs your attention. After losing 5 percent of your body weight through dehydration, you will be struck by waves of nausea. If you vomit, you’ll lose even more precious fluid. Your movements will slow down dramatically, your speech will slur, and you’ll become unable to walk. Dehydration to this degree can be fatal. Stan had been wearing his thermals ever since we left the LUP. He must have lost pints of sweat.