If we let him go, who could he tell, what harm could he do? He had no transport, and as far as Mark could make out he was on his own. It was about 1600 hours now, and it would soon be last light. Even if he raised the alarm, by the time there was any reaction it would be dark and we’d be legging it towards the border. We might as well let him go. It was the SAS we were in, not the SS.

We made up our minds that when he decided to go, we’d watch him, wait until he got out of sight, then we’d put in a deception plan south.

Five minutes later he was giving his goodbyes, and off he shuffled with the goats, not a care in the world. We let him go for about a half mile until he disappeared into some dead ground, then we moved off. We went south for a few miles, then turned west.

We came into a small depression and stopped to take stock. There were several factors to discuss. First was our water supply. We had enough food to last us another couple of days, but we were almost out of water. Second, we had to assume that the enemy knew where our last LUP was from the night before, so they knew our direction of travel. Third, we’d had another compromise-I was already thinking that we should have kept him with us until last light before letting him go. We were still in bad physical shape, and the weather would get very bad up on the high ground. We had nearly died the night before, and I didn’t want to take another chance. We had lost a night’s march and didn’t want to lose another. All in all, the situation was not very good, and we probably hadn’t done ourselves any favors by letting the old boy go. But what was done was done.

We went through the options that we had left to us as a patrol. One, to keep west, hoping to find water on the way: the chances were good on the high ground due to the snow and ice. Two, to head north to the river and then head west, but we were a large number and concealment would be a problem because the closer we got to the border, the more habitation there was going to be. Three, to hijack a vehicle and drive for the border that night. It was 1715 and starting to get dark. Given the amount of enemy activity and our physical condition, we decided to go for the vehicle hijack, any time after last light. The sooner the better.

We were going to have some major drama tonight, one way or another. Before moving down towards the road we carried out a weapon check. One man at a time, we pulled the working parts out, slapped on some oil, and made sure everything was ready.

I scanned the road through my binos. We wanted to have an area where we could come out and be more or less straight on top of them, so they couldn’t see us coming. I spotted a small mound on a patch of high ground that would do the trick.

The plan was that Bob would play the cripple, leaning on my shoulder, and I’d wave down a good Samaritan. To make us look even more harmless we’d leave our weapons and webbing with the others. They would come out, do the hijack, and away we’d go. We’d been looking at nothing but lorries and Land Cruisers for six hours. Depending on the type of vehicle, we could go cross-country-heading south until we hit the pylons and then following them west-or take our chances on the road.

The road was half an hour’s tab away. We got to the highish ground just on last light. Legs found a purpose-made ditch in the area to the right of the road, and we all piled in. We had a good view to the southeast because the road was long and straight for a number of miles and we were on high ground looking down. To the northwest, however, there was a small crest about 900 feet down the road. We wouldn’t have much time in which to react if the vehicle came from that direction. Bob and I would try to stop it right opposite the ditch so the lads could just jump up and give them the good news.

We sat there with the binos out, looking to the east. Two trucks moved along the road and then went off in the general direction of our last LUP. Because of the low light I couldn’t see whether people were getting out, but there appeared to be general activity on both sides of the road. They were obviously looking for something, and I took it to be us. After a while the vehicles came back onto the road and started to move towards us.

Fuck! Was this the follow-up from the night before? Either we were lucky that we had moved, or unlucky that we hadn’t held the old boy and had let him go and bubble. But he had gone in totally the opposite direction to the one these troops were coming from. It didn’t make sense.

We watched the lights coming nearer, and then we could hear the engine grinding up the hill. We got our heads down, just hoping that the elevation of the trucks would not give any blokes in the back the chance to see down into the dip.

We waited. As soon as we heard the trucks stop opposite us, we’d be up and firing. We had nothing to lose.

They drove straight past. Big grins all round.

Bob and I moved up onto the road and sat watching in both directions. After about twenty minutes, vehicle lights came over the small crest and drove towards us. Satisfied that it was not a troop truck, we stood up. The vehicle caught us in its headlights and slowed down to a halt about 10 feet down the road. I kept my head down to protect my eyes and to hide my face from the driver. Bob and I hobbled towards it.

“Oh shit,” I muttered into Bob’s ear.

Of all the vehicles in Iraq that could have come our way that night, the one we had chosen to hijack and speed us to our freedom was a 1950s New York yellow cab. I couldn’t believe it. Chrome bumpers, whitewall tires, the lot.

We were committed. Bob was in my arms giving it the wounded soldier.

The blokes were straight up from the ditch.

“What the fuck have we got here?” Mark shouted in disbelief. “This is the story of our lives, this is! Why can’t it be a fucking Land Cruiser?”

The driver panicked and stalled the engine. He and the two passengers in the back sat staring openmouthed at the muzzles of Minimis and 203s.

The cab was an old rust bucket with typical Arab decoration-tassels and gaudy religious emblems dangling from every available point. A couple of old blankets were thrown over as seat covers. The driver was beside himself with hysteria. The two men on the backseat were a picture, both dressed in neatly pressed green militia fatigues and berets, with little weekend bags on their laps. As the younger of the two explained that they were father and son, we had a quick rummage through their effects to see if there was anything worth having.

We had to move quickly because we couldn’t guarantee that there wouldn’t be other vehicles coming over. We tried to shepherd them to the side of the road, but the father was on his knees. He thought he was going to get slotted.

“Christian! Christian!” he screamed as he scrabbled in his pocket and pulled out a keyring with the Madonna dangling from it. “Muslim!” he said, pointing at the taxi driver and trying to drop him in it.

Now the driver sank to his knees, bowing and praying. We had to prod him with rifle barrels to get him to move.

“Cigarettes?” Dinger enquired.

The son obliged with a couple of packs.

The father got up and started kissing Mark, apparently thanking him for not killing him. The driver kept praying and hollering. It was a farce.

“What’s his problem?” I said.

“This car is his occupation,” the son said in good English. “He has to feed his children.”

Bob came storming over and said, “I’ve fucking had enough of this.” Sticking the end of his bayonet up one of the driver’s nostrils, he walked him over to the ditch.

We left them all there. We had no time to tie them up; we just wanted to get going. We needed to put in some miles.

“I’ll drive,” I said. “I saw Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver.”

It was an old column gearshift, and I couldn’t work it. To the accompaniment of jeers and much slagging, I did a six-point turn to get us facing west, and off we lurched. Legs was in the front to do the compass bearings; the other three were crammed into the back. The way our luck had been going I fully expected the compass to pack in and the next sign we saw to be “Baghdad Welcomes Safe Drivers.”