Let me take you back to Basra Palace in 2004. Tucked away in the corner of the huge compound was Brookside Close. Like its Merseyside inspiration, it was a suburban street, lined with six-bedroom houses and drives for suitably large cars. Prior to our arrival, Brookside Close might have been occupied by Saddam’s local secret organisations. Now, you would hear of Friday night parties in one of these swimming pools, along with whispers of skinny-dipping. The houses were now occupied by our more exclusive military and civilian elements. One night, some soldiers from the unit I commanded were invited to a party in Brookside Close by a kindly spook. The house belonged to the ‘Blades’, the ‘Boys’, ‘Hereford’: perhaps better known to you and me as the sas.
We believe these men to be super-soldiers. They are not like you and me, having passed ‘selection’ and being able to munch girders and slaughter enemies while opining on lacunae in Kant’s moral reasoning. Either that, or they are infantry soldiers with an unusual level of physical stamina sufficient to carry them up and down the Brecon Beacons in short order, combined with military skills deemed adequate to be part of the ‘Regiment’. It is true that they’ve a bit more above the neck than your averagely intelligent soldier. Make of that what you will.
But back to Basra: the party was not wild and I was not aware of any skinny-dipping. Though for one 19-year-old infantryman on his first tour this was an eye-opener. A lot of people were drinking; some were drunk. He stuck to his permitted two cans of beer and left at 11pm as instructed. We had a patrol to do the next morning. On his way out of the house, he was tripped up. ‘Sorry, Sir,’ he said to the sas man on the doorstep whose boot he had – apparently – inadvertently caught.
‘What the fuck are you doing in this house, craphat! I’ll fuck you up!’ said the ‘Blade’.
The British Army loves its badges: the narcissism of small differences. They guard their sanctity with a combination of abuse and in-group language. My soldier, while part of an excellent regiment, was not in possession of an elite badge and beret. He was therefore a ‘craphat’.
‘You’ve no fucking right to be here, craphat. I’ll ask you again, what the fuck are you doing here?’
As the courtroom evidence might have put it, my soldier realised that the man was very drunk. He was also armed with a pistol.
The American military bans drinking in operational theatres for obvious reasons. And we are strict about our two-can-a-week limit. The possible consequences of being in possession of a firearm while intoxicated suggest why these rules are taken seriously. For those not members of the sas, being caught pissed with a gun in an operational theatre would generally result in being sent home, with terminal consequences for further promotion. At this point, my soldier’s immediate superior – a corporal – stepped in, mollified the drunk sas man and the two quickly went on their way.
