NOTHING quite focuses the mind like being told you have a 20 per cent chance of surviving the day.
I was about to embark on the most memorable operation of my military career, spearheading the invasion of Iraq, when a senior officer felt he had to tell me just what my troops and I were facing.
It was 2003 and the world had run out of patience with Saddam Hussein and his threat of chemical weapons.
Prime Minister Tony Blair and US President George Bush ordered the invasion.
It would be 150 brave and courageous men of “Charlie” Company, 40 Commando Royal Marines, based in Somerset, who would lead the mission.
Some 330,000 Coalition troops were now amassing along the Kuwaitiborder on ships, awaiting orders for the invasion.
40 Commando had positioned themselves on the border at Camp Commando, where we sat for five days in the worst sandstorm the region had seen for decades.
Life was simple here.
We shared the desert with scorpions, deadly snakes and camels, and it was roasting hot when the sandstorm subsided.
Our knife-edge assault was to take control of the Iraqi oil infrastructure through a Manifold and Metering Station.
This was the main point of control for the flow of oil from Iraq into the Northern Arabian Gulf.
Working alongside US Navy Seal teams, we had to transport an analyst to the MMS, where they could plug into the system and direct the flow of oil away from the Iraqis and into Coalition hands.
That would set up the success of the whole conflict.
Saddam set the oil fields on fire
It was about avoiding a repeat of the ecological disaster that had happened in the Gulf War of 1991, when Saddam set the oil fields on fire.
The only problem was that the Iraqis knew we were coming.
They were ready for us.
Their land, sea and air defences were set and I knew we were going into a do-or-die mission that would go down in history.
There is no doubt that in the hours before boarding the aircraft, it would have been easy to have been gripped by fear, particularly having been told the low chance of success.
Three large Chinook helicopters were going into the Al-Faw peninsula on Iraq’s southernmost tip and an obvious attack point.
We had 44 men on board each craft, including an analyst, because if the first one got blown out of the sky — the one I was in — then the second and third could complete the task.
The ideal situation would be for all three troops of 44 to make it through, but just in case there would be three bites at the apple.
We were determined to make sure it only required one.
As we stood together in a huddle, preparing for our mission, I pulled the lads in and told my brothers that nobody was going to be left behind in a sandy shallow grave in Iraq.
It was important to say it out loud and we all gave each other that steely look in the eye to acknowledge our pledge to each other.
I was convinced we would execute the plan laid out for us.
That pledge to each other — that nobody would be left behind — seemed to cut the tension.
As we boarded the Chinook, I didn’t see fear or apprehension in the men’s eyes, just a real focus of intent.
I was their sergeant but I didn’t share with my men that we only had a 20 per cent chance of survival.
That seemed pointless and would only have increased the chance of fear gripping the ranks.
I didn’t want the 20 per cent statistic to take hold because it would only breed anxiety, and the “white noise” of fear would only distract us from our purpose.
Our troop had bonded strongly and we knew that we had each other’s backs. No doubt about it.
We were ready to stand together, united to the end.
I would have done anything for my boys. I would have put my life on the line for any of them, and I knew that they would do the same for me.
It’s a unique and special bond with an unbreakable level of trust that is the epitome of the commando spirit — courage, sacrifice, camaraderie and selflessness.
As a senior commander on the ground, it was a privilege to lead these men into battle. I was so proud to be part of this special band of brothers.
As we took off, this signalled the start of the Iraq War.
We were privileged to be the theatre entry troops, “first on the ground” out of almost a third of a million Coalition military personnel.
With 150lb of equipment each on our backs, there was standing room only on the Chinook.
The men of “Charlie” Company flew in at low level, trying to maintain our balance as the masterful pilots swayed left and right, up and down, avoiding the dangerous low power lines.
We soon left Kuwaiti airspace, transiting over Bubiyan Island and across the Northern Arabian Gulf toward the Iraqi coast.
The greatest sense of achievement is often on the other side of your darkest fears.
There were firefights either side of us
At 4am on March 20, 2003 — 20 years ago to the day — the RAF pilots landed us in the exact spot we needed to be.
The Iraqis had expected us to come in by fast amphibious craft but we had flown over them, despite their anti-aircraft assaults — their tracer bullets lighting up the night sky.
While in the air, news came through my headset that a helicopter had crashed in a different area as part of the Marines’ entry operation.
I was saddened but couldn’t focus on that now.
We had a job to do. It would have been easy to become distracted by this bad news, wondering if you knew anyone aboard, and allowing such a tragedy to affect your thinking.
Of course, there would be time for deeper reflection and grief later on, but this was not the time for that.
A glimpse of land became visible from the open tailgate and I knew we were now over Iraq.
I kept reminding myself that the training, planning and preparation was all done.
I just had to keep focused, expect the unexpected and, above all else, look after the lads.
Having landed safely, there was a deathly silence as the helicopters flew away into the night.
We got into our defensive circle, my corporals came to me to confirm we were all ready to go.
One of them, Marty Culley, a great Marine NCO with a quirky sense of humour, decided to start singing that Bjork song It’s Oh So Quiet.
When he got to the lyrics “the sky up above”, it lit up as American A10 interceptors and B52 Spectre gunships started taking out enemy positions 100 metres either side of us.
With the Yanks backing us up, I thought our chances of survival just dropped to ten per cent.
In fairness, the US fighters had already proved themselves extremely accurate, taking out most of the Iraqi resistance around us in quick order.
It was time to go.
We had to take control of five objectives and secure the pipelines.
As we made our way into combat there were firefights either side of us, thankfully taking out any remaining enemy.
A few hours later, in heat of more than 50C, the unit had taken all its objectives and 150 prisoners without suffering a single fatality.
The oil was under the control of the Coalition forces and, for its efforts, 40 Commando Royal Marines were awarded a Battle Honour.
Later, patrolling through the town of Al-Faw, a 70-year-old local man threw himself on the floor and we could see he had the scars of torture on his body.
Dark dingy dungeons with hooks and blood
He begged us to go to the nearby police station because all five of his daughters had been taken away by Saddam’s henchmen and he believed they were there.
What was left of the Iraqi resistance had dropped their weapons and fled north.
We went in through the top of the police station and cleared it.
In the basement were four dark, dingy dungeons with hooks on the wall and blood caked on the floor.
When I was in that horrible place I could feel the presence of those poor girls.
I suspect all five of them endured the worst possible ending that anybody could imagine down there because their father had spoken out against Saddam’s regime.
Now, 20 years later, I still dream about the fate of those poor girls in that terrible place.
- © Scotty Mills. Adapted by Mike Ridley from Never Give In: 12 Commando Rules For Life, by retired Royal Marines Major Scotty Mills (Simon & Schuster), available now, £17.99.
Operation Telic
Operation Telic was one of the largest British deployments since World War II
In eight years, 179 UK troops died in Iraq and 3,589 were wounded.
46,000 troops initially deployed, including 9,500 reservists
The UK sent 19 warships, 14 Royal Fleet Auxiliary vessels, 15,000 vehicles, 115 planes and 100 helicopters to the Gulf