When McLeod awoke that dawn, the weather had changed dramatically. Instead of the bone-chilling cold of the night, with the kind of visibility that made you believe you could see to the end of the world, the dawn was muggy and the desert was covered by a thick yellow haze that reminded the Scot of the sea frets of his Scottish youth. He frowned. It was not the kind of weather that he had expected. Nor was it something that he welcomed.
In fog, his armoured cars were particularly vulnerable to marauding Iraqis. With visibility down to a few yards, they could easily approach an unwary armoured car crew and put them out of action with a grenade thrown into the open turret, or a volley fired at close range into a vehicle's tyres, and by immobilising it, make the stalled armoured car easy meat for the attackers.
Still McLeod knew he had to carry on with his vital mission. The Huns had to be found before they could link up with the Iraqi army besieging the base. With a bit of luck, Jeeves' makeshift aerial strike force might be able to scupper them before that. All the same, he warned his crews, busy shaving and swallowing a hearty breakfast of the usual Canadian tinned bacon, beans and, of course, a mug of their celebrated 'Sarnt-Major's char': a thick rich brew, made even richer by the addition of a precious tin of Carnation milk.
"Keep the hatches battened down at all times till the fog lifts. I know it's going to be hot in the tin cans," he lectured his men, "but it's better being hot than dead. And above all, keep your eyes peeled at all times. If you see any wandering Iraqis, don't bother to challenge, fire at the buggers straight away before they can get close to your vehicle. If you don't – " he attempted a smile, though he had never felt less like smiling – "they might well give you a nasty kick in the arse. All right," he concluded, "five more minutes and we're on our way – and those of you who want to take a shovel for a walk – " he meant those who had to evacuate their bowels, covering up the faeces with a shovel – "don't go out of sight of the vehicles. Okay, get to it."
McLeod' s words had their effect. Now the armoured car crews went about their duties with understandable nervousness, occasionally glancing over their shoulders when they 'took their shovels for a walk', as if they half expected they were being followed by a bunch of murderous Iraqi cut-throats.
An hour later, crawling along at a snail-like ten miles an hour, they were still fighting the yellow fog, and there was no sign of the usual burning sun, which would have dispersed it in a matter of minutes. Now everyone was on edge, the drivers and gunners peering through their slits for the first sign of the enemy, ready for action at a moment's notice. McLeod, the old Iraqi hand, shared their nervous apprehension. For he knew just how vulnerable they were crawling along at this slow pace, shrouded in fog, which could cut them off from one another in a matter of moments, as it drifted across the desert. At the same time, however, he was on the lookout for the first sign of these elusive Huns who were supposed to be out in the desert somewhere or other and trying to make the link-up with the Iraqi forces besieging the base.
Another hour passed with leaden feet. Still the fog had not lifted. Indeed, a worried McLeod felt it had even thickened, as they now entered a series of low hills where the fog lingered in the hollows, coating the sides of their obsolete vehicles with damp condensation, as if they were in the Highlands of his native country on some grey November day. Now, because of the terrain and the fog, they were forced into passing through the little passes in single file, the drivers of the vehicles barely able to see the outline of the armoured car in front.
McLeod felt his sense of unease growing. This was ideal ambush country. A bold attack by a handful of determined men might well be able to halt the whole strung-out convoy with disastrous results. He started to study the country about and ahead with ever more intense concentration, feeling the damp beads of sweat trickle down the small of his back unpleasantly. More than once he broke the command vehicle's radio silence with, "Now don't forget, you men, keep those turrets closed, and you gunners, watch both flanks. Clear?"
But the men needed no urging. All of them knew only too well what Iraqis did to British troops taken prisoner. They died – but slowly and very painfully. As they often warned newcomers to the armoured-car section, who hadn't 'got their knees brown' yet, "Save the last bullet for yersen, mate. It's better to die clean like that than have the Arabs working yer over with their frigging knives. Frigging soprano, after they've finished with yer waterworks." And they would give a dramatic shudder to illustrate their point.
Time dragged. The series of passes through the fog-bound hills seemed endless. McLeod, not an imaginative man usually, felt his nerves begin to tick nervously. Somehow, he couldn't explain exactly why, he started to see shadows reflected through the fog, wavering from one extreme to the other, becoming large and menacing and then diminishing into almost nothing. Above the whine of the car's Rolls Royce engine, he imagined he heard other noises. What they were, he couldn't define. All he knew was that they were frightening, intended him no good. For a few moments he longed to order his driver to go faster, put his foot down and hasten their departure from the passes. But he knew that would upset the others following him, perhaps even cut him off from the other cars. He contained himself and let the driver continue at his snail-like pace.
Then it happened. They had just turned a bend in the pass, with the vehicle in front already round the next curve and the one behind not yet in sight, when his driver cursed – "Bloody hell!" – and hit the brakes hard. McLeod, startled, nerves jangling, caught a glimpse of a slither of rocks to their front coming down in a mini-avalanche. Next moment the armoured car shuddered to a stop and he heard the sound of boots landing on the steel deck. "Stand fast," he gasped, as almost immediately someone began trying to prise the turret hatch open. Other boots ran to the front of the stalled armoured car, while the startled driver frantically tried to start it once again, as someone was attempting to get to the muzzle of their two-pounder cannon.
Shocked as he was, McLeod reacted correctly. "Gunner," he yelled over the intercom. "Swing the turret round. Don't let him get at the muzzle... Car Three," he called to the other car following him round the bend. "Watch yer step. Open fire at anyone on the deck of my vehicle. Fire!"
For a few minutes, everything became a crazy chaos. Desperately their unseen assailants tried to break into the armoured car, while the driver, eyes popping with fear, cursed mightily as he attempted to start up once more, and the first burst of tracer from the follow-up car pattered along the rear of the armoured car like heavy tropical rain on a tin roof. A scream of mortal agony. A heavy thud as one of their attackers slammed to the ground. But suddenly the machine gun stuttered to a stop. McLeod cursed. He knew instinctively what had happened. The gun had jammed. Their ancient equipment, bought years before by a parsimonious British government, had failed them yet again.
The sudden respite encouraged their unseen attackers. Now he could hear their yells and cries as they emerged again from their hiding places in the rocks and assaulted the trapped vehicle once more. This time, however, they tried a new tack. Liquid sloshed against the sides of the stalled armoured car. Suddenly the interior was filled with a cloying smell. "Jesus wept!" the gunner cried. "Petrol!"
McLeod's heart sank. He knew instinctively what they were in for. Next moment it happened. A bottle shattered against the side of the armoured car. It would be a home-made Molotov cocktail, being used as igniter. An instant later, it burst into flames with a great whoosh. Almost at once, the steel plates of the car's interior started to glow a dull purple. The temperature soared. In a flash they were sweating like pigs, their shirts black with perspiration. "They're gonna burn us alive!" the driver shrieked.
"Shut up!" McLeod bellowed. "Keep control of yourself, man... Gunner, fire smoke."
"Smoke, sir?"
"Get on with it, man, we're going out of the escape hatch. Move now!"
The driver and the gunner moved. Both started firing the smoke dischargers fixed to both sides of the burning turret. The cartridges sailed into the air, fell once more and exploded with a slight plop, discharging a cloud of thick black smoke almost immediately.
McLeod waited no longer. Drawing his revolver and leaving it to dangle at his waist by its cord, he dropped to the floor of the armoured car, its steel plates now very hot to the touch. He thanked God that this particular car had been modified just on the outbreak of war, when it had received a new Rolls Royce engine and transmission. At the same time, the mechanics had fitted a tank-type escape hatch on the bottom of the vehicle. Now that hatch was going to be the only means of escape from this death trap. Feverishly, feeling all thumbs, McLeod worked on the big screw which kept the hatch in place. Inside the car, the heat was tremendous now, and he could hear their assailant, coughing and spluttering in the sudden smokescreen, sloshing more petrol on the car's hull to keep the fire blazing. McLeod cursed. The plate was proving damned stubborn. Poor maintenance, he told himself angrily, praying at the same time that the smokescreen would last long enough to cover them as they emerged from the car.
Then the last screw gave. He waited no longer. "Come on, lads!" he cried above the crackle of the flames outside. "Bale out... gildy!" They needed no urging. Panicked and streaming with sweat, they pushed by the kneeling McLeod, who felt like some ship's skipper, only ready to abandon ship himself when all his crew had already done so. One by one, they slipped through the hole, fell to the ground and wiggled their way under the burning armoured car. Now it was McLeod's turn. He was much older than his crew, and now he felt his years as he twisted and forced his body awkwardly through the escape hatch. With a gasp, he dropped to the ground, one hand seeking the dangling pistol, for already he could hear the snap and crack of small-arms fire, which might mean his escapees were running into trouble.
He crawled forward, mind racing furiously. He guessed that his crew would have headed round the bend, where the other armoured car was positioned. It would be the obvious thing for them to do. He guessed, too, that the Iraqi assailants would be waiting for anyone else coming from underneath the burning car and heading in the same direction. What was he to do?
He hesitated a mere second. It was too hot to stay underneath the car much longer. Already there was the stink of burning oil from the transmission. It would be only seconds before the engine went up. Now, McLeod realised, it was a matter of timing. If he could wriggle free in that same moment when the armoured car went up and the attackers would reel back, he might well just do it. He started to count off the seconds. "One... two... three..." Next moment he was pulling himself out between the rear wheels, revolver in his hand, firing as he did so.
An Iraqi standing there, axe at the ready to slice off his head, went reeling, clutching his shattered chest. Another appeared from the smoke. McLeod fired without aiming. He went down too, blood jetting in a bright red arc from his left shoulder, weapon dropping from suddenly nerveless fingers. Then McLeod was on his feet, as the car exploded, and was pelting for the shelter of the rocks, from which the Iraqis had originally attacked. Next moment he was stumbling and slipping down the steep hillside beyond, to land in a battered, bruised fall at its base, all alone, with not an Iraqi, or anyone else for that matter, in sight.