109: Chapter 106 The City of Basra

February 20, 1981, 12:00 PM, the southern suburbs of Basra.

Rajai's 2nd Division had arrived at the outskirts of Basra.

He stood on a captured Iraqi armored vehicle, looking at the city ahead through binoculars. The silhouette of Basra was clearly visible under the midday sun—low-rise residential areas, towering mosque minarets, harbor cranes, and the winding trenches outside the city.

"What are the Iraqis doing?" Rajai asked the scout beside him.

"They are moving troops. They've moved at least two battalions from the north of the city to the south and are reinforcing the defense line."

"How soon?"

"We estimate the deployment will be complete within three hours."

Rajai glanced at his watch: 12:10 PM. Three hours later would be 3:00 PM. If they didn't launch an attack before the Iraqis completed their deployment, they would have to face a fully established defense line.

"Your Highness," he picked up the radio, "Rajai reporting. The Iraqis are reinforcing the southern defense line. Requesting permission to attack immediately."

There was a two-second silence from Ahvaz.

Then, Reza's voice came through: "No. Your troops just crossed the river and their stamina hasn't recovered. If you attack now, you won't be able to break through."

"But their defense line will be complete in three hours—"

"I know. That's why I'm not having you attack the south; I want you to attack the west."

Rajai was stunned for a moment.

"The west?"

"Yes. The Iraqis have moved their forces from the north to the south, so the west must be empty. Take your main force, circle around to the west, and break through there."

Rajai looked at the map. The distance from the south to the west was about fifteen kilometers, which would take forty minutes via the highway. But this highway was exposed to Iraqi observation, and the troop movement would definitely be discovered.

"Your Highness, if I move to the west, the Iraqis will see it. They will just move their forces again."

"That's why you cannot take the highway. Go through the desert."

"The desert? Tanks can't move fast in the desert—"

"They don't need to be fast. Have your tanks move east along the highway from the south, making the Iraqis think you're retreating. The infantry will circle through the desert to the west and launch a surprise attack after dark."

Rajai was silent for a few seconds, then said: "Understood. Tanks as bait, infantry as the main force."

"Correct. After dark, the Iraqi defenders in the west won't be able to see your men. By the time the shooting starts, it will be too late for them to redeploy."

1:00 PM, Basra.

Lieutenant General Shangshale stood in the operations room of the Southern Military District headquarters, staring at the map on the wall.

His staff officer had just reported some good news: the southern defense line was basically complete, two battalions were in position, and anti-tank ditches and minefields were being urgently deployed.

"What about the Iranians?"

"The Iranian vanguard has stopped ten kilometers south of the city. There are no signs of an attack."

Lieutenant General Shangshale frowned. Stopped? They captured the Fao Peninsula, crossed the Shatt al-Arab, and then stopped?

"What are they waiting for?"

"They might be waiting for reinforcements. Crossing the river takes time, and their heavy equipment hasn't arrived yet."

Lieutenant General Shangshale reluctantly accepted this explanation. But he had a bad feeling in his heart—the Iranian commander was not the type to stop and wait. The battle at the Pump Station had already proven that.

"Strengthen reconnaissance in the west and east of the city," he said, "Don't put all your attention on the south."

The staff officer hesitated: "General, the forces in the west are already very thin. We moved two battalions to the south, and only one company is left in the west."

"One company?" Lieutenant General Shangshale's voice rose, "Who approved that?"

"You approved it, General. You said the south was the main threat—"

"Immediately move a battalion from the east to there."

"The east only has two companies—"

"Then move one from the north!"

The staff officer went to carry out the order. Lieutenant General Shangshale stood before the map, feeling more and more that something was wrong the longer he looked at it.

The Iranian vanguard had stopped in the south, and the tanks were starting to move east—this wasn't a retreat, it was a maneuver. They were flanking.

But flanking to where?

5:30 PM, west of Basra, in the desert area.

Rajai led six thousand infantrymen, having walked through the desert for over four hours.

No vehicles, no armored cover, just pure walking. Everyone carried weapons, ammunition, water, and dry rations, trudging through the soft sand.

The sun was setting, and the temperature dropped from thirty degrees at noon to twenty degrees. The wind blew from the west, carrying the distinct dry scent of the desert.

"How much further?" Rajai asked the scout.

"Three kilometers. The Iraqi defense line in the west is right ahead."

"How many Iraqis are there?"

"The reconnaissance team reports about one company, between 120 and 150 men. Their only heavy weapons are two heavy machine guns and one mortar."

The corners of Rajai's mouth curled up slightly.

Six thousand against one hundred and fifty, and the Iraqis didn't even know they were coming.

"Wait for dark."

7:15 PM, it was dark.

Rajai issued the attack order in a low voice in the desert.

The six thousand men were divided into three echelons. The first echelon, two thousand men, was responsible for breaking through the western defense line. The second echelon, two thousand men, was responsible for penetrating deep into the city and capturing key intersections and bridges. The third echelon, two thousand men, served as the reserve force.

"First echelon, move out."

Two thousand soldiers advanced through the darkness toward the Iraqi defense line in the west of Basra. There were no battle cries, no gunfire, only the rustling of footsteps on the sand.

When they reached a point three hundred meters from the Iraqi defense line, an Iraqi sentry suddenly turned on a searchlight on the bunker.

The white beam of light swept across the desert, shining onto the faces of the first row of Iranian soldiers.

"Open fire!" Rajai shouted.

Two thousand men opened fire simultaneously. Dense bullets rained down like a storm onto the Iraqi bunkers and trenches. Three seconds after being turned on, the searchlight was hit by an RPG and shattered into pieces.

The Iraqi defenders' reaction was faster than expected. They began to return fire within thirty seconds—long bursts of heavy machine gun fire traced red trajectories in the darkness, and mortar shells landed in the desert, kicking up clouds of sand.

But there were only one hundred and fifty of them.

Three minutes later, the first trench was breached. Iranian soldiers jumped into the trench and engaged in close-quarters combat with the Iraqis. The space in the trench was narrow; the sounds of gunfire, shouting, and clashing metal mixed together.

Five minutes later, the fighting in the trench was over. Forty-eight Iraqi defenders were killed, seventy-one were captured, and the rest fled toward the city.

"Second echelon, follow up!"

7:40 PM, Ahvaz.

In the operations room, Reza heard Rajai's report: "The western defense line has been breached. My troops have entered the city."

"What is the Iraqi reaction?"

"The Iraqis in the west are retreating. But the troops in the north and south of the city haven't reacted yet—they don't know we have already entered from the west."

"Good. Continue the advance and capture these intersections—" Reza marked three locations on the map, "These three intersections are the connection points between the north and south of the city. Once you capture these, the Iraqi northern and southern forces will be cut off from each other."

"Understood."