The morning we crossed the border from Kuwait into Iraq, dodging checkpoints and military police on a March afternoon in 2003, our first encounter was a geyser of burning oil arcing against a sky blackened by the smoke of burning wells.
As we were not embedded with the military, our plan was vague – head first to Basra, where British troops were still fighting to enter the city, and improvise from there in a car loaded with 200 litres of fuel in jerrycans and enough food and water for a fortnight.
