Volunteers Train for 'Martyrdom'

The tall middle-aged man with closely-cropped hair, a military bearing and a pistol tucked into his trousers, told me his views in a terse statement followed by an implied threat.

"We want to convey a message to the West not to cooperate with [interim Iraqi leader Iyad] Allawi's pathetic government," he said. "This will make [the West] pay heavily."

Identified as "Director 1000" of "Base Camp 2" and belonging to a group calling itself the Iraqi Resistance, the man stood behind a desk on which there was a computer, a pair of Thuraya satellite phones, and some mobiles.

A photograph of Saddam Hussein and his two sons hung on one wall, while the other displayed an old Iraqi flag and a sword.

This insurgent leader identified himself as a former intelligence officer who transferred to the paramilitary Saddam Fidayeen organisation before the war last year.

He explained his movement's goal, "If we do not hold authority in Iraq, then we will allow no one else to hold authority."

I made this trip to Base Camp 2 after a neighbour - who was formerly active in the Saddam Fidayeen - approached and asked if I wished to meet the "resistance".

But my neighbour also warned that my future would be "very bad" if the Iraqi police or the American military forces discovered how to get to the people I was to meet.

The group picked me and my neighbour up one morning from Baghdad's Saadoun street in a white BMW, chauffeured by a Sudanese driver. Another vehicle, a Nissan Patrol, accompanied us on our trip.

A man disguised as a Shia cleric sat in the back seat of the BMW as we drove southward from Baghdad.

A couple of hours away from the capital, we turned off the highway onto dirt roads.

I was then forced to lie down on the seat, and my head was covered with a blanket. This way I could not see anything for the remainder of the journey, which lasted approximately two hours. There was virtually no conversation.

We eventually arrived at a farm comprising palm groves and several simple houses, sitting alongside a canal on the edge of the desert.

We were greeted at the gate by three guards armed with pistols, who searched me thoroughly and professionally.

I was escorted into one of the houses and introduced to Director 1000, who described himself as the man in charge of the base administration, security, and logistics.

The director spoke to me in the manner of a man delivering a press statement, and he allowed no questions.

He seemed primarily concerned to deny the new Iraqi government any international recognition or assistance.

"We don't want other countries to send representatives [to Allawi's government], because we are against this authority," he said.

"We have the power to make western countries suffer many losses if they cooperate [with the interim government], and we will do as much as we can.

"We will persist in continuing our resistance, and eliminating the power of any government or authority [in Iraq]."

Director 1000 claimed the group was founded three months ago, recruited from former members of Saddam Hussein's security apparatus, such as intelligence officers, the Saddam Fidayeen, and the bodyguards of officials.

He said the group had 550 volunteer suicide bombers, who were ready and "waiting to die", but did not credit the movement with any attacks so far.

But he claimed it provided five "martyrs" to the organisation of the extremist leader Abu Musab al-Zarqawi "before the Mosul operations" - a series car bomb attacks that took place last June in the northern Iraqi city.

"We have shared goals with Abu Musab al-Zarqawi," Director 1000 said. "Anybody against the [interim] government we consider our friend, whether he is in Iraq or outside Iraq."

The group, he says, requires recruits to come recommended by other members.

Director 1000 said recruits are divided into two groups - those who can use mortars and rocket-propelled grenades, and others who are classified as suicide operatives.

He said the suicide operatives are taught how to gather information about targets, how to rig a car bomb and how to drive the car to the target.

He then authorised me to tour the base, which was nearly empty.

From the beginning until the end of my visit, I counted no more than two-dozen people.

That number included the men who accompanied me to the base, the guards at the gate, and eight trainees - youths in their late teens and early 20s.

My neighbour told me that the training ordinarily takes place at night.

I was shown the base's arsenal - a small mud hut - full of artillery shells, rockets, and other ordnance.

I estimated there were around 200 shells, which Director 1000 claimed was "enough to burn Baghdad".

Then I was shown what the group described as its training facilities.

One volunteer, a skinny, quiet youth, was selected to drive a would-be suicide car - a small, battered Corona.

His left hand was tied to the steering wheel to prevent anyone pulling him from the car before the bombs could be detonated.

Hand grenades were fastened to his shirt, while in the back of the car someone had placed a large transparent plastic case full of a dough-like substance, which I presume, was explosive.

What looked like a detonator was placed inside the case, but it did not appear to be wired to any external trigger.

The group had set up an obstacle course for the operative to negotiate - a weaving track, marked by palm logs lying in the dirt. The operative's target was a metal drum.

To one side stood another trainee dressed in a light blue shirt, who acted as a police officer, firing a gun into the air.

The suicide volunteer was required to drive past the police officer to reach his target.

But the volunteer did not get very far - the car halted when rammed it into the third palm log.

Director 1000 rushed over and grabbed the volunteer, shaking and berating him harshly. "Kill them before they kill you," he shouted at the volunteer.

He then gave orders over a walkie-talkie for "Exercise number 4" to begin as we climbed up a small mound to watch.

It was an exercise familiar from Saddam-era broadcasts of Fidayeen training.

Four men stood in an open space. One was tied to a tree. A second held a knife. The remaining two held a German Shepherd police dog, straining at its leash.

The police dog was released and ran toward the man tied to a tree. The second man rushed to intercept the dog, grabbed it, and slit its throat with a knife.

The exercise ended quickly, the trainee like a predator killing prey in a wildlife documentary.

"Affiya, affiya," said the director, using the Iraqi equivalent of "bravo", a favourite phrase of Saddam Hussein.

I was then taken with the others to one of the houses to rest and eat lunch.

We were joined by another member of the group, a heavy-set, well-groomed man of about 40 wearing what appeared to be expensive linen trousers.

When he introduced himself as a financial manager, I cautiously asked how the group raised its funds.

"We have a budget that's bigger than the budget of the ministry of the interior, as well as our own private projects," he said.

I also asked the financial manager if the group was funded from outside Iraq.

"The current regime used to be the exiled opposition - agents for the Americans," he replied angrily. "They got outside funding. Why shouldn't we get outside funding? We have Iraqis outside the country, funding us."

I waited another half an hour for my departure to be arranged, then left in a minibus accompanied by the driver and my neighbour. I was again obliged to lie down until we got back onto the highway.

I was later dropped off near the main bridge of a town called Musayeb, some 60 kilometre south of Baghdad. From there, I returned to the capital on my own.

The IWPR trainee who wrote this story wished to remain anonymous.