Some people never learn
31st Oct 2007
The buzzer in my apartment made me jump, and I rushed to it in excitement. Grabbing the intercom, I heard a small voice shout with glee “Trick or Treat!”
Oh bugger, it’s Halloween. I had completely forgotten. In the three months since I’d been released from hospital for the last time, I had been working non-stop, physically and mentally, to prepare for my trip back to Afghanistan. Now I was waiting for a taxi, not some trick or treating kids.
My trip this time was to different from the previous few. The US embedding people had informed me that instead of flying into Kabul International Airport and running the gauntlet of the professional airport thieves, who seem to find endless new ways of relieving westerners of dollars and dignity, I could fly to Kuwait. There I would be granted access to a US military base, and then fly on a military plane directly into Bagram. This was great, as I would also avoid the need to spend any time, and money, in Kabul. Drivers, translators, and hotels, are an expense that a freelancer can often ill-afford.
Arriving at the Air Base in Kuwait, I immediately stepped back into the military world. It is strange how familiar it has all become to me. I had to present my travel orders (even civilians have to carry their “orders”), call out my last four (social security for all Americans, last four passport numbers for me, present my military ID (which I don’t have, and my passport always causes confusion) and submit to General Order Number 1, which states that military personal (and embedded journalists) will not have sexual relations with the opposite sex ( and I assume the same sex) and will not carry or use alcohol or pornography. A far cry indeed from the purple haze and debauchery of the Vietnam conflict that people so often liken the current US conflicts to.
I was told I would hopefully fly the next day, and so I settled in to wait in an environment that is soaked in the frustration of hundreds of other waiting soldiers, civilian contractors, and the odd journalist.
1 Nov
“The 06:30am accountability roll call is mandatory if you are manifested for a flight” the plasma screen announced, followed by the somewhat ominous “Failure to report for an accountability roll call will result in notification of your superior officer.” As one soldier said, laughing, it was an empty threat. “I mean, what the hell can they do to me, I’m already on my way back to Iraq.”
Before roll call, we were informed that when our name was called we were required to “sound off loudly” although in my head this was immediately altered to “sound off like you got a pair,” which I duly did. And did again soon after. And again. By the end off the day I was sounding off like I had a big pair.
Beside the threatening plasma screen a huge TV played non-stop Blockbuster movies, although someone must have been shopping at the Hajji shop, because the movies were of dubious origin. At one stage, during a slightly out of focus “Transformers” someone stood up in the theatre and walked in from of the projector, casting their silhouette over the screen, causing me, and quite a few others, to look around to see what was happening. Of course, we weren’t in a cinema, and the silhouette now part of the move experience. X-Men 3 started sometime during the day, and might even have been a genuine issue of the movie, but it had a glitch about an hour and 15 minutes in, which caused it to freeze. After maybe 20 minutes of staring at the same frame, some restarted it, and we all groaned as the movie started from the beginning. When it froze at the same point in the move an hour and 15 minutes later, it added to the Groundhog Day feeling of the whole experience. I can’t wait to see the end of that film when I get home.
We eventually climbed onboard a C17 transport aeroplane in the late afternoon, and took off well after dark. I had my trusty ear-plug headphones for my iPod, and spent the flight creating a new “Afghan war soundtrack.” Hey, it passed the time.
2 Nov
I corkscrewed out of Bagram just over five months ago, in the dark, and I corkscrewed back in again this time, in the dark. I can tell you, that type of air experience never gets old.
It was 1:30am local, and after I cleared the ID examination, and presented my travel orders, and called out my last four, and sounded off a few times, I was in. I called the media office, got the night shift, was told they expected me, and to grab my bags and wait on the tarmac. Standing on the flightline, I was hit by the cold Afghan night, and I dug out my fleece and woolly hat. Then I looked out on the standing aircraft, fixed and rotary, and felt like I’d come home. They excitement was overwhelming, and only rose as the night passed. I was picked up shortly afterwards, but I had just missed midnight chow at the DFAC (Dining Facility), and so we diverted to the PX area for Pizza Hut and Green Bean coffee. Now I really felt like I was back, in fact like I’d never left. All my embedding forms and ID were still valid from my last trip, so there wasn’t even any of the paperwork to deal with, so I was given one of the three rooms in “Hotel California” (you can check out, but you can never leave), the media accommodation, and I grabbed a few hours sleep.
3 Nov
Despite retiring late to bed, I rose early. The military get a lot done before 9am, and there was always a chance I would miss my chance to travel if I lounged around in my cot. Wandering up to the DFAC for breakfast, the feeling of having never left returned. Bagram is way too familiar to me. Once in the DFAC, I face another familiar situation. There is a great selection of food, but almost all of it will either give you a heart attack or pile on the pounds, or both. There is some cereal and fruit, but the majority of the offerings revolve around the grill, fried food, and sugar. I avoided the short order grill, mostly because I still can’t order in the American’s language, over easy eggs and all that. I wonder how quickly I will slip into this foreign language this time. The speech patterns and slang are insidious, and I always catch it from them. Guess ya’ll can write me when it starts.
Walking back to the MOC (Media Operations Centre) I was struck by another familiar sight. The main street through Bagram, called Disney Drive in memory of a fallen soldier, is a busy thoroughfare. And as the soldiers make their way up and down it, their arms seem to spasm involuntary along the way. For this is a saluting base, and woe betide anyone who doesn’t obey this custom. Of course the grunts outside the wire think this is hilarious, and never stop making fun of the type of soldier who feel that saluting is a priority in a combat zone.
At the MOC it was great to see the embedding guys again. Last time I saw them I was all messed up in a bed in the ICU, where they visited me regularly. Now they told me how good it was to see me on my feet again, which of course I wholeheartedly agreed with. Then it was down to business, and following the rule that no plan survives first contact, they told me that my carefully laid out embed had just been turned upside down. Without giving away too much detail, what I was to do first was now second, and the plan to go to an outlying OP or Firebase in a few weeks was now first up. No big deal though, you have to be flexible in this kind of environment. Then one of the media team escorted me over to the flightline where I manifested for a flight in the early hours next morning to FOB (Forward Operating Base) Salerno. I would have to report at midnight, to sound off.
With business attended to, I now had a long day ahead of me on a base where I’m not allowed to photograph anything. So, in time honoured fashion, I headed for the PX to, as the saying goes, “buy shit I really don’t need.” Really, this should be their motto. The PX (originally the Postal Exchange) is the shop where soldiers can supposedly get all they need on deployment, and a lot of stuff they really don’t need. I spent a long time in the “Gucci Gear” section, where all types of non-issue military equipment like holsters, backpacks, knives, etc, are sold, agonising over some new gloves. Driving in a Humvee one is required to wear flame retardant gloves, so if you are unfortunate enough to be struck by an IED, but fortunate enough to survive, you won’t have the skin burned off you by the flash flame. The obvious choice was the Wiley-X “Special Forces” gloves, with enough length and width to pull up over sleeves, and with Velcro fasteners to then secure them. The also have a non slip substance on the fingers, and the piece de resistance, tough moulded plastic knuckles, ostensibly to protect from injury from a fall, but in actuality providing a nice ready made set of knuckle-dusters. They were expensive at $85, but seemed top quality. Afraid that I would look like an ass wearing anything with a Special Forces tag however, I opted for the understated $12 Protex fire retardant woolly gloves. Of course the first time I wore them I was told that they are shit, and I should have gone for the top drawer Wiley X SF ones instead. Dammit!
Back at Hotel California, I met another journalist. A Greek cameraman/filmmaker, he was on his way home. He had just come back from a few weeks up in Nuristan, which of course is where I got shot, so I wanted all the news. I’m afraid it wasn’t good though, and it seems that the situation up there has deteriorated even further since I was there in April/May. This tallied with the other reports I had heard about the north-east area, and adds to my belief that there will be major combat operations up there next spring.
George the Greek was a crazy guy, very emotional and full energy, despite his 50 years. Having decided to shoot more video myself (remember the video camera I bought before my trip last November?) I had lots of questions, and he was hugely helpful and open with his knowledge and experience. This is his first time in Afghanistan, but he has worked extensively in Iraq over the years. He then told me about the death of a friend of his, a Russian photographer Dmitry Chebotayev, earlier in the year in Iraq. I remembered reading about it. George had been in the area just days before, and when he heard Dmitry was going there too, George begged him not to. He said it was too dangerous, too risky, beyond what was acceptable. Of course it didn’t work, and soon after Dmitry was killed by an IED. George was crying as he told me about it, and then he asked me is there something wrong with us, that we take these chances with our lives. However, once he had poured out some of his grief he answered his own question, and affirmed my own belief, that it is important work, and someone has to do it. I don’t believe there is anything dysfunctional with him, or me, or any of the people I have met who do this. And as I have said many times, I reject the idea that we are thrill seekers. I am no adrenaline junkie, and after my wounding I am certainly not looking forward to being in a gunfight again. These are just unfortunate situations we have to deal with in order to do the work we do, which is recording the lives of people caught in terrible situations. And there is simply no way to do that without being there ourselves. But that doesn’t mean we get off on it. At the same time I’m not going to deny that it is exhilarating to come away from a dangerous situation still alive, but that is a by-product rather than the motivation, for me at least.
4 Nov
A long wait and a short flight later, my C-130 touched down at FOB Salerno at around 4 am. The transient tents are beside the Passenger Terminal, a small hut really, and as soon as the requisite paperwork was done, which wasn’t quick, I collapsed on my cot and slept for a few hours. I only had a few hours, because I knew if I wanted to get some breakfast I would need to be in the Chow Hall before 9am.
I spent some time at Salerno last November/December, but it was a very different experience. This year the weather is fine, with day temperatures up around the mid 20s Centigrade, whereas last year it was raining everyday I was here. Now the place is a dust bowl, with trucks driving around spraying the main roads to keep the brown-out factor manageable, but last year I was walking through two or three inches of sludge on the very same roads. I’m not complaining though. I hope it stays fine.
My meeting with the Major in charge of Media Operations in this AO (Area of Operations) was quick and smooth, and then I was off to manifest for a helicopter ride out to Organ-E in Paktika Province. Roll call is at 6:30 am the next day, and so once again I have a day to kill. This is very frustrating, as all this waiting around is using up time I should be working. I still haven’t shot a single frame, and I won’t today either.
5 Nov
Rise at Stupid O’Clock, pack, grab a take-out tray of breakfast from the DFAC, and sound off at roll call. Then hang around for a long time that could have been spent sleeping. Finally walk out to the Chinook, and then wait again while they load it full of deliveries for the various FOBs that this ring flight will stop at.
I get talking to one of the soldiers while we’re waiting. He tells me about his dislike of the media, particularly Al-Jezzera. He tells me about how they film attacks on Americans in Iraq, and therefore have prior knowledge of these attacks. I explain to him that insurgents regularly record their attacks and then send the footage to media outlets, as well as posting it on the internet. He remains dubious. He then goes on to tell me about how his squad killed an Al-Jezzera cameraman in Fallujah. They saw a guy with what looked like a rocket launcher on his shoulder, and they fired. He died instantly. I am shaken, not by the matter of fact way he tells me the story, but because this is the second death of a journalist I have heard about in 48 hours. However, both these deaths were in Iraq, and during intense battles where the “Fog Of War” makes everything more dangerous. I am heading out to a reasonably quiet part of Afghanistan, and so I plaster over the cracks once again.
A Captain is waiting for me when I disembark at Orgun-E. He welcomes me to the 1st Battalion (Airborne) of the 503rd Infantry, 173 Airborne Brigade Combat Team. Hoo-ah, I’m back with the Infantry. He walks me around the base, which doesn’t take long. The highlights are where to eat if I’m hungry, and where to take cover if we are rocketed. These two functions of life are delightfully brought together in the name of the DFAC, “Hard Rocket Café.”
Once I’ve been assigned a bed, and dumped my gear, I make my way to the Aid Station on the FOB. There is a FST (Forward Surgical Team) stationed here, and so, many casualties will be flown here for life saving treatment before being moved to the ICU at Bagram. I plan to spend a few days with the team, but for the first time on one of these trips I hope that I don’t get to take any pictures, because as the saying goes in the media, for me to have a good day, someone else will have to have a really bad one. It turns out to be a vain hope.