John D McHugh

Photographer

Sunday, November 25, 2007

A family renunion

9 Nov. 

Waking up buried down in a sleeping bag is disconcerting to say the least. And sticking your head out in to negative figures Celsius is no fun either. I have found that the best thing to do in this situation is to get up immediately, as lying around just focuses my attention on how cold and uncomfortable I really am. To save space I carry a cut down sleeping mat, just long enough to support my spine, or hips if I lie on my side. This means that my legs have no insulation from the cold ground, and so over the course of the night it is my legs feet and toes that suffer the most. 

One of the things I enjoy about these situations is the satisfaction of falling back into little rituals, and rediscovering the reason that they work. Tipping out my boots, I discovered a lodger that wasn’t invited. Then, unwrapping my fleece which had been pressed into service as a pillow, and digging out my wolly hat and gloves which I had placed inside my sleeping bag to keep warm, I pulled on all my protection against the cold. I also pulled my armour over my head, and buckled it up. 

From our vantage point I could see down into the valley that Chabaran sits in. The valley was filled with mist, and the sun was rising behind it, creating a beautiful silhouetted scene. Already the engineer’s earth movers were at work. 

Reverting to other lessons learned, I started to pack my gear. The rule out here is that you must always be ready to move, and so all sleeping kit should be packed away before breakfast is even considered. I was fairly sure we would be staying in the same location for several days, but it is important to look professional in front of the soldiers. If they have to tell me obvious things then they will quickly start to see me as a liability, and my access will be affected. So, everything was crammed into my rucksack, except my coffee mug. This is another “must have” item. Some guys just cut an empty water bottle in half instead, but this results in burned fingers and very quickly, cold coffee. A good insulated camping mug, with a lid, is well worth carrying. 

Others were rising, and in no time at all three stoves were producing blue flames, and kettles of various sizes sat on them. Cutting open an MRE I fished out the single serving coffee sachet, and then grabbed a hot chocolate packet from the Humvee. A mocha for breakfast seemed perfect in the cold conditions. 

Word came in that “Havoc” Company had suffered a break-down, and would require a “wrecker,” one of the massive armoured recovery vehicles, to tow it back to base. Charlie Company was tasked with escorting the wrecker. Again, this was going to be an unpleasant drive, as all the intel said that there were PPIEDs (Pressure Plate Improvised Explosive Devices - detonated by driving over them, like a land-mine) waiting on the secondary routes around Chabaran. However, a mission is a mission, and once Charlie Company was given theirs there was no hesitation about moving out. I climbed into my seat in the Humvee behind 1SG C, checked my cameras were set up for shooting in daylight (I had set them up for shooting in almost darkness the previous night in anticipation of an attack) and settled in for another day of driving. 

Leaving the village we immediately started to climb again, and soon we were at 8,500 ft above sea level. Movement was slow, with great care being taken over the road, all the time watching for wires, disturbed earth, etc, anything at all that might suggest a threat. After a couple of hours we reached Havoc, on a wide plain. The scene was like something out of a Western, and in my imagination the soldiers became cowboys, the Humvess were horses, and the elusive but dangerous Taliban became the feared red Indians. 

Amidst all the rivalry of the meeting of two sister Companies, there was also a family reunion. A soldier from Charlie Company grabbed a younger looking man (or boy, really) in a hug. It turns out it is his younger brother. They are operating in the same province, but don’t get to see each other very often. It was heart-warming to watch, but I also thought it must be difficult for them to be in the same war. Every time news comes in of an attack, or casualties, they must think of their sibling, and worry. 

Then a shout came, “McHugh, get over here.” I find it strange to be called by my surname, but that’s the way it is, with everyone wearing a nametag bearing their family name. I joined the group that had called me, and the guys said, in excited and amused voices, that I had to meet a “terp” (interpreter) that works with Havoc. I was introduced to “Scooter” and I almost fell over when he started talking. The guy has a crisp British accent, slightly upper-crust, and it is perfect. He told me that he had worked with some British officers last year, and the accent he had picked up had stayed. It wa so funny, because most of the terps have full blown US accents, and greet you with “What’s up” or “Hey man” but this chap was terribly, terribly British. 

The busted Humvee was hooked up to the wrecker, and we made our way back over the pass and into the crowded locale of Chabaran. Along the way I shot some self-portraits. To amuse myself. My beard is coming along nicely, and my ballistic-proof glasses are huge, and so make me look ridiculous. 

Arriving back on our little hilltop position, the guys settled in for the rest of the day. Soon a game of cards began, with an MRE box passing for a table. The game was a mystery to me, but it passed the time for the soldiers, and made good pictures. 

As darkness started to fall people began to remove their armour. The feeling was that the area was saturated with friendly forces, and so was safe. I chose to keep mine on until it became fully dark however. The soldiers made fun of me a bit, but some of them said if they were shot there is no way in hell they would come back out here at all, and so if I want to wear my armour in my sleeping bag they would understand. 

After dark the Charlie Company mortar team walked the short distance to the ANA encampment, to do some training. Well, really, it was to watch the ANA fire their mortars, and then correct any errors in procedure. There weren’t any. The ANA are well able to use their weapons, and understood some of the complex firing techniques suggested by the US soldiers, ie shooting illuminated rounds to see and then shooting high explosive, using the eerie light of the illume round to correct their coordinates. A marked difference in their enthusiasm for fighting was apparent though. Every time the Afghans fired their mortars they all cheered, including the other ANA soldiers who had gathered to watch, and it reminded me of the ooohs and aaahs of a fireworks display back in the UK on Bonfire Night. 

Back at our patrol base the temperature was already plummeting. I had earlier mentioned to someone how cold my feet had been, and they had given me a chemical hand-warmer. A small sachet, maybe 2×3 inches. When shaken vigorously it would begin to emanate heat, and would continue to do so for 8-10 hours. The instructions said not to use inside sleeping bags, but I was assured that I could throw it into the bottom of my bag and forget about it. It wouldn’t burn me, just keep the chill at bay. I also had dug into my rucksack, and extracted my second sleeping bag, hopefully giving me more chance of a reasonably bearable night. Getting ready to sleep, I took off my watch, set it to thermometer mode, and left it sitting on my boots outside my sleeping bag. If I was going to suffer the cold, I at least wanted to know how cold it was, so I could measure my suffering scientifically. 

posted by John D at 07:00  

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

March or Die

7th Nov
 

I am due to go out tomorrow on a mission with Charlie Company, 1st Battalion (Airborne) 503rd Infantry, 173rd Brigade. They are based in Italy, and are attached to the 82nd Airborne Division. Charlie Company is also known as “March or Die” or MOD, a nickname they picked up in World War 2. When I was introduced to the Company Commander and First Sergeant I expressed my concern over their name, and said I would be far more comfortable with “Ride in a Humvee or Die” as I did quite enough marching earlier in the year. They assured me that I would not be marching too far. They seem like really good guys. Pure infantry, no bullshit, straight talkers, and tough. We are to leave tomorrow morning and will be out for a few days. I still know almost nothing about the mission, but I don’t need to, so that is not a problem. I will find out when I get there.
 

8th Nov
 

“Today is an important anniversary in Charlie Company’s history” 1SG C told me. “In Vietnam in 1965, during Operation Hump, Charlie Company was almost wiped out during an ambush.” Not an entirely auspicious start to the mission, and so I put it to the back of my mind.
 

We were to leave at 6:30 am local. I had risen early to pack my sleeping bag and kit, and be ready to go. As soon as I arrived at the March or Die Humvees I realised that everyone had food, and discovered that the chow hall had opened early to allow us to get some breakfast before we departed.  I dropped my kit, and rushed off to eat.
 

Getting a convoy ready to leave is always tricky, especially if it is big. This was a battalion mission, meaning a lot of assets. The convoy was huge, and there were other convoys heading from other bases in the province too, all heading for the district of Charbaron. The Taliban had recently burned down the district centre and ANP (Afghan National Police) post, and so the coalition was going to rebuild it. It was in fact an Afghan mission, with US support, as everything is these days. The idea is that the more experience the Afghans get in planning these missions, the sooner the Americans can go home. Nice idea, but a long way off I reckon.
 

1SG C told me I was riding with him, which was cool as I had already met his driver Doc helping out in the Aid Station at Orgun-E. Doc is actually a Medic, but like all Medics in the US Army, is simply called Doc. He is the Company Medic, and so has Platoon Medics underneath him.
 

We rolled out of Orgun-E on time and soon the convoy joined up with ANA troops. The convoy was huge, and lumbering, and slow. And the dust trail that was being created would surely announce our movement to anyone watching from the mountains.
 

Travelling in a Humvee is extremely boring, and even more so when the other occupants have radio headsets to communicate on and I don’t. The guys were listening to both Company and Battalion ratio nets, one in each ear, and could talk to each other as well. 1st C made a great effort to update me on what was happening, but inevitably I started to fall asleep. This is quite an achievement as I was wearing my body armour and helmet. On this trip I am also trying out a new system for carrying equipment. In the past I have worn a belt with various pouches attached, carrying spare camera batteries, lenses, a first aid kit, notebooks, etc. This has cause lots of problems as getting in and out of Humvees is difficult at the best of times, but more so when wearing pouches. And if the pouches move around to the back it is virtually impossible to sit comfortably. I have thought about this over the last few months, and particularly about how the soldiers dress. They wear chest-rigs, which allow them to carry a lot of gear but still move well. Whether you sit or stand the pouches are easly accessible, and so I wanted something similar. A good friend lent me a photo-vest, based on this idea, and which has been around for some time. I have always resisted them because they look like suicide vests, but it turns out that while not suitable for London streets, the photo-vest is ideal for wearing over body armour. Thanks Edmond!
 

Arriving at a village part of the convoy veered off and formed a security perimeter near a mosque. I jumped out once we were in position, and followed 1SG C into the middle of the gathered crowd. It transpired that there were several “Jingle trucks” in the convoy, carrying Civil Affairs (CA) and Humanitarian Assistance (HA) supplies. Frequent readers will have heard me talk about this before, but for those who are new I will explain. CA and HA missions, which translate as handing out clothes, blankets, shoes, school supplies, food, etc, are carried out by the military with the intention of building good relations with the local Afghan people. In this case they were providing a Mosque kit, which included carpet, speakers for the call to prayer, paint, etc. The CA officer sat down with the village elders and spoke with them, explaining that the Americans want to help Afghanistan, and in fact are there at the behest of the Afghan Government. The CA officer is a sincere man, and I believe that he believes he is truly making a difference. Unfortunately the meeting turned slightly sour when the elders said that the had had patrols through their village before, and that they had heard all these promises many times, but that they had never been followed up on. Things seemed to improve when they heard about the Mosque kit that they were to receive, and the crowd moved to the “Jingle truck.” However, things became complicated again when more elders arrived. Gradually, amidst much shouting, bickering, finger wagging, and translating, the problem revealed itself. What appeared to the untrained eye as one village was apparently 3 villages built in close proximity. This is something I have come across before, in Nuristan, and it is very confusing. The village elders were arguing about which Mosque should receive the kit, and then started asking for 3 kits. The CA officer did his best to placate the maddened crowd, and a deal was struck, although I am still not sure of the details. One soldier whispered that as soon as we were gone the Afghans would kill each other over the lousy worthless piece of carpet.
 

Once the supplies had been unloaded, and wind-up radios were distributed, we were off again. After a couple of hours we started to climb into the mountains, and soon my watch’s altimeter was reading 8,500ft.
 

As I said, 1SG C was making a big effort to keep me informed of what was going on, and at one point he turned to me and said we had just passed the site of a “catastrophic IED” strike. Charlie Company’s sister Havoc Company had struck an IED there on 23rd July, and 4 of the Humvee’s occupants were killed. A fifth was severely burned, and died two months later from his injuries. I wished he hadn’t told me whle we were still driving. A few minutes later he informed me that information had just been relayed to him by radio that ACMs (Anti Coalition Militia – the catch all acronym for the various groups fighting the coalition and the government’s soldiers) were fleeing the Chabaran district. So, we would not find any fight there. But wait, they were leaving behind several IEDs for the American vehicles. Considering what I had just learned about the last IED, I was disconcerted to say the least, but what could I do.
 

And there’s the rub. Getting intelligence that an IED may have been planted on a road does not halt a mission, and so some poor soldiers have to drive down it anyway. And I wonder what toll it takes on them? How do you cope with that danger and strees after seeing friends killed by the same weapon? How does someone overcome the fear of imminent death and carry on with a mission, when they have info that tells them they are going to be attacked? I have asked this question to many, many soldiers, and the answer doesn’t vary much. They shrug their shoulders, or sigh, and tell me that it’s their job. Just like that! I have to admit, it terrifies me. I hate IEDs, and hate driving when I think they may be around. I hate the fact that I could be killed so indiscriminately. And every time the base of the Humvee hit a rock, and every time we dipped into a wadi with a soft earth floor, I winced. And I only do this sporadically. How do the soldiers continue to bear this tension day after day?
 

Shortly after that news we halted. I’m not sure why, but it was a problem further up the column. While halted, 1SG decided that the convoy needed overwatch, and so he picked a few guys, including himself and the CO (Commanding Officer) Capt Mac. I said I’d go too. Really, I do never learn my lesson. So, we started up the rocks, and a few hundred feet later I was gasping for air, my lungs on fire, and sweat pouring out of my shocked body. That rarefied air gets me every time. The soldiers stood around talking for a while, all the time scanning the further ridgelines for danger. Then 1SG thought he saw something. It might be a stone, it might be nothing at all, but he thought he saw a fortified fighting position. It was a long way away, and I volunteered to stay with the guys assigned to remain at our position. They would provide overwatch and protection while the others climbed down and then up to the new location. The two guys who stayed then went into serious mode, and in no time at all they were lying down in the prone position, rifles trained on the possible fighting position. Suddenly I got a shiver down my spine, and I felt extremely exposed standing there. If there was a sniper up there, it would not be a difficult shot to hit one of us. Remembering the pain of my last encounter with a sniper, I quickly moved down behind a rock, making sure I could still observe the others climb, but reducing my vulnerability. Or so I hoped. Soon enough they reached the point of interest, and it turned out to be nothing. As they made their way back to us I felt very silly. But I stayed down low just the same.
 

The convoy got back on the road, but not long after we stopped again. Another vulnerable site had been spotted on the road, and so some soldiers would once again need to climb up to the high ground to ensure the safety of the rest of the convoy. I opted to stay by the vehicles this time. So did 1SG C, so I could get updates from him as to their progress. While they were gone, news came in over the radio that there was a gunfight going on close to Orgun-E, the base I had left the day before. Apparently a convoy of Jingle trucks that were carrying goods for the Americans had been attacked, and the drivers had pulled out guns and fought back. The report said that one vehicle was disabled, and the fight was still ongoing.
 

With another patrol returning empty handed, the convoy moved off. Eventually we arrive at Charbaran District centre, pulling in at the same time as the engineers. I was massively impressed with the speed with which they went to work. While the infantry I was with were concerned with forming a security perimeter, the engineers drove earth-moving machines off trailers and immediately started bulldozing. The burned out district centre looked very forlorn in the centre of all that activity.
 

Darkness falls quickly in the mountains, and the night was on everyone’s mind. Charlie Company pushed out Platoon sized elements to form part of the security perimeter, while Headquarters, including the Captain and 1SG, moved to a piece of high ground near the school. The ANA had already set up camp by the building, and taken some of the rooms inside. The US soldiers set up beside but separate from the ANA. As soon as we were settled I fished my bag out of the Humvee’s trunk and started making my bed on the ground. The hill was sandy, with lots of rocks mixed in, so preparing a smooth horizontal area took some time. One of the soldiers commented on my haste to sleep, and I relied that I just wanted to get my bed down while I could still see. “Well, this ain’t your first camping trip” said another. He was right. I have made the mistake before of setting up my bed in the dark, and it invariably leads to disaster. Sleeping on rocks, thorns, etc, or worse, on a slant, resulting in all the blood going to your head and waking up with a pounding headache, are all slip-ups I’ve made before, but not again.
 

Next on the agenda was an MRE. I’ve talked about this before, and once again I had to marvel at the ingenuity of the meals in a bag. Worryingly, I knew what was in a lot of the meals, a sure sign that I have eaten too many. People have different favourites, and as the bags are numbered it becomes a mission to get the one you want, often involving some fast trading.
 

With a full belly and a long day behind me, I was more than ready for my sleeping bag. Lying there in the dark, with sleeping and snoring soldiers all around me, I looked at the night sky. It is so beautiful here, with no light pollution to spoil it. Once again I struggled to believe my luck, that I get to have these amazing experiences. Even though there was every chance of an attack, either direct small arms fire or indirect mortars or rockets, I was happy. It is hard to explain, but the simplicity of life in this environment, where you are happy if you make it to the end of the day alive, fed, and warm, is something I revel in. There are no speed limits here, no credit checks, no postcodes. It is like being in the Wild West, a bold frontier were life gets pared down to what is really important, and everything that isn’t just fades into the background.

posted by John D at 16:09  

Sunday, November 18, 2007

The bloody results of IEDs

6th Nov 

 

Last night (5th Nov) I watched as US surgeons and medical staff from the FST (Forward Surgical Team) operated on a local kid to save his life. He was brought in with a hernia, which had somehow gotten caught up in his testicle, and if it wasn’t treated it was going to kill him. The head surgeon, a Lt Colonel, explained that while they are not required to carry out this type of surgery on locals, they will always endeavour to help when time and resources allow. This was classic “Hearts and Minds” stuff, and the Colonel was well aware of that, but it appeared to me to be a genuine attempt to help as opposed to a contrived effort to win over the local population. 

 

When the surgery was over the soldiers invited me over to their fire pit for after-dinner coffee. They have a huge brick fireplace and chimney built outside their rooms, and it was very pleasant to sit and bask in the warmth and glow of the fire. It was also a very conducive atmosphere for story telling. Many of the stories were of horrific wounds treated, or sad tales of death, but some were brighter and lifted the hearts both of those telling them and those listening. One such story was of a baby that they delivered just a few weeks before. The pregnant mother had been shot through the womb in an ambush, and the baby had to be delivered there and then. It had a small graze on its back, but was otherwise unhurt. Both mother and child recovered. Or the story of a young 10th Mountain soldier that arrived on a Medevac with an RPG sticking out of his body. Despite the fact that the patient had live ordnance in him which could have killed all those working on him, a doctor and several assistants volunteered to operate, and eventually removed the rocket and saved his life. 

 

Of course, the soldiers said, you will never hear these stories on CNN or read them in the New York Times, as they are too positive. The old anger against the “liberal media” was high here, and they made no attempt to hide it from me. While polite and professional, as I have come to expect all US soldiers to be, they spoke of their anger that every story about the wars seem to be negative, and in no way reflect their experience downrange. They told me that it is almost impossible to find a story that shows any of the good work they do in Afghanistan, or the fact that the local people constantly voice their appreciation for their efforts to improve the lives of ordinary Afghans. 

 

Today I saw those efforts again, firsthand. After a morning of excitement, due to the arrival of a container of mail, including letters, gifts, and Amazon parcels, there was an alert that two Afghan patients were on their way by Medevac. They had been travelling in a vehicle that struck an IED. Three others had died at the scene, and now the fight was on to save the remaining two. 

 

I asked if I could stay and photograph and fim, and was told as long as I stayed out of the way they didn’t care. They had more important things on their minds than one inquisitive journalist. 

 

The helicopter landed in the dark, the roaring noise and swirling dust adding to the intensity of the moment. Four soldiers rushed out of the darkness, their head-torches reminiscent of the flashing lights on an emergency vehicle, carrying the first stretcher. The patient was wrapped from head to toe in a green foil, to preserve his body heat and avoid the onset of hyperthermia. I followed them into the Aid Station, and straight into a scene of organised chaos. People were shouting orders, calling for x-rays, charts, blood tests, while the Chief from the Medevac crew gave a quick brief to the surgeons. The second patient was rushed through the doors, and laid out beside the first. As the foil was peeled back a man and a woman were revealed. Their wounds were horrible, and if anyone is squeamish, I recommend skipping ahead to my next entry. 

 

The IED had exploded under their vehicle, and so the most extensive injuries were to their legs. Their were severe cuts and bleeding further up their bodies, but it was the damage to their legs that would threaten or change their lives. I was totally unprepared for what I was witnessing, and anyone who tells you that a journalist behind the lens of a camera is removed from the event, or is somehow distanced from the suffering that he is recording, is an idiot. I nearly passed out when I saw the woman’s leg being lifted, and then bending at the mid calf. In fact one of the medics got me a seat and told me if I thought I was going to faint I should sit down, as they had no time to deal with a head wound. Another medic told me there was no shame in passing out, that they had all done it at one time or another. He then went on to photograph me, telling me he had never seen someone go so white! 

 

It was decided that the woman’s life was in more danger, and so she would be operated on first. Both legs were broken, and her left foot had a huge gash in it, as though someone had tried to chop it in half with an axe. It was gross. She was moved to the operating room, and prepped for surgery. I donned the requisite hat and mask, and steeled myself to document the doctors efforts to save the woman’s life, however sick it made me feel. However, when she was moved onto the operating table, and the true extent of the damage to her left foot and leg were revealed, I wondered if I would make it through the surgery. 

 

The explosion had gone up through her foot, and it was destroyed. I can’t describe it any better than that. It was a bloody and broken pulp of bone and flesh. I just couldn’t believe it could be repaired, and unfortunately the surgeons voiced my thoughts. The woman would certainly lose her leg. But now came the worst news. Because this is an Aid Station and not a hospital, there is no follow up care facility. If a soldier is hurt in this area he will receive life saving treatment here, and then be flown to the ICU in Bagram to recover, before flying on to Landstuhl Regional Medical Centre in Germany. Because the woman would need massive aftercare following an amputation, the doctors couldn’t perform the required surgery. All they could do was open up the wounds, clean them out to try and avoid any infection, and then wrap them up again until a civilian hospital could be found to take her. The surgeons were angry and impotent. There was simply no way they could do what they knew had to be done, and so they did as much as they could. 

 

The second patient also had broken legs, and one was so badly shattered that they had to drill screws into his leg and then attach metal bars on the outside to fix the bones in place. His other leg would heal itself, but would result in the bones fusing together around the ankle, and leave the man with massively impared movement. 

 

The doctors were pretty despondent after their work was done. They said it was extremely frustrating to be put in a position where they couldn’t give the care that they wanted to. Even though they had done a huge amount to save the lives of the patients and certainly given them far superior care than the Afghans could have expected at any local clinic, the doctors said that was the most unsatisfactory night they had experienced in a long time. 

posted by John D at 08:38  

Friday, November 16, 2007

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.

posted by John D at 03:06  

Thursday, November 15, 2007

After the Medevac

I woke again as the helicopter landed, and even as the blades still whined overhead soldiers ran towards us. I was lifted out first, and the two soldiers bent low as they carried me, racing across the gravel to a waiting gurney. I knew I was at a Combat Support Hospital, the modern version of M*A*S*H that was made famous by the TV comedy series. I had in fact intended to spend some time here later in the year, but as an observer, not a patient. 

 

Unlike the TV show, there was no laughing in here. As I was wheeled into the Emergency Room a soundtrack of pain greeted me; moans and groans, whimpering, the odd scream, and plenty of swearing and shouting. I was still face down on the stretcher, and the ER floor was covered in blood-soaked camouflage uniforms, cut from patients with surgical scissors, lying where they were dropped. 

 

As soon as my stretcher stopped moving I was surrounded by a horde of professionals. Nurses began to strip me, one cutting off my trousers while another removed my watch, ring, etc. At the same time someone was furiously forcing needles into my arms. And all the while I was reciting the same coded litany as those other wounded soldiers around me who could talk for themselves. “A pos (my blood group), NKDA (no known drug allergies), 3/71 CAV (the unit I was last embedded with).” On and on it went. They pumped a lot of morphine into me, but it turns out I have a high tolerance. I kept hearing people say, “He’s still not out, give him some more” and stuff like that. Eventually I was told I was going into surgery, not to worry, they would keep me alive. And then everything went …………………. 

 

Waking up, I wondered where I was. My head was fuzzy, and all I could hear was an incessant rhythmic beeping. As my blurred vision receded and the room came into focus, I realised I was in a hospital. Now, I thought, what am I doing here. Then came the panic. I couldn’t remember anything, and worse, I couldn’t move. I tried to lift my head, but it wouldn’t budge. I tried again, harder, and relief flowed through me as it rose slightly. I could see my arms now, with tubes running from both. I twitched my fingers and I saw them move too, even if it was weakly. OK, I’m not completely paralysed. Then I concentrated on my legs, and feet. I thought I could feel my toes wiggle, but I couldn’t see them, and I was aware that amputees often suffer from phantom limbs, believing they can still feel arms or legs that are no longer there. Fear washed over me again, and as my heart raced so the beeping became faster on the machine beside my bed. A nurse appeared, alerted by the sound. I asked her where I was. In the Intensive Care Unit at Bagram Air Field, the main US base in Afghanistan. And then it flooded back. Damn, I’d been shot. The nurse explained that the bullet had entered the left side of my chest, just missing my heart, and had torn open my colon, cut my diaphragm, damaged my spleen, and then exited my back. The hole in my lower chest was the size of a penny, but she told me the hole in my back was the size of the palm of my hand. Because of the damage to my intestine I had been given a colostomy, and I was on a ventilator in case the damage to my diaphragm caused my lung to collapse. 

 

I spent four pain-filled days in the ICU in Bagram. I was visited by a General, who handed out Purple Hearts to other soldiers like I’d seen candy handed out to Afghan kids. But there was no medal for me, just a firm handshake, and the thanks of the American people for risking my life so that they could know what their soldiers faced. I wish I could have talked more with the General, but I was hit by a new spasm of pain, and he squeezed my hand again, and said he’d leave me to rest, as I was obviously having pain-management issues. What an understatement. 

 

After midnight on the fourth day, when I was stable enough to fly, I was loaded onto a cargo plane with other wounded soldiers. We were strapped down to our stretchers, and then locked onto shelving units either side of the fuselage. Like all military planes I have travelled on, this one was utilitarian inside, which meant it really did feel like I was cargo rather than a wounded passenger. The only light was a dim red glow, which added an eerie feel to the whole experience. Before take-off a crew member moved among us, handing out air-sick bags. He told me that the takeoff would be tough, because they had to do a combat lift. Now I’ve been through this before, flying in Iraq, and I knoew exactly what he meant. The plane takes off and then banks hard, turning in tight circles like a corkscrew, gaining altitude while minimising exposure to rocket attack. It is very tough on the stomach at the best of times, but I had just undergone major internal surgery, and I was dreading the pain if I had to puke. I lay on my elbows, facing down on my stretcher, and I swore to God I wasn’t going to be sick. Many were, but not me. Not allowed, nor even able, to get off my stretcher, the 8 hour flight to Germany was uncomfortable, and I slept as much as I could. 

 

Landing at the US Landstuhl Regional Medical Centre (LRMC), I was loaded onto a converted bus, again with apparatus fitted to hold stretchers. It was as though I was in a bad IKEA dream. A short drive, over far too many speed bumps for a hospital road, and then a crowd of soldiers swarmed as the doors opened. I was hoisted out, and in no time at all I was off the stretcher, and in a gleaming room. I had my first hit of morphine for hours, and immediately the pain retreated. And then, like an angel, my girlfriend appeared. The military had informed her I would be arriving in Germany, and arranged for her to get visitor’s access. With my brother, she had made the trip the night before, and had been waiting since the dawn for my arrival. 

 

I spent 9 days in Germany, in the care of amazingly dedicated doctors and nurses. Other patients came and went, with wounds that varied from small shrapnel punctures to multiple amputations. Some of the cases were horrific, and heart-breaking, and all the time I felt my amazement grow that I had survived with wounds that should heal completely. And then, as I began to believe everything was going to be ok, there was another blow. A large blood clot was found in the cavity the bullet had left in my abdomen, and suddenly I was being rushed for emergency surgery. Not though, before the Catholic priest had given me the Last Rites, which I am sure was meant to be comforting, but in fact had the opposite effect. I survived the latest drama, but now I had an open wound in my back, as the Doctors were afraid another clot could occur. 

 

Finally I flew home to London, where I was immediately admitted into yet another hospital. Here I ran into some good fortune. I had been referred to a British Army surgeon, a specialist in gunshot wounds, who had in fact been deployed to Afghanistan in 2006. He is a fantastic Doctor, and especially supportive because he understands the circumstances I have been through. Unlike other surgeons who predicted 12 to 18 months of recovery, he told me that he would remove and reverse the colostomy as soon as possible. This lifted my spirits immeasurably, as the sooner I was finished with surgery the sooner I could start regaining my strength properly. He also spent some time talking to me about the ambush, drawing out the smallest detail. He asked me how I was sleeping, if I had any bad dreams or intrusive memories. Not so far, I said, but I have read plenty about the warning signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and I will be vigilant. 

 

He sent me home after 5 days in hospital, and at home I slept a lot. My small reserves of energy evaporated swiftly, and my body demanded rest. My plans to read and write through my convalescence were thwarted. Instead I struggled to concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time. I was told that this is normal, and as my body recovered from the trauma the need for sleep would subside. 

 

I returned to hospital mid July, exactly 8 weeks after the ambush, to undergo more surgery. This was to reverse my colostomy, and it was successful, though immensely painful, again. My Doctor told me that with the right exercise regime, and commitment to it, I would be back on my feet in 3 or 4 months. He said it would be tough, and I wouldn’t enjoy it, but getting back to work, and Afghanistan, was my motivation. 

 

posted by John D at 19:02  

Monday, October 1, 2007

The Ambush - 14th May 2007

So, here it is. This is the account I wrote of the 14 May ambush is which I was shot. It was mostly written in hospital in Germany, just days after the incident, so I could record as much of the raw emotion and detail as possible. Since then I have emailed and spoken with many people to confirm details, but of course some of it will still be incorrect. What I have written is what I can remember, between the confusion and the pain. I hope it helps people understand what it is like to be in a firefight, not for reporters, but for soldiers who face this day after day.

…………………………………….

14th May 2007

A sudden explosion of pain in my back, like a street-fight kidney punch, pushed me to my knees. Immediately, I knew I’d been shot. As I gasped for the breath that had been driven out of me, my head swam with a multitude of questions and curses. I couldn’t believe it, although in all honesty, with the amount of bullets flying through the air all around us, it would have been more difficult to believe that anyone was going to get out of here without getting shot. But still, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t believe it. In Nuristan province, in north-eastern Afghanistan, surrounded by US soldiers fighting for their lives in an Al-Qaeda ambush, I’d been shot.

Arriving in Afghanistan 5 weeks earlier, I had explained to the Public Affairs Officer at Bagram Air Field that I was here to show the reality of a deployed soldier’s life. I wanted to be “outside the wire,” living with the soldiers on the frontline. During my two trips the previous year I had succeeded in spending most of the 3 months in the field, and the results were strong photographs of a dangerous mission in an unforgiving environment. But this year I was going further. I had resigned my staff position with Agence France-Presse, an international news agency, and said goodbye to my girlfriend, family and friends, and flown out to Afghanistan as a freelance photographer. And this time I was staying for 9 months. Initially my request for such a long embed with the US military in Afghanistan was greeted with amazement. Was I serious? Did I realise how difficult 9 months would be on me physically and mentally? Was I aware of the dangers I would be exposing myself to? Yes, yes, and yes, were the answers. My previous trips had convinced me that there was a huge need for the world to understand the fight in Afghanistan. Many people thought it was all over, and of those that knew it still raged, many believed it was inseparable from the war in Iraq. From what I had seen and learned in the spring and autumn of 2006, embedded with the British in Helmand, the Canadians in Kandahar, and US forces in Paktia and Khowst, I knew that the war in Afghanistan was incredibly complex. However, it was important that the world knew what was going on there. I wanted to remind people about a conflict regularly called “The Forgotten War,” and I wanted to show them the realities of the fighting at ground level. And to achieve that, I would have to live with the troops. I wanted to show their lives in a combat zone, and so I would have to go through the soldier experience. Well, I asked for it, and boy did I get it!Now I was shot, and the battle around me showed no signs of ending. I realised that kneeling behind a Humvee, I was still exposed to whoever had just shot me, and so I ran and dived behind a large rock. Well, that’s how I remember it. One of the other guys there told me afterwards that there was no running or diving involved. He said “You half crawled, half dragged yourself behind that rock. As I curled into as small a ball as I could, another bullet slammed into the rock, less than two inches above my head. It appeared the sniper wasn’t finished with me yet. Then an explosion ripped through the air, as a rocket propelled grenade detonated against the Humvee that I had just abandoned. Close by, three soldiers crouched behind some more rocks. Bullets hammered against their protective boulders, and more cracked overhead.  Staff Sergeant Anderson was busy getting a field onto Sergeant Clark’s arm, through which he had been shot moments before me, and Staff Sergeant Sears was shouting at me. He was telling me to hang in there, that they would get me out of here soon. He asked me how many times I had been hit, where I was hit, and lots of other questions that blurred into each other. I knew he was trying to keep me awake, to stave off the dangers of slipping into unconsciousness, but even as more bullets hammered at the rock that sheltered me with the ferocity of a blacksmith working at his anvil, my mind was wandering. 

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I had woken that morning to the sound of helicopters buzzing low overhead, and had dragged myself out of my sleeping bag into the early dawn light. A couple of Blackhawks were disappearing over the mountains to the west, and within a few minutes two troop carrying Chinooks appeared, with an Apache gunship escort. And so another day of missions was underway in Nuristan province, in the north-east of Afghanistan on the border with Pakistan. This is an extremely volatile area, where the US presence is only months old, and where fighting is fierce. In the foothills of the Hindu Kush, with peaks rising to over 18,000ft, Nuristan is also where experts believe Osama bin Laden’s last two videos were recorded. It is an area that resisted the Soviet invasion successfully, never allowed the Taliban to gain a foothold, and even in fact even defied Islam until 1895. Until then the area was known as Kafiristan, “Land of the Infidels.” All over the small outpost, soldiers made final preparations for the day’s mission. Officially called Kamu. but known as “The Palace” due to its connections with Afghanistan’s last monarch, King Shah, the base had once been a royal hunting lodge. While those days were gone, the manicured lawns and blooming rose bushes remain, in stark contrast to the utilitarian living of the Afghan and US soldiers, with their sandbags, gun emplacements, and canvas tents.The US Embedded Tactical Trainers that I was embedded with were to undertake a joint mission with the 1st Company, 2nd Kandak, 201st Corps, Afghan National Army that they were mentoring. It was a simple blocking operation, but was planned to take several days. There would also be a small element from White Platoon, 3rd Squadron, 71st Cavalry, 10th Mountain Division, or 3/71 Cav as they are known. 

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It is a military axiom that no plan survives first contact with the enemy. Others talk of Murphy running around on the battlefield. Whichever, this day was not to go as planned. No sooner had the US and Afghan troops positioned themselves in the initial position, than everything changed. Radio reports started to come in of a TIC, or troops in contact, the army’s newest description for a fight. But this was not the fight expected, or planned for, but an ambush 20 kilometres to the east, on a different joint operation. Sitting, listening to the radio transmissions from a TIC, is an awful experience. The feelings of helplessness and frustration, coupled with worry and anger, make following the events more difficult. But when a “Break, break, break” call goes out, followed by a “Nine-Line” request, it is then that things are at their worst. “Break, break, break” indicates that an emergency message is about to be broadcast and all other callers should cease transmitting. A “Nine-Line” call informs all listeners on the net that a US soldier is wounded, and in need of an immediate medical evacuation. It is a radio call that raises the hair on the back of the neck, and we were now listening to multiple calls for MedEvac, meaning there was a mass casualty situation. It was clear that they were for both US and Afghan personnel.

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Radio reports kept coming in, and then came the worst news of all. While most troops had indeed pushed out of the kill-zone, and raced the 10 klicks (kilometres) to Kamu to get their wounded onto MedEvac helicopters, up to 10 ANA soldiers had been left behind in the fight. How this happened was unclear, but the most likely case was that they jumped clear of their vehicles which were then damaged during the attack. Several ANA had been killed, and if the chain of command had been broken, it was possible, though shocking, that someone could be left behind, due to the differing tactics in the face of attack.As the closest units available, the ETT/ANA element I was with was designated the Quick Reaction Force (QRF). Within minutes we were loaded into the Humvees and racing towards the ambush. As we raced along the treacherous road, word came in on the radio that White Platoon had also put together a QRF and they would be heading out the gate of Kamu just as we arrived. The US Embedded Tactical Trainer Master Sergeant Best, commanding the ETT team, began coordinating with Staff Sergeant Sears from White Platoon about what we should expect. Best believed that the ambush was in fact a feint, albeit a very successful one, and had been intended to draw out a larger force for a more aggressive ambush already in place. So essentially, we were playing right into the insurgents hands and racing into a pre-planned trap, but of course if the men left behind were to be rescued then there was no choice. Best told the gunner, “Young ‘Un,” that this was it and he had better be switched on up there, scanning for any sign of danger. We were driving straight into the maelstrom.

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When we arrived the White Platoon element was already there. We had stopped by a rickety old wooden bridge, and following everyone else, I climbed out of the Humvee. There were buildings on the north side that would have to be cleared before the troops could safely move further down the road. Best called for five ANA soldiers. Staff Sergeant Sears joined him, and I ran after them as they moved quickly across the bridge.With US and ANA working smoothly together, no time was wasted in shouting orders. The first compound was approached, and following a quick shout of instruction to any people inside, the door was kicked in. Then, just as they exited, the roar of cannon fire filled the air. Everyone dropped to the ground instantly.jdm070514_12-low-res.jpg

“It’s the Apache” shouted Master Sergeant Best, explaining to the terrified looking ANA (and an ashen faced Irish photographer) that it was the overhead Close Air Support (CAS) doing the firing. He got on the radio to find out what was happening, what they were firing at, and more importantly to give them our position. It is exactly these kinds of confused, fast moving circumstances that lead to “blue on blue,” or friendly fire, incidents, and MSG Best was doing his utmost to avoid that. He was still trying to get clarification as to what the helicopter gunships were shooting at, when they fired again. The noise was paralyzing, even though I knew they weren’t shooting at us. I realised I was almost frozen with fright and I had to force myself to move again.Suddenly, a call came over the radio saying that the Apache helicopters had spotted ANA survivors on the south bank. Unfortunately they had also seen wounded and possible dead. On the other side of the river ETT Sergeant Clark was waiting with the rest of the ANA, with elements of White Platoon further back. The road was bad, and moving Humvees was slow, so Master Sergeant Best jumped into the back of a Ranger. I followed him, realising that he was going to race up ahead with the ANA. Soon we had six or seven guys in the back and were racing east. Within a few minutes, we saw the first of the dead. The Ranger came to a halt, and the ANA spilled over the side. There was much shouting, lamenting, and some crying. Then another Ranger appeared, racing towards us, carrying wounded. It couldn’t pass on the narrow road, and there was a lot more confusion, horn-blowing, and shouting. I moved towards the second Ranger, and I could see two walking wounded standing in the back, and a third soldier laid out on the floor of the pick-up. He was shot in the neck and shoulder, and was in a pretty bad way, but rather than giving him any medical assistance, his comrades were crying and hugging each other. They were obviously in shock, but Staff Sergeant Sears was infuriated. He shouted and swore and grabbed and shook them, but to no avail. He then began to give first aid to the man himself, all the time shouting at the other ANA to pull themselves together and help their friend. He was telling them that this was not the time for grieving and that there would be plenty of time for that later. Right now, they needed to rally round their buddies and lift their spirits, or at least pull some perimeter security. He seemed to get through to one or two of them, and together they pulled the body armour off the wounded man. Sears kept shouting at the man to wake up, and finally an ANA soldier understood what the Sergeant wanted, and started to talk to the wounded man, in an attempt to keep him conscious. jdm070514_28-low-res.jpg

A Humvee from White Platoon had pushed further up the road, perhaps 50 metres, and was reporting back that there were more ANA dead and possibly wounded up ahead.  ETTs Best and Clark, along with Sears and I, spaced out and began to jog up the road. I pulled slightly ahead in order to be able to turn and shoot some frames.And then, after maybe 20 metres, while out in the wide open, everything went to hell. Machinegun fire burst from the north ridge, and suddenly the air around me was filled with noise and bullets. In this kind of situation there is not really any time for thought. You react, or get shot. One of the things that MSG Best was constantly reinforcing to his men, and to me, was the importance of always being aware of our surroundings. “If we are attacked right now,” he would regularly ask during foot patrols, “where is your best cover, and what is your exfil route?” I had taken this lesson to heart, and so I already knew where I was going to take cover. With no idea where anyone else was going, I dived behind a large rock to my right and ate dirt. I pulled myself into as small a ball as possible. Bullets smashed against the rock, while more cracked overhead. I have always been told that when bullets are whizzing, whining, or buzzing, it means they aren’t that close, but when they snap or crack, that is the sound of them breaking the sound barrier. It also means that they are very close. Too close! I was terrified, and I mean properly terrified. There was no other cover, so I wasn’t going to be able to move, and it was only a matter of time before we started to take fire from the south, to which I was totally exposed. The worst thing you can do is stay still in a situation like this, but there was nowhere I could go. And the so I lay there, thinking that my protective rock must surely be shattered by the bullets beating against it, and waiting for the inevitable eruption of fire from the south, from which I would have no protection at all.

The others were in a similar situation, when the Humvee up ahead saw our predicament. Racing towards us, it pulled up near Staff Sergeant Sears and me, although to be honest I was curled into such a tiny space that I didn’t even dare lift my head to look around. The first thing I knew about it was when Sears shouted to me to move, and we both jumped up and ran into the cover provided by its armoured hulk. The vehicle slowly reversed backwards towards its original spot, and we trotted alongside it, hunched over to make as small a target as possible.

At the time, I couldn’t understand why Master Sergeant Best and Sergeant Clark hadn’t joined us beside the Humvee, but from subsequent emails and conversations I have pieced together their story. They were pinned down together between two rocks. “There we were, spooning like a pair of lovers”, said Best of their predicament. Sergeant Clark says at this point things get a little fuzzy for him, and he says that he is glad he was with the “grizzled old fucker.” Best is 50 years old, and Clark is 22. He remembers saying “We have to get out of here,” to which Master Sergeant Best gently replied “Well, where the fuck do you suggest we go, they are shooting at us from both sides.” Sergeant Clark wanted to try and get back to the ANA soldiers sheltering behind some huge wooden beams, but when Best moved his foot slightly out from behind their pulverised rock, the fire immediately intensified. Clark shouted back “OK, you’re right, but we can’t stay here.” The experienced Master Sergeant then got on his radio, and coordinated with the ANA to get their DSHKA heavy machinegun and rocket propelled grenades to provide suppressive fire on both ridgelines. Then they would jump up, and run, with Best firing to the north and Clark shooting south.  Meanwhile the Humvee sheltering Sears and me had stopped in the shade of some trees. It wasn’t exactly cover, but if the insurgents couldn’t see us, hopefully it would be more difficult to shoot at us. And then, as if on cue, the insurgents on the south side opened fire on us. They definitely could see us, so we ran around to the north of the Humvee. Up top, Kittle, the.50 Calibre machine-gunner, was pouring withering fire on the southern ridge.

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Then we saw Master Sergeant Best and Sergeant Clark running towards us. Everyone laid down fire to try and cover them, while I shot photographs of their mad dash over open ground. The “Fog of War” is defined by the British Joint Services Command and Staff College (JSCSC) as a term used to describe “the level of ambiguity in situational awareness experienced by participants in military operations.” In other words it is very confusing. Often several participants in the same fight will have wildly varying tales to tell. This doesn’t necessarily mean anyone is lying, just that they had different experiences during the same high intensity event. By the same token, often there are large gaps of memory. For me, there is a strange split in my memory. I remember all my thoughts, decisions and actions, but I don’t remember taking most of the photographs I later found in my cameras. Obviously I was shooting pictures, but it turns out I did most of it without thinking. The soldiers call this “muscle-memory,” when they have practised an action to the point where it can be performed instintively. I would compare it to driving a stick-shift car. When you are learning to drive, the whole releasing accelerator, engaging the clutch, and changing gears is an action that requires total concentration. Eventually though, it becomes second nature, and requires no concious thought. So, when we were under fire, all my concious thought went into watching what the soldiers around me did, and doing the same thing myself. This seemed the most sensible course of action, and I hoped would increase my chances of survival in the unfolding battle. As I said, this meant that I composed abd exposed most of the photographs of the fight without being aware of it.
 

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Except, that is, when Master Sergeant Best and Sergeant Clark made that run over open ground, under intense hostile fire. That I remember. I remember it only too well, because I distinctly recall the thoughts that flashed through my mind. I thought they were going to die. These guys had become my friends, and now I was photographing them as they ran over open ground, with insurgents shooting at them from both sides of the valley, and I was absolutely certain that they were going to be shot and die while I was making pictures of them. It was horrible. They made it, but since then I have thought a lot about those moments. I thought they would die, and it made me feel sick, but I continued to shoot pictures. It was awful, and I certainly didn’t want any harm to befall them, but the cold, hard truth is that I have set myself the task of documenting the whole experience of soldiers in Afghanistan, and if I was to flinch, to turn away from something that I might find upsetting or worse, then I would have failed at my job. And if I am not prepared to give everything to this job, then I shouldn’t be there at all.
 

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By now the protective gunships had left us, as they were low on fuel. In fact it was right after they left that the attack started on us. This is a classic tactic of foreign fighters, especially Uzbeks and Chechens. They are exceptionally disciplined, and will hit and then hide and wait until the Apaches are forced to leave. Also, the staging of the bodies of the dead and wounded on the road, along with all their equipment and sensitive items such as radios, is another favoured tactic. It draws the rescuers into that kill-zone. All this was known, but the fact that ANA soldiers were still unaccounted for when the Quick Reaction Force arrived meant that all of these danger signals were put to one side in the attempt to rescue the missing ANA.

Bullets were still flying through the air too close for comfort, when the rear left door of the Humvee opened, and a US Marine ETT, Capt. Tom Grace, climbed out. He greeted Master Sergeant Best like an old friend, and said “Good to see you man, I’m you’re replacement.” Best laughed and welcomed him to his new posting. Then the Marine turned to me, grabbed me and pulled me close, so I could hear over all the gunfire, and said, “Man, you’re fucking crazy. Nobody can be paying you enough to be here right now.” Little did he know that, as a freelancer, nobody was paying me at all!

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Then I saw Sergeant Clark’s face overcome with a strange expression. He looked down to see blood on his left forearm. I yelled that he’d been hit, into Best’s ear, and we dashed behind the Humvee for cover. Sergeant Clark, and Staff Sergeant Anderson, the commander of the Humvee, jumped behind some rocks on the other side. I don’t know what happened to the Marine.

Behind the Humvee, by the front right tyre, Best and Sears were firing at the southern ridgeline. Best was also shouting over to the other two Sergeants to get a situation report (Sit Rep) on Clark’s wound when a hail of small arms fire sprayed the vehicle right between them. Sears ran for the rocks, where Anderson was giving Sergeant Clark first aid, while Master Sergeant Best moved to the back of the vehicle, where I was still crouched. I could see Anderson putting dressing on SGT Clark’s arm and I shot a few frames. I moved a little to the left to try and get a clearer shot while still remaining in cover. As I framed the photograph of soldiers sheltering behind a rock as dust rises above it from the bullets hammering the other side, there was a huge explosion, maybe 75 metres out to the south. I could hear Best on the radio swearing. That was a friendly mortar round, landing “danger close.” Great, now we were going to get caught in friendly fire.

And then, the kidney punch. Now here I was, still lying behind a rock, with bullets flying all around, and more rocket propelled grenades exploding behind me. I could still hear someone shouting to me, telling me everything was going to be ok, but I wasn’t convinced. Strangely the initial pain hadn’t been that bad, but I knew as the shock started to wear off the pain would get worse.

Lying behind that rock I felt more alone than I have ever felt in my entire life. I thought about my girlfriend, and hoped I would see her again, and I worried about how her life would be affected if I died here. As the pain got worse, the fear grew over the extent of my injury and how it might affect the rest of my life and I will admit that, briefly, I wished I had just died straight out from the shot. Immediately I pushed that thought away, and decided there and then that I was not going to give up. Fuck that sniper, and fuck all these insurgents. I was going to live. I was going to go home and see my girlfriend and my family again. I held onto this thought as the pain increased. God, it hurt!

I can’t be sure, but I think I was behind that rock for 10 or 15 minutes before someone finally got to me. Someone ripped open my shirt as I lay on my belly, and I heard them say I had been shot in the kidney. They asked me if I had a field dressing (which I did – thanks to First Sergeant Reynolds in Salerno last December). He tore it open and pressed it down on the wound, sending bolts of pain shooting into my brain, and then told me I had to get up. I thought he was kidding, and wanted to wait for a stretcher, but it wasn’t going to happen and, deep down, I knew it. He rolled me onto my side, grabbed me by the hand, and helped me up. I managed to hold on to both of my cameras although they felt heavier then they ever had before. I was terrified of getting shot again, but I couldn’t tell if all the firing around me was outgoing, or if we were still getting shot at. He half dragged half pushed me towards a Humvee, but when we pulled open the door there was already a body in there.

I now became aware that the ETT Humvee had moved up to help get us out of there, and suddenly I was being bundled in behind Staff Sergeant Brown, with Specialist “Young Un” on the gun beside me. I had my left arm behind my back, desperately trying to hold the dressing in place and to keep pressure on the wound to stem the bleeding. It hurt like hell at this stage, and my arm felt weak already. Sitting in Clark’s usual seat, I looked across to my right to see Clark in my seat. He told me to hang in there, and we’d be out of here soon.

More bullets pounded against my side of the Humvee. Godammit! Let’s get out of here, I thought. Sergeant Clark was talking to me now, and I tried to focus on his words. He was telling me to keep the pressure on the wound. “You’ve got to contain the bleeding” he kept telling me. I was struggling to focus, and I guess he could see it. “Stay awake, stay alive,” he must have told me 100 times. He started asking me about home, about Helen, and about anything that would keep me awake. He kept me going, never relenting or giving me a moment to faze out, and all the time he was suffering with his own wound in the left forearm.