Combat Camera

by Christian Hill

  I also spent six months on the Falkland Islands, working as a watch-keeper in the Joint Operations Centre near Port Stanley. The threat of invasion from Argentina was practically non-existent, so my South Atlantic campaign consisted of drinking, answering the telephone and watching movies.

  * * *

  By the time I left the army in January 2000, I’d decided upon a career in newspapers. I was going to study Print Journalism at City University in London for a year, then take it from there. City University had one of the best reputations for turning out journalists, so it was the natural choice. I would make myself at home in the capital, and start scribbling.

  Unfortunately, when I applied to City University, they told me the Print Journalism course for that year was already fully subscribed.

  “Have you thought about Broadcast Journalism?” said the quietly spoken woman on the phone. “You’ve got a nice voice.”

  What?

  “Or you could wait a year.”

  I’d set my heart on City University – after being tied down in places like Bosnia and the Falklands, I wanted to spread my wings in London, the centre of it all. That was where all the good bars were, and that was where the media was.

  I wasn’t prepared to wait for a year, so I humoured the woman on the phone.

  “So… Broadcast Journalism.”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it, exactly?

  As she described the course to me, I suddenly saw myself in front of a camera in some distant war-torn city, telling the good people back home all about mankind’s latest atrocities. I’d stay in the best bombed-out hotels and bounce back to London every weekend for champagne and sympathy.

  The woman finished telling me about the prospectus, all of which had gone entirely over my head.

  “OK,” I said. “Put me down for that.”

  * * *

  I went to City University, got my diploma in Broadcast Journalism and wound up getting a job at a showbiz news agency. How this tied in with my dreams of being a war reporter, I don’t know, but it was work, and I needed to stay afloat. I had to travel from my tiny flat in Fulham to a grubby little office in north London every day, a journey that took more than an hour on the bus and the Tube. If that wasn’t distressing enough – the whole notion of commuting was alien to me – the job itself was an even bigger shock. I was employed as an “audio editor”, which involved monitoring British TV and radio stations for celebrity interviews. If someone famous popped up, I hit the record button. That was pretty much it. The only skill required was my ability to cut down the resulting audio into a showbiz news feed that was sent out to a number of European radio stations and – incredibly – Disney.

  It was a shit job. I wasn’t even sure it was legal. The pay was appalling and I was going nowhere fast. I couldn’t even use it as a springboard into Disney. They didn’t have a clue about my role. I may as well have been the caretaker.

  After a fortnight, I started filling out more application forms for the BBC. This was an act of desperation. I’d already filled out a plethora at City University, and met with nothing but rejection. The BBC had one of the most time-consuming job-application forms I’d ever seen – it was like writing a dissertation, filled with nothing but hot air. Concepts like “360-degree planning” and “holistic viewer experience” meant nothing to me, and yet I found myself writing thousands of words about them.

  Then I had a break. One of our reporters managed to upset Disney with a story about George Harrison, claiming the ex-Beatle was on the verge of death. He’d recorded an interview with George Martin, attributing a number of quotes to the former Beatles manager that appeared to suggest that Harrison – stricken with cancer – only had weeks to live. The piece was bought and published by the Mail on Sunday, prompting a complaint from Martin. Apparently his comments had been “taken out of context”, and Harrison was not as sick as the article suggested.*

  With everyone at the agency terribly excited about such a big story, I’d been urged to use a couple of clips from the offending interview in my audio feed. When Disney found out we’d been responsible for upsetting George Martin – with the clips playing out on their US radio stations – they cancelled their expensive subscription to the feed with immediate effect.

  Because Disney effectively bankrolled the feed, this meant I was out of a job.

  Instead of making me redundant, however, the agency decided to keep me on as a reporter. This meant hanging around outside movie premieres, pestering celebrities over the phone and generally acting like a dick.

  I soon decided that this was even worse than being an “audio editor”. I was now an out-and-out lowlife, as opposed to one that just sat in the office all day. My days and nights were spent trying to conjure up stories that we could flog to the tabloid press. I wasn’t going through anyone’s rubbish bins just yet, but it was only a matter of time. The pressure was on at the agency. The economy was struggling, newspapers were struggling, and money was drying up.

  We thought the Top Shop contract might turn things around. The fashion chain wanted a daily showbiz round-up for its in-store radio station. I was asked to put together a demo bulletin, voiced by myself and one of my colleagues, the soon-to-be famous Amy Winehouse. (Prior to her first record deal, she worked at the agency for about six months, although I never saw her do much reporting. She sang a lot in the office, which was nice.) We recorded a two-minute demo together, taking turns to read out the latest showbiz news, trying to pull off a winning combination of sassy and droll.

  Top Shop turned us down. Our demo was sent back and tossed in the bin.

  Worse was to follow, of course. Much worse.

  * * *

  It’s difficult to write with any sensitivity about the impact of the 9/11 attacks on the entertainment-news industry, because – let’s face it – no one gives a shit, but I’m going to try anyway.

  Human tragedy aside, it was a disaster for the agency. The demand for celebrity bullshit disappeared overnight. It was like no one cared any more. For days after 9/11, I just sat at my desk looking at reruns of the towers collapsing. To all intents and purposes, they were a metaphor for my career as a showbiz reporter.

  I got laid off a month later.

  My descent into local radio began shortly after that. I loitered in Fulham for a few more months, sponging off the taxpayer, before calling it quits and returning home to Nottinghamshire. I had the basic skills needed to be a radio journalist (TV would have to wait, given the paucity of my CV), so I started applying for work-experience placements at stations across the East Midlands.

  I kept banging away at the BBC – I had fantasies about landing a job at one of the big national stations, reporting to the masses – but to no avail. Eventually I got an unpaid placement at 96 Trent FM, a commercial station in Nottingham, which led to a full-time position. I did the odd reporting shift, but mainly I was used for newsreading, a pattern that was to repeat itself at several other local commercial stations for many frustrating, dispiriting years to come.

  * * *

  By the winter of 2008, I was still in Nottingham, stuck fast at a station called Smooth Radio. Whatever my career plan was, it had ground to a halt. I was trapped in the provinces, stretched out on the rack of commercial radio, destined to read the local news every day for the rest of my life.

  It was in this spirit of self-pity that I first learnt about the Media Operations Group, or MOG. I was sitting in the newsroom, festering, waiting for my next hourly bulletin. It was already written – it only took two minutes to put together – so I turned on the TV and started watching Sky News. It was showing a report from Iraq by a soldier called Lorna Ward, a Sky journalist who was also a captain in the Territorial Army, running something called the “Combat Camera Team”. I watched her creeping down a deserted street in Baghdad, clad in body armour and helmet, looking suitably anxious.

  I looked up “Combat Camera Team” and found out all about the MOG. It was a TA unit based in London, al
ways on the lookout for “media operators” with military experience – be they PR types or journalists. I took down the details.

  The MOG was going to save me. There was no doubt about it.

  I got a place on their selection weekend about two months later. They ran a handful every year at their Kingston upon Thames headquarters. It consisted of a series of written tests to assess our military knowledge, followed by a practical (taking questions at a mock news conference) and a couple of interviews. The Commanding Officer at the time, a blunt Ulsterman called Colonel Lucas, asked me the most important question first:

  “Would you be prepared to deploy to somewhere like Afghanistan?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” I said, mindlessly.

  I hadn’t actually thought about the reality of an operational tour in Afghanistan. If Colonel Lucas had asked me to stick my head in a lion’s mouth, I would have given him exactly the same answer. I was desperate to make something happen with my life – my career was dying. I knew that if I was going to deploy to Afghanistan, they would want me for the Combat Camera Team – “news-gatherers” were in short supply in the MOG – but I hadn’t even begun to consider the risks involved. My priority was to get through the selection weekend – I would worry about everything else later.

  Four days later I got a letter in the post, welcoming me into the MOG.

  * * *

  I didn’t volunteer for Afghanistan straight away. I wasn’t a complete idiot. I needed some time to feel my way back into the military. Just becoming a reservist was strange enough. As a regular, I’d always been a bit sniffy about the TA – surely the army was a lifestyle choice rather than a weekend pursuit? How could you commit to a role that might require you to sacrifice your life, when you were doing something else five days a week?

  I soon got over my prejudices. I was no longer some tragic underachiever in his mid-thirties who read the news for peanuts on local radio. Those days were over. I was now a part-time army officer in his mid-thirties who read the news for peanuts on local radio. In my mind, there was a huge difference. There was now a light at the end of the tunnel; I could see some sort of career path emerging. I didn’t know whether it would lead to Afghanistan necessarily, but at this stage I didn’t care. I was just glad to have some of my self-respect back.

  I got laid off three months later. The station was merging with its sister site in Birmingham. There were three of us working in the newsroom in Nottingham, and one of us had to go. Unable to muster the enthusiasm needed to preserve my role, I got the P45.

  I applied for a vacant position in the newsroom at BBC Radio Leicester, but it meant nothing. I was washing my hands of local radio. I’d spent most of the decade in that particular rut and now I wanted out. It was time to do something with my life, even if it meant possibly losing it. The MOG was always on the lookout for the next Combat Camera Team leader, so getting a tour lined up would not be a problem. The BBC application was just a token gesture, intended to fail, intended to hasten my lurch towards Afghanistan. I filled out the form during the last few days of my Smooth Radio notice period, killing time between bulletins. If I had any last-second doubts about volunteering for the Combat Camera Team, I could always tell myself that I’d tried – and failed – to find a normal job.

  BBC HR got back to me a week later, just as I was girding my loins to make the big call to the MOG. Apparently, the Managing Editor at BBC Radio Leicester had been impressed with my application form. Was I available for an interview?

  The BBC dream was still alive, it seemed. Without getting too carried away, I started to wonder whether a spell at BBC Radio Leicester might not in fact be a good idea. With my nose in the Corporation trough, I’d be in a decent position to sniff out a job at one of the national stations, broadcasting to the masses. I’d spent almost ten years in the hinterlands of local radio, fantasizing about a role in one of the newsrooms at Broadcasting House. Surely it was worth giving it one last shot, before riding off into the Afghan sunset?

  * * *

  I put the call to the MOG on hold, went to the interview at BBC Radio Leicester – and got the job. At the time, I thought the planets must have aligned. Only later did I learn that the Managing Editor – a bohemian turned journalist called Kate Squire – was specifically looking for a decent newsreader. The interview had gone quite badly, in fact. I had no idea, for instance, that so much emphasis would be placed on their Breakfast Show.

  “Tell us about our Breakfast Show this morning,” Kate had said. “What did you like about it, and what would you have done to improve it?”

  “I’m afraid I was quite busy this morning,” I said casually. “I didn’t get a chance to listen to it.”

  I’ve since learnt that this sort of response is normally enough to derail a BBC interview completely, but obviously the newsreading gods (and Kate) were smiling on me, and my slip-up was overlooked.

  I enjoyed working at BBC Radio Leicester – my colleagues in the newsroom were a good crowd, and made me feel more than welcome – but it was always just a means to an end. I read the bulletins on the Breakfast Show for six months, familiarizing myself with the BBC way of doing things, and then I applied for a placement at one of the national stations. The man I had to impress was a newsreader himself, a minor celebrity called Alan Dedicoat (aka the “Voice of the Balls” on the National Lottery). He oversaw the BBC’s top stable of radio newsreaders, and had the power to lever me into one of the national slots for a trial run. If he liked my voice, I could be reading on BBC Radio Two within days. If not, I was going nowhere. I emailed him a demo bulletin on 7th July 2010 and awaited his reply.

  He got back in touch a few days later with the following email:

  Good morning!

  Well, I’ve taken a listen… and sadly, it’s not quite what I’m after.

  – It’s a bit “sung” for my liking

  – And breathy in places

  – Each story’s read in exactly the same way

  – There’s virtually no attack at the start of each item; there’s nothing to make me listen up

  – Frankly, it sounds a bit like you’re more concerned with how you sound than what you’re reading

  – How high’s the volume on your headphones?

  Sorry, but you did ask!

  I was a little taken aback by this – I didn’t agree with any of his points – but at least he wasn’t sugar-coating it. I replied to that effect:

  OK Alan, thanks for the honesty!

  There wasn’t much else I could say. I was in no position to start arguing with him. He probably got dozens of demos from BBC staffers like me every week.

  He replied five minutes later:

  Well, it’s not a write-off, Christian – don’t think that. I’m just looking for something special. Listeners have just one shot at understanding the news. They don’t have the script or prior knowledge of the stories. We’re honour-bound to help them understand FIRST TIME. We shouldn’t “colour” it with the way we sound or how we say things.

  My real problem is everyone wants to join us.

  If you’re in town at all, call me and take me for coffee!

  Of course I was never going to call him and take him for coffee. Perhaps I could’ve sent him another demo in six months, or approached somebody else of equal standing, but I just didn’t have the energy. Trying to crack Broadcasting House could take years, and what would I be doing in the meantime? The prospect of more local radio, decades of it, stretched out before me like a desolate plain, too depressing to contemplate.

  I was a desperate journeyman, looking for a seismic shift, something to break up the long, unwanted trek. I needed a fault line to open up, something that would reveal a deeper, more precious route. Something quicker, riskier and with greater reward.

  I wasn’t about to leave the BBC altogether – that was my safety line. A brief descent was all that was required, then I’d haul myself back up to the surface, hopefully in a new and magical land.

  As
long as the ground didn’t swallow me whole, I’d be just fine.

  *

  Harrison died from lung cancer five months later.

  Home Fires

  Telling your family you’ve volunteered to go to Afghanistan is never an easy thing. Why would anybody in their right mind want to go there? Even if you don’t mention the war, it’s a tough sell. It’s the poorest country in Asia, it generates most of the planet’s heroin and it’s stupidly hot. Throw in the firefights, the IEDs and the suicide bombers, and you’ve got that most difficult of pitches: “Hell on Earth”.

  With no wife or girlfriend to speak of – my love life to that point had been a series of mildly amusing disasters, worthy of their own comic novella – I only had to worry about breaking the news to my parents. I did also have a brother and sister, but they were much less of a concern: both Will and Nicky took after our father’s side of the family, being typically English and phlegmatic about things like love and war. Unlike myself, they shared none of our mother’s Germanic fondness for tearful sentimentality.

  I told my parents on a frosty evening just a few days before Christmas, stopping by on my way home from work. My mother was standing by the fire in the lounge when I broke the news, while my father was in his favourite chair, reading his newspaper.

  “I’ve got something important to tell you,” I said.

  I wasn’t normally given to statements like this. Already my mother looked worried. My father put his paper down.

  “I’m going to Afghanistan.”

  My mother’s face dropped, and she started to cry.

  Shit.

  What was I doing, putting her through this? She didn’t deserve this. She’d brought me into this world, loved me and looked after me. Now I was dropping this on her.