“The SAS guys came an hour earlier than everyone else,” she told me the next day. “Lloyd Newell’s coffin was already on the plane when I got there. They’d screened it behind a black curtain.”
Once Special Forces, always Special Forces, as the saying goes.
* * *
At around the same time that Craftsman Found and Private Bellingham were being carried onto the Hercules, Barack Obama was giving a speech in the White House, televised live across the world, announcing plans to withdraw a third of US troops from Afghanistan over the next twelve months.
Many media commentators in the US were quick to point out that the bulk of the withdrawal was timed just ahead of the presidential election on 6th November 2012. It was also noted that there were just 32,000 US troops in Afghanistan on 20th January 2009, the day that President Obama took office, compared to the current total of 100,000.
The following morning, the French President Nicolas Sarkozy announced that he would also start withdrawing some of his 4,000 troops from Afghanistan. I looked through the statement he gave to the press as I sat at my desk in the JMOC, trying to look busy:
Given the progress we have seen, France will begin a gradual withdrawal of reinforcement troops sent to Afghanistan, in a proportional manner and in a calendar comparable to the withdrawal of American reinforcements.
The statement didn’t give any precise details, apparently because the French wanted to avoid giving sensitive information to the Taliban. But the French Defence Minister Gérard Longuet went on to tell France Info Radio: “It will be significant for 2012 and, like the Americans, we will see this materialize in 2012.”
I moved on to other stuff. I had a trip to Kabul to organize. Russ and I had always intended to return to the ANP’s Staff College to complete our filming of the five-week District Commander’s course. The original plan had been to go back and record the officers graduating on their final day. It wasn’t necessarily going to make for the most stellar footage, but it was going to provide us with a nice little conclusion to the piece.
With Russ flying back to the UK, I had assumed the whole thing would fall through, but now I was starting to think that maybe I could just go to Kabul on my own and do the filming myself. Ali had already been tasked to cover the Female Engagement Team* in Lashkar Gah (my presence – as a man – was neither required nor wanted), so her schedule was taken care of. What else was I going to do other than fester in the JMOC?
Granted, I’d never actually used the P2 video camera, but how hard could it be? You just had to point it in the right direction and press the little red record button. I wasn’t making Lawrence of Arabia.
My flight to Kabul wasn’t until Monday, which meant a long weekend stranded in the JMOC, listening to my colleagues chafe over their daily dramas. On Friday, the vital concern involved a reporter and cameraman from BBC Kabul, who had flown in on the same Hercules as another embed, Sunday Times correspondent Miles Amoore. Upon their arrival at the flight line, the BBC pair had accepted a lift to the JMOC from some passing American soldiers, while Miles had waited for Mick to pick him up in the minibus, as arranged.
“I’m not happy with that,” said Mick when he finally got back to the JMOC with Miles. “I was supposed to be picking the BBC guys up as well. They didn’t tell us they’d got a lift. We could’ve been waiting for ages.”
“Typical BBC attitude,” Faulkner said. “Get used to it.”
I sunk a little lower in my seat. Faulkner had apparently forgotten that I was a BBC journalist as well, and given his antipathy towards my fellow workers, I decided it would be easier if I just remained under the radar. I had three more days in the office until my trip to Kabul, and I wasn’t about to make it any harder for myself by siding with the enemy.
The BBC pair came into the office later that afternoon and seemed like perfectly nice guys. They chatted to Dougie about their schedule for the coming week, out on the ground with 4 Scots. Faulkner mumbled a few words of greeting, then continued with his work, writing reports and firing off emails. No mention was made of the “incident”.
Meanwhile, Miles Amoore was keeping a low profile. I caught a glimpse of him ducking into the journalists’ tent with a coffee, moving like a man who knew his way around the place. Although he wore a beard – presumably to look older – he was still only in his late twenties and had passed through the JMOC many times before. He’d been standing in more or less the same spot back in July 2009 when the news was relayed to him that his brother Jim – a second lieutenant in the Rifles – had been badly injured by an IED on the outskirts of Sangin. Miles had rushed over to the hospital, where his brother was being treated for blast wounds and shrapnel to his face, neck, arms and legs. He joined him on the flight back to the UK and spent days at his bedside in Birmingham’s Selly Oak Hospital. The subsequent feature that he wrote on the experience – ‘Blood Brothers Scarred by War’ – won him that year’s Foreign Press Association’s Print/Web Feature Story of the Year Award.
Miles didn’t stick around for very long. By the time I wandered back into the office the following morning, he was already gone, bound for Patrol Base 2 to do a piece with 1 Rifles.
I sat at my desk and deleted a few emails on my laptop, wondering what to do with my day. In such circumstances, I sometimes looked to my colleagues in the office for entertainment. They didn’t say very much, staring fixedly at their computer screens, but when they did say something it was always noteworthy.
“He actually writes quite well,” murmured Dougie. He was reading through an article by one of the embeds, making sure there was no information that would breach operational security. “But as a personality, he leaves a lot to be desired.”
“Like a lot of journalists,” Faulkner said. I didn’t know who Dougie was referring to, but I did know that one reporter who’d already put Faulkner’s back up was the Daily Telegraph’s Thomas Harding, who’d upset a number of senior officers by wearing British Army uniform during his embed with the Paras back in March. By all accounts, Harding felt it made him less of a target outside the wire. According to his theory, reporters dressed in conventional blue were more likely to be seen and shot by the Taliban, who would value the publicity that would come with a dead reporter.
The issue was discussed at the highest levels, with Faulkner eventually producing a report on the exact protocol regarding journalists in uniform.
“The Paras had a lack of understanding that they needed to keep him at arm’s length and that he wasn’t supposed to be a chum,” Faulkner had said to Dougie after Harding had completed his embed. “He just kept pulling strings. Eventually he got full MTP* and helmet and body armour. The only thing he didn’t have was a rifle. I don’t know if he was carrying a rifle, but I fucking hope not.”
Faulkner’s report drew upon a number of sources, starting with the Green Book, which detailed MoD working arrangements with the media. It stated that there was “no specific obligation on the part of UK forces to protect individuals or installations over and above the rights of all civilians working in conflict zones set out in the Geneva Conventions and their additional protocols. Furthermore, the MoD recognizes its obligations as a UN signatory to respect the professional independence and rights of journalists, media professionals and associated personnel as civilians.”
With regard to dress and equipment, the Green Book offered this:
Accredited correspondents embedded with UK forces will be expected to equip themselves with their own personal protective equipment (e.g. body armour, helmet as advised by MoD). Correspondents will wear appropriate civilian clothing as specified by PJHQ instructions, non-military-patterned and neutral in any colour (including body armour and helmet covers), that ensures and maintains their status as non-combatants.
On occasion, they may be issued with specialist protective clothing (along with any required training in its use) should the environment or situation demand. When accredited as War Correspondents they will be fully clothed and equippe
d with standard issue military items, and distinguished from combatants by means of distinctive media shoulder titles/armbands.
Confusingly, the Green Book talked about “war correspondents” rather than “embedded journalists”. In order to clear up the distinction, Faulkner had quoted directly from an interview conducted by the International Committee of the Red Cross with one of their legal experts, Robin Geiss:
“Embedded journalists” is a modern term. It was apparently first used during the 2003 invasion of Iraq and has since gained widespread currency. It does not occur in any provision of international humanitarian law and, so far as I know, it is not clearly defined. However, it is safe to say that war correspondents are commonly, although not necessarily in all cases, equated with so-called “embedded journalists”. In order to become a war correspondent within the meaning of international humanitarian law, official accreditation by the armed forces is mandatory. Thus, if an “embedded journalist” has received the official accreditation, then legally he is a war correspondent.*
Faulkner had concluded his report with a paragraph from a comprehensive article by Hans-Peter Gasser, a former senior legal advisor with the International Committee of the Red Cross:
If they [journalists] are too close to the “heat of battle”, or if they travel with a military unit, ride in a military vehicle or wear clothing similar to a military uniform, they do not lose their legal right to protection as a civilian, but such protection is de facto no longer possible… They accept the danger and act at their own risk. Any person who happens to be too close to a military object may at any moment come under enemy fire. Journalists who wear a uniform or some similar clothing may actually become a military target, not by right but because they fail to identify themselves as civilians: they just look like ordinary soldiers.
*
Tradition dictated that male soldiers were not to communicate directly with Afghan women, so Female Engagement Teams, or FETs, offered support in their place, building up relationships with the local females.
*
Multi-Terrain Pattern – the army’s new uniform, replacing the traditional green camouflage of DPM (Disruptive Pattern Material).
*
International Committee of the Red Cross (online), 27th July 2010: ‘How Does International Humanitarian Law Protect Journalists in Armed Conflict?’
Outside the Wires
Whenever I was away from Bastion, away from the office, away from the Ops Watch laptop, I felt like I was outside the loop. Going to a patrol base was all well and good for seeing the war in close-up – it allowed you to zoom in – but you lost sight of everything else going on outside the frame. In the same way that Russ had needed a guide when he was filming out on the ground, I felt like I needed a guide to keep me informed about the rest of the war.
The evening of 25th June followed an increasingly familiar pattern for me. When all of my JMOC colleagues went off to dinner, I stayed behind and manned the phones. That meant I took up my position at the Ops Watch laptop and looked through all the significant events of the day.
In the last hour a US Marine brought into Bastion with facial wounds had gone into cardiac arrest. His unit – 2nd Battalion 8th Marines – had come under fire from insurgents during a security operation in Nad-e Ali, leaving one Marine with a gunshot wound to the right shoulder and another with gunshot wounds to the left foot and buttock. The rest of the Marines had retaliated with small-arms fire and a 40-mm grenade launcher; in the resulting confusion, one of the grenades had apparently landed short, leaving two Marines with serious shrapnel wounds to the face (both Cat A). All of the wounded had been flown back to Bastion, where the Marine who had suffered a heart attack had just died.
Elsewhere in Afghanistan, an insurgent with a car bomb had tried to enter the Police Headquarters in Logar’s Azrah District. After being denied entry, he drove the vehicle into a nearby hospital and detonated the device, killing twenty Afghan civilians and leaving twenty-three wounded.
This incident had made it into the news, with the BBC putting the death toll at twenty-seven, making it the worst attack against a medical facility in Afghanistan since 2001. A member of the Logar provincial council told a reporter: “It is no less than a Doomsday. The government and its intelligent agencies should have been able to prevent this. To the enemies of the people and Islam, I say, what do you get from a bloodbath like this?”
The next day was very much the same – more boredom and more horror. The 9th/12th Royal Lancers got hit just before lunchtime, an insurgent throwing a grenade into one of A Squadron’s Jackals during a mounted patrol. Luckily, no one was killed. Three Lancers were classed as Cat C, with one of them being flown into Bastion with significant hearing loss, lower back pain and signs of battle shock. According to the report, this was his “third involvement with an explosion/near miss”.
At the brief that evening, Faulkner gave us the number of significant acts for the day – 127* – then introduced Harriet’s replacement. Sarah had just arrived at the JMOC and was going to be working alongside Harriet for the next week, learning the ropes. She was one of the palest women I had ever seen, her skin colour much closer to ivory than pink.
“I really don’t like the sun,” she admitted.
My own replacement – a young captain called Joe – was arriving in a week. He worked alongside Russ at the Media and Communications team at the British Army’s headquarters in Andover. I’d met him once on a trip to see Russ just prior to our deployment, and he seemed like a good guy. He would be landing at about the same time I got back from Kabul.
My flight out to Kabul – due the next morning – was delayed because of technical problems. The long-suffering Hercules needed some extra care and attention, so the check-in time had been pushed back to the evening. With nothing else to do, I spent the afternoon tidying my room, getting it ready for Joe so he could move in straight away. I left my rug that I’d bought from one of the Afghan shops on camp, plus a cheap set of iPod docks I’d picked up at the NAAFI, and moved the rest of my stuff – the kit that I wasn’t taking to Kabul – into a spare bed space in the transit tent.
Mick drove me over to the Passenger Handling Facility later that evening. I was carrying an improbable amount of kit, weighed down with the camera and tripod in addition to all my usual clobber. The holding area was busy, but not uncomfortably so. Most of my fellow passengers – a mixture of soldiers, civil servants and reporters – filled a bank of seats in front of a large flatscreen television that was showing one of the quarter-finals at Wimbledon. I threw my kit down near the back of the room and watched the match over the top of their heads.
We eventually left at just after 10 p.m., the good old Hercules creaking and groaning through the skies at 30,000 feet before landing at Kabul Airport at 23.30, coming to a halt alongside a gleaming-white private jet that was parked right outside the terminal. Obviously someone very important was either just arriving or just leaving. Four security guards in dark suits were standing by the jet as we walked past, ensuring none of us got too close.
I had my own security detail waiting for me on the other side of the terminal. Two guys from G4S threw my kit into the back of their Land Cruiser and sped me to the Embassy. There was no Scott tonight – he was back in the UK on leave. Instead I got Joshua, a lean, bearded diplomat in his late twenties, waiting for me at the front gates.
“The graduation ceremony is now taking place on Wednesday,” he told me as we walked through the gardens to my villa. “You’ve got tomorrow off.”
He showed me to my room. It was on the ground floor, right next to the kitchen. One side of it was taken up with a huge window that looked out onto the garden. A door in the window opened onto a small terrace, separated from the garden by a four-foot wall.
“It’s perfect, Joshua.”
“I’m fairly busy at the moment, but I’ll catch up with you at breakfast on Wednesday.”
As soon as Joshua left, I went into the deserted kitchen and chec
ked the fridge for beer. There were a couple of bottles of wine, but no lager. I had been really looking forward to an ice-cold Heineken hitting my lips. I went round the kitchen, checking all the cupboards, but found nothing. Out of desperation, I checked the fridge again, this time looking in the vegetable compartment.
I found a can of Stella inside a bag of carrots. Not a bad hiding place, really. It was already fairly cold, but I put it in the freezer section anyway – standard operating procedure – and went for a shower.
After my shower – which was glorious – I padded through the kitchen in my towel, extracted the Stella from the freezer, and returned to my room. I switched on the TV and flicked through all the channels. On one of them, 2001: A Space Odyssey was just starting. I lay on my bed and watched the apes going at it for twenty minutes, just about finishing my beer before I fell asleep.
I woke at 6.30 the following morning. A large tree shaded my window, but I could see the garden already bathed in sunlight. I went over to the window, my towel slipping from my waist as I stepped through the door onto the terrace. There was no one about, and I liked the feel of the cool, morning air all over my body. I yawned loudly and stretched up my arms.
“Good morning, sir.”
A Gurkha with a machine gun was standing in front of me, right on the other side of my little wall. They patrolled the gardens in their smart blue uniforms and caps.
I cleared my throat. “Good morning.”
I stepped back into my room and drew the curtains. It was good to know the Gurkhas were out there, but they didn’t need to see me naked. No one benefited from that. I climbed back into bed and went to sleep again.
I woke up two hours later. It was 8.40 a.m. I had just enough time to shave, put on my uniform and walk over to the canteen. The staff were already clearing the hotplates when I got there, so I settled for a bowl of Weetabix, a plate of fruit (melon, apple, kiwi) and a glass of pineapple juice.
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