by Damien Lewis
I still had the fifty-euro note that Sean had given me to change into Libyan dinar so that he could buy some silk scarves for his wife. I pulled it out of my wallet, but I couldn’t even bring myself to look at it. I locked it away in a drawer.
Glen Doherty and Tyrone Woods I didn’t know if I’d met. I’d run into guys from the Annex, but we’d never properly swapped names. Both men were ex–Navy SEALs, and they’d been working at the Annex as private security guys. Their acts during the Embassy siege would turn out to be utterly selfless—the deeds of true heroes. I still didn’t know exactly what had happened to Dave or Scotty, or the Ambassador’s close protection team, and there was little peace to be had at home.
An FBI team was due to fly in from the States to speak with me. Every agency from America kept calling and asking me to tell them my story, and while I knew how important this was, repeating it over and over and over was cracking me up inside. Laura and Lewis were with me, but I didn’t feel as if I was with them. I was in a dark and shadowed place, and mostly they were leaving me well alone.
I decided that I’d do what I had to do, and then I was going to go get myself gone. I was going to go incommunicado. I phoned a maritime security—antipiracy—company that I’d worked for a lot and asked if they had any jobs going. They said they had a ten-day transit starting in forty-eight hours, sailing from Dubai to Jeddah. I signed up to be team leader on the job.
I’d been home for less than forty-eight hours when a pair of plainclothes Special Branch officers turned up at our door. It was a guy and a woman, and they were actually as polite and helpful as can be.
“We just want to make you aware that the FBI has asked if they can come to see you,” they explained.
“What d’you mean?” I asked. “They’re coming at twelve midday tomorrow. It’s all arranged.”
“Are they fucking really?” the guy responded. “Just give me a minute, will you.”
He stepped outside and I could see him making a phone call. He came back in. “Are you happy for them to come?” he asked.
“Yeah. Of course. Nothing to hide.”
“Do you want us to be here with you?”
“No. I’m okay.”
He handed me his card. “Any time you’re not happy with their line of questioning or anything, you phone me and I’ll get them the fuck out of here.”
“Thanks.”
He glanced at me: “Phone and emails . . .”
“Yeah, I know. They’ll be monitored.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
A little later I had a call from a guy named “Bill,” who said he was phoning from the U.S. Embassy in London. “So, this FBI team flying in—hey, you sure you can’t make it down to London?”
I could not believe what I was hearing. “Listen, mate, they either come here or they can fuck off.”
“Okay, no problem,” he responded, hurriedly. “They’ll come to you.”
“Why did you ask then? Hear this: I am not coming to London.”
The following day a five-person team turned up at my house. Three were FBI guys, one was State Department, plus there was a lady in her late fifties who introduced herself as a head prosecutor from New York. They’d caught the train to the nearest station, then a taxi from there. We paused in my garden as they took a second to admire the view. Living on a Welsh mountaintop the scenery is stunning, with an avenue of majestic, windblown oaks marching off into the gray-green distance.
“Hey, man, it sure is beautiful up here,” one remarked.
“Yeah. It’s nice and quiet. Normally.”
They’d paid their taxi driver to wait. I could see him staring at the lot of us, thinking: What in God’s name is going on? I showed them to the living room, then made coffee for all. The questions began, with the senior of the FBI guys leading. We talked through the attack and the lead-up to it. We talked through the previous security incidents. Then he asked me what I thought of the QRF.
“Utterly fucking useless,” I responded. “Cowards who ran away. Not a man among them could use a weapon, and they turned their backs and ran—just as myself and the RSOs had warned they would.”
“So did you trust the QRF in any way?”
“Trust them? I wouldn’t trust those fuckers as far as I could throw them.”
The FBI guy asked me a bunch more probing questions about the QRF. I could understand the gist of his inquiries. He was trying to ascertain if I thought the attack on the Embassy could have been an “inside job”—that the QRF had been in league with the Shariah Brigade attackers. I told him it wouldn’t surprise me, but I had no evidence either way. All I did know was that the QRF were useless, untrustworthy cowards who ran at the first sign of any trouble.
“What did you think of the RSOs?”
“Utterly faultless. They were brilliant and they worked tirelessly in tough, shitty conditions. They continuously asked for more manpower, weaponry, and equipment and they were continuously denied.” I caught the eye of the guy from the State Department. “If they’d got it we wouldn’t be here now, obviously.”
“Right, okay, this is all important stuff.”
How the hell could they not know this, I found myself thinking. Lee, Rosie, Justin, Jeff, and the others had sent through the same feedback, repeatedly: We need to get rid of the QRF; we need U.S. Marines to replace them; we need more physical defenses; we need more firepower. Did none of these people ever talk to each other?
“So who do you think carried out the attack?”
“I don’t think. I know. I saw them. It was the Shariah Brigade militia.”
“Did you have any other concerns about security prior to the attack?”
“Where d’you want me to start? We had fucking loads of concerns. We—or rather the RSOs—detailed those concerns in numerous emails to the State Department. Nothing was ever done.” I paused. “And you know what—I feel guilty as fuck because we failed to get the security sorted, and because on the day of the race I let the RSOs down . . .”
The woman prosecutor stepped in now. “No, no, no—let’s be clear on one thing: you let no one down.”
“Dead right,” the FBI guy added. “Without you we’d have no information at all right now. Since the attack no one has been on the ground in that compound apart from you, and we cannot thank you enough for all those photos.”
“I still feel guilty that I didn’t make it over the wall the first time I tried.”
I went to make them all another coffee. The lady prosecutor came into the kitchen.
“Hey, you know, Morgan—you did a good thing,” she volunteered. “You did the right thing. Do not beat yourself up over this, okay? You’re a good man. A good man, you hear me?”
I was tearing up. She was the motherly, kindly figure that I needed right now, and it was good of her to say those words. She stayed with me as I made the coffees, but in the background I could hear the guys firing questions back and forth at each other in hushed voices. You ask him . . . No, you ask him . . . Who knows how he’ll take it . . . Yeah, but that’s what we need to know . . .
I took them in the tray of drinks. “Guys: Listen up. I heard you whispering. I heard you saying ask him this; ask him that. You have something you want to ask me, or that you think might upset me or is insensitive—just ask. Let’s get it out there. I will not be offended.”
“No, no, man, everything is okay,” the FBI guy who’d led the questioning reassured me. “And hey, thanks for the coffees.”
I went to see if the taxi driver wanted a cup. Apart from anything else it was an excuse to get some air.
He stared at me for a long second: “Who the hell is that lot? And what the hell are they doing here—five scary Americans on the top of a Welsh mountain?”
I shrugged. “They’re just some people I work with.”
“Fuck off.”
I started laughing. He was, too. “Come on, tell me. What the fuck are they doing here, bud?”
“I can’t. They’re just friend
s. Kind of.”
Three hours after they’d started their questioning the team was finally done. They asked me if I had any questions for them.
“Three,” I told them. “First: Scotty and Dave—are they okay?”
“They’re both badly injured, but they should pull through okay.”
Shit. Well, at least they were alive. “Tell them from me: I’m sorry, but I tried.”
I could see that they were choked up. “Yeah, yeah—they know.”
“Two: Sean gave me fifty euros to change into Libyan dinar.” I handed the note across to them. “I can’t look at it. Please, just take it—maybe give it to the family.”
They were even more choked up now. “Jeez. Yeah. Thank you very much.”
“Three: Did my guard force definitely press the duck-and-cover alarm at the start of the attack?”
“From the people I have spoken to—yes, they did,” the FBI guy confirmed.
That was a massive weight off my mind. It was crucial to me. If they’d hit the alarm at least it meant the Americans had had warning, and a bit of time to do something—if only to grab weapons and body armor and get into fire positions.
It was time for the team to leave. They thanked me for all that I had done in Benghazi. I asked them to pass my warmest regards to Scotty and Dave. They told me they’d need me to fly to the United States at some point, to give my side of the story in full. I said I’d be happy to go. Whatever it would take to try to right the wrongs perpetrated on that hellish night, and to ensure the lessons would be learned.
The lead FBI agent gave me his card: “You ever need anything ever, you just call me.”
The guy who was the most choked-up among them embraced me. The lady prosecutor gave me a hug as well.
“You did the right thing,” she told me again. “You did the right thing.”
They got into the cab. The driver leaned out of his window with an odd expression on his face. “You’re not going to believe it, bud: they want me to drive them up the mountain!”
They did just that, heading on up the track toward the summit of the hill. As I knew fully well, it was beautiful up there. Fifteen minutes later they passed back down again. I waved from the window and they waved back, and then they were gone.
I put a call through to Robert. “The FBI are done, mate.”
“Was it okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, they were fantastic.” I told him I was off on the maritime security job the very next day.
“You can’t do that,” he objected. “You can’t just disappear. There are loads more people need to talk to you.”
“Listen, mate, I’m done talking. I’m all talked out. They need to start talking to each other and sharing info. I can’t do it anymore.”
I packed my bags and the next morning I flew out of London to Dubai. I was looking forward to getting on the ship and getting under way, for hopefully that would put an end to the phone calls, not to mention the endless TV news reports about the Benghazi attack.
I boarded the floating armory where antipiracy crews like my own pick up weaponry and prepare to join their ship. I was grabbing some food in the galley and the news came on the TV: it was yet more about Benghazi. There were other teams in there waiting to board their ships, and a guy made a comment.
“Fucking how could they let the Embassy get taken? If I’d been there I’d have shot every last one of the bastards.”
The voice was clearly British. I turned around. It was a big, fat oaf of a bloke. “Would you fucking really?” I snarled. “And what the fuck do you know about it?”
The guy could tell that I was that close to murdering him, and he shut his mouth very quickly. I turned back to my food, but the guys on my team were giving me the look now. I could tell what they were thinking: Christ, we’ve got some kind of a psycho for a team leader.
Luckily, the operator directly under me, Dai, was a fellow Welshman, and with twelve years’ experience as a Royal Marine I knew he had to be well capable. Just as soon as we were under way on the ship we were guarding I called him into my cabin.
“Listen, mate, there’s something you need to know,” I explained. “I am struggling here and I don’t think I’m going to cope.” I explained to him all that I had just been through. He couldn’t believe it, and I could tell that he was genuinely concerned for me.
“No problem, mate,” Dai said. “I can take over as team leader, and we’ll keep it just between the two of us.”
From then on Dai did all the meetings with the ship’s captain, and all the briefings with the crew. I stood my watches, tried to stay alert for any pirates, and otherwise was locked away in my cabin, brooding. I had some seriously dark thoughts during some of those long nights alone on the ship, standing watch. I wondered what the point was of it all. Of life. On a night like that of the Benghazi Embassy siege, who or what had determined who lived and who died?
It crossed my mind to jump. What stopped me were the thoughts of Laura and of Lewis waiting for me back at home. But I knew I would never be the same again. I made it through that antipiracy trip and headed for home, hoping that I was on the mend. I’d been away for twelve days, but just as soon as I was in the United Kingdom again my phone started to ring. It was a woman from the U.S. Embassy.
“Mr. Jones, you cannot simply disappear overseas when we want to talk to you, willy-nilly, and of your own free will.”
“Where are you based?” I asked her.
“London. At the American Embassy.”
“Right: Listen here. I am fucking British. I do not answer to you and I will go wherever I fucking please. I told your people everything I fucking know. If you lot had listened to the RSOs in the first place we wouldn’t be in the pile of shit we are now.”
Silence.
“We’ll leave it there then.”
I’d had two good American friends badly injured as a result of that ill-fated night—how badly I would only learn in time—and I’d had one good friend killed. I had discovered the American ambassador lying dead and abandoned in some shitty Benghazi hospital. Self-important, deskbound pen-pushers like her did not have injured and dead friends to mourn. Who the hell did she think she was?
Over the coming weeks and months I was haunted by images of those who had died and were injured during the Benghazi Embassy siege. I was tortured because I had broken my promise by not getting to them in time. If I could have got into the Embassy before the attack, I would gladly have stood side by side with Dave, Scotty, and the others. I don’t leave my friends hanging.
I had tried, but not hard enough, and I can’t ever forgive myself for that.
POSTSCRIPT
In the nine months since the attack on the Benghazi Mission of September 11, 2012, I have managed to piece together the bigger picture of what took place on that fateful night, while I was hellbent on trying to get to the aid of my American friends.
It seems likely that the team from the Annex went over the Mission wall—as I did later in the evening—as opposed to going in via the obvious route, the front gate. That at least is the story as it is related in the e-book Benghazi: The Definitive Report and as some ex–Special Forces members have related the events to me. Using their SUVs as a springboard, they climbed onto the vehicle roofs and hauled themselves onto the wall, over the security fence, and inside.
No one opened fire from their position inside the Embassy until all six were in. Ty Woods had radioed Alex in the TOC to warn him that a team from the Annex was coming in, and what direction from which he was to expect them. That done, they began to fight their way into the TOC. Between them they had one MK 46 MOD 1 light machine gun and some Heckler & Koch 416 assault rifles complete with underslung 40mm grenade launchers.
Using well-placed bursts from the light machine gun, highly accurate assault rifle fire, and unleashing 40mm grenades, they battled their way into the compound, killing scores of enemy en route. Having fought their way inside, the team from the Annex split up—some heading for the T
OC to retrieve Alex, who was there manning communications, the rest heading for the VIP Villa.
Dave Ubben, the Ambassador’s two CP guys, and the new arrivals from the Annex now redoubled their efforts to search the burning building for the Ambassador and Sean Smith. Finally, they managed to drag Sean out, although he appeared unconscious due to smoke inhalation. In spite of making repeated searches of the Villa’s smoke-filled interior, they still could not locate the Ambassador. Sadly, Sean Smith would later that night be declared dead, the cause being the inhalation of toxic smoke.
Lead RSO Alex and the Annex team from the TOC fought their way through to the VIP Villa, at which point all the Americans were reunited, except for Ambassador Stevens. Further efforts were made to locate him. With attempts via the rear window being frustrated by thick smoke and heat, Alex tried to go in through the charred and burning front entrance. As he did so, the ceiling all but collapsed on him, due to fire damage. At the same time, enemy fire had begun to sweep across the compound as the Shariah fighters launched a counterattack.
The American force was again in danger of being overrun. They were running low on ammunition and facing a massive number of enemy. At the urging of the team from the Annex, Dave, Scotty, and Alex plus the two CP guys took one of the Mission’s surviving SUVs—the escape vehicle parked at the rear exit—and made good their evacuation of the Embassy, leaving the Annex team to make one last attempt to find and rescue Ambassador Stevens.
As their vehicle left through the rear gate, they came under intense fire, and they noticed roadblocks manned with scores of gunmen. They accelerated past, and at one stage they were taking fire from small arms and grenades at very close quarters, with bullets pinging off the armored skin of the SUV and grenades exploding beneath it. With tires blown out, they continued driving, although the enemy fire had all but penetrated the vehicle’s bulletproof glass.
