Posted on 04/12/2003 9:01:33 AM PDT by Happygal
I became a war correspondent through an act of gross cowardice. It was 6.30am and I was at home in Los Angeles when my editor called and asked if I wanted to "go to war". Still half asleep - but mindful that foreign correspondents are supposed to want to cover wars - I mumbled something vaguely positive. How bad could it be? A few months later, I found out.
It was approaching 35 degrees and I was dressed in baggy chemical suit, flak jacket and helmet, digging a coffin-shaped fox hole in the mud of an Iraqi marsh. All around me, there were explosions: bombs dropped from F15s, artillery rounds fired from howitzers and, worst of all, incoming Iraqi mortars. As the sunscreen and sweat ran down my mud-encrusted forehead and into my eyes, I wondered why I hadn't just admitted that all I wanted to do was drink cappuccinos and cover the Oscars. But it was too late. I was embedded.
The US Marines were baffled by my decision to join them. "Did you volunteer for this?" one black American teenager kept asking me.
"Erm, kind of," I replied.
"So you get paid, like, extra for this, right?"
"Erm, not really."
Underneath his mask of desert filth, I detected a raised eyebrow.
The Marines, I soon discovered, were nowhere near as gung-ho as some of my fellow war correspondents. I noticed that some of the US press corps had brought along their own American flags (complete with poles) to stick in the Iraqi mud. So much for objectivity.
For me, the war began about two hours before President Bush's final 48-hour ultimatum to Saddam. It was the early hours at Camp Grizzly in northern Kuwait and we were woken by someone throwing on the tent's fluorescent lights. We packed our bags and got ready to CSMO: Marine jargon for "Clear shit and move out".
Even at this stage, we were at "MOPP level two". This meant we were wearing our baggy chemical suits and chemical-resistant welly boots. For journalists, wearing the chemical suits, patterned like standard Marine desert fatigues, posed an ethical problem. We looked like Marines. To the Iraqis, we were Marines. It seemed like yet another blow to our objectivity. I came to the conclusion, however, that I would rather lose what little chance of objectivity I had left than die from an Iraqi blister agent attack.
The first night of the war was probably the worst. The artillery battery to which I had been attached was positioned within sight of the Iraqi border. Fires from the oil fields made the horizon glow orange and the air was thick with a terrible oily black smoke.
Before the artillery barrage began, a sergeant asked if I wanted to see one of the howitzer guns up close. I was still fumbling for my ear plugs in the dark when it went off. The flash of light was so intense it bleached my eyes. I blinked furiously. Then the gun went off again. The back-blast of pressure from the howitzer felt like being punched in the face. There was a terrible smell of cordite. The sound echoed for miles in every direction. On the radio, we listened to the tank commanders as they passed through the breach into Iraq. I thanked the God I didn't believe in that I wasn't with the infantry. Already, my assignment seemed stupidly dangerous and I felt like a sucker for having accepted it.
The first few hours in Iraq were terrifying. Minefields were everywhere but, miraculously, no one seemed to hit any. It came as no surprise when I later learnt that a BBC journalist had been killed in a similar situation.
Most of the time, I had no idea where I was or what our unit was doing, adding to the difficulty of filing stories. For security reasons, I was rarely allowed to use my satellite phone.
The worst way to relax was to listen to the BBC World Service on short-wave radio. As one senior Marine said: "If you listen to the BBC, we lost the war four days ago." My objectivity was shot to bits. All I wanted was for the Americans to win quickly: for my own safety. I was sure this was not how John Simpson would feel. By the second week, we had reached al-Diwaniyah, a smallish town on Highway 1, about 90 miles south of Baghdad. On the way, we had become lost in a blizzard of mud: we were sitting helpless on the side of the road as 12 Republican Guard tanks approached. We were saved by two US F15 jets, but only after an excruciating half-hour wait. The next morning there were piles of Iraqi bodies on the road, still in their uniforms.
My account of the attempted ambush later made the front page. When I heard, I realised why some journalists choose to become full-time war correspondents: the thrill of writing an I-nearly-died-a-gruesome-death story is almost unbeatable. It requires, however, that you nearly die a gruesome death. To get another story on a similar scale, I thought, I would have to go through the whole nearly-dying thing all over again. And what if I did actually die? Surely only a disturbed person would put themselves in mortal danger simply for front-page bragging rights?
Day by day, I saw the Americans become more brutalised. It was sad to see the Marines - many of them intelligent and sensitive men behind the defensive bravado - lose their innocence. They had become killers, and talented ones at that. Incidents of friendly fire did not help. I was as likely to die at the hands of my protectors, I thought, as I was at the hands of Iraqi soldiers.
By this time, reports of dead journalists were coming through on the World Service. The biggest blow to my own morale was hearing about ITN's Terry Lloyd, who died amid fighting in Basra. I wondered if my own death would even make a headline. I discovered my commanding officer had a booklet with a section entitled 'How to deal with a dead media representative'. My second - and final - act of cowardice came about 10 days into the war, as we prepared for yet another night bombardment.
I had had enough. I asked my commanding officer if he could find me a way back. A few hours later, orders came through that all journalists were to stop using their Thuraya satellite phones, because the French had sold the codes to the Iraqis. It was a ludicrous explanation, but it at least meant I couldn't have stayed anyway. Or at least I could have stayed, but I couldn't have filed any more stories.
In the end, it took six days to get back, hitching lifts on endless slow-moving supply convoys and, finally, on a series of helicopters.
A week later, I was safe in a British country hotel with my girlfriend, watching war coverage on Sky News and CNN. I thought about the Marines I had left behind at al-Diwaniyah. None of them had questioned my decision to leave: they told me they would have done the same, but part of me felt I should have stuck it out with them.
And if my editor asked me to become a war correspondent again, my response this time would be clear: absolutely probably not.
Nah, girls don't whine that much. ;)
Yeah, me too. Go figure. :-)
His writing shows what a creepy POS he is.
*ROFL*...is that OperationFreedoms equivilant to Iraqi shoe throwing? :-)
I'm still trying to figure out why he thought putting on some gear made him lose his objectivity. It didn't, of course. He remained a coward opposed to the war throughout the ordeal.
"...With their billowing jeans, undone basketball shoes and gangster-rap dreadlocks, “the kids”, as the officers call them, have arrived by bus, train and clapped-out Honda from the murder capitals of America’s West Coast.
...the application process for the enlisted ranks of the Marines (as opposed to the officer ranks) seems designed to disqualify only the most drug-addled, flat-footed battlefield liabilities."
LOL! What a typical self-deceiving liberal.
The others though, I too wonder about.
Wanker! That's the smell of FREEDOM !!
Sob.
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