Another Bad Morning

FOB Joyce, Kunar Afghanistan – Combat Outpost Nevada

Ok, getting caught with your pants down whilst under attack is bad enough, what the hell could be worse than that.

Take this morning, after a sleepless night and a chopper to catch further into the mountains to a remote Combat Outpost on a mountaintop in a couple of hours.

This was a good chance to have a shower before a few days of basically living in the dirt and having to ablute without porcelain, (a polite way of having to shit in a bag then throw into a fire pit to burn slowly).

So enjoying the warm caress of hot water cascading down, and feet slipping in my flip-flops.

The gentle hiss of water was broken by the deafening scream of the siren.

Incoming Waa Waa, Incoming Waa Waa

Great, f…ing fantastic bad enough getting caught with your pants down the other day, now buck naked in flip-flops in the shower.

So stumble out wrap the micro fleece towel around and collect my stuff and try to get back to the shelter. Out the door and naturally in wet feet slipping one of the flip-flops breaks within two steps.

Back at the tent, into clothes and then the reality if nothing has gone bang in the last few minutes. What the hell, I am going to get dressed.

Two minutes later the all clear is broadcasted, and life on the base returns too normal.

Half an hour later with kit packed ready to go and up at the landing zone waiting for the chopper to the Combat Outpost. I had managed to get to the DFAC and grab a cup of coffee and taken it up to the chopper pad. Putting it down on the bench I turned to watch a heavy lift chopper with a sling come into to transport fuel drums.

The down draught then hits and my coffee is basically flying through the end and naturally lands on my body armor at the end of the bench. Great what else can go wrong?



Then again it only takes a simple sign on the back of the Portaloo door to restore the Zen of the day, as they say.

I write this from the top of a mountain at the edge of the Pech Valley in Afghanistan, perhaps one of the most remote and dangerous places in this war zone. Food is no longer at a DFAC three times a day across the base, but is delivered in the morning on the back of a donkey.
Home for the next two days is in a pit depression on the mountain, with twelve soldiers and a lot of mountains around us.

Caught with my Pants Down

November 20, 2011

FOB Joyce
Kunar
Afghanistan

There is the expression getting caught with your pants down. Normally associated with acts that have absolutely nothing to me this morning.

Having woken at a normal time around 7am, not that you know inside the tent with partitioned into small rooms with plywood walls (think Ikea natural pine) and a stretcher for a bed, thou some interior designer has come in and added some ambience by putting some nails in the wall studs so you can hang stuff up, a minimalist wardrobe approach is the best way to describe the nails.

With the sun shining in the valley as I walked back from the Conex (Container) Box that serves as the Latrine, rather than the Portaloo on the corner. It was time for a shower also in a Conex Box next to the Latrine, every two to three days it is nice to wash and change clothes. Not mandatory by any stretch of the imagination. But given the sun was out and the golden rays shined across the valley on the mountains, it felt that why put off today what I have put off the last three days.

Having flip-flopped my way over thru the rocks and dirt, I enjoyed the hot water cascading over me and dried off. I flip flopped my way back into my suite in Tent 13 and looked at the clean clothing on my stretcher. I had decided on a khaki look for the day around the Forward Operating Base to blend in and not clash with the camouflage of the Army uniforms.

And just as I was reaching down to pull up my pants …..

“BOOM, BOOM, ratta tat tat, ratta tat tat”…. Gunfire and explosions erupt in the valley

“INCOMING Waa Waa Waa INCOMING Waa Waa Waa”

The base is under fire and the warning siren is set to Volume 12 on the Spinal Tap scale of amplification.

So with my pants around my ankles, decisions have to be taken. Do you kick them off and run for the bunker or pull them up and run the risk of being unlucky.

“Waa Waa Waa” the sirens continue

I honestly thought that at one stage, the Robot’s voice was going to come over and come out with the classic “Warning Will Robinson Danger, Danger”.

Pants up, grabbed the camera and out the door, behind the concrete barrier, film for a few minutes. Then in a lull head for the nearest bunker to find Conor in his shorts straight out of bed. But suitably attired in his flak jacket and Kevlar helmet.

With sleep in his eyes we filmed a quick piece to camera describing but was happening.

Gunfire and mortar booms gradually ceased.

The robot came back on and proclaimed “All clear, return to your duties”.

All this before a cup of coffee on a Sunday morning or as someone pointed out it is in fact the equivalent of a Taliban Monday. As someone wisely pointed out always avoid the DFAC (Dining Facility) for the first hour of daylight as the bad boys constantly try to target it early in the morning thinking it will be full of hungry souls.

I will sleep in tomorrow an extra hour to allow for this new found wisdom, and also have my pants ready just in case.

84 Hours

1:50 am Friday November 18th 2011
Bagram Air Base
Afghanistan

You just wait, and when you are tired of waiting you wait some more. The misconception of arriving in Afghanistan is that from the moment you arrive you are under gunfire from Taliban or Insurgents can be misleading to say the least.

We arrived at the base here Tuesday afternoon and had high hopes of catching a flight to the East later that night only to have all hopes dashed as the Air Force just cancelled that flight, remember that they do not have to give a reason they can just cancel. And the wait begins in the aptly named Hotel California that is the media holding rooms on Disney Road the main road in the base.

Now the word, Hotel is somewhat of a misnomer. In fact a wooden shack divided by ply wood into four rooms, three bunks in each room, a mattress and a pillow, no sheets or pillow cases so God only knows what creatures are from head lice to bed bugs are free to breed. Though I do add we had Room 1, which is considered the suite, as it is few square feet larger, and the luxury of a metal folding chair. Each room has a small fridge with a few bottles of water, I should add though that according to the energy consumption labels still on the door indicated that energy efficient rating was about as bad as you could possibly seek out.

There are no windows in any buildings as glass and bombs are not a good combination in the case of a rocket attack. So you have no concept of day or night. The heating and air conditioning is pumped into the building via by what sounded like a pre cold war jet engine. The tranquility of the environment is rocked every ten to fifteen minutes by this rush of noise more than heat or cold air.

The routine of waiting to hear that the next flight has been cancelled or that there are no flights to where we want to go, usually means being woken up by a knock at the door at 11pm, 1am or 6am. Flight schedules for daily flights are posted at different times and only 24 hours in advance. So if there is no flight you know that the wait to try again is 24 hours away.

There are no stories to be done at the base here as after ten years of war every story has been done at least five times and no one has any interest in day-to-day operations, because in a word nothing has changed, so you wait.

Breakfast in the DFAC (Dinning Facility) is followed by Lunch at the DFAC, wait and then dinner at the DFAC. The walk from Hotel California to the DFAC is about 8 minutes down Disney Road. More anything it kills time. The food is good, but obviously the big issue at the base here is obesity, as you enter the DFAC there are signs trying to explain portion size, which to some members of the Armed Forces and Contractors needs to be enforced. An extra large serving of fried onion rings is not considered 2 of your 5 daily requirements.

Of course there is option of Pizza Hut, but to the consternation of many on the base is not open for breakfast. Popeye’s another fast food chain is closed but reopening soon.

The other popular time wasting pastime, shopping. And the PX store is the same as it was 5 years plus again, from chewing tobacco to knives. Then just down the road is the local Afghan equivalent to the PX store, where every known dodgy DVD is available for $3 along with more aftershave and perfume than a duty free store at an airport. But the best sign in the bazaar is a note posted everywhere from the Base Commander stating that claiming something is fake is not a reason for demanding a refund.

The most disliked people on the Base seem to be the MP’s (Military Police) these people are more diligent than a traffic warden in London. Caught not wearing a seat belt, even in the back seat and your car is compounded for ten days and you must do a self criticism and how you will change your ways. Maximum speed 5 mph is enforced, no wonder service personnel have trouble adjusting to the real world after a tour of duty, spend a year driving the same roads at 5 mph. I suspect that a private wheel-clamping contractor is not that far away.

Finally after 84 hours we boarded our flight to Jalalabad, as they say a mere elevator ride less than 25 minutes in the air. The irony is that we could of driven from Kabul to Jalalabad in just over two hours. And saved 82 hours, nothing moves easy, in which you are part of a 32,000-person jigsaw that is the US Military.

The Pizza Deliveryman

Your normal pizza deliveryman does not check his AK47 before he starts a delivery and makes sure it is cocked and the safety is off. The again Ahmad is getting ready to make a delivery to the rebel soldiers on the frontline.

The Pizza factory in an abandoned building is less than 3km from the front, we cannot show the exterior of the building for security reasons as they do not want Gaddafi’s army to recognize the area and shell them out of business as they say.

Filming pizza making is not normally a dangerous assignment, but here I was in a flak jacket shooting a truly bizarre scene, 20 young men all volunteers under the watchful eye of a pizza chef of Libyan descent who until a few weeks ago was living and making pizza in Sweden.

The call of the revolution had bought him back to his hometown of Misrata, Ehmad Daiki had never fired a gun or any type of weapon and when asked by leaders what he could do, he replied I can make pizza.

And thus for the last two weeks, with his team he has been turning out 6000 slices of pizza a day for fighters. A production line chops olives, breaks up fresh garlic by banging it in a plastic bottle, crushes fresh tomatoes, knead and roll out dough. People and shopkeepers in Misrata as part of their war effort donate each and every ingredient.

Every time a rocket is launched in the area or even worse an incoming rocket lands in an adjacent field the whole production line celebrates by yelling

“Allah Akhbar”

Three ovens run non stop thru the late morning and lunch, each tray is cut up and five to six slices of fresh hot pizza are wrapped in tin foil to keep warm and within half an hour they are delivered up the road.

My producer and security advisor, refused to let me go up to the front for the delivery footage. Despite my annoyance of not being able to go up and film the final scenes.

The reason being

“Mal, How in the hell am I going to explain to New York, that you got injured or killed for a story on pizza, no you cannot go”

Even I had to agree after a short sulk, risk and reward as they say. No story or single shot is worth risking your life for, and a pizza story is not how I want to be remembered.

We gave a small camera to the delivery guy with the AK47.



Mal
Misrata, Libya

The Victim's

Misrata, Libya.

Viewer Discretion advised

“We wish to advise that some images in this story…………….”

If the image is shocking to watch on a TV News bulletin, image being in the hospital room and having to physically experience the pain, suffering and anguish of the victim.

9-year-old Faraz Abu Shaba is staring at the lens and his face fills the frame, it is a haunting image of a young boy suffering 2nd degree burns; every feature is burnt and discolored. Every few seconds his expression changes and is contorted with pain. His head is listless and his eyes are elsewhere.



You have to distance yourself and somehow the lens becomes a shield that helps break the reality of where you find yourself.

His father lay in a bed next to him, eyes in a catatonic stare to nowhere. And again I filled the frame so that only his eyes gave the window to his soul and despair.

It is the first hospital we are to visit on this day.

Farazs’ older brother Ibrahim is dead, cut in half by ball bearings that had been packed in a grad rocket and fired into Misrata from Gadaffi’s forces outside the city. He had been standing at the sink outside the kitchen of his modest house in the Eastern section of the city, when the rocket landed less than 10 meters away. A steel propane tank in the yard is full of holes, from the ball bearings; Ibrahim did not stand a chance as he washed to get ready for evening prayers.

Relatives show us a passport photo of Ibrahim as a 9 year old; he looked almost angelic in that photo.

Shrapnel razor sharp is gathered and displayed on the base of what remains a wall, so that everyone who visits can examine the evidence of another war atrocity.

From the roof of our hotel in the centre of the city, we can hear and see these rockets coming in. You become accustomed to the sound of war in a weird and disjointed way. In Misrata there is no escape, you cannot simply drive away and escape, surrounded on three sides by Gadaffi troops, and the sea on the fourth side. It was one of these rockets that had hit the Shaba family home. A distant boom and smoke cloud as dusk fell the night before.

Across town in the second hospital, as I walked into the ward room it was the sound of Faraz and Ibrahim’s youngest brother that drew my attention, 2 days old and lying in his grandmother’s arms and making new born squeals and lifting his arms and legs.

On the other side of the room his mother lay, burnt head to toe and wrapped in bandages, only her face and toes exposed charred and raw. She had probably been standing in the kitchen when the rocket hit and a fireball engulfed her after killing Ibrahim a second beforehand. I remember standing in her kitchen only an hour ago, everything black, mangled metal plates half melted and a pool of aluminum on the floor that had melted in the firestorm.



She cannot open her eyes due to the burns and swelling.

In a whisper barely audible thru cracked and burnt lips, she says

“God will take care of the people responsible”

It is hard not to want to show the close up because, the impact of the horrors of war are not some computer game whereby if you die you get another life, when you are hit the impact is forever and all that matters in life is shattered.

I walk out and back to the car, it has been a tough morning and more rockets fall that afternoon, from the roof I wonder if another families life has been destroyed.

I send the edited story back to Washington, and at the end I include extra video of wide shots of the hospital rooms in case the close-ups are too graphic they can decide, for at the frontlines of a war zone, you find yourself with a different acceptance of what war is really like. Close ups of faces and eyes show the doorway to the soul and without seeing into the soul you cannot feel the pain of innocent victims.

Mal
Misrata

The Field Hospital

June 21st 2011

Misrata Libya

You can get used to things in life, but the constant drone from the Mosque next door is starting to wear thin. From mid morning to night it plays a constant loop of call to prayer, repeated every 60 seconds, the same again and again and again.

Then again there are the Grad Rockets fired by the Gadaffi forces who are surrounding this city, from the roof of the hotel you can see them impact some a few km’s away towards the port and steel mill appear as plumes of smoke, whilst with closer ones you feel the impact and the smoke is much closer. As I was writing that sentence another landed close by, heard and felt the thump.

The attacks on the city itself are sporadic and come at anytime. Go to the frontlines outside the city and it is a constant barrage, both incoming and outgoing. At a field hospital 5km (3miles) from the frontline separating the Loyalists and the Rebels yesterday, a grad came in low and fast, hearing the incoming it’s a matter of dropping and preying because it is close, very close.

The field hospital is a converted tractor repair workshop. The doctor in charge, Mohammed Al Bayra is in his mid twenties and before the revolution worked in Oncology, asked how many rebels he has seen come arrive by ambulance or on the back floor of cars and pick ups, injured or dead. His response “Thousands”.

Frontlines are not “Lines in the Sand”, what was a safe distance can be become a disaster zone in the matter of minutes. The first indicator is normally the rebels fleeing back down the road in the back of trucks, faster than rats up a drainpipe. This is always a good cue for us to likewise consider a tactical relocation just in case, not to mention the Grad Rocket that came way to close for comfort.

An hour later we are back at the field hospital, and 6 ambulances and pickups arrive within ten minutes carrying more wounded back, Wounds to the arms, legs, chest and stomach evident as they are wheeled into the makeshift frontline hospital. They are patched up by the young doctor and his team of students and sent back into Misrata half an hour back down the road.

We leave too, there are only so many injured you need to film for a story and the scene will not change in the coming hours or days.

Back in Misrata. NATO jets are heard thousands of feet up in the sky, but even their noise does not drown out the mosque next door, the call continues and likewise the rockets will continue to fall around us, for the foreseeable future.

The Crossing

Libya June 17th 2011

Benghazi as a story has been stagnant for while now, just as the frontline has varied little since the last time I was here at the start of the Civil War. However on the western coast is the third largest city in Libya, Misrata after Tripoli the capital held by Gaddafi loyalists, and Benghazi held by the rebels.

It has been the scene of some of the fiercest fighting and clashes, rebels despartely trying to hang on whilst being pounded by Gadaffi loyalists from three sides. The only side left to them is the sea. The port has become the lifeline for the people and rebels. And the only way into Misrata is by sea, a twenty hour crossing from Benghazi.

9:30pm Thursday 16th June Benghazi Port.

There is a scene of complete chaos and confusion as 700 people congregate in darkness the stern. As families, the injured and rebel reinforcements try to board the C/F Azzurra, a Turkish gambling ship. Shouts of Allah Akbar ring in the air as the mob pushed against barrier in the humid. People waving tickets in the air and screaming at the top of their voices illicit blank responses, from the men on the stern ramp. The only way onto the ship.

Finally the last truck is loaded with what looks like ammunition, we are told its food but I have my doubts. And the crowd surges, all trying not to fall off the edge of the ramp into the harbor waters.

And in the midst of this scene I have the camera out trying to film at the same time as get on the ship. Rick’s line as the crowd momentum finally pushes us thru is “That was insane”.

We had managed to get two small cabins, rather than sleep on the deck but until you have the door opened to your cabin nothing is assured and somehow we had left the vital cabin receipt down in the car deck at the bottom of the 4x4 Land cruiser we have bought with us.

“No paper, no cabin opened”

Was the response from the ship member who we quickly christened Side Show Bob from The Simpson’s, due to his hair.

Martin disappeared down to the bowels and ten minutes later came back brandishing the prize receipt as if it was a Willy Wonka Golden Ticket. And cabin doors were opened.

Perhaps saying the place smelt of shit was a bit harsh, and that the sheets pillow and blanket looked they had been rearranged rather than changed. But it is far batter than sleeping on the deck.

Enquiries about when we would depart and met with a shrug and the standard “Inshallah” response. A round of heavy tracer fire lights the sky over Benghazi before I head back to the cabin.

Lying in the dark, I thought to myself this has to be one of the craziest ways to a frontline. Once there, you simply cannot leave when you want. Because the ship is the only way and if they stop running then we will be trapped like every other citizen of Misrata. And we have only bought a one-way ticket.

2:30am, Benghazi. Thru the haze of half sleep I feel the Azzurra slip the berth and head out of harbor. Rolling over, I feel my stomach start to cramp and spasm.

“What a great time to start getting the shit’s”

11:00am “Some where in the Gulf of Sirte, Med Sea”

Shoes lie in piles, men sleep on the floor, under tables, and children run around, as children do on an adventure. Babies cry behind doors and young men watch home made videos of battles against Gadaffi forces on their cell phones. Dreaming of glory and ignorant of the reality of recent rebel losses.

5:30pm “Still some where in the Gulf of Sirte, Med Sea”

Closer but no cigar as they say, the trip is a slow 240 miles, just off the coastline of Libya. Story done, edited all but final piece to camera. Another black coffee and stare out to sea. We are due to dock at 9:39pm, according to the crew; given the state of the ship I have my doubts to the accuracy of their chronometers.

Lying on my bunk, writing this and at the same time realizing that in four hours. I will be in a war zone under potential rocket fire. The handover at the border seems a long time ago.

9:30pm Could be anywhere, pitch black outside but still at sea

You get to a point where you have no bearings or clues as to where you are, ship messages are only in Arabic and feeling the ship slow it is obvious that we are close. Managed to set up the bgan and transmit tonight’s story back to New York whilst still traveling, incredible to consider that in the middle of the med sea you can still transmit.


Strange but have no nerves at the moment, a sense of calm before the storm. Not based on any rationale. Could do with a shower though at least the runs have stopped for the time being.

Postscript

Misrata 9:39 pm we arrive to the minute as planned, fuck me stranger things have happened in this world. Shouts of Allah Akbar echo around the decks.

Turning to Ken, our security guy,

“Game on”

“To fucking right”

We enter Misrata, one-way ticket, our only escape back via sea.

The Handover Libya June 2011

Everyone has excuses and I am no different. But it is time to start writing again, things may be a little different as times have changed. Posts may be late or written after events, the reason is security. Life is not what it was back in the old days now and in the media we find ourselves in more and more inhospitable places, with people who consider the media as another enemy.

I have always kept extensive notes of observations of places and events and they will come forward as I go back read and remember those times.

140 characters is not an option, as I see and bring to life events from good and evil places.

Mal
Benghazi Libya
June 15th 2011


Libyan War June 2011 Second Trip

1. The Handover

The Handover is a relatively short affair in conflict zones. The team leaving wants to get out as fast as possible, as freedom and safety is normally a short walk across a border with only your personal bags. For the incoming team, Rick Levanthal, correspondent, Martin Francis, producer and it, myself is the beginning of another rotation in country and the dangers of entering a war zone.

I had been in Libya chasing the rebels a few months back and this was my second foray into this conflict. The handover was planned for the Egypt / Libya border at the Saloume Border Crossing, a seven hour drive from Cairo. Basically head North from Cairo, hit the coast turn west and eventually you will come to Libya. There are no other roads so getting lost is not an issue there are no other roads.

The customs and clearance in Egypt is a matter of being patient, things do not move quickly, it could be fifteen minutes, and it may take two hours. Nothing is checked, you simply sit and wait. All we had was our personal bags, as the kit that the Network has slowly built up and smuggled into Libya over many trips stays in country to avoid problems with Customs, who on a whim will confiscate a Camera or Bgan (the small Satellite Communication dish we carry, slightly bigger than a laptop). Thus creating major issues and problems.

The Cameraman I replacing Rich Harlow, was waiting for me on the Libyan side with all the kit plus body armor.

After watching an Arabic woman in the full black Niqab scream at an Egyptian Boarder Policeman, with such venom that she must have been questioning the hereditary of the man’s mother. Martin came out with our passports cleared for exit, drive to the next gate and then the short walk into Libya a final glance at the passport exit stamp and then you are in a country in full on War.

The other team was next to the cars, as planned. Handshakes and man hugs happen and then its business, they want out and for a few minutes. Each member of the team huddles down with their respective other.

What’ where in what case, What’s happening where, from editorial to money, from logistics to security and it happens in a few short minutes. Questions answered with no bullshit, the stakes are real and everyone knows it. This meeting is not a sit down around a table and discussing options back in New York, but in a car park on the border of a country engaged in civil war under a blazing sun, no subject is taboo. And it happens quickly.



We still have another seven hours drive ahead of us to Benghazi and the other team faces an equally long drive to Cairo. Forget the Hollywood hype of News teams turning up in exotic war zones after a montage over music. Basically getting to war takes time and frustration. You find yourself driving thru inhospitable parts of the planet at hi speed with a driver who normally does not speak the same language, listening to local music on the radio and trying to keep comfortable.

You find relief at the occasional stop for petrol and then realize that the toilet at the Gas Station is also the shower. A shower head limply hangs over the foot print squat toilet and I always find myself re affirming my vow that I will never shit and shower on the same spot, unless I have a pair of flip flops and even then I doubt that I could.

You finally shake hands and man hug again, the final words of a departing team are always the same “Keep Safe and Be Careful” and then they walk off and it’s done.

Standing in the no mans land between Egypt and Libya, a simple road with concrete barriers between the nations on either side. We have Security man with us, a fact of life now in dangerous zones, just like you read about these guys are normally ex SAS or Special Forces who have found a new career in the highly lucrative and dangerous world of the security in global hotspots. They are in fact the fourth member of the team; you do nothing without them and rely on them to make judgment calls for your safety and life.

Safety briefings and situation updates become part of daily life; to ignore them is to place the team at risk. “What blood group are you Mal, and are you allergic to any drugs?” Ken asked. Security guys normally do not swop out at the same time as teams so there is always a reassuring continuity.

We get back in the car and enter Libya. New York wants a live shot in two hours so we will just stop by the side of the road in a town. Benghazi is 7 hours away across the desert.

Ahmed one our local drivers turns on the radio and luck has changed, we must of grown up in the same era, as Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” blares out as we watch stunning sunset engulf us on the horizon. Ahmed even slows down as nightfall’s; camels wandering onto the road at night are a greater threat than Gadaffi’s forces, for the final leg.