in lieu of radio ...

a somewhat random collection of pages and thoughts started sept 16 2001. now that i'm not on the radio 6 hours every day, blogger allows all of us to harangue...

Saturday, April 12, 2003

From our correspondent now in Bagdad. How did he get there you might ask....

Subject: School holidays Part II
Date: Sat, 12 Apr 2003 20:17:45 +0800
Organization: Reuters

Dear all

I feel like a contestant in one of those reality TV shows which, in this
case, the object has been to overcome a series of hurdles and be the first
to reach a destination -- in this case, Baghdad. But now that we're here, I
realise that although we may have won the race, we may also have missed the
real objective. The story seems to have taken second place to the odyssey.

I think I have got a couple more weeks left in me at least to turn that
around and re-focus on why I am here rather than survive being here. It is
an important distinction, and if I lose sight of it again, I know it will be
the time to pull the plug and head back for Singapore.

This epiphany came as I moved into a room at the Palestine hotel previously
occupied by a Reuters colleague, Shamir, of whom more later. I had just
helped carry her on a stretcher to a U.S. army ambulance to be taken to the
airport and evacuated to Germany. She had been taken back to the hotel room
just a day after undergoing brain surgery to remove shrapnel from her head
at an Iraqi hospital. Conditions at the hospital were so bad that we thought
her chances for survival would be better if we looked after her at the
hotel.

If the last three weeks have been a roller coaster, the last few days must
be the climax of all rides -- and it ended with a descent into hell.

The three of us are fine, and trusty Brenda has pulled us through situations
that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. But is has been so nerve-wracking,
that I don't think I could squeeze even an atom of adrenaline out of my
system if I hear another bomb, mortar or bullet go off right next to me in
the next 24 hours.

The final leg of our journey began around five days ago when Brenda's
air-conditioning gave up. You may think stopping to fix it was a bit of a
luxury, but an armoured car is fully sealed with inch thick plate. You can't
wind the windows down and the temperature outside is above 44 degrees
Celsius. We were literally boiling.

We got it fixed, and then had to leave the south and race up to Baghdad,
where things were changing very quickly. Saddam's "elite" Republican guard
was crumbling and U.S. troops had already seized control of the airport and
were making forays into the heart of the city.

There are basically three routes into Baghdad from the south: the central
main highway, the southern access and the northern route. U.S. Marines had
stormed up the northern route and crossed the Tigris at the main bridge at
Numan, around 100 kms from the city. The U.S. infantry 3rd Division took the
southern route -- running into stiff opposition at Kholar before bursting
across the Euphrates. We tried to follow the Marines, and through a
combination of stealth, luck and bullshit (and a grueling non-stop 16 hour
drive through the most inhospitable landscape I have ever seen in the middle
of the worst sandstorm I've encountered) made it to Numan before we were
caught and could go no further. We tried everything we could to get across
the bridge, but the military want nothing to do with unilateral journalists
so we were turned away.

Trying the southern route -- even though it was only around 100 kms west of
us -- would have meant going back on our tracks almost as far as Kuwait -- a
journey of around three days. It was as low as we had been on the trip. We
had got less than 100 kms from Baghdad and would have to drive 1,000 kms
through the desert just to get 100 kms away in a different direction. In
addition, we were hearing through the satphone that no journalists were
getting access through that route anyway.

The central highway was uncharted territory. Although it is one of the best
roads in Iraq, it was also reported to be the best defended and as a result
the coalition forces didn't use it, choosing instead a pincer movement
either side. No-one had driven down that road. We had to decide what to do.
Try the north again, do the epic journey and try the south, or just take our
chances and plunge through the middle.

That night as we camped near an oasis near a town called Hillal, we heard
shocking news. Our fellow Reuters colleagues Tarus, a Polish cameraman, had
been killed in Baghdad and Pascal and Shamir (both producers) seriously
injured. They were just sitting in Tarus's room in Baghdad when a U.S. tank
fired a shell straight into it. Tarus, who made it through the Balkans,
Chechnya and Afghanistan, held on for an hour before dying. Pascal and
Shamir were both very badly hurt and for a long time were touch and go.

At first the U.S. denied all responsibility, then they finally admitted it
was one of their tanks, but claimed there had been a sniper on the balcony.
Two days later they finally "regretted" what they said had been "unfortunate
accident caused by friendly fire". Fourteen journalists have been killed in
this war so far. All but two of them by hideously misnamed "friendly fire".

There were five other Reuters staffers in Baghdad and had been for two
months, throughout the U.S. bombing, doing sterling work. They had endured
three weeks of nights without sleep because the Palestine hotel where they
were staying is right in the heart of the government district which was
being targeted by cruise missiles and B52's every night. They had endured
constant scrutiny by the Iraqi authorities who were looking for any excuse
to throw them out. They had grown very close, and Tarus's death knocked them
out. Suddenly there was even more urgency for us to get to Baghdad.

We decided to take the direct route early the next morning, and I never want
to have to drive through something like that again. About 150 kms south of
the city, we passed a final U.S. checkpoint and were told that there were no
further coalition forces until the airport in Baghdad. "We wouldn't do that
journey in our tanks," was what one commander told us.

We have always operated on the basis that if one of us feels uneasy about a
situation and doesn't want to do it, they rest have to listen to the lowest
common denominator and also bail out. After about ten minutes of debate, we
agreed to try. If we didn't make it, we'd head back to Kuwait and give up.
We were tired -- exhausted really. We hadn't washed for three weeks. We were
hungry and thirsty. We were frustrated and depressed at the news from
Baghdad. In retrospect, it probably wasn't the best circumstances under
which to be making such a decision.

For the first half hour, we didn't see a single vehicle along the
double-lane dual carriageway, then we drove past the still-smouldering wreck
of a Russian T-54 tank which had been hit by something so big that its
turret and gun barrel -- which weigh three tons had been blown 200 metres up
the road.

From then on it was a procession of ruin. Every mile or so or so we would
pass another bombed tank, or armoured personnel carrier or artillery piece
or missile carrier or army truck. There were also wrecked civilian cars --
Toyotas, Ladas, Nissans -- and buses and tractors and donkey carts.

It became very clear what had happened. Although coalition forces had not
gone down that road, they had flown over it about a day earlier and blitzed
everything along it. It is testimony to incredible accuracy of modern
weaponry that the overwhelming majority of the around 200 vehicles we passed
had been military ones, but it was clear there had been "collateral damage".

One bus we passed had been hit from behind by a depleted-uranium tipped
rocket that shot down the aisle, before blasting the engine into millions of
fragments. Depleted uranium is so dense that one inch of it is the
equivalent of six feet of steel, so imagine the force behind a rocket only
as big as a fire extinguisher made of that material fired at nearly 1,000
kmh through a bus. The material is so dense that anything it touches is
crushed as it passes. It is so dense that as it flies, it creates a
super-heated vacuum around it that incinerates everything within a 20 foot
radius. Almost every seat of that bus still contained a corpse, still
sitting upright, caught completely unawares. From the piles of fly-blown,
blackened flesh, it was clear there were men, women and children aboard.

As we carried on, we saw the first Iraqi bunkers. Then more. Then more. On
both sides of the road. Piles of sand had been bulldozed onto the highway by
the Iraqis to create a series of chicanes that forced the car to a crawl. It
is almost impossible to describe the feeling of driving, slowly, the only
car on the road, towards what from the front looks like a fortified bunker,
every second expecting to see a flash of light as whoever was in it opened
fire, only to drive past and from behind see it was empty. Every kilometre
or so this shocking, debilitating build-up and release would repeat itself.
It was the most excruciating thing I have ever done. I kept having to force
myself to release my grip on the steering wheel. The air conditioner was
going at full blast, and the three of us were drenched in sweat. We were all
chain-smoking, lighting one from another. We had a Faithless CD on full
volume on the stereo in the hope that if we were going to blasted into
eternity, we wouldn't hear it coming. Ridiculous. Basic science tells you
that you never will anyway.

Fedja finally cracked. I've never seen the Serbian Bear scared before, but
from the back of the car came a slow, painful "Fuuuuuuuuck!" and I looked
around to see him white with shock. "Fox, my friend. I have bad feeling."
Chris looked at me and said in that understated Canadian way of his: "Mmmm,
I'm not sure about this, what do you think?". Well I was scared shitless,
but there was no fucking way that I wanted to go back. We had driven nearly
5,000 kms in the last three weeks and Baghdad was so tantalisingly close. We
drove on -- to stop and talk about it was inviting disaster; we had to keep
moving, in any direction -- and I argued that the Americans had clearly hit
every single piece of heavy hardware along the route and so we were not in
danger from that. Chris pointed out that we were in an armoured car and were
safe from light machinegun and rifle fire. The biggest hazard was an attack
from a rocket propelled grenade. At a snail's pace driving through those
bunkered chicanes, it would have been like shooting a barn door from two
paces. Although we have always agreed the lowest common denominator should
prevail without debate or argument, Chris and I argued with Fedja until he
finally said: "Fuck it. Lets go on."

It carried on, four hours of agonising build-up, release. Build-up, release.
Build-up, release. I wanted to scream. Chris offered to drive for a while,
but I selfishly refused. I wanted something to do and if we were going to be
ambushed, I wanted control and I wanted to blame no-one for what followed
but myself.

Build-up, release. Build-up, release. Build-up, release. Smoking, smoking,
smoking. Then Chris just started laughing. "This is fucking ridiculous. We
are fucking insane and we are fucking going to get away with it." Fedja
started laughing. "Fox, my friend. You crazy motherfucker. We all crazy
motherfuckers. I started laughing. "Well it was a calculated risk," I said,
and they both raced to get out the inevitable response. "Calculated to get
us killed, motherfucker!!!!"

As we neared Baghdad, the chicanes started petering out. Still no sign of
another car on the road. No sign of anyone along the route. The soldiers had
all fled. Every one of them. All that remained was the hulks of dead tanks,
APCs, artillery pieces, cars, trucks. Chicanes and bunkers. Smoke rising
from the city in the distance. The inside of the car clouded by smoke. Music
blasting out. Us laughing, almost hysterically.

Then in the distance we saw movement for the first time. Two tanks blocking
the road about a km ahead, but the turrets of both moving, their gun barrels
swinging around and aiming straight at us. Through his binoculars, Chris
could make out they were both big American Abrams tanks. We slowed to a
crawl. Middle of the road. Let them see us clearly. Let them look through
their binoculars and see Brenda. British plates. Battleship grey. Friendly
vehicle. Please, please, please, not friendly fire.

Then madness. Suddenly we all made the same whimpering "eee" sound as a
flash of light came from the barrel of one tank followed almost instantly by
an astonishing noise like nothing I have heard before. It was almost a
non-noise, as if all noise had been obliterated. And then the car swayed
from side to side like it was being blown by wind.

Both Chris and Fedja screamed "stop" at the moment I was slamming on brakes.
Fedja started bellowing "Jesus fucking Christ. Jesus Fucking Christ." Chris
repeating "Bad fucking shit, bad fucking shit.". Me repeating "No fucking
way, motherfuckers. No fucking way."

We sat there, scarcely daring to look ahead in case we saw another flash.
Seconds passed. Two hundred yards ahead, we could see the tank commander
peering at us through binoculars. Chris and I slowly raised our hands and
pressed them to the windscreen. Fedja in the back, chanting "Jesus Fucking
Christ. Jesus Fucking Christ". Then Chris said he was getting out. Slowly.
And he did. Arms above his head and started walking, slowly, towards them.
As he got close, the tank commander pulled himself out of the turret and
climbed down. Then we saw them shaking hands. Then Chris waved us to come
forward.

"You guys are dammed lucky I fired over your heads," said the tank
commander, who couldn't have been more than 25. "Aint no-one come down that
road since we took it out. Kind of caught us by surprise."

We were in Baghdad.

Footnote: The night before this happened, as we were driving to where we
camped, we saw a jackal -- a desert fox -- trot across the road in front of
us. "A good omen," I told Chris and Fedja.

Love and stuff

Fox

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