Embedded
My companion snapping a shot of the executed men
Microphone in hand to catch the full sound of the gunshots, I watched the first victim crumple on the ground. Fear was etched across the face of the second as he looked from his friend’s slumped body to the executioner. His body jerked awkwardly as he attempted to face the man who was about to kill him.
After he had dispatched the two policemen, the insurgent leader turned back to our camera, still intently trained on him. He held aloft the detonators connected to explosives – explosives tightly bound to two more local policemen.
A stark warning was issued: “If Nato attack our position I will blow these men up and myself with them.”
I asked him if anything could be done to save the lives of these unwilling human timebombs. I felt sick with fear for them – this man had already dispatched two others in front of us – their only crime was to uphold the local rule of law.
“These men are traitors. They have collaborated with the infidels. They will die no matter what,” came the harsh reply.
Safe and unthreatened, we returned to our transport – we were being used to deliver a message and to inspire fear in the local population.
Back at the Nato base where we have been embedded with the troops there is a dispute. Should we broadcast the horrific images of two men being put to death? I argue that we shouldn’t but my companion feels the images are so powerful that we must.
A problem – there’s no audio. We don’t have the words of the militia leader. It makes our editorial decision for us – we show the images but with a voice-over – hopefully our package is more than just propaganda. The escalation in violence and the threat of retaliation that the local people live with is our justification for the sensational images.
The piece goes out and I hear back from military officials – they thought the guys wrapped in explosives were suicide bombers – when they attack they will now try to rescue these men. So the attack is to go ahead and we are to join them…
Night has fallen, it’s dark and there is surprisingly little noise as the line of soldiers makes it’s way across the heath towards the insurgent stronghold. The sky is clear and I am seeing the stars for the first time since I moved to the UK. We stop to regroup before the assault begins and I see a shooting star so bright that I think it’s a flare for a moment…
Troop-sergeant Seacroft is our minder. He is in command of the attack and so he stays to the rear unless there are casualties at which point he reassures me “I will hand you over to someone else and deal with that situation.”
We’re held back from the front as the troops rush through the trees in which the militia have their stronghold. They’re quickly spotted by the sentries and we can see the bright bursts of gunfire. Two loud explosions momentarily drown out the sounds of the battle – I know whose sad demise the sound marks…
Seacroft is on the move, low and quick. We struggle to follow through the vegetation, unused to jogging in body armour and helmets. We’ve smeared our faces with camouflage paint but my impractical navy and cream rain jacket practically glows in the inky atmosphere.
Our helpful minder explains that the two groups are attacking from different sides but have arranged their angles so that they are not shooting across at each other. We’re moving left towards the main force but we venture a little too far toward the centre – the point where the insurgents are still in control, the troops have not come this far yet.
An ‘enemy combatant’ jumps out of the trees ahead and lets off a quick burst of gunfire. A few feet ahead of us the troop sergeant falls to the ground and we, the four ‘impartial’ media professionals fall victim to the same hail of bullets. As I slide to the ground the shadows above brighten as light from a flare brings the foliage into relief…
…
Or that is what would have happened if this had not simply been a training exercise – for the young officers of the Royal Marines and equally for us journalism students.
We continued on with Troop-sergeant Seacroft until he reached the casualties. Men who had been picked by the supervisor of the exercise to play ‘almost dead or wounded’. At this point however we had been showered with blank rounds several times over and our valient troop-sergeant was declared dead.
Chaos ensued for the next 30 minutes until the insurgent threat had been eliminated. It was now time for me to enjoy myself and bother the poor guys trying to reorganise themselves with an endless stream of questions. ‘How many have been killed?’ ‘Did you take any militia captive?’ and so on.
We were on our way back – the ‘tactical’ route i.e. not straight – we had stopped to allow the brass time to discuss and plan what to do and how to get home. I wrangled an interview with our miraculously regenerated troop-sergeant but his brother-in-arms decided I had asked too many questions. I was roughly grabbed by the arm and pulled away. “He’s very busy and he doesn’t have time to answer your questions now!”
The fun continued back at the base.
Two huge explosions not far from the camp resulted in a scrabble to investigate. I bagged an interview with the commander of the base. A few questions in I get a gem of a quote. “These kind of occurrences will happen in the early stages of an invasion,” said troop sergeant for Nato headquarters 2nd Lieutenant Perks.
It was just a slip of the tongue and he quickly corrected himself but I couldn’t help the smirk and he gave me a look that said ‘Damn, you caught me’.
Hard at work
Being embedded with the military was an amazing experience. The fictional country the soldiers were dealing with unsurprisingly had several similarities with the situation in Afghanistan. Though it was always clearly an exercise rather than the real thing, it was important and simple enough to take it seriously. Many of the men involved had already been to Afghanistan and Iraq. Most of the ones who haven’t already been have signed up to go when they graduate (in two weeks).
I talked to as many soldiers as I could during the two days to try and understand why they sign up for this. One of the most interesting conversations I had was with one of the training officers on our way back from the chaotic attack.
He made the point that there is a new generation of soldiers now – they knew the UK was at war when they signed up and they knew what kind of war it was. He had decided to join the marines when he was 17. He was 15 when Nato invaded Afghanistan.
We lay on the ground during a break in the march and watched a shooting star. We didn’t know that we were watching the Leonid meteor shower. He promised to let me try on his kit when we got back to base to feel the weight of what they have to carry.
But when we got back I was busy chasing interviews and writing stories.
I couldn’t see his face in the dark so I didn’t know which one he was. He has signed up to go to Afghanistan as soon as he passes out. By now, he’ll know if he’s being granted his wish.
