Clearly, if they were here, there was a story, as if their laser finders on the jeeps didn’t give it away.
We shook hands and they were cool, so long as we didn’t film them or specify location. I assured them that we wouldn’t. I could have sold them down the river of course, but you don’t want to get a reputation for that – you would never be allowed in again. They told me that they’d lost count of the number of times they had been here. I offered them my Sat Phone so they could call home – against their operational procedure. We shared kebabs and talked squaddie shit all night. I loved every second. As we swapped parachuting tales, for the first time since I had crossed the line from soldier to undercover beef for the BBC, I crossed it back again. I was totally at home and slightly jealous, as brilliant as my new life was. Twenty years of memories of sleeping rough under the stars, staking out the enemy and nailing good over evil came flooding back as I was mixing it with America’s finest. Despite the flea-bitten blankets and the odd bang in the sky, I could still cut it, and I still loved it.
Curiously, it wasn’t for John. The BBC drivers had taken him back to the hotel, around forty minutes away. His news radar told him there wasn’t a story here, and he wanted to head back as he didn’t have his medicine for his kidney stones. We would hook up again in the morning, and I told him to be prepared – get kit for forty-eight hours and get ready.
Sunday 6 April 2003.
None of us will forget this day.
John was back in the village early. I’d had the best night ever. Over in Tehran, Jim Muir had flown in for Kaveh’s funeral. Yes, we were sorry for him, but no, we hardly mentioned it. We had work to do and needed to crack on, and in the cutthroat world of news and war, it was the BBC’s job to send representatives. We had work to do and John wanted ‘colour pieces’. We were five hours from Baghdad.
We were heading to a village called Hawler when Abdullah called me over while John was doing a live two-way back to London. He had heard from Commander Nariman, who had been leaking info to us. The town of Dibarjan had fallen. This meant an about-turn and saying farewell to the Special Forces. It’s brutal to say it, but I was sadder at this than at the thought of Kaveh’s funeral. No disrespect but that’s the military fraternity.
We turned on our heels and chased the story, passing discarded uniforms and blown-up trucks on the way. The evidence had been clear and General Nariman’s previous information had been accurate up to this point. I drove – and fast too. I always drove. It was a poor excuse for a road. Dust, tarmac, potholes and bumps all the way made the Highways Agency look good. Vast expanses of plain flanked us on either side.
Of course, as seemed the way in these parts, I couldn’t know for sure if Nariman was talking to everyone. We hoped this was our story and not everyone’s but you could never know until you got there. Sadly, we never did. As we pulled up at the agreed checkpoint, the Peshmerga troops were everywhere – finding Nariman was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Abdullah, Fred and John went off to look, only to learn that a distinguished Iraqi major had been captured; and then John, being John, was pushing for an interview.
‘No film, no film, no film,’ the Peshmerga were saying.
Fred returned to our vehicle and urged me to go undercover and film on my mini DV camera at this small pen in a tiny holding by the side of the road. It was like a scene from the Middle Ages – peasants waiting to be slaughtered. I told Kameron, our translator, not to move while I checked the shot. Kam was nervous – we were starting to attract attention, even though it was hard to get close enough, and we were filming covertly. The film never got used because of what would follow, but its significance lies in the conversation I then had with Kameron.
While John was
We shook hands and they were cool, so long as we didn’t film them or specify location. I assured them that we wouldn’t. I could have sold them down the river of course, but you don’t want to get a reputation for that – you would never be allowed in again. They told me that they’d lost count of the number of times they had been here. I offered them my Sat Phone so they could call home – against their operational procedure. We shared kebabs and talked squaddie shit all night. I loved every second. As we swapped parachuting tales, for the first time since I had crossed the line from soldier to undercover beef for the BBC, I crossed it back again. I was totally at home and slightly jealous, as brilliant as my new life was. Twenty years of memories of sleeping rough under the stars, staking out the enemy and nailing good over evil came flooding back as I was mixing it with America’s finest. Despite the flea-bitten blankets and the odd bang in the sky, I could still cut it, and I still loved it.
Curiously, it wasn’t for John. The BBC drivers had taken him back to the hotel, around forty minutes away. His news radar told him there wasn’t a story here, and he wanted to head back as he didn’t have his medicine for his kidney stones. We would hook up again in the morning, and I told him to be prepared – get kit for forty-eight hours and get ready.
Sunday 6 April 2003.
None of us will forget this day.
John was back in the village early. I’d had the best night ever. Over in Tehran, Jim Muir had flown in for Kaveh’s funeral. Yes, we were sorry for him, but no, we hardly mentioned it. We had work to do and needed to crack on, and in the cutthroat world of news and war, it was the BBC’s job to send representatives. We had work to do and John wanted ‘colour pieces’. We were five hours from Baghdad.
We were heading to a village called Hawler when Abdullah called me over while John was doing a live two-way back to London. He had heard from Commander Nariman, who had been leaking info to us. The town of Dibarjan had fallen. This meant an about-turn and saying farewell to the Special Forces. It’s brutal to say it, but I was sadder at this than at the thought of Kaveh’s funeral. No disrespect but that’s the military fraternity.
We turned on our heels and chased the story, passing discarded uniforms and blown-up trucks on the way. The evidence had been clear and General Nariman’s previous information had been accurate up to this point. I drove – and fast too. I always drove. It was a poor excuse for a road. Dust, tarmac, potholes and bumps all the way made the Highways Agency look good. Vast expanses of plain flanked us on either side.
Of course, as seemed the way in these parts, I couldn’t know for sure if Nariman was talking to everyone. We hoped this was our story and not everyone’s but you could never know until you got there. Sadly, we never did. As we pulled up at the agreed checkpoint, the Peshmerga troops were everywhere – finding Nariman was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Abdullah, Fred and John went off to look, only to learn that a distinguished Iraqi major had been captured; and then John, being John, was pushing for an interview.
‘No film, no film, no film,’ the Peshmerga were saying.
Fred returned to our vehicle and urged me to go undercover and film on my mini DV camera at this small pen in a tiny holding by the side of the road. It was like a scene from the Middle Ages – peasants waiting to be slaughtered. I told Kameron, our translator, not to move while I checked the shot. Kam was nervous – we were starting to attract attention, even though it was hard to get close enough, and we were filming covertly. The film never got used because of what would follow, but its significance lies in the conversation I then had with Kameron.
While John was
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