Combat Camera (12 page)

“He served his country for years,” he said. “He loved his people and his country. He had no link with Taliban or al-Qaeda. He was
under economic pressures and recently sold his house. He was going through a very difficult period of time in his life.”
*

At the same time, the Taliban released a statement claiming responsibility for the attack. Spokesman Zabiullah Mujahid said the gunman had impersonated an officer, gaining access to the compound with the help of others.

“One suicide attacker managed to attack an Afghan military unit and has managed to kill many Afghan and international soldiers,” he said. “We had worked hard on this plan for a long time. He was co-operating with us since long time and he was providing us information about military operations for a long time.”
^†

Unsurprisingly, our flight back to Bastion on the Wednesday evening was cancelled. The following day – Mujahidin Victory Day – the threat level was through the roof. The morning flight was dropped, then an afternoon flight was hastily organized, taking off after lunch. We had no trouble getting three seats on it, given the reluctance of most people to fly in such circumstances. According to the latest intelligence reports, six suicide bombers were on standby in the city, apparently in the vicinity of the airport.

After we’d checked in, we waited in the sunshine outside a busy Greek café. From our table we could see directly onto the main runway, where planes were once again landing and taking off. As we chatted about the events of the last few days, drinking our coffee, a US Air Force officer came over and introduced himself. He’d seen the Combat Camera Team badge on my arm and, working as a press officer himself, he wanted to meet me.

“They just put all the caskets on the plane,” he said. “It’s a real shame.”

“It’s terrible.” I assumed he was talking about his nine dead countrymen – which he was, but only indirectly.

“Yeah, you just missed it,” he said. “Real shame. You could’ve got some nice shots.”

He went back to his own table, while I marvelled at the capacity of the military machine to just roll onwards. The bodies would be flown home – after a few formalities, the families would be left to suffer their loss for the remainder of their days – and the rest of us would just continue with the mission, our questionable instincts telling us that death was something that only ever happened to other people.

About twenty minutes after my bizarre exchange with the USAF officer, a young RAF officer called Jack Humphrey introduced himself to me. We’d spoken over the phone a week earlier about a possible story on the “Thunder Lab”. He looked pale and drawn, like he was about to faint. He worked in the set of offices where the shooting had taken place.

“We’ve all been moved over to this side of the airport,” he said. “All my personal kit is still in one of the buildings that have been locked down.”

He looked badly shaken up. The Afghan pilot was a well-known figure who had just “flipped” and started shooting. All the Americans had been armed, but they hadn’t stood a chance.

“In the lobby of the building where it happened, there’s a picture of him on the wall,” he said. “He’s shaking hands with one of the guys he killed.”

We eventually got our flight back to Bastion. It was only half full, but still there was the usual clustering of ISAF troops and Afghans. This time it was a group of interpreters, about a dozen
of them, eyeing us warily from their side of the plane. For once, I didn’t fall asleep. I stayed awake in the half-light, wondering what they really thought about us, wondering what hope there was for “partnering”, and wondering what hope there was for this country.

Shorabak

The day after our return from Kabul, we went to Shorabak to cover a party being thrown to celebrate the Royal Wedding. In the weeks leading up to this historic event, the BBC had put in numerous requests for a live link-up with the Household Cavalry. Specifically, they wanted a hundred soldiers from D Squadron to gather in a tent at Bastion and watch the ceremony on a giant screen, while a camera beamed their reactions back to the UK. Given D Squadron’s operational commitments, it was a wildly unrealistic demand, but rather than organize a more practical alternative for the BBC, the JMOC simply told them that it couldn’t be done.

“We’re trying to fight a war here,” said Harriet repeatedly. Four months into her tour, she still hadn’t left the base, but this was one of her favourite phrases.

In the end, the good old Mercians threw a party instead, albeit without the live link-up. They’d recently moved into Camp Tombstone, a base within a base at Shorabak. Having taken over the role of Brigade Advisory Group from the Irish Guards, they had particularly close connections with the ANA, so a load of Afghans were also invited. It was a perfect piece of PR: British soldiers out in Afghanistan enjoying a barbecue with their Afghan counterparts, celebrating the Royal Wedding. They’d filled a large open-ended tent with benches, trestle tables and two widescreen televisions, so everyone could sit down together and watch the
ceremony. The atmosphere was friendly and relaxed – some of the Mercians were even wearing Hawaiian shirts – although everyone was still carrying their pistols, just in case one of the Afghans took a dislike to the steak and went berserk.

After I’d finished my steak – which was actually quite nice – a rather gaunt Danish major sat down next to me. He made me feel hungry again, just looking at him.

“My name is Mikkel Hedegaard,” he said. “I am in charge of the Afghan Combat Camera Team.”

“I’m sorry?”

It turned out he was a media-liaison officer for the ANA. He was based at Tombstone, and the Afghan Combat Camera Team fell under his jurisdiction. He’d already spoken to Colonel Lucas, and was keen to get us all out in the field together.

“There is a big operation coming up,” he said. “At the end of next month. Operation Omid Haft.”

“I know about Omid Haft.”

“The Afghan team is very enthusiastic, but they’re inexperienced. They need you out there with them.”

“We’ll be happy to help,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “As long as we get enough time to train them properly.”

“Yes, we could do some training here. I think a week would be good.”

It sounded reasonable enough. At least he understood the need for a “gradual approach”.

“But we should not overdo the training,” he added. “I think four hours a day is about right. They won’t do any more than that.”

Mikkel suggested a daily timetable from 9 a.m. till 11 a.m., taking three hours off for lunch, then resuming in the afternoon from 2 p.m. till 4 p.m. As a work schedule, it was probably a
bit too gradual, but Mikkel insisted it was as much as we could hope for.

“That is just how it is,” he said. “It is the Afghan way.”

* * *

We returned to Shorabak the following morning, this time to cover the official opening of its Regional Military Training Centre. Our content from the wedding celebration had gone down quite well – BBC West Midlands, home patch of the Mercians, had taken the footage, while the
Sunday Express
had picked up the stills – but I had my doubts about the market for a story on raw Afghan recruits. There wasn’t an abundance of angles for the British media – even the instructors were Afghans – so there was a chance our messaging would just disappear. If there were any British mentors on the scene, then we’d be able to cook something up – otherwise, the story would probably go nowhere.

We went to the opening with Dougie, a flight lieutenant from the RAF reserves who’d only just arrived in theatre. He’d moved into the empty bed space next to mine, his arrival having been delayed by six weeks after he broke his ankle skiing. Dry-humoured, with a large, friendly face, he was an easy man to like, and I was already enjoying working alongside him. I wasn’t sure what his job at the JMOC actually involved – he was in charge of Strategic Messaging, a new role in the office which was so all-encompassing it could’ve meant anything – but he seemed to know what he was doing. He drove us to Shorabak in the JMOC minibus, telling us about the heightened alert state on the way.

“They think a suicide attack is imminent,” he said. “Apparently the Taliban are planning a spectacular on Bastion in the next few days.”

When we pulled up outside the gates at Shorabak, the US sentries confirmed what Dougie had told us. The opening was still going ahead, but any ISAF troops who weren’t directly involved with the ceremony would be risking their lives unnecessarily.

We drove in anyway. We were the Combat Camera Team, what else were we going to do?

“You can’t drop everything every time the threat level goes up,” said Dougie, who also felt a professional obligation to ignore the warning. “We’d never get anything done.”

More than eight hundred ANA recruits had formed up on the parade square in the middle of the base, many of them with their issued M16 rifles. They’d just started their eight-week basic training course, after which they’d join the various ANA
kandaks
(battalions) across Helmand. The sheer volume of recruits who would be passing through the training centre was staggering. The next intake was set to almost double in size, with more than 1,500 recruits expected.

We could see a lot of American soldiers around the edge of the parade square, all of them carrying weapons, all of them looking jumpy. British soldiers, meanwhile, were in short supply, and the few who were to be seen were all climbing into their various vehicles and driving away.

“It doesn’t look too good,” said Dougie. “Hang on.”

He pulled the minibus over to one side and jumped out, asked a few questions of the twitchy Americans, then came back thirty seconds later.

“There’s really no point you being here, guys,” he said. “I’m going to take a few pictures, but I don’t think there’s more to it than that. The Brits have all disappeared.”

Dougie had only been in theatre for a matter of days, but he seemed anxious to stay out of the JMOC. I knew his work kept
him tied to his desk for a lot of the time, but I didn’t think the cabin fever would kick in this quickly. He’d brought his own camera along with him, and he was already desperate to prove he had a role outside the confines of the office.

“Are you sure you’re going to be OK?” I asked. “I don’t want to abandon you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll get a lift back with one of the Americans.”

We left him there, clutching his camera, surrounded by hundreds of Afghans and a smattering of nervous Americans. He seemed happy enough.

Russ, Ali and I spent the rest of the morning back at the JMOC, drinking coffee, editing some of our material from Kabul, and generally taking it easy. I didn’t like sitting in the office for hours at a time – there wasn’t much bonhomie, Faulkner tending to discourage small talk – but in keeping with my general desire to stay alive, I could see its attractions.

Dougie returned to the JMOC just before lunchtime, having successfully hitched a ride in a Humvee. He walked back into the office with a huge grin on his face.

“It all got really jumpy,” he said. “All the Americans had rounds up the spout. Everyone was worried about a green-on-blue.”

“Did you get some good shots?” asked Ali.

“I did eventually, but just after you left, this huge crowd of Afghans came charging towards the parade square. All the Americans thought it was some sort of coordinated attack, and were reaching for their weapons.”