Although I’d had my eye on the Libyan situation, I had spent the last couple of weeks looking after my wife and newborn son. It was an eye-opener all right. Woah, newborn babies are tiny and fragile. We were blessed. He got into a routine quite quickly: eat, shit, sleep. Fair play to him; he had his priorities in order. I’d read a book before he was born and attended some prenatal classes with the wife. Jesus, the labour was bad enough. At one stage I was going to go for the gas to get some relief, but I thought with a room full of midwives and the missus, a man saying it was hard going for him too would have been lynched there and then. Well, the young fella was making good ground at home. The missus had healed and was back to being able to drive. I didn’t just leave; I did break the news slowly and steady but, to be honest, I’d had enough of changing nappies for a while. I was looking forward to my new destination.
The reports I was receiving from colleagues already in-country were hilarious. It sounded like the Wild West, although people were dying; well, it’s war. It is inevitable but the sheer lunacy of the rebels was something to behold. There was absolutely no regard for any form of military prowess; wing and a prayer was the main element of the sitreps. I had my flight details confirmed: Heathrow to Cairo, and taxi to Benghazi. I rechecked that again. Nice, I thought. I checked my maps, hard copy and soft copy. Distances, obstacles, border crossing, the notorious Salloum crossing-point at the north-west tip of Egypt near the Mediterranean. Oh, this is going to be emotional, I thought. If you’ve never driven or been driven on Egyptian roads, it’s like they heard about speed bumps and decided, for the fun of it, to put them everywhere; although they are not speed bumps to the Egyptian road-builders, just bad laying of the asphalt. They might have been good at building pyramids but they were shit at building roads. Corruption and not giving a shit were probably the two cornerstones of the plan-and-build stages. Ah, it is what it is. So, my kit was packed and it was goodbyes once again. I set off for Heathrow and beyond. I’ve been going in and out of airports for a long time, especially Middle Eastern ones. I know what to pack, what to wear, what to look like and, more importantly, what not to look like, but the biggest asset when travelling in the Middle East is an Irish passport. We ain’t invaded no one. I whizzed through departures; Egyptian Air it will have to do. I slept well and arrived late in the evening into a muggy, hot Cairo night. The din of the traffic was laborious while waiting for my lift outside arrivals. I knew it was Wacky Races time from here until I boarded the flight home, whenever the hell that was going to be!
A ramshackle taxi arrived. I gave him the hotel details. I also tipped him and spent the remainder of the drive inhaling Cairo’s polluted air. The atmosphere in Cairo was toxic. Few foreign nationals walked around like before the revolution. There was an air of menace to the darkened sky over the city; people were nervous now. Women didn’t venture out as much either. The hotel was a complete world away from this. I was all sorted and ready for the next stage: a sixteen to twenty-four-hour drive to Benghazi in Libya via Alexandria and the notorious Salloum border crossing at the north-west tip of Egypt near the coast. After only two hours’ sleep, it was breakfast and off I went. My taxi driver spoke little to no English and I wasn’t much better. I knew from previous experience we would be ‘inshallah-ing’ it all the way. Oh well, when in Rome, I thought, and said ‘Inshallah’ too. Jesus, we didn’t go under 90 mph all the way to Alexandria. Thank God I’m a lunatic and mad driving doesn’t bother me. I did ask him to settle down several times; I didn’t want to fall out with him and have him leave me stranded in the middle of nowhere for him to then make out to the client I was unreasonable as I’d be out of a contract. Swings and roundabouts when you’re in this game.
I could see road signs to El Alamein in Alexandria. It got me thinking about the North African campaign during the Second World War, especially when we passed Alexandria and drove west along the coast. There were many war cemeteries in immaculate condition. They stood there in silent dignity from both sides of the war. Germans, British, Italians; it was poignant. It took me back to when I was just over 12 years old. A collectable Second World War magazine was on sale in newsagents. It was issued every two weeks or so. My mum and I got it. I remember going through the articles about the North African campaign. I even hung a map of the war in North Africa in my room with all the key battles. My mum was just a girl after the war and she remembered listening on the radio to programmes on the history of the battles that had raged a few years earlier; a bit like the ones you see on the History Channel nowadays but in 1950s in the West of Ireland it was radio. I was drawn to it all; it seemed like a romantic campaign compared to the horrors of other theatres. I certainly never thought that a quarter of a century later I would be being driven in a taxi here. Even my old regiment, 21 SAS, was born out of this campaign and the North African sand. It was where the long-range desert patrol group operated a prelude to 1 and 2 SAS regiments. Wow, I thought, déjà vu. It didn’t slow down Evel Knievel next to me one iota though. I looked across at him and pointed on the map to the rendezvous point where we were going to swap drivers and have a break. I pointed at the map and said ‘Yes, yes?’ He replied ‘Inshallah’ and so did I, and I was even laughing about it.
We made the rendezvous and swapped drivers. We were on our way again; there was no change to the pedal-to-the-metal syndrome of most drivers I ever had the privilege of joining. No aircon either; the sun was well up in the sky and it was hot. Nice, I thought, I’m going to look like a tomato before I even arrive, and we went inshallah-ing it all the way to the border with plenty of profanities to boot with all the close calls we had. Just to explain, ‘inshallah’ means ‘if God wills it’. It is a common statement in Arabic, just like people in Christian countries might say ‘please be to God’ in the West. We suffer from ‘fatalism’. We wake up in the morning, get out of bed and decide we need the toilet, but before we do we get an insurance policy set up just in case something happens to us on the way to the toilet. Fear is indoctrinated into us. Now our fatalistic Middle Eastern friends are at the other end of the scale. They don’t suffer from such fear yet. Whatever will be, will be. ‘Inshallah.’ So fluctuating between the two ‘isms’ as I do with my line of work takes some skill, nerve and lunacy at times. It’s not for the faint-hearted, this craic, you know.
The Salloum border crossing comprises a few buildings in the middle of the desert between Libya and Egypt, white-painted autocratic one-storey buildings that reminded me of 1960s Egyptian films. The place was heavy with refugees stuck in no man’s land, with no man’s land passports. They were mostly from sub-Saharan Africa. No paperwork. Funny that you didn’t exist even though you are standing there, breathing the same air as someone with a passport. Egyptians and Libyans were applying for visas. There were also UN workers, NGO staff, medics and security personnel; a virtual war zone entourage. It was hot, sweaty and there was no goddam shortage of flies everywhere. There was no queuing or getting in line either, it was a free-for-all. I paid a fixer some dollars to sort mine out fast. I got the stamps and so on. Then the crossing closed. I waited for hours to walk 800 metres to the Libyan side of the border. The taxi was staying in Egypt. Thank Christ, I thought. Eventually I crossed onto the Libyan side of the border. Same craic again. Eventually we got stamped. As I was media, I got through quicker. This part of Libya was now under ‘rebel’ control and their autocratic posturing meant there was zero handshaking with me. ‘Ireland, Ireland,’ they said, as they read my passport. I smiled and thanked them.
I was in Libya after twelve hours on the road, roughly halfway there. Eventually I met with my lift to Benghazi. Al Jazeera had sent their hired van and driver to the pick-up point. Mobile coverage was intermittent when you’re inshallah-ing it between positions of civilization in a war zone. You have to go on your charm, wit and intuition. This driver, ‘Fozy’ was his name, had great English and drove steady. When we stopped for a fuel refill and coffee at a ramshackle station two hours after the crossing, I found out why he was more relaxed as he was putting the fuel into the Mercedes Vito van: fuel nozzle in one hand and a joint in the other. I bloody roared out laughing. Jesus, if it isn’t one thing it’s another. Well at least I knew the drive would be chilled. When you’re with indigenous forces or people in their country or land, you’ve just got to accept it and go with the flow. The more you try to fight it or stamp your authority, the worse it becomes. You meet in the middle over time.
We drove for another six hours or so, arriving into the mayhem that was Benghazi at about 2.00 am. After nearly twenty-four hours on the road I was shattered trying to hook up with the security team and organize rooms and so on in the melee at the hotel. I met the team leader I was replacing and had a quick heads-up. Then it was straight to bed for a few hours. The only issue was that the rebels driving around the city were enthusiastic about firing their weapons into the air, a show of ego more than anything else. They were ill-disciplined. Anyone who has ever had to practise rationing with ammunition in a conflict zone would have been appalled. I wasn’t impressed; I know what it’s like to make every bullet count. Just as importantly, though, what goes up must come down. The local hospitals must have been sick of the sight of injured civilians coming in from being hit by stray bullets and nowhere near the front line. There was no air conditioning and the room was stinking. Sod it, I’m too tired to care. Land of nod, here I come. There was no time to spare over the next few days; we were right in the thick of it. Straight away. Getting up to speed on the ground is not ideal, but that’s just the game.
The city was awash with foreign media. NGO staff and even some foreign government officials were taking up residency at the best hotel to give some sort of legitimacy to the situation. The amount of security foreign embassy staffers had was over the top. All in their 5.11 shirts and shades; they stuck out like pink elephants. Many of these guys couldn’t spell discretion, never mind practise it. The threat from pro-Gaddafi forces was high and venturing out after dark was not advisable, although the front line was now further down the coast. It would drift 50km west and then back 50km east a couple of days later. The main reason for this was that it was desert between the towns so there was no hard cover to hold; you would be flanked by the opposition unless you had depth in your defences. The rebels had held Gaddafi’s forces at the city limits thanks only to NATO jets, but it was pretty hairy on the front line. Thankfully we were with Al Jazeera Arabic, so they were keen to go to the front and beyond to speak with forward observers. It reminded me of my role in Afghanistan. We were all over here inshallah-ing it like the Egyptian drivers; now it was from the reporter in front of the camera right down to the tea boy. If Allah will it, then so be it. As I was team leader for the task I had the uneasy task of putting some sort of structure to the whole scenario. It took a lot of work just to organize the fleet of vehicles with basic breakdown kit, fuel and supplies, med kit and so on. Sometimes they thought I was crazy for this, but it was the reason we were there, as their headquarters back in Doha, Qatar had ordered ex-Special Forces advisors to cover them and provide medical and logistical support. Money was no object to the revolution but trying to get dollars out of them to invest in breakdown kit was like prising clams open.
The front reporter was Al Jazeera Arabic’s top news host and reporter in the field, Mr Beba Wald Mhade. A small gentle-spoken gentleman, he was a caring, devout man, highly intelligent and easy to work with. The only problem was his superstar status in the Arabic-speaking world; he drew more crowds than the revolutionary speakers. When Western journalists saw people flocking towards him they couldn’t figure it out. You would have journalists from Europe and America interviewing another journalist. Once they figured out what was happening, there were some sour faces.
As the conflict dragged up and down the coast, moving with the tide at times, we did a lot of travel towards the east to do interviews and so on. We were in the Libyan green mountains and Derna; incidentally, plenty of the foreign jihadis fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan were from this area of Libya. Being one of only two white ex-pats among all these felt uneasy at times but as we were working for the Arabs, it seemed to be okay. We didn’t mention that we had been shooting and killing their mates not so long ago. We made out we were just medics from the UK and me being Irish made it easier as well. Covering the war from the front was like trying to herd cats. The media crews would try to get as close as possible, setting up live positions with a satellite truck which would take time to set up or lower it down; not ideal when Gaddafi’s forces would zero in on your position and anything up to 180mm artillery shells would rain down all over the shop. Thankfully the closest one to land didn’t detonate.
Sometimes I think the military men on the other side didn’t have the heart to kill fellow Libyans. I noticed this a lot in Libya. As most of Libya is Sunni they did get on well enough; the tribal divides had not yet been manipulated well enough. I wouldn’t hesitate to suggest that they purposefully didn’t arm the artillery shell before firing. The biggest problem about the live position is that the other side would watch the international channels, figure out where the report was being broadcast and give firing orders down the line. Hey presto. Within about fifteen minutes of a live broadcast going out, the artillery would land maybe a kilometre ahead. Trying to tell the reporter we had to go was a battle in itself. They would say it was in the distance. Keeping my temper, I’d tell them that’s just the beginning; now they have eyes on us they’ll correct their fire and it will advance. Lo and behold, by the time they had figured out what I was telling them was correct incoming was 500 metres and closing and then it was panic stations as we tried to get kit packed up and so on. Every bloody time. Oh inshallah, they will learn, I thought. Eventually the live broadcasting was prohibited by the Rebel Military Command; at last they had figured out the benefit of not giving your position away to the enemy.
The stalemate in the east set in over the summer months of 2011. It was starting to lose traction in the news; only the big networks with the money to stay the distance covered it as the freelancers and print journalists searched for their next pay cheque in another story, in another place. They would all rush in if something big happened and then disappear again. Benghazi, the de facto capital, was tense and a political and militia hotbed under the surface. A lot of in-fighting was being passed off as Gaddafi fifth columns, but it was more the extremist and jihadi influence that we were seeing from working for an Arabic news company. Those in power in Libya, and outside, knew full well who was carrying out the fighting now.
One afternoon a few consultants and I were enjoying a coffee break from the hustle and bustle. We were located on the rooftop restaurant of the Tibesti Hotel. We were sitting chatting outside, looking over the harbour and the hotel grounds below us. As I raised my cup to take a drink, an explosion detonated below us in the car park. I didn’t spill my coffee and I had been looking in the general direction of the explosion as it went off. I noticed a car bonnet had been launched into the air and the car burst into flames, along with the two cars parked either side of it. I knew there wouldn’t be many casualties. The car was relatively intact, as were its neighbouring vehicles, albeit in flames. The shockwave didn’t hurt us, although it did smash windows in the vicinity of the car bomb. Benghazi was not Baghdad and the sophistication and power of the IEDs in Iraq would have certainly injured us even fifteen floors up as glass and debris would have flown in all directions. I raced down to the lobby and informed other consultants to grab our clients for a head count and move away from the hotel. I quickly surveyed the situation. I sent reports to the UK and Doha confirming that all personnel were safe and accounted for. We advised plenty of people to stay away from the area as, from my experience, there are generally two devices: the first one will detonate and then when emergency services and bystanders are lured in to assist and a crowd gathers, the second detonates a short time later for maximum carnage. That didn’t happen here which I quickly deduced meant that this was not the work of a Gaddafi fifth column, which is what most people were saying, but either amateur jihadis pissed off with Westerners or a rebel attempt at keeping the focus on Benghazi. Whoever it was, they were amateurish at best.
That was part of the game. Sifting the fact from fiction, as the old saying goes. Truth is the first casualty of war. The other fronts in Libya were having much better advancement. The western front was making small but steady gains in the Nafusa Mountains. The port city of Misurata, which lies about halfway between Sirte and Tripoli, had taken up the revolt in the beginning but it was surrounded by pro-Gaddafi territory. They were surrounded on three sides with water behind them. They had to fight to survive. The port remained open, although intermittently. Al Jazeera Arabic had a news crew in place. One of the consultants in my team was also there helping them. That was a shitty place to be during the early months of the siege, but once they managed to push the artillery back enough so that it was out of range of the city centre, life was more bearable. I would organize the logistics for the crew in Misurata and get them on board a ferry that was operating now as a refugee and medical evacuation vessel out of Misurata to Benghazi. I would also brief the incoming Arabic reporters and crew on the situation, give them basic medical lessons in first aid and so on, and brief them on some dos and don’ts in life-threatening scenarios; give them some memory aids that would kick in when they were in the middle of an artillery barrage. It was just the basics in life-saving techniques and then we’d send them on their merry – or seasick – way to the besieged city via the Mediterranean. Being at the quayside when the ferry would come in on its return journey was bittersweet: all those refugees, and the young men with missing limbs and so on from the war making their way back here and then on to Turkey for medical treatment. It was a solemn sight coming down the gangplank. Different war, same outcome.
The stalemate on the eastern front made my work easier though, as we got into a routine which worked well; we were able to implement some training and so forth during down time. It certainly helped that I could get a better night’s sleep as I wasn’t up all hours prepping for long stints out of Benghazi. Yet conflict zones never stay the same for long. There was a lot of bustle around the Al Jazeera Arabic Bureau in Benghazi. They were getting initial reports that one of the top military commanders for the rebels had been arrested; General Younis, an ex-Gaddafiregime general, had defected. He was said to have been a close ally of Gaddafi at one time. I knew this would make life hectic again. The rebel factions were barely held together and this arrest could be a catalyst for it to get very intense, not just around the front line but back in Benghazi.
Our base at the Tibesti Hotel was where all the media worked and stayed. Most press conferences were held there; it was very high-profile but it was well protected. Also media types like to be around media types, get an inside line on a story and so on. When it was announced Younis was dead… wow! The place erupted not long after that. I was ushering some of our staff away from the firefight that was ensuing outside. I even had to brave the bullets a few times like the good old days just to run out and retrieve some who were frozen to the spot. The reports from the National Transitional Council (NTC) were that an armed gang had killed him. I had it on good account, only a day after the Tibesti assault, that he had been executed alongside two of his aides-de-camp. Another young officer had sneaked into the boot on the way up to Benghazi. General Younis and the two loyal officers were shot by the 17th February Brigade. The young officer reported the story to Al Jazeera Arabic. He was stowed out of Libya to save his life. The story was quashed. It didn’t look too good, NATO planes giving close air support to al-Qaeda. The jihadis had had their revenge or they had been ordered by their paymasters to take him out. He was about to blow the lid on who exactly was now fighting the war in the east. I knew Benghazi was a tinderbox. I just hoped it wouldn’t catch. It was a long way to safety if it did go tits up.
I was looking forward to getting back to the UK soon. I was due to fly in a few weeks. Also Ramadan was now in full swing. Our Arabic clients wanted to do some news pieces on the front line and beyond that to where the rebel forward observers were hiding so they could call in the artillery on the Gaddafi forces front line; they also acted as an early warning for any movement towards their own front lines. We travelled most of the day on dirt tracks and off road, going past different defensive rebel lines. Eventually we were right at the front now during Ramadan. A Muslim must fast between sunrise and sunset. No smoking and so on. A lot practise it; the only problem is that about 6 to 8.00 pm local time is when most people are at their weakest, including their patience. That’s when arguments start. Here I was, the only Westerner among rebels of all descriptions; most were practising fasting, but plenty of others weren’t and were smoking cigarettes. One young rebel offered me a fag. I was gasping; I hadn’t had one all day. The minute I lit up, we were opened upon with 150-220mm artillery shells; the bang they made going over our heads. They were landing 2km behind where we were all laying up. The Arabic reporter smiled and said at least they’re not that accurate. We watched the impact areas of the shells hitting. ‘No,’ I said, ‘you see where they are blowing to bits over there, that’s our only way out of this area.’ The vehicle couldn’t navigate the surrounding steep terrain. He stopped smiling. ‘Inshallah; it will be fine,’ I replied, laughing. I had become well used to that saying by now.
I was due to fly out of Cairo within a week. I needed a holiday. Something was afoot though; Al Jazeera Arabic were busy. They had been given a heads-up from Doha that an offensive on Tripoli was looking likely to break the stalemate, and it looked certain that they would be moving with the front or travelling via ship. A road move was too dangerous at the time as half the country was still in pro-government hands. My task was ending soon.
A day before I was due to go home, an email arrived. I was asked if I was interested in travelling to Tunis and rendezvousing with some National Public Radio (NPR) journalists to assist them in covertly entering western Libya and on to Tripoli for the battle for the capital. I couldn’t resist; once more into the fray. I apologized to the wife and did the dreaded Benghazi to Cairo suicide drive. After the flight to Tunis I had some down time waiting for flights so I had quite a few drinks in the hotel. It was one night out; I needed it after months in war. It was sheer lunacy at Tunis Airport. The number of media journalists trying to catch a flight to Djerba in Tunisia near the north-east border with Libya. Every man and his dog! I managed to catch a flight on standby and arrived late that evening, exhausted; just over twenty-four hours of hurling myself across the whole North African continental coast. I’d be going like the hammers of hell to make this task work. The deadline was to be there for the fall of Tripoli and that was looming ever closer. I met up with the clients and sneaked them across the border, all the way to Tripoli. We found their work colleagues and managed to get a room in the Radisson Hotel in Tripoli. No food or water. Well, there was a war on. We’d had the foresight to stock our vehicle to the roof: a robust red Toyota Hiace taxi van; not my usual choice but very apt and it fitted in at all the checkpoints and so on. No one batted an eyelid.
I went to my room, opened the door and saw it was occupied, that is, someone had left their belongings in there but they weren’t in. In a lot of hotels, not just in Tripoli, but where there is any civil unrest or war that breaks out fast, people leave stuff behind and try to get out of the country in a hurry, catch the last flights and so forth. The same thing looked to have happened here. I had a quick look about; I noticed a fine collection of cravats lying on the dresser; ah, must be an Englishman at least. I did some further detective work: I was like one of the three bears trying to find out who’s been sleeping in my bed, except it wasn’t Goldilocks, it was John Simpson of the BBC. I knew the Beeb hadn’t left Tripoli, so I left my kit in the room and went to search for the BBC’s head of security, an ex-22 man. We squared it anyway. I made sure the room was intact, got another room and duly moved my kit to it. I did it out of professional conduct. I later spoke with Mr Simpson who thanked me.
Tripoli had fierce fighting all around the Gaddafi compound. All the various militia wanted to have the battle honour. The amount of stray ammunition flying towards the hotel was a concern. Bullets were going through windows all the time. We were a few kilometres from the battle. It subsided over a few days. The capital had heated exchanges in some parts. I was busy looking after a team of about six clients advising and helping in logistics and so on. I had taken the role on the promise someone would replace me after a few weeks. I had a family holiday booked and paid for. My replacement arrived, a good friend and colleague. I handed over everything to him at the Libyan/Tunisian border. ‘Cheers mate,’ I said, ‘I’m off for two weeks in Italy.’
No word of a lie, I was wrecked now. I would sleep like a baby. Oh, Tuscany was immense. My wife, young son and me. It was as far as you could get from conflict zones, or so I thought. Under my skin something was eating away at me. Initially I put it down to tiredness; my arm had not healed as well as I had hoped. The insubstantial treatment by the MOD and my regiment failing in its duty of care were making me angry and resentful. I buried it in a few sessions on holiday but now, looking back, that’s where I made my first mistake: ignoring what was under the surface and just getting on with it; that’s all I ever knew. To make matters worse, while home I received a very kind letter from the officer commanding the unit I had been attached to in Afghanistan during 2009/10, congratulating me on being awarded for my actions in that year’s honours and awards list. I was touched and proud and very humble, but there wasn’t a dicky bird out of the administration staff or notice from 21. That didn’t help with my situation. I thought fuck you, if that’s the support you show soldiers when they come to you for help. Bitterness was starting to grow.
More wine in Italy sweetened me up for now. After Italy, I had relaxation time at home in Hertfordshire. I’d been home about a month when the telephone rang: an offer to be team leader for Al Jazeera English in Tripoli. Wow, I thought, I wonder if they’re anything like their Arabic counterparts. I soon figured out that was just a culture thing. Flights confirmed; I was off again. Libya via Tunisia, road move to Tripoli and a lot more of the same driving experience. Tripoli had been taken by the rebels in August and the fighting was in Sirte, Gaddafi’s home ground. Bani Walid, an hour’s drive south of Tripoli, was still loyal and contesting the conflict; a lot of tribes were making their mark.
It was now mid-October. The role was more of the same, to try to provide organization and clarity to the clients in Doha. The news teams had allocated advisors and were doing their news-chasing. I just had to chase the chasers and so forth. It worked well. I also had a reporter in the capital and I would advise him and his crew when they would be out news-hunting. The news filtered through that Gaddafi had been caught and killed. Al Jazeera English led the news across the globe. I was in the main square with one of Al Jazeera’s top reporters, James Bay, a tall Englishman with a hearty laugh, a real gentleman. He and his cameraman were surrounded by thousands of celebrating Libyans. It was a hectic day keeping the live positions going and free from over-enthusiastic crowds but it worked.
After that Tripoli and most of Libya fell quiet for a while. Everyone was unsure what would happen next. We set up a news bureau in the capital, and for the next couple of months reported on the political and every so often the various militia in-fighting that was part of the course. Yet as the east started to disintegrate even further and with serious in-fighting in the government of the day which had no real mandate or power, it was evident that armed militia from all over Libya still wielded the gun and power. Libya wasn’t a beacon of revolution any more. It didn’t look good on the news now. So, no news is good news. Al Jazeera English wrapped up the bureau in Tripoli. They were more interested in Syria now. I had enjoyed my time with all the various reporters and crews for the different media outlets during the Libyan revolution/conflict/coup. Journalists, camera crews, photographers and support staff work tirelessly and are professional in making the deadline or that live feed. Paragons if somewhat foolhardy at times, but hats off, they bring us what we want to see from our sofas and they’re in the middle of it making the sacrifice. Also it was summertime in the UK and now I had an additional member of the family: a baby girl. I couldn’t wait to get home but for how long I wasn’t sure.