distinctive red nose and grey body. I could see it falling through the air,
We were dealing in split seconds here – each of us powerless, no time for fear past my initial ‘Oh fuck’, not a second to protect myself. Then it hit.
The lights went out.
The next thing I knew, I was picking myself up off the floor, but the Peshmerga villager to my right was gone. In front of me, I saw an arm, then I heard his body shrieking for a few seconds. It didn’t last long. He died before my very eyes.
I had taken a blow to the head – my left hand and right arm were bleeding from the almighty blast. I couldn’t account for any of the team at this point. With the shock I had hit the deck. Robotically, I picked myself up again. I’d been out for seconds. Did I actually hear the noise or had the shockwaves sent me reeling into blackout? I don’t know, but even the echo of the aftermath was louder than fuck. Did I see the bomb? Yes, for that nanosecond. What made me look in that direction? I don’t know. Years of training which hones into instinct or a stroke of luck? Pass.
Thank God I was still alive. I knew immediately what had happened.
It was 1982, and I was back in San Carlos Bay. That was over so quickly, too. I heard the air-raid sirens from our ships and two to three seconds later the Argentines dropped their bombs on us.
I knew that sound. This time, I didn’t have those two to three seconds.
Special Forces on the ground had described the target. Less than a kilometre away, we had been charging towards Iraqi tanks engaging with 173rd Airborne. We had been about to wander into that. From the sky the target had become the T-junction, the mass of vehicles and the abandoned Iraqi tank. The pilot had simply got it wrong.
I dove to the side of the bank to my left and lay there. I found Tom with another Peshmerga gibbering away, blood running down his head from an intake of shrapnel. I kept asking if he was OK but he just stared at me, glazed in shock.
Tom’s mum had heard it all.
I screamed at him as he ran down the bank towards another small sand bank. He had to hit the deck now because most planes on attack come round twice.
I grabbed Tom’s phone because mine was in the car. I had to tell London. ‘There’s been an own goal.’ I had known straightaway. ‘The Americans have dropped a bomb on us. Tom, Giles and I are fine. I’ve gotta go. I’ll give you an update when I know more.’
I hung up. There was still no sign of John and the others. I had to get to work. I got up and ran to the vehicles, searching each for bodies. The impact had been less than twenty metres from our vehicle – it was like a scene from a movie, except this was very real. There were bodies everywhere – the flames and the ammunition within them stunk. Some people were burned to a crisp; others were still alive but heading that way. I’ve seen plenty of bombs and bodies over the years, but that stench never leaves you.
‘They’re fucking dead,’ I told myself. But I stayed calm and level-headed . Surely, there was no way in the world that I could find John, Fred, Dragan and Kameron alive. If that were true, so be it. I wasn’t thinking emotionally or as an undercover reporter. In my military head, and as BBC security advisor, I had to account for them in whatever state I discovered them. I would take it one step at a time.
As I was sorting through the vehicles, I realised I was heading back the way we came. This was the wrong thing to do. If I was going to find them, the impact was behind me on the right – that’s where the American SF jeeps had been. ‘Check every body,’ I told myself repeatedly. ‘Account for everything.’ I wasn’t looking to save other lives or bury bodies. I was employed to protect John Simpson and I had no idea where he was. I began to call out for Fred. I was probably shouting too loudly because of the blast to the head. Who knew what perception of sound everyone still alive now had?
Still
We were dealing in split seconds here – each of us powerless, no time for fear past my initial ‘Oh fuck’, not a second to protect myself. Then it hit.
The lights went out.
The next thing I knew, I was picking myself up off the floor, but the Peshmerga villager to my right was gone. In front of me, I saw an arm, then I heard his body shrieking for a few seconds. It didn’t last long. He died before my very eyes.
I had taken a blow to the head – my left hand and right arm were bleeding from the almighty blast. I couldn’t account for any of the team at this point. With the shock I had hit the deck. Robotically, I picked myself up again. I’d been out for seconds. Did I actually hear the noise or had the shockwaves sent me reeling into blackout? I don’t know, but even the echo of the aftermath was louder than fuck. Did I see the bomb? Yes, for that nanosecond. What made me look in that direction? I don’t know. Years of training which hones into instinct or a stroke of luck? Pass.
Thank God I was still alive. I knew immediately what had happened.
It was 1982, and I was back in San Carlos Bay. That was over so quickly, too. I heard the air-raid sirens from our ships and two to three seconds later the Argentines dropped their bombs on us.
I knew that sound. This time, I didn’t have those two to three seconds.
Special Forces on the ground had described the target. Less than a kilometre away, we had been charging towards Iraqi tanks engaging with 173rd Airborne. We had been about to wander into that. From the sky the target had become the T-junction, the mass of vehicles and the abandoned Iraqi tank. The pilot had simply got it wrong.
I dove to the side of the bank to my left and lay there. I found Tom with another Peshmerga gibbering away, blood running down his head from an intake of shrapnel. I kept asking if he was OK but he just stared at me, glazed in shock.
Tom’s mum had heard it all.
I screamed at him as he ran down the bank towards another small sand bank. He had to hit the deck now because most planes on attack come round twice.
I grabbed Tom’s phone because mine was in the car. I had to tell London. ‘There’s been an own goal.’ I had known straightaway. ‘The Americans have dropped a bomb on us. Tom, Giles and I are fine. I’ve gotta go. I’ll give you an update when I know more.’
I hung up. There was still no sign of John and the others. I had to get to work. I got up and ran to the vehicles, searching each for bodies. The impact had been less than twenty metres from our vehicle – it was like a scene from a movie, except this was very real. There were bodies everywhere – the flames and the ammunition within them stunk. Some people were burned to a crisp; others were still alive but heading that way. I’ve seen plenty of bombs and bodies over the years, but that stench never leaves you.
‘They’re fucking dead,’ I told myself. But I stayed calm and level-headed . Surely, there was no way in the world that I could find John, Fred, Dragan and Kameron alive. If that were true, so be it. I wasn’t thinking emotionally or as an undercover reporter. In my military head, and as BBC security advisor, I had to account for them in whatever state I discovered them. I would take it one step at a time.
As I was sorting through the vehicles, I realised I was heading back the way we came. This was the wrong thing to do. If I was going to find them, the impact was behind me on the right – that’s where the American SF jeeps had been. ‘Check every body,’ I told myself repeatedly. ‘Account for everything.’ I wasn’t looking to save other lives or bury bodies. I was employed to protect John Simpson and I had no idea where he was. I began to call out for Fred. I was probably shouting too loudly because of the blast to the head. Who knew what perception of sound everyone still alive now had?
Still
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