In war, soldiers do extraordinary things, beyond human understanding. Having just seen the exceptional Mel Gibson Second World War film, Hacksaw Ridge, the abiding image is of Private Desmond Doss, played brilliantly by Andrew Garfield, carrying wounded comrades in a fireman's lift in the heat of a raging battle. The film portrays with awesome skill the sense of comradeship and sacrifice in war that can never be truly trained for. In war, amazing sacrifices and incredible acts of courage are performed by young men who discover, in the most terrifying circumstances, an instinct for valour. In Private Doss's case, the valour is all the more extraordinary because he was nearly kicked out of the US Army for cowardice and insubordination because he refused, for religious reasons, to carry, let alone fire, a rifle during his training. He was a conscientious objector who wanted to serve his country in battle, but as a combat medic who could save lives, rather than be an infantry soldier who killed the enemy. He saved the lives of 75 wounded comrades during a period of about 24 hours, for which he won the Medal of Honor.
That striking image of Private Doss struggling through the mist and fog of Hacksaw Ridge on the Japanese island of Okinawa reminded me of a similar image, never really publicised, of an incident in the Falklands War in 1982. I was then defence correspondent on the Daily Express, but covered the war from Whitehall. My noble colleague, Bob McGowan, a veteran reporter, was chosen to join the troops by ship en route to the South Atlantic, along with Tom Smith, a photographer. It was much later when Bob, now sadly no longer with us, had returned to London that he told me of an extraordinary act of gallantry by Tom Smith. The Express photographer had gone up one of the hills held by the Argentine troops, in the company of British soldiers, in order to photograph the imminent battle. When Bob next saw him, Tom was coming back down the hill, carrying a wounded soldier over his shoulder, just like Private Doss. I never learned why he felt the need to do this courageous act. The only explanation is that war generates hatred and fear, but also nobility and honour and comradeship.
I'm attaching a passage from my memoir, First with the News, not because I'm trying to prove my own courage in war but because it demonstrates how reporters assigned to cover wars find themselves in circumstances which will never be replicated back at home. I was then defence correspondent on The Times. See below:
"My most traumatic moment during my first trip to Bosnia in 1992 came on the road from the town of Tuzla, in the north of the country. Bob Stewart [Colonel Bob] was determined to get aid to Tuzla, which had been cut off by the fighting. Tuzla was a Muslim town but to reach it you had to drive through Serb-held territory. For months, the Serbs had refused to allow anything past their heavily-gunned checkpoints. Now they had relented, but the journey was going to be tense, potentially dangerous and, as everywhere in Bosnia, unpredictable. A bunch of reporters set off with the aid convoy and the Cheshire Regiment to try and reach Tuzla. I travelled in an armoured Land Rover with Mark Laity of the BBC. It was a great story, British soldiers relieving the starving town of Tuzla. When we all arrived, the first people to greet us were children. Kids in war zones are the most resilient. They kick footballs around houses shattered by rockets and artillery shells, and carry toy guns, shooting whoever comes near them. It’s the only world they know, and somehow they lead as normal a life as possible. Their faces lit up when the soldiers climbed out of their armoured vehicles and held out their hands. Not for food, but for basic gifts, especially pens and pencils, and notebooks. A pen for a child in Bosnia was like a packet of Marlboros for the checkpoint militias.
It had taken a long time to reach Tuzla, so I rushed off to find electricity to link up my Tandy. I found a socket in an abandoned warehouse but never really expected it to work. I plugged in my computer and attached it to a large fan-shaped satellite system. After a few agonising moments, I saw on the screen, ‘Welcome to News International’. It was a truly wondrous moment. I typed out my story and sent it.
By now it was late afternoon. Another golden rule in a war zone is not to travel at night, but to get back to base before the sun goes down. We all climbed into our vehicles and set off with a Spartan armoured vehicle ahead of us. Suddenly, a pick-up truck travelling fast towards us struck the side of the Spartan and the glancing blow lifted it right up into the air. It hurtled towards the Land Rover in which I was a passenger and then came crashing down onto the road, with a terrible sound of tearing metal. We all leapt out, reporters and soldiers. The sight before us was horrific. There were two men in the truck. The older one had had a leg torn off and blood was pouring from the wound. The younger one, who had been the passenger, had received a massive blow to the head and was also bleeding.
Kate Adie took charge. She called to a few of us to grab the man with the severed leg. She shouted, ‘Hold the leg up!’ The leg had been ripped off just below the knee and shards of bone were sticking up like stalagmites.
We carried him to a bench, holding up the remains of his leg. The second victim was clearly suffering from concussion and was wandering around looking dazed. Both men stank of alcohol, and when I checked their truck, I found a half-empty bottle of Slivovitz lying on the floor. In minutes, a makeshift ambulance arrived and took both injured men away. Carrying a man with a severed leg was a shocking experience, and yet all of us rallied round as if it was a natural occurrence. This was Bosnia."
That striking image of Private Doss struggling through the mist and fog of Hacksaw Ridge on the Japanese island of Okinawa reminded me of a similar image, never really publicised, of an incident in the Falklands War in 1982. I was then defence correspondent on the Daily Express, but covered the war from Whitehall. My noble colleague, Bob McGowan, a veteran reporter, was chosen to join the troops by ship en route to the South Atlantic, along with Tom Smith, a photographer. It was much later when Bob, now sadly no longer with us, had returned to London that he told me of an extraordinary act of gallantry by Tom Smith. The Express photographer had gone up one of the hills held by the Argentine troops, in the company of British soldiers, in order to photograph the imminent battle. When Bob next saw him, Tom was coming back down the hill, carrying a wounded soldier over his shoulder, just like Private Doss. I never learned why he felt the need to do this courageous act. The only explanation is that war generates hatred and fear, but also nobility and honour and comradeship.
I'm attaching a passage from my memoir, First with the News, not because I'm trying to prove my own courage in war but because it demonstrates how reporters assigned to cover wars find themselves in circumstances which will never be replicated back at home. I was then defence correspondent on The Times. See below:
"My most traumatic moment during my first trip to Bosnia in 1992 came on the road from the town of Tuzla, in the north of the country. Bob Stewart [Colonel Bob] was determined to get aid to Tuzla, which had been cut off by the fighting. Tuzla was a Muslim town but to reach it you had to drive through Serb-held territory. For months, the Serbs had refused to allow anything past their heavily-gunned checkpoints. Now they had relented, but the journey was going to be tense, potentially dangerous and, as everywhere in Bosnia, unpredictable. A bunch of reporters set off with the aid convoy and the Cheshire Regiment to try and reach Tuzla. I travelled in an armoured Land Rover with Mark Laity of the BBC. It was a great story, British soldiers relieving the starving town of Tuzla. When we all arrived, the first people to greet us were children. Kids in war zones are the most resilient. They kick footballs around houses shattered by rockets and artillery shells, and carry toy guns, shooting whoever comes near them. It’s the only world they know, and somehow they lead as normal a life as possible. Their faces lit up when the soldiers climbed out of their armoured vehicles and held out their hands. Not for food, but for basic gifts, especially pens and pencils, and notebooks. A pen for a child in Bosnia was like a packet of Marlboros for the checkpoint militias.
It had taken a long time to reach Tuzla, so I rushed off to find electricity to link up my Tandy. I found a socket in an abandoned warehouse but never really expected it to work. I plugged in my computer and attached it to a large fan-shaped satellite system. After a few agonising moments, I saw on the screen, ‘Welcome to News International’. It was a truly wondrous moment. I typed out my story and sent it.
By now it was late afternoon. Another golden rule in a war zone is not to travel at night, but to get back to base before the sun goes down. We all climbed into our vehicles and set off with a Spartan armoured vehicle ahead of us. Suddenly, a pick-up truck travelling fast towards us struck the side of the Spartan and the glancing blow lifted it right up into the air. It hurtled towards the Land Rover in which I was a passenger and then came crashing down onto the road, with a terrible sound of tearing metal. We all leapt out, reporters and soldiers. The sight before us was horrific. There were two men in the truck. The older one had had a leg torn off and blood was pouring from the wound. The younger one, who had been the passenger, had received a massive blow to the head and was also bleeding.
Kate Adie took charge. She called to a few of us to grab the man with the severed leg. She shouted, ‘Hold the leg up!’ The leg had been ripped off just below the knee and shards of bone were sticking up like stalagmites.
We carried him to a bench, holding up the remains of his leg. The second victim was clearly suffering from concussion and was wandering around looking dazed. Both men stank of alcohol, and when I checked their truck, I found a half-empty bottle of Slivovitz lying on the floor. In minutes, a makeshift ambulance arrived and took both injured men away. Carrying a man with a severed leg was a shocking experience, and yet all of us rallied round as if it was a natural occurrence. This was Bosnia."
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