14
I Ain’t Got No Quarrels
I was told I was off to war, and the bearer of the bad news, noticing my horrified look, told me to stop panicking. War is a hillbilly town in West Virginia and the whole town is unemployed. That’s the story. Phew, what a relief. Obviously I’d hate to be unemployed, but I’d have hated going to war even more.
I was lucky not to be drafted in September 1969. I still recall how my sweaty hands had trouble opening the Australian Army’s insidious yellow envelope telling me whether or not I’d been called up for two years National Service. Some blokes are naturally tough. Some of us are not. I knew I’d curl up into the foetal position if I was drafted. I was a scaredy cat and I had a huge problem with getting out of bed before eight. Plus, I’m with Cassius Clay, who famously said, ‘I ain’t got no quarrel with them Vietcong.’
I gingerly opened the envelope and pulled out a small white card that said, ‘You have been indefinitely deferred.’ And from then on, war was totally off the agenda, and I thoroughly enjoyed what was left of the 1960s and 70s. But then I got a job—and war was back on the agenda. Except, I wasn’t shooting bullets, I was shooting film.
•
My first foray into anything like a real war was a trip to Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe. I figured we’d get a couple of shots of black men with guns, interview the prime minister Ian Smith, debate the worthiness of democracy, then get out of there. Simple.
I first realised it wouldn’t be so simple when we were about to land in Salisbury (now Harare). The pilot said all lights had to be turned off, including his landing lights. We circled in the night sky as high as we could for ten minutes, aimed at the runway and rocketed in at full speed. This was to stop nationalist guerrillas from blowing us out of the sky, just as they had done to a passenger plane a week earlier when they scored a bullseye with a rocket launcher and the plane plummeted to earth. I had that swollen tongue feeling. All I could think was, ‘I ain’t got no quarrel with them Rhodesian freedom fighters.’
After our safe landing, we checked into the whiter than white colonial-style Meikles Hotel and headed for the bar. Above the entrance was a brightly painted sign declaring ‘All Guns Must Be Checked in Before Entering’. A sign I saw regularly on episodes of Bonanza in the 1960s. Over at the hat and coat check-in, there were at least a dozen machine guns, a few rifles and some pistols. The bar was full of loudmouthed young men, all white of course, comparing notes on warfare and massacres and complaining about having to leave their weapons at the door.
Next day we went for a wander round town. There were traffic jams of battered old cars. People, blacks and whites, ran between the traffic, while small black kids pushed wonderful wire sculptures in the shapes of cars, bikes and animals along the footpath. All of these handmade works were for sale for near nothing. I bought three and the smiles that came with each sale were so endearing I paid double and still got a bargain. War, what war?
We were rapidly brought back to earth when we were told we should go nowhere without a gun and were given an Uzi machine gun to share. It was a shark-coloured grey with a stubby barrel, everything about it looked evil. None of us wanted to touch it. I could hardly bear to look at it. We explained that we were journalists, and we couldn’t take the gun.
‘Die then!’ was the answer. I pretended not to hear. They pointed at our station wagon and we were told, ‘And you don’t think you’re getting around in that, do you? You need a mine-proof vehicle.’
We eventually found the recommended vehicle, at vast expense. War is expensive! Our mine-proof vehicle was a bit like a small tank with a strange conical shape underneath, making it look like a spinning top on wheels. There was a reason for the strange shape: if we hit a mine, most of the force would be deflected from the centre of the vehicle, and we’d have less chance of being killed. But, we were gleefully told, ‘You’ll probably lose your balls and most certainly be deaf.’
‘Imagine never being able to hear another Beethoven sonata,’ said our dilettante soundman. We did wonder about his priorities.
This war had been on and off for years, but had hotted up in the last six months and all white males up to the age of 60 were on standby for periodic call-up. The Rhodesian army was extremely well equipped with all sorts of assault rifles, AK47s and rocket-propelled grenade launchers. Unfortunately the guerrillas, at least 12,500 of them, were almost as well equipped with mortars and rocket launchers. Most of the fighting was in the rural areas where many white farmers had been slaughtered.
In Salisbury, though, impeccably dressed matrons continued to have high tea in the elaborate sunroom of Meikles Hotel, seemingly oblivious to what was happening outside the capital, though most of the men in town were wearing army uniforms and carrying a weapon.
We attached ourselves to a small army convoy and went bush. We figured we’d go out with the Rhodesian army, get them shooting at some freedom fighters, interview some army major about what was wrong with black rule and be back in Meikles in time for a sunset gin and tonic on the verandah.
Well, that didn’t happen. I found myself running along trenches next to young soldiers, black and white. The army recruits looked almost as young as the children I’d bought my wire sculptures from. And they all had frightened looks on their faces, probably no more frightened than mine, though luckily for me mine was hidden behind a camera. Still in our trench we were told the rebels were all around. We weren’t sure if it was the truth or we were just being wound up. Suddenly we heard, then saw, we weren’t being wound up. The rebels, seeing us and realising they were hopelessly outnumbered, started running. We took off after them using trees for cover until we reached another trench and jumped in, keeping low and quiet. I was hoping the guerrillas had got away and we could all go home. It was getting close to gin and tonic time.
I heard the major next to me order a skinny, slightly effeminate black private to throw a grenade to scare the enemy. I’d figured the sound of my heartbeat would already have frightened the shit out of them, but knowing it would be a great shot I stood up in the trench to get the action. With the camera rolling I expected to see the explosion any second, but instead felt a sudden whack on my back and fell face forward onto the camera with the major on top of me. Before I could turn round and berate the clumsy bastard, there was a loud explosion, sounding like it was inside my head, and dirt rained down on us.
Before I could decide if I was dead or alive, or if everyone else was dead or alive, I thought, why me? I ain't got no quarrel with them Rhodesian guerrillas. Then the major managed to pick himself up and dust himself off. He turned to the skinny little guy and let him have it.
What had happened was the young private hadn’t managed to reach the top of the trench with his throw, and the grenade had rolled back down into our trench, landing just a few metres from us. The major had noticed its trajectory and figured he could ill afford the publicity of causing the death of a cameraman, so he shoved me to the ground and jumped on top of me.
I stared at the slightly bent lens hood and camera covered in dirt, and figured it was better than having a slightly bent body covered in blood and far better than a very dead body, though I suspect the limp-wristed private was wishing he was dead.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Neil Davis. An Aussie and a cameraman, just like me, but the similarities stop there. Neil spent years in Vietnam covering the war, and was the only cameraman to get those amazing shots of the communist tank No. 843 pushing over the wrought iron gates of the Independence Palace in Saigon. Those images made him very famous, particularly in the photographic world. He was renowned for his skill and luck, even though he was severely wounded on several occasions. I couldn’t help but wonder what made guys like him want to do it. His was a very exclusive club and I had no intention of joining. I was over war. I’d had my war experience and wasn’t planning on ever having another. As Bertrand Russell said, ‘War does not determine who is right—only who is left.’
•
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sp; But a few months later I found myself in Israel filming a story on the latest skirmish between Israel and Lebanon. It was not Neil Davis stuff, but it was enough for more stirrings in my tongue-that-swells-from-fear. We were getting some great footage of Israeli tanks firing relentlessly into Lebanon in the areas that were now home to many members of the Palestine Liberation Organization, or PLO. Thankfully nothing was coming our way, and all I could think was, ‘I ain’t got no quarrel with them PLO.’
That night we had dinner in a kibbutz right on the border. Everyone sitting at our table was carrying some sort of a gun and talking as if an attack was imminent. From the kibbutz we could see across the Hula Valley into Lebanon, but could not make out the towns and villages we’d seen clearly during the day. They seemed to be no longer there, not due to relentless shelling but because they were in complete darkness. A wise move, I thought, and just maybe we should be doing the same thing. The way I saw it we must have been standing out like dog’s balls. I mentioned this to our minder, Rafi Horowitz, who had been a member of the Israeli Special Forces. It triggered off a story he felt he just had to tell. During one of the many wars he’d been involved in, he had a few friends captured by the Arabs, and when his mates were found they’d had their dicks and balls cut off, shoved into their mouths and their lips sewn together. That really put me off my dinner.
Back at our motel Rafi asked us if we knew what to do if there was a rocket attack.
I replied, ‘Sure do, Rafi, I hide my genitalia in a safe place then start reciting the Koran.’
Not surprisingly, he ignored me and explained that we must grab a pillow and run to the nearest bunker. We looked at each other and agreed it sounded pretty good. I asked him what were the chances of there being an attack tonight.
‘Odds on,’ he said.
We figured we needed a few more grogs to help us sleep, but I was worried if I had too many I might not hear the incoming fire, and would wake up in the morning with more than a swollen tongue in my mouth. The woman behind the bar, who also owned the motel, nonchalantly asked if we knew what to do if there was a rocket attack.
‘Sure do,’ I said. ‘Grab a pillow and run for the nearest bunker.’
‘No, no, no, do not leave your room. You get under your bed. It will protect you. You don’t want to be caught running outside.’ That sounded pretty good to me.
Ten minutes later her husband came over for a chat, and told us there was an electric fence between the motel and Lebanon, that it was completely useless and the PLO regularly came through and people were quietly murdered in the middle of the night. My mind was working overtime, trying to think of a good hiding place for my private parts, when he asked if we knew what to do if there was a rocket attack.
‘Get under the bed,’ we said in unison.
‘No, no, no, grab your bedclothes and get into the bath. The bathroom is reinforced.’ That sounded pretty good to me, too.
I went to bed thinking, ‘Well, I have no bloody idea what to do if there’s an attack, so I’ll probably be dead in the morning.’ But the grog took over and I was out cold immediately, and in the morning I was still in bed, alive with genitals intact.
I met up with the others for breakfast, and we all had different stories of how we hadn’t slept all night, fearing the worst and hoping if the invaders did appear they might have become bored with severing penises and moved on to severing useless appendages like hands. I wasn’t game to say I’d slept like a baby, so agreed with them all.
We headed out to film the damage from the last few days shelling and came across a primary school that had obviously been hit regularly. The building was sandbagged and the kids’ playground was now a row of shelters. Just as I started getting shots of what was once a basketball court, we heard sounds of rocket fire and other war-type noises. Buggered if I knew what, but it was loud and it was close. We dived for shelter.
‘I’ll do a piece to camera now,’ said Ray. ‘Let’s go, let’s go!’
‘Rolling! I yelled.
‘Speed!’ yelled Peter the sound recordist, letting us know his tape recorder had reached the required speed.
Ray Martin, no notes, no rehearsal, stared down the barrel of the lens, shouted of the devastation and fear around us, all straight off the top of his head thanks to his million years of experience. He was on a roll when I heard, ‘Cut! The bombs are too loud!’
‘What!’ said Ray.
‘The bombs are too loud,’ yelled Peter, who was used to being in the studio where the sound was always under perfect control.
‘The bombs are too fucking loud?! That’s the whole fucking reason we’re doing the piece to camera!’ Ray screamed back.
His shouting continued for some time, as did the bombing, then, unfortunately for the shell-shocked soundman, the bombing stopped. Unfortunate, because Ray’s yelling got louder and louder, much louder than the bombs had been. An unforgettable rare piece of reportage ruined. Ray was very, very angry. There was fear in Peter’s eyes. A new war was brewing and I was way too close. I thought, ‘I ain’t got no quarrel with them reporters.’
•
Then, of course, a few months later I found myself on the other side—in Lebanon doing a story on Palestinian refugees. Three and four generations of Palestinians had lived nowhere but refugee camps in makeshift tin shelters. They were regularly told by whoever was in charge at the time that they were not to move throughout the huge camp, they must stay in and around their own ‘house’. But underneath all those tin shelters was a beautiful freeway of tunnels, secretly dug to allow the refugees to move unimpeded throughout the camp.
The refugees were all charming and extremely hospitable. Food was difficult to come by, yet every family we spoke to insisted on feeding us and making cup after cup of very powerful, sweet Arab coffee. It was rude to refuse anything on offer, and after 400 coffees I began to think it was some sort of trick to get us drugged. Could I really trust them with their sneaky hospitality, especially after having heard all those horror stories from the Israelis? Then an old bloke told me that sometimes at night the Israelis sneak across the border into the villages, and during one such raid some of his friends were captured, and ... guess what? They had their dicks and balls cut off and sewn into their mouths.
Oh, now I get it. That’s how war works. Thanks to Aeschylus we all know about the first casualty of war, but just in case the old boy was telling the truth, I was wondering how I could somehow get it out to the other side that, ‘I ain’t got no quarrel with them Israelis.’
•
Six months later I was back in Lebanon, in Beirut for a story on the civil war. Poor Beirut, once described as the Paris of the Middle East, now looked like the bowels of the Middle East. Though there were still parts that gave hints of how the place must have once been. We’d all seen earlier television ads for Beirut. Beautiful bikini-clad girls frolicking in the Mediterranean Sea with speed boats and waterskiers in the background, followed by images of flashing neon lights advertising nightclubs chockers with beautiful people all spending up big. Not anymore. All that was left of this once grand capital city were bombed-out buildings and dilapidated hospitals full of kids suffering from horrendous shrapnel wounds and scores of young men either dead or badly wounded by the enemy.
Which enemy? The Phalangist Maronite Christians supported by the Israelis or the Syrians, or Palestinian members of the PLO or the PLA, or other Christians such as the Greek Orthodox or the Greek Catholics, or other Muslims, from the Shia or Sunni or Druze clans, or the Lebanese National Movement or the Lebanese Front ... We had no idea what was going on, who was killing who, and it looked like neither did they. Yet somehow they all knew who to target and kill. I just hoped it wasn’t going to be me—‘I ain’t got no quarrel with all of the above.’
We were staying in the Commodore Hotel in West Beirut and it was full, not of fun-seeking holidaymakers, but journalists. Some brave, some cowards, some mad and some beautifully performing ‘Hotel Room Journalism’,
a term created by English press reporter Robert Fiske many years later about journalists reporting on the Iraq War without ever leaving their hotel rooms. Fiske, the Middle East correspondent for the Independent, was based in Beirut and I doubt there had been a war in the last 40 years that he hadn’t covered.
Hotel Room Journalism sounded good to me. I’d have embraced it wholeheartedly if I hadn’t been a cameraman and part of a team that actually needed to be out there and amongst it. And then like a sign from above I just happened to bump into one of the bravest of the brave in the foyer of the Commodore, none other than Neil Davis. Wow! Neil Davis. This must be a real war, I thought. So why am I here?
Neil was tall with a long face and cheeky eyes, and he oozed confidence. Recognising our Aussie accents, he immediately came over for a chat. A really good bloke, not a big noter, he looked and sounded like he had been there, done that, and he certainly had. He asked what shots we were hoping to get, and I said we were going out to get footage of the Green Line, the border between the mainly Muslim faction in West Beirut and the Christian Lebanese Front in East Beirut.
Just like Tony Joyce in Kampala who had warned us not to trifle with the curfew, Neil Davis probably saved our lives. He told us it was extremely dangerous at the border and that inside two of the buildings above the intersection where we had planned on filming were two snipers who only yesterday had shot and killed a woman as she was pushing her pram across the street. Her baby was also killed. Neil took me to a window and pointed out the two buildings and the exact windows where the snipers were shooting from.
After thanking him profusely for his warning, we took his advice and went to an area he recommended to get all the footage we needed. With those shots in the can, we headed straight to the attempt at a nightclub attached to the Commodore. The club was full of journos buying each other drinks and socialising with the locals. Everyone looked very relaxed. Not us, though, we were too busy discussing how maybe we should become the 1980s equivalent of Hotel Room Journalism, and never, ever, leave the hotel again.
All This in 60 Minutes Page 20