by Gary Ramage
Before I leave Canberra I create an entire manifest for every item of gear I am taking, and list the serial numbers for Australian Customs. I make an appointment and go down there with my case, and they inspect it and stamp it.
The final two items I bring to a war zone are crucial for different reasons. First, footwear. The one item I can’t duplicate in-field is my shoes. An extra pair would take up too much space in my pack, and they weigh too much to lug around. So I’m very careful about what I wear because on a typical conflict assignment I’ll be living in them for three months. As I’ve already mentioned, I now wear Merrell hiking shoes. And last, if you want to embed with a combat unit – and ever be asked back – take gaffer tape. Lots of it. I love the stuff. I can’t believe how many times that stuff has got me out of the shit. When you move through countryside, especially at night, the soldiers you’re accompanying are going to become really annoyed if your gear is banging and clinking with every step you take. And who knows? A well- aimed piece of gaffer tape might just stop a Taliban’s barrel being aimed your way, too.
21
Helmand: Not the Hilton
The C-130 RAAF transport plane banked in the clear blue sky and lined up for a run at Kandahar Airfield – the massive US- built military base in the south-east of Afghanistan. Kandahar Province is one of the thirty-four provinces of the country, and it’s located next to Pakistan. Helmand Province is to the west, Uruzgan to the north and Zabul Province is in the east. Kandahar Airfield was also home to British, Australian and Canadian forces. When I’d first been there, it held less than ten thousand people. Now, thirty thousand lived within its HESCO blast walls, so from the air it looked like a fenced city, out of place amid the hundreds of miles of bare dirt, irrigation canals and sudden patches of bright green.
I’d flown from Sydney to Darwin on a commercial charter jet, and then to the Australian Middle East Command at Al Minhad Air Base in Dubai. At Al Minhad I did a four- day induction course, during which they gave us briefings, explained the rules of a war zone and reminded us not to do things that created danger for others. Mostly, they taught us first aid, field triage and how to stem blood loss with a basic tourniquet. In the final test, I had to crawl into a shed with three soldiers, where there was a simulated battle and several lifelike dummies lying around with bad injuries. I had twenty seconds to find the person bleeding out and get a tourniquet on him. I took it seriously: if one small action of mine could save someone’s life, then I wanted to be able to perform that one small action.
So I was well rested and feeling excited by the time we landed at Kandahar. I was picked up on the tarmac by the Australians and taken down to see the commanding officer. The deal was I’d spend my first stint with the Americans before joining the Aussies, so I took a few things from the Pelican camera case then stashed it at the Australian Q store, and went down to meet my hosts for the next month: the US Army public affairs team. These guys would be responsible for hooking me up with all of my American embeds, including my first attachment to the 3rd Battalion of the 6th Marine Regiment, under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Brian Christmas.
I’d only been with my new hosts for an hour when the incoming rocket siren went off. I was told to head to the shelter straight away, and I complied. The rockets were fired by the Taliban from the mountainside adjacent to the airfield. These were normally Chinese-made 107mm rockets, which are fired from the ground without any guidance system, so the bloody things can land anywhere. Having already endured a number of these attacks, I’d say my state of mind was respectful of the damage they could do rather than panicked.
There was a delay in the US Marines system, so I had a few days to cool my heels in the air-conditioned donga that the Americans put the five journalists into. I went for a look around and of course the first thing everyone noticed about Kandahar Airfield was an area called the Boardwalk. The Boardwalk was a large, prefabricated quadrangle area made up to look like a town square, with a soccer field in the middle. All around the sides of this town square were places to eat and drink, fronted by a large covered wooden walkway. There was a Mamma Mia’s Pizzeria, KFC, TGI Fridays and an assortment of Mexican places and delis. There were also tactical shops that sold the bits and pieces that soldiers always need more of: socks, water bottles, webbing, packs etc. The base was relaxed and had many of the home comforts the Americans were used to. The gym was as good as any you’d find in an Australian city, and there were basic amenities such as chapels, well-appointed rec rooms with Xboxes and PlayStations, and an ice hockey rink without the ice – the Americans and Canadians played in their shoes, although just as roughly as you see in the NHL. Besides the eating places at the Boardwalk, there were five messes on the base, all serving pretty good food.
What wasn’t working so well was the sewage system. The plumbing and septic systems hadn’t been designed to cope with such a large population, and the US Army had had to dig these massive ‘poo ponds’ in the base compound which were essentially lakes of whatever was being flushed from the toilets. I didn’t notice it for the first couple of days, but one afternoon the wind changed and a warm waft hit me like a punch. It was so strong I could actually taste it and breathe it, and as I looked for cover I realised that the base’s inhabitants wore those Arabic scarves around their necks so they could quickly cover their faces. To this day, when someone says ‘Kandahar’, my memory produces a taste.
We were eventually assigned to a transport plane and joined up with the 3/6 US Marines on the outskirts of the infamous city of Marjah. Marjah had been largely under Taliban control until four months earlier, when the US war planners put on one of their big ‘surges’ and took back the city. Marjah is in the south of Afghanistan, and is closer to Iran and Pakistan than it is to Kabul. It was still hairy and dangerous down there, and as we approached in a US Marines twin-prop MV-22 Osprey under the cover of darkness, I caught glimpses of the ditches and dykes that crisscrossed the land. It looked like the most inhospitable countryside to cross on foot, and I remember thinking what an obstacle course those ditches would be at night. Boy, I had no idea how right I was.
We shacked up in the USMC patrol base that night, which was a mud-brick compound that had been leased from a local family. I was itchy to be on patrol by this time, so when I caught wind of the first Marines platoon going out at dawn – doing a walking patrol through the countryside to a forward operating base – I suggested we tag along. Lieutenant Colonel Christmas liked the idea, and we were briefed for joining the patrol.
I was up and about, eating my rat-pack and checking my gear, by 4 am. I was wired and keen to get going. At 4.30 am the USMC sergeant led us out into the dusty streets of the outskirts of Marjah, down alleys that were created a thousand years ago, and then out into the ancient farmlands of Helmand. It was eerie watching the sun rise, seeing the valley slowly fill with light as the platoon padded along dykes and down canal paths. I felt the same thrill I had every time I went on dawn patrols in Afghanistan – the early-morning light is a real treat for a photographer. We got onto a more mainstream road after an hour or so, only occasionally veering off to check on dwellings and take a closer look at who was out and about at that time of the morning. When these patrols move around, they are asserting their dominance over territory. The Americans were polite and businesslike with the locals, but some farmers were almost certainly Taliban, so the ‘friendly American’ act had a real edge to it
I was blending in to the unit by the time the sun was over the ridge, right down to my green helmet. It was right on 7 am, the light was now good, and having skirted some mud-brick farm outbuildings, we pushed through a stand of scrubby trees and into a clearing where goats foraged. And that’s when the shooting started.
It’s difficult to know who is being shot at when you encounter automatic gunfire. What you’re hearing actually comes from thirty to a hundred metres away. As I ducked and ran for the cover of the buildings behind two of the Marines, bullets hit the mud-brick wall with spo
uts of dust and a couple of shots raised dirt from the ground.
I scrambled along behind them, cameras under my arms, hardly able to believe I was being shot at on my first walk in the field. I could hear the Marines shooting back, and then the three of us ducked into a recess in the wall that housed a wooden door. I was heaving, panting with the adrenaline, but somehow I had my finger on the button of the D series, shooting video of the incident. I don’t do this consciously and it was only after this event, when I played back the footage on my camera, that I realised I’d shot the whole incident. The Marines joked that I now I had a souvenir from my time in Helmand. The shots thudded around the recess and the Marines shot back. I kept shooting footage but it wasn’t like it is in the movies: there isn’t much pinging or ricochet in Afghanistan.
Then the soldiers peeled out of the recess, pursuing the shooter. The time code on the video footage shows that it was all over in less than thirty seconds, but the burst of fear and excitement slows down time. As the Marines left the recess, I took a deep breath and stuck my head out. Marines were jogging forward in assault patterns, running to corners and kneeling at walls while the goats took refuge. I got in behind the unit and followed them through the farm compound, the sergeant directing traffic: two to check the farmhouse, two to check the grain store etc. Around me I could pick up the American radio chatter: they were chasing one shooter, and the Marine who had seen him was saying he was an older guy, probably the farmer.
It took an hour to secure the area, and they didn’t catch the shooter. But it was a reminder of the way the conflict in Afghanistan is fought. The Taliban in the area are like a mafia gang: they operate using fear and intimidation, and if they shove an AK-47 in your hands and tell you to shoot at the approaching Americans, you’ll probably do it. If they tell you that your crop for next season is going to be cannabis, then there isn’t a lot of incentive to defy them. In situations of the type I’d just lived through, the Marines are in an awkward position. On the one hand, they can’t allow people to shoot at them, but they also know that many of the rural folk in southern Afghanistan are just busy farmers like you’d find anywhere in the world, with no real interest in politics.
I had some time to think about what had gone down. I’d been admiring the light and thinking about where to put myself to get a great shot, and the next thing I knew I was ducking for cover. I’d had my wake-up call: from here on in, I might have been a photographer, but I was now part of the platoon. For the next few weeks being attentive might just keep me alive.
We finally walked into the FOB we’d been heading for, and I was stunned by what was going to be my HQ for the next three weeks. The base was an ancient compound, a large mud-brick building with a dusty quadrangle in the middle. I found shade and took the weight off, letting the stress of the day ebb from me. My home for the next few weeks was this biblical-era compound and I was introduced to how I was going to sleep for the next month: in a sleeping bag, on the ground. I was back in a war zone and now I was thinking not only about documenting the lives of the soldiers, but also how I was going to illustrate the resigned fear of the locals, so many of whom were co-opted into the Taliban’s activities. This is one of the challenges of combat photography: capturing the entire story, in its real context.
In the few days I’d been with these guys, I’d slipped into a rhythm, so I’d almost forgotten that I was travelling with soldiers. But I snapped out of it when I looked around the compound and noticed lots of pats on the back and arms around shoulders. There was a lot of quiet muttering – none of the loud greetings you associate with US Marines. Approaching one of the Marines I’d run with when the attack started, I asked what was going on.
‘We lost a couple of guys a few days ago,’ he said, looking away. ‘IED.’
The mood was sombre and I put away my cameras. There was little talking that night, and I noticed that most chatter was pointedly not about the incident that killed their two guys. Soldiers will grieve and drink and remonstrate when they’re no longer on the frontline, but when they’re on patrol they have to stay focused.
A few days later, the padre and a few high-ranking Marines flew in. The Marines asked me to cover the memorial service for them. It was a real honour: soldiers are very tribal about who farewells one of their own. We stood there in the cool as the padre and then the captain and the sergeants had their say. There were two big photographs of the fallen, their boots with M16s planted in the ground, bayonets fixed, dog tags hanging off the butt of the weapon. I felt sadness but also appreciation. Memorials and ramp ceremonies always remind me that so many small liberties I enjoy have been hard-won by someone, and sometimes they paid with their life.
PHOTO BY GARY RAMAGE
It was a privilege to be asked to document the Marines’ memorial for two soldiers.
After the ceremony I retreated into the shade, where I could be by myself. Looking over the footage I’d shot of our initial entry into the compound, I could now see there were a lot more bullets coming my way than I was aware of at the time. I really had to be on my game in this part of the world: it was my fifth day in the field, and I’d survived a shooting only to walk up the road and attend a memorial for two Marines. On the toilet walls back at Kandahar, the graffiti called it HELLMAND.
I took a couple of deep breaths as the sergeant roused us for another patrol. This was going to be a tough gig and my eyes were opened to something you don’t see in the media that much; far from the image of the soft, pampered soldiers, these Americans slept on the ground and it was with them that I experienced what I’d thought was an urban myth: the camel spider. One night I was lying on the ground in my sleeping bag when I felt something run across my shoulder and across my stomach and leg. It was heavy enough to be felt through the padded sleeping bag. Sitting up quickly, I could see this creature scuttling across the dirt, into the scrub. I was a little freaked at the size of the tawny spider but the soldiers were nonchalant about them: despite their size and ferocious appearance, they apparently don’t bite humans or want anything to do with us. So life on patrol with these guys was really earthy – no steak and potatoes out here. After the eventful first patrol I was feeling a bit crusty. As the new day dawned a sergeant asked me if I wanted a shower. ‘Sure,’ I said, and he handed me a few water bottles.
The Hilton, this was not.
22
With the Marines
The 3/6 Marines had been assigned to one of the real wild west parts of Afghanistan. The countryside around Marjah was considered by the Taliban to be their natural area of influence and was not only a military power base for them, but an economic one too. The Taliban generated money by coercing the farmers to grow drugs, and they weren’t happy to have US Marines patrolling through these areas.
My official embedding with the Marines was scheduled to last for ten days, but when at the end of that time Lieutenant Colonel Christmas asked me if I was ready to go, I said I’d stay a bit longer if that was okay. That was fine by the Marines, so I extended for another four days.
The next afternoon, the Marines went to meet with a gathering of tribal elders from around the district and I was intrigued to see some hearts-and-minds engagement, American style. The Marines were invited into the compound of the local mosque, and everyone sat around chatting, getting to know one another, doing ‘soft’ diplomacy. It seemed friendly enough, and I got some great pics of Americans and Afghans sitting in a circle and talking. As the light faded, the elders stood up and walked out of the compound, all smiles and handshakes, and I remember it well because I was standing against an outer wall, which in that compound was one and a half metres high. I don’t remember exactly what I heard or why I did it, but without warning I threw myself to the ground, as did the Marines I was talking to. The air came alive with bullets, rounds thumping into the mud brick all around me, the dried mud showering my clothes. Voices yelled out as soldiers dived for cover and crawled up against any wall they could find. I found cover and started shooting
video footage of two Marines along the wall from me. One was duck-walking around, getting his grenade launcher set up, but the furthest Marine from me was lying at a section where there was a break in the wall of the compound, and he was returning fire. As I watched him shoot, I heard more gunfire and then I saw puffs of dirt in the wall not more than 3 cm above his head. A shooter was coming in from another direction and we were caught in crossfire. In this situation the noise is frenetic with all the sounds of automatic gunfire popping off, but the soldiers kept it pretty formal on the radio. There wasn’t much yelling or panic. They went about their business in a very professional way.