by Gary Ramage
We travelled for two days in what might qualify as the most hair-raising two days of my life. We were constantly harassed by snipers and random hit-and-runs. Some was sporadic gunfire, suddenly bursting out from a ridge or bushes; other attacks were more serious, comprising RPGs. Some attackers worked solo, others were in groups. I can’t remember ever experiencing such a sustained feeling of danger as I did on that patrol. We were in a part of the world where every local, apparently, wanted us dead.
The boys set up camp in a disused mud brick compound in the middle of an area known as Doan. The compounds dot the landscape – they have a hut in the middle of a quadrangle formed by walls about one and a half metres high on all sides. They’re not military posts; they’re where shepherds keep their livestock when they rest for the night. While these patrols were technically foot patrols, when they made aggressive sweeps through enemy countryside – as we were doing on this patrol – they were supported by Bushmasters and ASLAVs. We were just relaxing in this compound, everyone tired and nervy, when an RPG whistled over our heads with an almighty whoosh, clearing the tallest man by maybe three metres. The entire unit either hit the deck or dived for the nearest wall.
Soldiers grabbed their rifles and set up mortars as they tried to establish where the hell the rocket-propelled grenade had come from. Corporal Tunnicliffe reckoned he could tell the origin of the grenade, and he leaped up and grabbed a Carl Gustav 84mm anti-armour antipersonnel weapon from the back of a Bushmaster. This is used as an anti-tank gun – a rocket is launched from a short fat tube that you rest on your shoulder. Tunnicliffe raced out of the compound, yelling commands, and the guys leaped up and swung the turrets of their Bushmasters and ASLAVs. The turrets and guns can be operated by remote control.
When Tunnicliffe reached the gateway of the compound, he let off the rocket and in concert the diggers triggered the heavy machine guns on the Bushmaster turrets. Red tracer lines spewed into the night and we were in contact with the enemy, their blue tracer rounds coming back at us. I started filming the fight, taking cover behind a Bushmaster directly behind Tunnicliffe. He called for another Carl Gustav 84mm and it was delivered to him. He placed the 84mm on his shoulder and aimed up – and I do not recommend you try this at home, girls and boys, but I leaned out from my hide behind the Bushmaster’s steel door and kept shooting. Tunnicliffe fired the 84mm rocket and the backwash percussion was so great that it broke my Canon 5D – actually, the backwash fried the internal components of perhaps the toughest camera you can buy. This is why professionals always carry at least two cameras.
A Bushmaster immediately behind us hit an IED, and a red flare went up, the signal that an Aussie vehicle is incapacitated and people are injured. The young bloke in the vehicle’s turret was blown out of it while the other two occupants received minor injuries. The Bushmaster had taken the direct impact of the blast which immobilised it. It actually didn’t look too bad; you could tell it was a Bushmaster but the blast had broken the axles and transmission and it had to be towed by another Bushmaster across the desert.
The Taliban moved on before the sun came up and after a hurried breakfast of MREs, we moved out from the compound, the scouts and recon guys going ahead, and the rest of us travelling in convoy. The Taliban were out there, according to the scouts, but there wasn’t much contact during the day. The afternoon became hot and it dragged on.
For the first time in Afghanistan I ran more video than stills. I’d given 1080p helmet cams to 10 of the guys. There was just so much action, and I was getting out of the cars with the soldiers and moving around.
Once things calmed down and we withdrew from the Doan contact, the Taliban really raised the tempo. They’d originally been holed up on a hillside, shooting RPGs and rockets at us, and they eventually moved all the way up the hill and fortified themselves on top, and then they were really giving it to us. The Bushmasters set up, basically in the open but with some cover from a rock or an outcrop, and engaged the Taliban targets. The red and blue tracer lines were shooting across the desert, the diggers taking cover in the rocks and going after the buggers. I just got in behind these blokes, and kept my head down and my finger on the record button.
That night, we were still in the open and our commanders called for help from whoever was around. The response came back from the Americans and we were reinforced by US Special Forces who engaged the Taliban on the hill. Out in the desert, the Aussie soldiers I was with parked the incapacitated Bushmaster and waited for the American air force bombers to make a run at it, to put it out of its misery. Only on the second bombing did it disintegrate. The Bushmaster was one of the success stories of the Afghanistan war. It’s so tough that no one has died in one yet. Everybody loves the Bushmaster.
One of the problems during the Doan contact, in my opinion, was the involvement of the ANA. They were led by a fool who wanted to mutilate the Taliban. So the Aussie unit leaders were having to play diplomat to the ANA soldiers, while leading their units in combat. I thought it put too much pressure on them and their diplomacy was sorely tested. In one sweep, during this gig, Macca and I returned to an Aussie forward operating base that had been garrisoned by the ANA for two weeks, and the disrespect with which those people had treated the latrine areas was appalling.
We returned to forward operating base Tinsley where I’d planned to do a video essay. The idea was the soldiers would write down the one thing they really missed from Australia. At the end of the interview they’d hold up the word on a little white board I’d bought in Officeworks. I’d been moved by the number of injured people I dealt with in the Dust- Off choppers during my last trip, and I wanted to humanise these blokes. The interview I remember most was with Lance Corporal Luke Gavin, a nice young bloke. When I asked him what he missed the most about back home, he simply wrote ‘Kids’ on the board.
After returning to Australia I learned that Luke Gavin had been murdered along with Captain Bryce Duffy and Corporal Ashley Birt: all shot by an ANA soldier. It was a ‘green on blue’ incident, which means the people Luke was trying to help turned on him.
26
Stealth Work at Home
Back in Australia I slept for two days and tried to recharge the batteries. It was the lead-up to Christmas, I was busy at the Press Gallery and Ali and I were trying for a child. But I’d also put my hand up for another tour of Afghanistan with Macca, timed for ANZAC Day 2012.
Ali and I were both working hard but, in all honesty, I was going overboard a little. I can become very focused on work and I tend to take my eyes off the prize. In early 2012 we found out that Ali was pregnant and we were both incredibly happy. It had been a long time coming. But in March, on my Granny’s birthday, Ali miscarried and we were both devastated. Ongoing complications meant that we could no longer have children. I felt a rage like nothing I’d felt before. I was angry at the world and at myself. I had no one to blame and it was ripping me apart from the inside out. I felt terrible about it – not that I was directly responsible but I spent a lot of time in my work and a lot of time away and I wondered what could have happened if I’d pulled back a bit and been more available.
I withdrew from the Afghanistan trip and we took some time off. I tried to ease back on the throttle slightly, even though Ali didn’t really want me to do that. She’s always been very supportive of my work ethic. In November of that year I won the Walkley Award for Best Broadcast Camerawork. It was for my coverage of the contact at Doan and it was the first time a News Corp stills photographer had won the TV news cameraman award. I was stoked about the recognition. It occurred to me that I was sort of splitting into three professions: the political photographer, the manager and the conflict photographer. You can actually be all of these things, and more. Some photographers think they’re artists, and you can never please them. But generally we’re a pretty broad church, us photographers. A good shot’s a good shot. I think the Walkley proved that point.
I was also tapped by the Australian War Memorial, in 2013, to b
e their Official War Photographer for a specific project. I photographed 19 ADF personnel before deploying to Afghanistan, during their deployment and post- deployment. It was a heartfelt project, and I felt I’d achieved a great milestone. It was something I had always dreamed of doing but never imagined I’d have the opportunity. The project took nearly fourteen months to complete.
The 2013 federal election came and went, and the workload didn’t get any lighter for having done it twice before. If you’re the chief photographer at Parliament House, you not only cover the elections but you’re on the phone all day troubleshooting back in Canberra. For the 2013 campaign I was on Abbott’s plane; he knew me by name and as far as I knew I’d never had a problem with him photograph- wise. Even with the fatigue and the stress that goes with a campaign, I thought Tony Abbott was a pretty good guy, certainly one with a sense of humour.
But even as I burrowed further into the world of federal politics, Sydney still wanted me for my stealth work. In April 2014, Prince William and his wife Kate brought their son George to Australia. My bosses in Sydney knew there was going to be a rest day for the couple, and they’d spend it at Government House in Canberra. So they wanted me to cook up something special. I went into planning mode. I knew that Mike Bowers – The Guardian’s photographer at large – had once lugged a 1200mm lens to a secret place on Lake Burley Griffin that had a direct line of sight to the front lawn of Government House. The 1200mm lens is sometimes talked about, but never sighted on a working photographer’s camera. Bowers had taken a shot of the then Governor- General, Peter Hollingworth, strolling on his lawn. I thought I could replicate the shoot, hoping that Will and Kate would cavort on that lawn with their son. My only problem was the 1200mm lens: they’re very rare and expensive and I couldn’t get hold of one. So instead I grabbed a 600mm F4 lens and screwed 1.4x and 2x converters onto the base of it.
When I got down to the spot, there was a Channel 7 crew there too, so we found our positions and set up. My lens worked well; I could make out the detail on the pool fencing and see everything. I was happy with the set-up – now all I needed was some Wills-and-Kate action.
We waited almost two hours for them to show up, and when they did it was magic: a couple of royals walking around on a lawn in Canberra, and the Aussie photographer snapping away from the other side of the lake. It was a nice day, good light and I would have been happy with that. I had my stuff and I could have left and Sydney would have been happy. But then Kate disappeared, and out she came a few minutes later … with George. She was playing with him, ruffling his hair and giving him shoulder rides. It was wonderful and unique: the first shots of Kate playing with George, and the British press pack hated us for it. They leave the royals alone on the rest days.
That was strike two for Ramage, as far as the royals were concerned.
Not all my covert work is of a tabloid nature. Sometimes it has a political dimension. In late May 2014, I was chasing Clive Palmer, a new member of parliament with his own party, Palmer United. I had a tip-off that he was up to something but among the journos it was considered a non- story. I tend to follow my own counsel so I got onto the team in Sydney and they agreed to send down a journo.
I knew Palmer was going to start his evening at an event at the Great Hall in Parliament House, so I snuck in there to confirm there was a place set for him. I then called my colleague Ray Strange down to the hall, and he came down with the Sydney journo. I wanted them to follow Palmer around the official dinner and keep an eye on him.
I placed Kym Smith outside Parliament House in her RAV4. I was rostered on PM-watch that night, and I couldn’t stake out the hall myself. I wanted her to follow Palmer from the dinner and tell me where he went and who was there. I assumed a hotel meeting.
I kept on Abbott and then I got a call around 8 pm. It was Kym: she’d followed Palmer’s Rolls-Royce and she was now outside the Red Duck restaurant in Kingston. She was excited and a bit confused: Palmer was in there with Malcolm Turnbull and the former Secretary of the Treasury, Martin Parkinson.
Essentially, if Turnbull was meeting with Palmer then it was probably a discussion about what could get done under a Turnbull prime ministership, given that PUP controlled some of the balance of votes in the Senate. The meeting was going down that night.
I dropped everything and raced to the restaurant, my mind spinning. We had a story about a couple of gazillionaires plotting how to run the country, but Parkinson? Why would you have a Treasury geek in a meeting with a mining magnate and a prime ministerial aspirant? I didn’t understand it, but I loved this story.
I put Ray across the road with a 300mm lens, in a nice line to catch the trio leaving the restaurant. Meanwhile, Kym and I cased the place along the footpath – I didn’t want to burst in and do an ambush: I wanted them to walk out and have the flashes go off.
When they realised they were busted, I just brought up the camera, walked to the door of the Red Duck and started shooting as they left the restaurant. Parkinson ran out the rear exit, Turnbull just smirked and sighed as he walked past my flashing camera, and Palmer was paying me off as he walked past to his waiting car. I stuck with Palmer while Kym followed Turnbull.
For a ‘non-story’ – as it was called by a high-profile Gallery hack – it ran on the front page of every newspaper for three days, and led the radio and TV news. Of course it did: we had the smoking gun. And the magician-like disappearance of Martin Parkinson? Well, he reappeared all over again when Turnbull deposed Abbott and assumed the prime ministership in 2015; Parkinson was Prime Minister Turnbull’s Secretary of the Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet.
***
In July 2014, Prime Minister Tony Abbott launched Afghanistan: Australia’s War, my photographic book – with accompanying words by Macca – at the Australian War Memorial. By all accounts it was well received. I was proud of that book and the stories it told. The destruction of my grandfather’s military service records had left a big mark on me; now I wanted all stories of military service recorded.
It was in 2015 that I had one of the few real disappointments in my media career. I accompanied Tony Abbott to Turkey for the centenary of the ANZAC landings, and there were a lot of functions with the Turks, and the British and Australian veterans groups. It was a beautiful part of the world, up there on the ridges, looking down on the Dardanelles and the ANZAC landing beaches. Abbott was due at the centenary dawn service. It was a big do, really flashed up with stages and flags and sound systems, and the media contingent and the PM’s media staffers knew I wanted to stand with the guests and honour the flag. That morning I put on my great-uncle’s and grandfather’s World War I medals, along with my own service medals. I was very excited. I did my shoot of the Prime Minister meeting the Kiwi Prime Minister and then Prince Charles and his son Harry. The PM moved to his seat as the sun came over the horizon and I went to stand in the shadows, out of sight. But the government escort officers saw me and wouldn’t let me stay. I was intent on standing my ground, but this was a special morning. So I bit my tongue and allowed myself to be sent to the media bus. I sat down, a cross between fuming and sad. I’d served and I wanted to honour our fallen at ANZAC Cove on the 100th anniversary. I wanted to honour my grandfather too, and every other service man and woman who had served.
I sat there for five minutes, on the bus, and suddenly snapped out of it. I went to the door, told the security I had to go to the loo, wandered down to the line of portable toilets and stood at a rise in the ground from where I could see the whole service. So I did get to spend my dawn service at ANZAC Cove, and honour all those fallen souls that had gone before me, from the best vantage point of all: standing beside a line of Portaloos.
27
Ice Nation
Back in Australia, I embarked on a really interesting project in the middle of 2015, which actually started as a misconception. News Corp’s Network team wanted to put me and journalist Paul Toohey back together again for a special project. The Network division
comes up with the big assignments, throws resources at sending journalists and photographers to do them, and then makes the results available to all the News mastheads
This one would be a series of articles on what they originally called the ‘Ice Highway’. No, we weren’t going to Canada; we were going to do a long-form journalistic work that traced the movement of crystal methamphetamine (ice) from its constituent chemicals to its manufacture, then its distribution to drug dealers and out to small towns in regional Australia. It was a great concept, but as soon as we went on the road to do it, it turned out there was no ice highway; there wasn’t even a road. Ice is made and consumed everywhere. It’s easy to make – there are recipes on the internet – and you can do it in small, easy-to-conceal labs. Some of it is made in vans and garden sheds. So the story became ‘Ice Nation’ and it won me two Walkleys later that year.
When we first started working together, Paul and I didn’t always see eye to eye. We were a couple of cranky middle- aged blokes, each with his own ways of doing things, and suddenly we were on a thirty-day road trip chasing a story which initially didn’t exist, doing the kind of gig they’d usually throw to people twenty years our junior. But we became good mates and he’s a great writer, especially good at connecting personal stories to larger political forces, and vice versa.
We met in Brisbane, hired a car and first headed west to Toowoomba. Then it was on to St George, Brewarrina, Walgett, Dubbo, Lightning Ridge, Wagga Wagga, Canberra, Jindabyne, Albury, Melbourne, Mildura, Mount Gambier, Millicent, Adelaide and then to Perth. All in a hire car. I was forty-eight and he was fifty-one, and there we were, humping up to hospital emergency wards and driving around poorer neighbourhoods, trying to find the relatives of ice addicts from court lists and looking for names in the White Pages. Paul was constantly on the phone, and filled several large notebooks. I was lugging my large Pelican in the back of the hire car, along with the lights and tripods and sound gear needed because I was supposed to be shooting material for an online video as well doing stills for the papers.