Step Out on Nothing

by Byron Pitts

  Before 9/11, most Americans knew little and perhaps cared even less about Afghanistan. The United States had shown passing interest in the region during the 1980s when the country was at war with the Soviet Union. September 11 changed all that. Osama bin Laden had claimed responsibility for the terror attack on the United States, and his organization, Al Qaeda, had ties to Afghanistan and its ruling Taliban party. While the Taliban ruled, a tribal militia group called the Northern Alliance had been battling for control, region by region, for years. Their commander, Ahmad Shah Massoud, was assassinated two days before the terror attack in New York. Now the Northern Alliance had a friend in the United States.

  We were assigned to the northern region of Afghanistan. Our job was to file news reports on the efforts by the Northern Alliance to push their way south to the capital city of Kabul, while they engaged in all-out combat or minor skirmishes with the Taliban fighters. We would get daily briefings from our colleagues at the Pentagon about the major movements of the battle, but we mostly relied on our local interpreters to tell us how close we could get to the front day to day. We filed regularly for the CBS Evening News and The Early Show the next morning. One day we reported on the fierce battle for a village. Another day it was the reopening of a village bazaar, where people could shop for goods and men could shave their beards. Other network teams were coming into Afghanistan from the east and the south. We were all hoping to meet in Kabul, where many of us naively thought the war might end.

  To travel abroad for a major news organization is something akin to being a part of a traveling circus, a rock band, or a very large family. Engineers, technicians, photographers, producers, and editors—these are the people television viewers never see and rarely hear about—are all separated from their loved ones for long stretches of time, often longer stints than the on-air reporters. Their days can stretch from dawn until bedtime—preparing for daily assignments, coordinating the teams, and keeping in communication with headquarters. Back home, assignment-desk and logistics folks make it all work. Add to it the bad food, poor sleeping arrangements, bouts of dysentery, plus the occasional burst of gunfire and explosives. No one was under any illusion that this was a vacation in paradise.

  On big overseas stories, technicians traveled from around the world, so we were sometimes meeting for the very first time. Francesca Neidbart, a sound technician from Austria, was partnered in Afghanistan with her cameraman husband, Alex Brucker. I had never met Francesca until I actually bumped into her one night inside the compound near the kitchen. She’s a beautiful woman, with olive skin and thick black hair; I thought she was an Afghan woman roaming around after dark and remembered Dan’s warning, “Never look at the women.” Here was a woman with her hair uncovered. I panicked, bowed my head, and backed out of the room like an uncoordinated at the moon-walk. I knocked over a case of water, which knocked over a stack of pots and pans. The loud chain reaction woke up the entire compound. On top of all the built-in stresses, we were living on top of one another and couldn’t escape for a moment’s peace.

  Leading the CBS operation was a legendary producer named Larry Doyle. If John Wayne had ever worked as a network producer, he would have trained under Larry Doyle. The kind of rugged toughness that Wayne symbolized in Hollywood, Larry, a captain in the U.S. Marine Corps during Vietnam, commanded in the field of journalism. He had nearly translucent, penetrating blue eyes, a voice like Humphrey Bogart, matched with thick, wavy black and silvery hair, and a solid frame. Larry was a mess of contradictions. If you saw Larry at work, he was almost always disheveled, like a guy who didn’t care about his appearance. He had a perpetual three o’clock shadow closing in on four o’clock, usually a cigarette and a Heineken in hand, deck shoes, and an untucked open shirt. But if you met Larry at a social event outside work, at a colleague’s party or at dinner, he would be dressed to the nines. In such settings he was a guy who seemed very fashion-conscious, with a wardrobe of delicate fabrics, like silks and linens. It was clear that besides the valuable experiences he had picked up in various war zones, he had also done quite a bit of shopping. He staffed the Afghanistan office, as he had other locations, with beer, cigarettes, candy bars, beef jerky, and the best local drivers and interpreters around.

  During one innocent moment when I first met him, I asked Larry, “Do we have anything besides beer? I don’t drink beer.” He never answered, just stared a hole in my head with his bright blue eyes rimmed with heavy bags from a lifetime of little sleep. I finally got the message, opened a beer, and shut up. Less because of the age difference and more because of his demeanor, Larry was like everyone’s favorite uncle on the road, a bit dangerous, worldly, protective, and wise. As a relatively young correspondent, I worked with Larry in Afghanistan, Iraq, Central America, and throughout the United States. He was at times a friend, a parent, a coach, a confidant, and on occasion a pain in the butt. Each and every time he was what I needed. He was a truth teller on those days when the truth was not particularly pleasant to hear. He taught me to never go into a story with preconceived notions; always have a plan of escape and a backup plan. He taught me the meaning of professional loyalty. If it is a bar, a knife fight, or a trip to Afghanistan, you want Larry Doyle on your side. For all the weeks we were in Afghanistan, he made my top-ten prayer list each and every night. “Lord, thank you for Larry.”

  The CBS compound was guarded twenty-four hours a day by a dozen armed Afghanis. In the middle of this desolate, poverty-stricken region was about an acre of expensive, high-tech equipment worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, plus a significant amount of cash. We were a potential target. But the guards never traveled with us on any of our assignments. After several days in the country, the storyline and the war forced us to head south toward central Afghanistan. That meant leaving the comfort and security of our compound behind. I left with Larry, cameraman Mark Laganga, and CBS radio reporter Phil Ittner, along with three drivers and an interpreter. For our team, getting to Kabul meant traveling over two hundred miles of open desert, through small villages and scattered towns, with more than a few pitched battles between the Northern Alliance and the Taliban along the way. The challenge was to stay close enough to track the ongoing battle but far enough away to keep safe. We often talked about the pros and cons of carrying a weapon for our own protection, but we were observers of this conflict, not participants. Having a gun might have emboldened us to take an unnecessary risk. We always felt safer with some proximity to the troops, because without weapons or the protection of military forces, as journalists we were fully exposed to the violence of the region. There was also the fact that we were known to carry supplies and money. Bandits were about as common as rocks. Every day we made a threat assessment before we ventured out to shoot our story. How close could we get to the violence without getting caught in the crossfire? How dangerous were the roads?

  One day we woke up early, packed, and were headed down a road that we knew to be a shortcut to the next village. Suddenly a local farmer shouted to one of our interpreters, telling us to stop. The road had been filled with landmines by the Taliban. We couldn’t see the mines, but we trusted his word and turned our vehicles around. It was difficult to comprehend that we were just a shout away from almost certain catastrophe. We were relieved to be alive but angry that our own interpreter had not known the terrain well enough to protect us. We were paying him not just to speak the language but to guide us where we needed to go.

  About two days out from Khoja Bahauddin, we were standing on the wrong side of the Kokcha River and needed to cross. The only way seemed to be by horseback. We had too much gear and too few vehicles to handle the weight. We were at risk of sinking into the muddy bottom. To make matters worse, it was growing dark. We had to reach the nearest village, on the other side of the river, before nightfall. It never failed to happen that the darker it became outside, the shadier the characters would become around us. Our interpreter told Larry the mood along the riverbank was changing. Some of the new arriva
ls at the river were debating whether to rob us.

  That’s when we heard a voice in the distance. “Larry! Larry Doyle, is that you, mate?” The voice came from an Australian journalist named Paul McGeough, who was sitting alongside the riverbank. He recognized Larry from a previous encounter, on a trip to Iraq. McGeough quickly assessed our problem and called in some support vehicles to help us across a shallow stretch of water. We soon learned that Paul had just endured what we all feared as journalists, an attack that left three of his colleagues dead. The night before, Paul had been with a group of journalists traveling with a Northern Alliance commander. The group was ambushed by Taliban fighters. Of the six journalists, three were killed and three survived. Paul was one of the survivors. He was headed out, not for home, mind you, but just for some other part of Afghanistan.

  “Never leave a story on a bad note,” McGeough said. Paul and Larry greeted each other with great affection, like long-lost brothers. Clearly, Paul needed the emotional support after his ordeal. After introductions were made, we quickly decided that Paul’s story should be part of our report for the next night’s CBS Evening News. We interviewed him right where we found him, by the side of the river.

  (The CBS Evening News, November 12, 2001)

  Today, United Front Soldiers counted their bounty after the bloodiest weekend in this war so far. In what seemed like 72 straight hours of rocket launches, attacks, and counterattacks, much was gained here and much was lost.

  These were the rocket launchers and rifles, boots and sleeping bags, taken off the bodies of Taliban soldiers killed in battle.

  [Byron speaks with commander]

  “Your tanks killed 27 Taliban soldiers.”

  This tank commander boasted of running over 27 wounded Taliban soldiers. “It was easier,” he said, “than taking prisoners.”

  There were prisoners and prized trophies. This letter was taken from a dead Taliban soldier written on the stationery of “The Islamic Front,” one of bin Laden’s terrorist cells in Pakistan.

  [Byron, with interpreter]

  “I know they are bombing on you. So be strong. I know God will protect you.”

  For the first time, civilians in Northern Afghanistan were allowed back into villages once controlled by the Taliban. Cross the Kokcha River, they were told. It’s SAFE to go home.

  [Byron on camera]

  But safety is a slippery word in war. Sunday night six journalists accompanied a United Front commander to survey a town that had just been declared safe. Three of the six journalists were gunned down. Shot to death as they scrambled for cover.

  [Byron interview with Paul McGeough of the Sydney Morning Herald]

  “Suddenly we were being fired upon from three sides.”

  Paul McGeough is one of three journalists who survived.

  [More interview with McGeough]

  “We were ambushed. And probably the nastiest thing of all, the bodies were looted by the time we got to them this morning.”

  McGeough admits he GAINED a story but LOST three friends.

  [More interview with McGeough]

  “But if you combine the losses on both sides on that ridge last night, apart from the media, there were 110 people killed.”

  What do you take from what you lived through?

  “Thank God I’m alive. It was very scary and it doesn’t make me want to pack up and go home. But it makes me, it makes me . . . I want to be close to someone.”

  Gains and losses. On one weekend in one nation at war. Byron Pitts, CBS News.

  That night over hot tea and two fried potatoes cooked with oil on our hot plate, the five of us ate. Larry had convinced Paul to join us. We were glad to have his company and his knowledge of the region. Now, five of us were slowly moving south toward Kabul. Every day was physically draining. We would work eighteen to twenty hours a day, with very little sleep. We used bottled water and wet wipes for hygiene. There was not much food. Some days we would climb for hours on the dusty hills to get a better view of the battle. Our vehicles were often breaking down. Three of us would have to hold up the truck while a tire was being changed. One night we’d sleep in an abandoned building, another night on the rocky ground under the stars. Then there was the constant stress of wondering if the Taliban would overtake us or if bandits might find us. On a night when we finally found shelter from the cold in an abandoned schoolhouse, we were in desperate need of a good night’s sleep. It didn’t take any time for all of us to fall into a sound sleep. But when we were startled awake by a scratching sound, our first panicked thought was that it was an intruder. Mark Laganga saw it first—a large rat. Mark sarcastically suggested we catch it and eat it. Phil and I were in the room with it and wanted no part of the hairy creature. Larry ended the discussion.

  “That rat lives here! We’re the intruders. Quit your griping and get some sleep!” Later that night, he whispered to me, “If you want to switch places with me, you can.” We all got a big laugh out of it, which we needed as much as sleep. It made us feel normal and gave us something else to talk about for a few hours at least.

  Eventually, Paul would leave us, after he filed his share of stories and could end his trip on a good note. We parted ways as Paul waited in an open field to catch a ride from a Russian-made helicopter, north toward the Tajikistan border. As we pulled away, Paul waved good-bye. A single black bag hung from his shoulder. All he needed he could carry on his back, like a seasoned war correspondent.

  A few weeks into the Afghanistan trip, I came down with a wicked bout of dysentery. I could not keep anything down and spent most of the day on my back or in the makeshift bathroom Laganga had rigged up. We affectionately referred to him as McGyver. (For the uninitiated, that’s the name of a nineties’ TV show about a guy who could get himself out of the most dangerous situations with as little as a toothpick and a piece of string.) Laganga could fix anything. There were not many restrooms in northern Afghanistan at the time. Mark took four pieces of tin, a milk crate, a shovel, a coat hanger, and a roll of toilet paper, and built a toilet—with running water, sort of. Although there was not enough tin for an actual door, Mark came up with the idea of a red bandana. If the red bandana was hanging on a hook in front of the bathroom, that meant no one should walk in front of it lest they and the person inside be surprised. When I was sick, that bandana was always in use. After about four days on my back on a cot, Larry tracked down a local doctor who spoke English. Actually, he was a veterinarian, but desperate times called for creative measures.

  “Mr. Byron, what seems to be the problem?” the doctor asked, with a gentle bedside manner that surpassed plenty of American doctors I had encountered. I explained my symptoms. “What medicine do you take, Mr. Byron?” he inquired. Each of us had been issued a supply of Ciprofloxacin in the event of a bacterial infection. The bottle said take two tablets per day. I remember the doctor back in the States insisting I take no more than the prescribed amount each day because of side effects.

  The Afghan animal doctor asked how many pills I took per day, and when I said three, he asked with a puzzled look on his face, “Why just three, Mr. Byron?” When I explained the concerns raised by the American doctor, he burst out laughing.

  “Oh no, Mr. Byron, this is Afghanistan! Don’t worry about side effects. Please take eight pills tomorrow.” With that, he shook my hand. “You will feel better in a few days, Mr. Byron, I promise. Inshallah [God willing],” he said, as he left my side. Sure enough, two days later I was up and running, as if I had never been sick. In good shape for the head-on collision that was about to occur.

  Like many things in Afghanistan, driving seemed like another test of manhood and another needless escalation of tension. In a convoy of vehicles, drivers would take turns jockeying to be in the lead. On narrow dusty roads, drivers were often blinded by the dust created by the car in front of them. Larry had arranged for a convoy of Toyota-style pickup trucks to take us south. I ended up in a burgundy vehicle, in the hands of a teenage driver with a co
llection of bad local music. Funny thing about teenage drivers around the world; they are all about the same, hard of hearing and fearless.

  Our vehicle was about fourth in line when my young driver decided it was his turn to lead the pack. So he dashed out into oncoming traffic to make his way to the front. Most drivers coming toward us just moved aside and honked their horns. However, the driver of an approaching large truck with people piled on top did not appear willing to concede the road. In my calmest East Baltimore tone, I whispered to the driver, “Hey, brother, do you see that big truck?” I quickly assessed that the young man spoke no English, and I took a different approach with more attitude and bass in my voice. “Yo, man! Do you see that big-ass truck?” He looked at me and smiled. He didn’t understand a word I said, but he seemed to enjoy the panic in my voice and on my face. He turned his attention away from me toward the road and waved his hand at the truck, like a guy waving a fly off the windshield of his car. The truck driver apparently did not take kindly to the gesture. Just as we were about to hit the truck head-on, both drivers gave just a little bit but a little too late. We collided. Not a full-on front-end collision, but the front-right corner of our truck hit the front of their vehicle, which was about twice our size. Our pickup did a 180-degree spin and was thrown into a ditch, facing the direction we had come from. The bigger truck came to a stop on the opposite side of the highway. A passenger hanging off the top of the truck was thrown into the desert.