Everything Kandy had in the way of information about what was happening on the ground was a product of the rumour mill. Rumour had it that defecting Gaddafi troops had ransacked Benghazi’s main police barracks, looting tons of weapons and ammunition. That meant the local militia had been rearmed and resupplied and could take on anything Gaddafi threw at them from the west.
There were rumours, too, that Turkey would soon be sending its navy to defend the route between Benghazi port and Crete, and their troops to take over the airport to secure humanitarian sea and air corridors.
Kandy did have one fact. Turkey already had five warships and one submarine off the coast. They were stopping Gaddafi’s navy laying mines to deny the port.
Kandy received a fresh batch of rumours at every checkpoint. The militias had just been told that the French and British fast jets had mounted raids on the oil town on Ajdabiya. Gaddafi’s forces had been hammered. The town had been retaken. Further west, however, the fighting went on.
Another low-flying rumour was that Gaddafi had offered $100,000 to anyone willing to fight for him, payable on victory. That rumour was met with the militia head-shed telling all the rebels that if they defected they would be classed as traitors and shot as soon as hostilities were over. That was the problem with this type of war. It was fast-moving, and communications were poor. There was still no signal on my iPhone, and no one really knew what the fuck was going on.
2
The dark streets of Free Benghazi were littered with the hulks of tanks that had been totalled by French and British fast jets. They were already covered with graffiti. A lot of it was in English, for external consumption. One message read: Thank You Obama, Thank You Cameron. If Sarkozy saw that on breakfast TV, there was going to be one very pissed-off Frenchman.
A poster on a shell-blasted wall showed Gaddafi looking defiant but without a hat, and blood all over his head. Words like ‘Murderer’, ‘Terrorist’ and ‘Dictator’ were scrawled all over it. Another wall mural had the president’s face repainted with a big yellow smiley. I’d seen hundreds of those giving Saddam the same treatment just hours after the US tanks rolled into Baghdad.
As we moved through the blacked-out city, there were plenty of signs that Gaddafi had lost control. If it wasn’t covered in graffiti, every physical sign of the dictator had been taken down and shot or torched. The solid green flag was no longer flying above ramshackle and ransacked government buildings that Gaddafi’s troops had wrecked when they withdrew; the old royal standard — red, black and green with the crescent and star at its centre — hung in its place.
A storm was raging out there in the Mediterranean. I spotted several passenger ferries offshore, all lit up as they rode it out. They’d been waiting for days to come in and evacuate foreign nationals.
Another rumour was that because the Turks, NATO’s second biggest army, had provided a large naval contingent, the Brits had been forced at last to up their game. They were sending a frigate. It would park up in the port in the next couple of days and take off Brits and anyone else it had room for. Kandy laughed at that one. The Turks, Italians and Russians had already been and gone. Even the French were back home drinking coffee and watching the war on the news. But the Cumberland’s late arrival was good news for Anna. Jules had booked her a place on board.
The vehicle slowed. Kandy turned in his seat. ‘Nick, here we are.’ A big friendly smile wreathed his face. ‘Nick?’
I was dozing.
‘The hospital — we’re here.’
I stretched in my Timberland-effect fleece that I’d bought at the border crossing. Even in war and desperation, there will always be a Del Trotter setting up his stall.
‘That’s brilliant, Kandy.’ I passed him the bundle of a thousand US dollars. ‘Thanks, mate.’ Two dollars a kilometre, as promised. He waved the cash before putting it into his pocket, uncounted. ‘This will buy us fuel to go back and make another run here the day after tomorrow. Thank you.’
I had no doubt that it would.
We got out of the wagon as the lads hooked up with the waiting militia. We all shook. ‘Good luck, Nick. I hope that you find her.’
I nodded. ‘And good luck to you, mate. Hope you get back in one piece, eh?’
From the outside, the main hospital, Al-Jalaa, looked like most of the rest of the city: concrete, rectangular, plain. The courtyard and car park were a blur of news crews, ambulances, 12.7-mounted technicals, and casualties from the fighting in the west.
A pair of fast jets screamed through the darkness somewhere overhead. Nobody looked up. They could only be French or British. Although someone had said that the Italians were about to join in too.
For the news agencies, war was business. They set up shop outside hospitals to be close to the action, but also for protection. Gaddafi wouldn’t hit a hospital, would he? Hmm. We’d see.
I hobbled up to the nearest crew. ‘You know where the foreigners are being looked after? I’m looking for a Russian reporter, Anna Ludmilova.’ I nodded at the three lads sitting on blue nylon folding chairs. ‘You know her at all, lads?’
Even in the middle of a war zone, the Germans were always immaculate. Even the military contractors protecting them were perfectly turned out, right down to their national flag on the front flap of their body armour. Me, I still hadn’t washed or shaved since landing in Mog. Frank’s clothes and trainers would probably start to dissolve quite soon.
One of the coffee drinkers pointed me towards the main doors. ‘They’ll know inside. There’s a couple of media who can’t be moved yet.’ He threw a bottle of water at me. ‘Good luck.’
3
The interior of the hospital was cleaner and brighter than a lot of the NHS ones I’d been in. It was also a whole bunch busier.
Medical teams in green aprons and masks rushed past with trolleys laden with militia, kids, old people blasted by Gaddafi’s artillery and mortar fire. I walked across the freshly polished floor. I almost felt embarrassed to wait in line for the receptionist behind a group of militia who’d run in with a badly injured comrade. She pointed in the direction of what I guessed was the emergency room, and then asked them something in Arabic. I guessed it was to unload their weapons, because they did.
The girl manning the desk was still in her teens. The phone rang. She answered it efficiently before nodding at me. This was the future of the Arab Spring. A head covered by a purple scarf, but face powdered, eyes made up, lips glossed. I didn’t think the jihadists were going to get much of a hold in this country.
‘Do you speak English?’
She smiled. ‘Of course. What do you need?’ She was surprisingly calm and pleasant. It made me feel even worse. ‘I’m looking for a Russian reporter, Anna Ludmilova. She was shot in Misrata a couple of days ago.’
‘OK. All the foreigners are on the second floor, Ward Seventeen. If you’re armed, please unload your weapon.’
‘I’m not armed.’
‘Can I see?’
I unzipped my fleece, lifted it up, and turned round so she could admire the crease in my jeans.
‘Thank you. I hope you find her.’
Two more militia came in. They’d linked arms to improvise a seat for a guy who couldn’t have been any older than the receptionist. His right leg had been blown away below the knee. His blood trailed all the way back to the main entrance.
4
The first-floor corridor was grey lino, clean and polished. I came to the main hub. Phones rang. Staff shouted for help. The wounded moaned. But at least they were in beds and the dressings were clean. The place functioned. There was an air of total efficiency.