It could, of course, take me a week to get back to London. When added to the time I’d spent in the Marriott and Camp Grizzly, my war would have lasted more than a month. But who was I kidding? Nine days.
After talking to headquarters, Buck told me that a Humvee from one of the supply camps in the rear would come out and get me in an hour. I couldn’t believe it was that easy. The captain warned me, however, that it could be a long and dangerous route back. The supply lines, after all, were easy targets for insurgents. But it seemed to me that I’d be taking a risk no matter which direction I went. And at least there was less chance of encountering chemical or biological warfare in the south.
Back at the Humvee, Hustler and Buck were more sympathetic than expected, although I felt as though I was letting them down. By leaving, I was no longer suspending disbelief: I was admitting that the war was dangerous and that we could all get killed. And no one wanted to be reminded of that.
“If I were you, I’d get my ass out of here, too,” offered Murphy. “You didn’t sign up for this shit. You’re a reporter.”
But I had signed up for this, no matter how naively. And I was a war reporter. This was supposed to be my job.
The Marines, I realized, were different than I’d first imagined. Their motivation, of couse, was as alien to me as mine was to them. They wanted to prove themselves as warriors; I wanted to watch from a safe distance. But during the invasion, the Marines had been more quiet and determined than gung ho and macho. And they’d kept a nihilistic sense of humor throughout. Perhaps they’d toned themselves down because of the “media rep.” But I somehow doubted it.
I walked to the back of the Humvee and started to pull out my bags. Everything was slathered in mud and reeked of desert filth. My dolly was long gone, so I was going to have to work out a way to carry everything. I tried to lift my rucksack onto my Kevlar-plated back, but soon gave up. I’d have to drag it. As for the yellow tent, I was almost tempted to leave it in the back of the Humvee. It was taking up vital MRE space, however, so I decided it had to come with me.
When I looked up, Hustler was standing awkwardly in front of me. He looked tense and exhausted. I remembered that he was nearly two decades older than the high school–age Marines. Hustler hadn’t been called up for the first Gulf War, however, and this was his last chance to use his training.
“Hey, Chris,” he said in a stage whisper. “Can you do somethin’ for me?”
“After all that coffee you’ve given me,” I said, “I’ll do anything.”
Hustler held out a square piece of cardboard from one of the MRE boxes. He’d cut it out with a knife. On it was a message:
Carolina & Kids: I’m doing fine. Hope everything is okay at home. Hope this ends soon so I can come home to you. I promise to stay low. Love You.
Underneath, in a childlike blue print, Hustler had given me his wife’s home and mobile phone numbers. I looked at the first sergeant. He seemed slightly embarrassed. He was probably wondering if this was a good idea.
“If you get time, call my wife and read this out to her,” said Hustler.
“I will,” I said. I wanted to shake his hand, but we just looked at each other. I felt a sudden weight of sadness. I wondered how many men from Kilo Battery wouldn’t make it out of Iraq. I remembered what Robert Capa, the Time-Life combat photographer, had written in his autobiography: “The war correspondent has his stake—his life—in his own hands, and he can put it on this horse or that horse, or he can put it back in his pocket at the very last minute… Being allowed to be a coward, and not be executed for it, is his torture.” This was my torture: Buck, Hustler, and Murphy didn’t have the option to leave. Even if they did, they wouldn’t. Marines get court-martialed for cowardice; journalists get a suite at the JW Marriott.
It wasn’t long before the Humvee from the supply camp arrived. When I looked at it, I realized what I was about to do. The vehicle was nothing like Buck’s. It had a canvas roof, no armored plating, and no rooftop machine gun. The left wing had been punctured and torn by rounds from AK-47s.
Maybe I should have listened to my grandfather: Leaving Iraq would probably be more dangerous than staying. Was I making an awful mistake? I threw my bags into the back of the vehicle, then went to say farewell to Buck.
“Thanks for looking after me,” I said.
“Anytime,” he replied with a quick handshake. “Now you can go back to England and tell everyone about that jerk of a captain who confiscated your satellite phone in Iraq.” Buck gave a sardonic grin.
And that was it. I would never see Capt. Rick “Buck” Rogers again.
Before I got into the Humvee, Hustler tapped me on the shoulder.
“You don’t have to call my wife, y’know,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. You’re gonna be busy when you get back. No big deal.”
I couldn’t believe Hustler was trying to spare me the guilt of not calling.
“I will call her,” I promised.
“Thanks,” he said. “But you don’t have to.”
The Humvee spluttered and wobbled, then pulled slowly out of the camp. Soon we were back on the sniper’s gauntlet of Highway 8. I looked out nervously at the wasteland around us. We seemed to be alone.
For three minutes we rattled south.
Then the Humvee’s engine cut out.
“Shit,” said the driver.
The vehicle, now in neutral, began to lose momentum.
“Shit,” said the driver as the Humvee’s starter motor laughed like a wounded hyena. “Start, you fucking piece of crap.”
There was nothing in front of us and nothing behind.
We creaked to a halt.
We sat there for about a minute on the open highway, in our canvas Humvee, before the engine coughed back to life. I almost passed out with fear. This was even worse than the broken rear door in Buck’s vehicle. I wasn’t surprised that the Marines ambushed in Nasiriyah had been traveling in a supply convoy. The good Humvees, it seemed, were reserved for the front lines. This one looked as though it had barely survived 1991. In my head, I started to write the headline of my own death: “Tragic Reporter Killed While Fleeing Battlefield.” That’s the trouble with being a journalist; you see a morbid headline in every situation. You’ve written them all before. There was, of course, a worse scenario than death: becoming an unwilling celebrity on Iraqi television. Or even more terrible than that, the star of an al-Qaeda webcast.
Our journey south continued for another three minutes, with the engine cutting out intermittently in defiance of the driver’s howled expletives. Then, after perhaps a mile, we swerved right into a new camp. The sickly V-8 died and we climbed out. I could still feel the vibration of Kilo Battery’s guns.
“You can stay here for the night,” said the driver. “We’ll see if we can get you a ride back sometime over the next few days.”
I tried not to groan. One mile down, 199 to go. I didn’t even have any cigarettes. At this rate I’d be in Kuwait by Christmas. I dumped my bags by the front wheel and lay on the ground, using my laptop case as a pillow. If we weren’t going anywhere, I might as well get some rest. I fell into a meditative doze.
Hours vanished. The heat soaked up my energy. Insects started to crawl inside the charcoal lining of my chemical suit, which probably made a nice change from all the mud. I was too drowsy to shake them out.
It was late afternoon when I heard a voice. “Hey,” it said, “we got you a ride outta here.” I opened my eyes and saw the tall, rickety Humvee driver. Like me, he looked as though he was having a bad war. The vehicle’s malfunctioning engine had probably already taken a decade off his life. Not that a decade would make much difference if he ended up being ambushed on the open road.