Unreasonable Behavior: An Autobiography [Reprint ed.] 0802126960, 9780802126962

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UNREASONABLE BEHAVIOR

DON McCULLIN UNREASONABLE

BEHAVIOR

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY with Lewis Chester

Ÿ Grove Press New York

Copyright © by Don McCullin 1990, 2015 except the photographs o n page 52 © Philip Jones Griffiths 1956, page 156 © Kyoichi Sawada, page 201 © Henri Bureau, pages 296 and 297 © Mark Shand, and page 342 © Terry O’Neill All rights reserved. N o part o f this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic o r mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote

brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation o f such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy o f copyrighted materials. Your support o f the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member o f educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all o f the work for classroom use, o r anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, N Y 1 0 0 1 1 o r [email protected]. Printed i n the United States o f America

This edition first published in Great Britain by Jonathan Cape, a n imprint ofVintage Publishing, Penguin Random House UK, in 2015 A previous edition was first published in the United States by Knopf in 1990 First Grove Atlantic paperback edition: June 2 0 1 7

Library o f Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data available for this title. ISBN 978-0-8021-2696-2 eISBN 978-0-8021-8959-2 Grove Press

an imprint o f Grove Atlantic

1 5 4 West 14th Street

New York, N Y 10011

Distributed by Publishers Group West groveatlantic. c o m

17 18 19 20

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76 543

21

To my children—Paul,Jessica, Alex, Claude and Max—with love

Preface

ix

Acknowledgments

xi

Part One: B E C O M I N G

STREETWISE

The Battleground

A Shocking Liberty

22

On

Hunting Dogs

26

O

Tank Warfare

30

J

The Murder

38

00

A Faster Sidewalk

44

The First Contest

53

Delinquent Photographer

65

IN

13

\O

Children o f War Dereliction in the Bunk

10

Part Two: G O I N G T O T H E W A R S 11

With the Mercenaries

71

12

Search and Destroy

82

13

First the L i o n , Then Vultures

89

14

Jerusalem

15

Another Desert War

104

16

The Battle o f H u e

109

17

Lessons o f War

118

98

18

Children o f Biafra

122

19

People W h o Eat People

138

20

Wounded i n Action

149

21

Besieged

160

22

Rain Forest Genocide

166

23

Hiding Behind the Camera

172

vii

Part Three:M A T T E R S O F L I F E A N D D E A T H

24

Prisoner of Idi Amin

183

25

Handshake Before Highway 13

195

26

Death o n the Golan Heights

204

27

The Tribe W h o Killed Christ

208

28

Waiting for Pol Pot

216

29

A Christian Massacre

220

30

Picnic with Abu Ammar

234

31

Shadow of Doubt

241

32

Earthquake in Iran

246

33

A Short Walk with the Mujaheddin

253

34

The Unease of Change

260

35

White Towel from the Camino Real

264

Part Four: T H E E N D O F T H E A F F A I R 36

The Task Force Gets Away

275

37

Breaking Point

280

38

The Nastiest Place o n Earth

287

39

Heart o f Darkness

292

40

O f Love and Death

299

Part Five: W A R S A N D P E A C E

viii

41

Alone with the Ghosts

307

42

Flying High and L o w

316

43

Aids in Africa

322

44

M y Phoney War

331

45

N e w Frontiers

337

46

The Road to Aleppo

349

47

A Walk Around the Volcano

357

Index

371

PREFACE

It has been twenty-five years since Unreasonable Behavior was first published and in that time many lessons have been learned. Honestly, I am astonished that I am still here. M y survival also means that I have had a lot o f time to

look back, examine and regret some of the decisions I made. Now that age has caught up with me, I think [ would have done things differently; I would not have squandered my love and loyalty t o my family, deserting them constantly t o go t o war, thinking that somehow my work was more important than family life. This was, of course, scandalous. I still however attach enormous priority t o my photography. I punish myself unnecessarily for m y work. Yet it has bought m e many

rewards—mostly in the friendship of wonderful gifted writers, photographers, curators, designers and editors. They opened my eyes t o an alternative world from the one in which I was bought up. Some o f those colleagues had their lives stolen from them in futile wars. I often

feel ashamed at the memory of those lives lost.

People ask m e about post-traumatic stress. I say that I use the landscape o f the English countryside to eradicate the nightmares about the atrocities and vengeance that I have witnessed. N o w in the closing chapter o f m y life, I am simply grateful to m y

good friend, the late Mark Shand, for introducing me fourteen years ago t o m y wife Catherine and her wonderful cultured family w h o were so

willing and generous to embrace m e and through whom I have learned

a great deal. Out o f this union I have been blessed with another lovely son, whose name is Max. I am lucky t o have been given another chance t o enjoy the time that has been left t o me. D o n McCullin Somerset

March 2 0 1 5

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With apologies t o anyone I inadvertently omitted, I would like t o thank the many people who opened doors for me and helped to enlarge m y life. Today, in m y eightieth year, as I write this for a new edition,

inevitably many of these people, my friends, are dead. I would like t o remember with love and respect, m y mentor Norman Lewis, Bruce

Chatwin, Eric Newby, the photojournalist Philip Jones Griffiths, and Mark Shand—my gratitude t o these fellow travellers for shared adventures is immense. I miss them all. In more recent times Roger Cooper

and Barnaby Rogerson have been enthusiastic and cultured travelling companions and thanks should go t o Will Jones of Journeys by Design for helping t o organise so many of my trips. A t the start o f m y career, Dick Taylor at the Animation Studio

was inspiring. From newspaper days, thanks t o the following: Bryn sent me t o war, and

Campbell, the Observer picture editor who first

the talented colleagues at the Sunday Times in whose company I grew

up, t o Michael Rand, David King, Philip Jacobson, William Shawcross, Jon Swain, Peter Crookston, Jonathan Dimbleby, James Fox, Michael Nicholson, Godfrey Smith, Francis Wyndham and above all, t o my editor Harry Evans. [ would like t o remember my agent the late Abner Stein with affection and thank my new agent and sister-in-law, Natasha Fairweather, for her drive and professionalism. I should also acknowledge the late Tony Colwell, my editor at Cape o n the first edition of this book. I must

express m y thanks to Lew Chester for returning to the task o f updating

that earlier edition t o this present version. I a m grateful t o those who helped promote my work outside newspapers: the late Cornell Capa, w h o supported m y work in America, Mark Haworth-Booth for m y first exhibition at the V & A , Hilary Roberts for the marvellous retrospective at the ImperialWar Museum,

Simon Baker and Anthony d’ Offay for collecting and touring my work Xi

with theTate. Tomy friends and agents at Contact Press, Jeffrey Smith, Domique Deschavanne and Robert Pledge—thank you, Bob particularly for being the brilliant curator of my European exhibitions. In the U K , Tim Jeffries o f Hamiltons Gallery is a loyal and trusted adviser, as

are Mark George, Aidan O’Sullivan, Marc Carter and Mark Holborn, whose creative eye on my publications is faultless. Charlotte Sorapure painted the portrait that is on the front of the jacket and many thanks t o her and her artist husband Said for their company and hospitality in the hours of those sittings. Finally, | would like t o thank my wife Catherine— ‘the gate keeper’ — for her patience and kindness over the last thirteen years, for answering the letters, keeping the diary and fielding all the calls and emails.

xii

“They are like candles that no-one will put out, o r stains that cannot be removed.’ Mark Haworth-Booth o n D o n McCullin’s photographs

‘No se puede mirar.’ (‘One cannot look at this.”) ‘Yo lo vi.’ ( ‘ I saw it) Goya

“To make you hear, t o make you feel, t o make you see. Joseph Conrad

Part O n e BECOMING

STREETWISE

1. THE BATTLEGROUND

Two brothers met o n a desert battleground o n a February day in 1970.

The elder was myself, covering my twentieth battle campaign as a photo-journalist; the younger, engaged in skirmishing with horse- and

camel-mounted tribesmen of that remote African country, was my little brother Michael, then Sergeant, now Adjutant McCullin of the French Foreign Legion. For the short hour in which I could touch down in this arid spot, we m e t only t o disagree. We both spoke from too close a knowledge of war, gained in a long

separation from each other. Like Legionnaires, war photographers canavoid the front line. In the bars of beleaguered hotels in the world’s trouble spots where foreign correspondents gather there is sometimes talk of our seeing, due t o modern means of communication, more of battle than anyone in history. Serving soldiers (SAS and mercenaries apart) are usually committed only t o their o w n country’s conflicts; war correspondents go to them all. And photographers, unlike reporters who can often gather better information behind the lines, are generally found in the thick of the fighting. Those who stay with the work for a long time, like the great Robert Capa and Larry Burrows, often die with not

it. I stayed with it for twenty years, and by some miracle survived. By the time I met my brother in Chad I had lived in the front lines of Cyprus, the Congo, Jerusalem, Biafra, and many o f the campaigns in Vietnam. I was to go o n to see war’s depredations at Yom Kippur, in Cambodia,

in Jordan, the Lebanon, Iran, Afghanistan, even in El Salvador. Many of my good friends lost their lives o n these battlegrounds. It was perhaps the breadth of my experience that led Michael and m e to differ. We had both been drawn to war by a sense o f adventure, but its meaning for each o f us had changed. To Michael, war was a game, a passion. Although it still held excitement for me, most o f the

time I could think only of its horrors. Michaels attitude was the more explicable, the more soldierly; mine was less straightforward. After all, 3

my engagement was voluntary, for I was not under military discipline. If war had become so hateful t o me, why did I not keep away? I have even been told I must have some sort of death wish—and it is true that throughout most o f m y life something has forced m e to go out and record death and suffering. But it is not through any yearning for death for myself, or any man. I still struggle with the meaning of all those experiences. Wars have dreadful differences, but also a dreadful sameness. You sleep with the

dead, you cradle the dead, you live with the living who become the dead. Seeing, looking at what others cannot bear to see, is what my life as a war reporter is all about, and I have been criticised for forcing horrors into the view of complacent people. It has been said of my pictures of war

and famine that ‘we know n o w that our knowing makes n o difference’. Yet I believe that it is not ‘naive to think all that mattered’. O f course our

knowing matters, and mine are far from the only photographs t o have awakened the public conscience in recent years.I resent the idea—voiced more than once—that the subjects of my photography are ‘matters too serious for art’. I am also deeply suspicious o f any attempt to censor

communication of the truth. Even with all my years of watching, I have never been able t o switch off m y feelings, nor do I think it would be right to do so. Few are equipped to remain unmoved by the spectacle o f what war does to

people. These are sights that should, and do, bring pain, and shame, and guilt. Some sights heighten the feelings t o an unbearable pitch. Once, when I was caught in a forward position with American Marines in Vietnam, a supply wagon bringing ammunition—a moke o f the kind you might see o n sea-side dunes—overshot our position in the dark. It stopped, and a sniper killed the driver, who stayed slumped in his

position at the wheel, the engine droning on eerily. Through the night he was outlined by tracer flares from the other lines, unearthly in harsh yellow, orange and green. The incoming fire made it impossible for us t o reach him. W e watched i n appalled fascination until dawn, w h e n the

battle died down and the moke’s engine, finally running out o f petrol, puttered to a stop. Often in battle you think tomorrow it will be you, that you are going to be the one lying with your face to the stars. It is strange to 4

think of a human body lying fixed in one position, staring at the stars without seeing. I remember being in a patrol when a burst o f automatic

fire brought down the t w o m e n ahead of me. I dived for cover, my mouth in the mud, m y cameras covered with dirt, and I lay there, still, for twenty minutes during which everything in my life came back to me. A t times like these, when men have died in front o f you, and behind you, there is an overwhelming sense o f them dying for you.

It has been said that I print my photographs too dark. How can such experiences be conveyed with a feeling of lightness? Yet, I ask myself, what has all my looking and probing done for these people, or for anyone? How many times, as the fire was closing on my position, have I thought—Is this it? Is this the day?

What have I done with m y life?

2. CHILDREN OF WAR

Like all m y generation in London, I am a product o f Hitler. I was born in the Thirties and bombed in the Forties. Then Hollywood moved in and started showing m e films about violence. A t a very early age I can

remember overhearing my father telling my mother about a severed head one o f his fellow air raid wardens had found during the blitz and was showing around in a box. Gruesomeness o f this sort was par for

the course for Londoners during and just after the Second World War, and it rubbed off o n the children too.

The bombsites became our playgrounds. We went out hunting for shrapnel and the foil dropped b y the Germans to deflect radar. We

lived with nightly bomb terrors. Air raid shelters, like the one in our back yard, became our second homes. There was a pungent smell about those shelters—the smell o f damp air trapped in that concrete shell. I lived that smell. I recall it today as fondly as other people remember the smells o f summer, o r o f winter fires. Children played at war because war was all there was. I remember playing toy soldiers with m y little brother Michael. We would draw them u p in battle-order in the yard and take their heads off b y shying

clods of earth. I was later t o remember this battle. The play was unnervingly like the real thing, My first h o m e was just off the Tottenham Court Road, where m y father occasionally worked as a fishmonger. The work was occasional because m y father was an invalid. M y mother had t o make most o f the decisions for us. When the family expanded, with the birth o f m y sister Marie, we moved to two rooms under the grille o f a pavement in King’s Cross. This lasted only a few months before we moved to a tenement building in Finsbury Park, then known as the worst area in north London. Again we had two damp basement rooms. Marie and I slept in one, they lived in the other. There was a scullery and a tiny

Don, 1936

Don’s parents, Frederick and Jessie, Fonthill Road, Finsbury Park, 1940s

Don and his sister, Marie, Fonthill Road, Finsbury Park, 1940s

9

lavatory, half in, half outside. It was no place for a man with chronic

asthma, or kids for that matter, but it was home. M y most painful memory of the war was born of the attempt to get me away from it. When I was five, Marie and I were faced with evacuation. Michael, who was not born until a few years later, managed t o escape. I remember the buses gathering at Paul’s Park Primary School to take us to Paddington Station. There were many tears, and

mothers waving and giving advice t o their children. We all wore labels and carried little brown cardboard boxes containing our gas m a s k s W . e

were told that we were going for our own protection, away from the bombs, t o a rural existence. As soon as we arrived in Norton St Philip in Somerset, Marie and I were separated. M y mother had been promised that we would not be split up, but we were. M y sister was taken to the wealthiest household in the village. People w h o had engineering companies in wartime were o n t o a good number. I was sent t o a council house. M y sister’s existence and mine in that same village were from then o n quite separate. Where she lived they had a maid with a black and white uniform w h o used t o serve m y sister tea. I would go round and

peep through her window. Although I was her brother, I was looked upon as one of those scruffy council house children and not allowed in. Looking back, I think it may have been the beginning of something y o u can see i n m y pictures—an attempt t o get as close t o m y subject

while remaining invisible myself. You soon become aware of, and resigned to, the position you have in

society: the fact that I lived in a council house meant that somehow; for me, the die was cast. M y sister was leaving us through the privilege she

enjoyed in that house. M y mother took the amazing decision of allowing her to stay o n after the war as a permanent foster child in that rich fam-

ily, who sent her t o a girls’ boarding school i nWeston-super-Mare. So m y sister went to public school. You could say—as they did in Finsbury Park— ‘Adolf Hitler done her a favour.’ I felt cast out, unchosen, rather as if I were the wrong breed o f dog, I remember running after m y father when he set off home at the end o f a visit and begging h i m t o take m e with him. M y stay i n Norton St Philip

lasted less than a year, but I was soon evacuated again. I was always being 10

evacuated. In my ignorance of Hitler's bombing plans, I supposed that my mother thought—Get him o n the road again, give myselfa breather. In m y third evacuation I hit a new low. I was sent t o the north

of England, to a village not far from Bolton in Lancashire. They were chicken farmers, and I got one egg a week o n Sundays. Their main interest was in keeping m e out o f the house as much as possible b y sending me to service in the morning, afternoon Sunday school, and then they would try to get m e t o go to the evening service as well.

After tea on weekdays, they would lock m e out until ten o’clock at night in all weathers.

I slept on the floor. M y room had no lino o r furniture, just some old chicken incubators. It was a room that was never used, and just because it was spare these people were forced to take in evacuee children they did not want.

With me in the house was a lad whose old man owned a pub in Camden town. He used t o w e t the bed and he got terrible hidings for it. We had landed among people who were rigid and, for all their Bible talk, very unforgiving. They found our ways alien, as w e did theirs. I hated their funny way o f cooking potatoes with their jackets on, and I wouldn’t eat them. I would be clouted for that. Clouting was an enduring memory from that evacuation. I was

clouted by the schoolmasters, clouted by the kids in the playground, and clouted when I got home. I was building u p a tidy store o f resentment and mistrust.

One day I fell off a barn attempting some daredevil feat and smashed m y face. That is why I have a broken nose. I crawled across a field and passed out. I woke u p to see two women standing over me. They got m e home, and I could see the chicken farmer was sorely tempted t o

bang m e another one in the face for getting into trouble. H e insisted o n sending m e to school the next day. N o w that I had a huge swollen face o n top o f m y much-mocked London voice I became an even bigger joke. Finally, I wrote to m y mother to say that I wasn’t being treated well. She sent m e the train fare and I made m y way home. The night

before I left, the chicken farmer dragged out a dustbin, emptied the chicken meal from it and filled it with hot water. I got m y first bath in seventeen weeks. 11

That whole experience had strange after-effects. Once I got my own space, and a farmhouse, I always liked t o have a few chickens about. I think they’re very decorative and so, unfortunately, does the local fox. More seriously, it gave me a lifelong affinity with persecuted peoples.

I know what it is like t o be branded uncivilised and unclean, and t o be treated as something pernicious. Except that I was ostracised and illtreated by my o w n people, and not an alien race. In the short term, though, the effects of evacuation were harden-

ing. The loneliness and the long separations from my mother had done for me what public school did for the boys of the middle classes. It had turned me into a tough little blighter who could stand on his own two

feet. It also made m e twitchy.

3. DERELICTION

IN THE BUNK

Back in wartime London, I developed a variety o f odd habits. I would

jerk m y neck out repeatedly i n a convulsive way. I

was terrified o f step-

ping on cracks in the pavement—all children have a bit of a fixation about this, but mine was carried to extremes. Above all, I liked to race

the bus. I used t o come out of the Tube at Finsbury Park, which slopes u p like a drift-mine, see the 212 for Highgate starting u p and tear along

the road beside, or in front of, it for several hundred yards, past the school clinic, testing myself. I discovered later in life that I was dyslexic, a condition that was not improved by the constant moving from school t o school. By the time the evacuations were over, I could scarcely read even the sim-

plest things, and was certainly not digesting the words I did struggle through. In those days there was only one sort of remedial teaching for slow learners and that was the cane, or a hard clip round the ear with the back of a hand. Exasperated schoolmasters seemed t o think that violence would prod you forward. In m y case, it simply made m e violently backward. When first I got back to London I went in dread o f

beatings and whackings, and even punchings, that teachers had licence t o administer. One master tried t o speed my progress towards the Eleven Plus examination by banging my head against the school wall. Yet it has to be said that these terrifying Finsbury Park teachers were ranged against a most evil bunch o f boys. All o f us returning from the country experienced great difficulty settling back into our impoverished urban homes. I know the smell o f

poverty as well as I know the stink ofbomb-shelters and chicken houses. For me it is a compound of mildew and damp, of floor-cloths that are never clean and never get cleaned because there is n o hot water, o f too

many bodies confined in too small a space. Even with m y sister away, w e would always b e shifting round at home, trying t o fit better into that

cold, cramped basement so that m y father could have the maximum 13

4

Don and his brother, Michael, Trafalgar Square, 1945

Don, Fonthill Road, Finsbury Park, 1945

15

16

Don (front row, left), 1947

warmth. I remember often sleeping in close proximity to his night-long c o u g hYet . the circumstances o f m y childhood fitted m e in later years to stand before the poorest o f people with humility. I would know without being told exactly what their lives were like.

Close to where we lived, in Fonthill Road, there was a notorious street known t o everybody as The Bunk. It was a place beyond poverty, accurately described in a book called The Worst Street i n North London as a home t o thieves, punch-up artists and every other known type o f criminal. Residents o f The Bunk used t o treat the police the way people treat the bulls o f Pamplona. And not only the police. The red alarm boxes, labelled ‘Emergency, F i r e ’ , were always being punched in b y the boys in The Bunk t o bring round the brigade. Often kids would set fire t o one o f the bombed-out buildings in order t o make the call genuine. When they arrived, men of the fire brigade would be stoned, or would have their hoses cut. The children of The Bunk all went t o m y primary school. Our real times were spent out o f school. I spurned authority, all the boys did. We used the derelict bombed houses as our hideaway places. They were the arenas for our obnoxious behaviour. We would buy a pennyworth o f chips for our lunch, ram them into a dry roll and take it into a derelict house, climbing right to the top where we would sit and discuss things, as if we were in some kind of parliament. The usual debate concerned h o w we were going to sabotage our school. In gutted buildings sometimes we crapped from the top floor to the bottom, pretending we were bombing Germany. It was all weird, though no doubt Desmond Morris would see it as quite normal animal behaviour. It demonstrated the breaking of discipline, the breaking of authoritarian rule over us. O n e o f those derelict houses later played a striking role in m y adult life. While we were still growing up, bombed houses were either a haven o r a prey for vandalism. We stripped the lead and sold it t o metal dealers. We ripped u p the remaining floorboards and chopped the wood t o

sell it as kindling t o old ladies for t w o pennies a bundle.

The catacomb shells o f shattered buildings gave us pleasure, and great sensations. There was nothing quite like the thrill o f negotiating one dangerous level after another when all the staircases had gone. For us, 17

it was like climbing the Eiger, and there we would bivouac for hours, in our own private places, away from the eyes of the alien adult world. As we grew older, we went in for the pleasures of total escape from school. The school clinic was a staging-post for playing truant. It was the place t o go if you had abrasions o r minor injuries. I would put m y name down for clinic, then go nowhere near it and abscond.

I would go down into the Tube, and get out at Cockfosters, the end of the line. I would double back across the rails, t o dodge the ticket collector, and then launch myself straight on t o the countryside, looking for birds’ eggs and snakes and things of that order. I spent a lot of time absconding, usually with a couple of mates with similarly inflated wounds. Frequently the wounds were genuine. I got into a lot of fights. I was not a natural warrior, and usually fought other boys because I would not be pushed around by them. To this day I won't back down if I can help

i t , and I have had all sorts o f bullies in front of me. It’s a good attitude in a way, but often painful.

The boys who were most admired at school were the punch-up artists, sometimes as many as six or seven brothers in one family, and an offence against one was an offence against the lot. But it was the imaginative thieves who earned the most respect—boys who could go t o Covent Garden at night and have fresh grapes for sale in the school break next day. In the centre of London there were also thousands of properties, temporarily abandoned yet undamaged by bombing, just waiting for boys t o exercise their skills at breaking and entering. I was

not too tempted in this area myself, less from any natural law-abiding instinct than from the sense I had that thieving was one o f the surest ways o f losing m y liberty.

Predictably, I failed t o pass the Eleven Plus, and so moved on from primary school toTollington Park Secondary Modern School with much

the same bunch of other boys. Half my class was heading for Approved School o r Borstal, and I was fortunate to avoid the same fate. There was a certain code o f loyalty where I lived, despite the roughness. The front door o f your house was always open, and o n summer evenings everything would be open. People used to sit at their windows because they never had to invert themselves, as later they did when watching 18

television. They were used t o looking outwards—and t o some degree they would look out for each other. There was also a family unity in those days. I recall that cosseted family feeling when bathing in the tin tub in front o f the fire. Each o f us took turns, m y father first, and each had the same few saucepanstul o f hot water. I still think warmly o f those moments, despite my brother Michael getting ahead o f m e in the pecking order when he was born

and being apt to pee in the water. Sometimes family unity would break down in our house when m y mother lost her fiery temper. M y father used to gamble o n the greyhounds at Haringey. Perhaps it was a way for him to restore pride in himself when he was sick and unemployed, but it led t o more than the usual problems o f family finance. M y mother stretched out the family budget b y leaning heavily

on the tallyman and the pawn shop. I had a key role in this economy, which now seems like a sob story from Dickens, but which was only too real. I would take my father’s suit on a Monday morning to the pawn shop and go again o n the Friday t o get it out. I t was always wrapped in a bedsheet. The whole business humiliated me. The pawnbroker was a little

man called M r Lucan, who had a bald head, wore rimless glasses, grew a little tache, and always wore a pinstripe grey suit with a very white shirt collar. Women didn’t like going to M r Lucan because he always held o n to the palms o f their hands when they were exchanging tickets. [

didn’t like going there either. It gave me the feeling from an early age

that I would rather steal than beg. O n Saturday morning I would go to pay the tallyman, then double

off t o pay the rent at Donaldson’s in Hornsey Road. Another job of mine was to lie to those who came collecting at the front door. ‘ M y mum’s not i n . It was a poor premium to put o n a kid, to start him off lying, but it was part o f the old lady’s constant battle t o keep us clean, clothed and fed. O u r clothes came from a secondhand shop run by a woman called

Jessie Chapman, which usually looked as if someone had backed up a lorry-load o f spaghetti and dumped it down. In among the tangle somewhere would be something that might fit me. M y mother would 19

bring the garment home and try t o knock the terrible secondhand smell out of it. Due to my father’s illness, mother became the tough character at home. She often had to go out to earn the family bread, especially in winter when m y father’s health was at its worst. In wartime, Englishwomen did some really heavy jobs, and the old lady worked in an aircraft factory o r loading crates o n to lorries at King’s Cross Station. She had a fearsome reputation as a fighter. M y mother once took o n the

woman next door, who was known for her physical prowess, when she told my sister—then home for t w o weeks from her adoptive home in Somerset—to eff off and take her posh accent elsewhere. She pasted the woman in front o f the whole street, which became an arena, all windows open and everyone watching. She did it again when another woman complained about m y behaviour. M y mates said they all enjoyed seeing Mrs Nash's knickers in the brawl, and m y mother became some-

thing of a local hero. I found it all rather distasteful. Maybe I had a little snobbish streak

in me even then, born of an inferiority complex that took hold in Somerset when I was assigned to a lower class than m y sister. I respected m y mother, but m y hero was m y mellower father, who spent more time

with me. Despite his regret that he’d been unfit for the army, he was a hero t o m e when I saw him carrying stretchers for the ARP. I gained a sense o f gentleness from him.

In the evenings, after the remains of a bread and cheese supper and the tea cups had been cleared off the old kitchen table, my father would start making things for m e and m y brother—a rocking horse or a cathedral of matches. He got m e making little carts and trolleys, and even a covered wagon, which Michael drove, brandishing a rubber pistol. I was the Apache Indian at the back. [ used t o draw m y father. I would pin u p the paper o n the wall and

sometimes go right over the edge, so that when I took the paper away there would be a white square o n the wall with lines going off it in all directions. H e still encouraged m e and I began t o develop some skill. [ loved m y father, and felt the strength o f his love for me. I was prob-

ably the only boy in the neighbourhood whose father never gave him a hiding. M y greatest fear was his death, but I overcame it b y playing 20

a part in his survival. This often took the form of simple errands, like stealing coal from a nearby yard to keep him warm. M y main service was spending time with him, and drawing was part of this. We also went t o the cinema together.

By this time I had graduated from Hopalong Cassidy at Saturday morning children’s cinema—when one boy would go in and open the fire door to let in the rest o f us while the usherette wasn’t looking—to the early war films. One evening, as I was getting ready to go to the

pictures with my mother and father, a woman knocked at the door t o tell m y mother that I had been interfering with her daughter in an air

raid shelter in Tollington Park. It was true, of course, but it had only been experiment o n both sides. I remember m y father taking charge as m y mother’s voice rose

an octave. ‘Get yourself washed,” he said. “We're going t o the police station.’ I was stripped o f m y shirt at the sink and m y mother smacked m e from one side o f the scullery to the other.

‘If we're going, we'd better go, I heard my father say.They're really going through with this, I thought. He must have been stifling his laughter all the while, for we didn’t go near the police station but ended u p in our favourite spot in the front r o w o f the Astoria cinema. It was as if they were taking their thirteenyear-old son out for a treat o n entering manhood.

21

4. A SHOCKING LIBERTY

I knew the war was over for good when m y mother launched her attack o n the air raid shelter in the back yard. She and I demolished it together with ordinary household hammers. It took months, and it transformed the level o f the ground. When it was done, my mother starteda little

garden. I was less ready for peaceful pursuits. As the real soldiers were being demobbed, I

joined up. A little

group o f u s twelve- and thirteen-

year-olds organised pitched battles on Hampstead Heath. We made our o w n weapons. I used to fashion Bren guns—the English automatic weapon of the day, and very accurate it was. I would provide ‘first aid’ from m y father’s old ARP kits. These ferocious bush wars took place in our imaginary Killing Fields behind Kenwood House. There we would

welcome death, and took pride in giving a good performance. I doubt if any o f us knew o f Robert Capa’s amazing picture o f the falling soldier in the Spanish Civil War but that was our most cherished way to die.

The end of hostilities against Germany and Japan left a whole generation o f urban kids unable to think in any terms other than those o f

war. I was mad about it, and the movies fed m y madness. The Astoria cinema was showing little else but John Wayne or Errol Flynn in films like Back t o Bataan.

I also had access to the best o f British toy soldiers. Some o f the local housewives used to take in lead soldiers—a gross o n a tray—and do what they called home work. They would paint them at home to earn extra money, the way some people take i n typing today. So there was always a constant supply o f fresh soldiers for m y war games with

young Michael in the back yard. By the time I joined the real cadets, with their proper uniforms, at the age of thirteen, I

was already a veteran. M y outfit was the Royal

Fusiliers, and I remember the enthusiasm with which I would buff its badge—a blazing cannonball. We assembled in a drill hall near 22

Don and his brother, Michael, Fonthill Road, Finsbury Park, 1940s

27

Brunswick Square in Bloomsbury and spent weekends in camp at Oster-

ley Park, where proper training was carried out with blank cartridges and thunder-flashes. It was like simulated war. I thought it was great. Even so, my army career did not last long. M y father and one of my teachers helped to turn me towards a gentler interest. Drawing was the only talent that was not assiduously beaten out of me in my schooling. It also was one of the few skills that the boys at Tollington Park were prepared t o tolerate—even t o admire. Being good at English or maths could get you branded as a teacher’s pet o r bright spark. Drawing was

all right. It was extraordinary, like magic. I am not sure how extraordinary m y talent was but it led to M r Cooper steering m e into a trade art scholarship and attendance at the Hammersmith School o f Arts and

Crafts and Building—a school for bricklayers as well as budding artists, opposite Lime Grove television studios.

It was hardly the Slade, yet I felt as if someone had given me a passport, a key t o a locked garden full of colour and light. For one thing, there were girls at Hammersmith, and I had never been in a classroom

with girls before. O f course I displayed no breeding, kept up my disdain for anything female, and so gained n o quick favours with the girls, but I was among people with expectations altogether different from those o f the boys inThe Bunk. It was as if a wand had been waved over Finsbury Park and I had been spared for a much nicer life.

Then suddenly the bottom dropped out of my world. M y father, who of all the family had been most thrilled to see his lad win a scholarship, became critically ill. As the attacks grew worse, and he began rapidly t o lose weight, I would stay awake at night willing him t o live. But the odds—with a million coal fires in those days pouring smoke into the winter air—were against him. One night he was taken away to St Mary's Hospital in Highgate, which looked like an old workhouse. M y brother and I were sent to a neighbour’s house where the family was quite posh, the man having a job at Harrods’. I sat stiffly in their parlour leafing through something called the National Geographic Magazine. A t home we sometimes saw the News o f the World, and I would glance through Picture Post and a magazine called Illustrated while waiting m y turn in the barber’s shop, but I had never before seen photography o f the sort that was displayed in the pages o f the National Geographic. I 24

became absorbed and forgot the dread of my father’s sickbed until the policeman called at the door. (There were n o telephones in our houses in

Finsbury Park in those days.) I remember the hushed conversation with the adults and knowing without being told that the worst had happened. M y father, once a well-set-up man of 5 ft 10 in., weighed little more than six stone when he died. He was forty years old. A friend once said to me in later life, ‘ I t doesn’t matter how old you are, the day your father dies it’s like being kicked in the balls.’ That is a pretty accurate description of how I felt. The scene of my father laid out, the burning candles and the smell, is one I shall never forget.

I was fourteen, and there was n o question now of staying on at art school. The elder son was expected t o take over the role of father and start t o earn the family keep. At least finding a job in those days was not a problem, though few of them led anywhere. M y mother’s mates on the railway soon had me working as a pantry-boy on the LMS dining cars. I used t o go from London to Manchester o na train called the

‘Comet’, the 9.45 a.m. special for businessmen, which would return from Manchester in the early evening. It was interesting to see those grimy satanic northern cities, with their tall factory chimneys belching dark smoke, before the Clean Air Act which might have kept my father alive if it had arrived much sooner. Besides, I had freedom. I was leaving Finsbury Park every day and travelling all over England. I would make the best of it. Internally, I was angry with God—if He existed. He had taken a liberty in removing my father from me, the one person in my life who had made the misery of poverty seem irrelevant. I would disown God. A strength arose in the midst o f the pity I was beginning to feel for myself. O n the surface I kept u p the flippancy, slinging plates out o f the train window as we passed over a viaduct, to see what effect they would have. I was Jack the Lad, with thirty shillings in m y pocket, and sometimes double that in tips. But the buried resentment burned, not very deep down.

25

5. HUNTING DOGS

I spent my first savings on a Teddy Boy suit. It was navy blue hopsack, and it cost £7.7.6 in Stoke Newington High Street. With it went the

obligatory suedes with thick spongy soles, brothel-creepers (blue of course), and a black bootlace tie. I wore the outfit on my first date, with a girl in Hornsey, and it poured with rain. M y hair hung down and the suit was shrinking on my back as we made our way to a dance in Highgate at a place called Holy Joe’s, or St Joseph’s Church, near where m y father had died. This was sophistication, though the kid in m e was not buried far

beneath the surface. O n evenings when the old lady had t o work late, I would be Michael’s protector. Despite my age, we still shared the same bed, and we would lie there and listen t o Valentine Dyall, “The Man in Black’, reading a series o f radio horror stories, with the blankets pulled

over our heads t o keep out the bogeyman. A t the same time, I was trying to train myself in all things that

interested men. The bridge between boyhood and manhood for me was motorbikes. There was a boy down the road who kept his bike in the bedroom. He had trays for the oil laid out across the floor—he could, so he said, do an oil change and have his girl at the same time. To the rest o f us in Finsbury Park this seemed to be the essence of cool. I swore that one day I too would own one of these machines. In the meantime I rode pillion. I left the railway when I got a job at the cartoon animation studio

W.M. Larkins, with a fashionable address in Mayfair. I had shown some o f m y art school drawings to the boss, Peter Sachs, a Jew w h o had escaped from Nazi Germany, and he let m e in o n the ground floor as a

messenger boy. If things turned out well, he said, he would allow m e to mix colours. Colour mixing was not to last long, for it turned out that I was partially colour-blind, and certainly not u p to the subtlety o f animation. 26

I was all right when I stuck t o blues, reds and yellows, but my browns, beiges and greens were less secure. I went back t o running messages, too inexperienced in their eyes t o be taken into the dark room. The only photography I had ever encountered was sitting with m y sister in Jerome's in the Holloway Road, having our portraits taken for the family. Mayfair touched m e in other ways. I became very conscious o f m y appearance. I was not conceited, but I fretted about not having enough

money t o buy clothes. Walking from work out of the Underground at Piccadilly, I would catch sight of myself in the window of the RollsRoyce showroom as I turned into Charles Street and go to work on the arrangement of my collar and cuffs. I also remember swinging round into Berkeley Square and smelling the scent of that wonderful shop Moyses Stevens, looking at the orchids in the window with water

running down it. It made me aware of a different world, a world far removed from m y biking mates and the boys fromThe Bunk, who were n o w emerging from their first confinements in corrective o r penal

institutions. Mayfair held out the promise of escape from Finsbury Park and all that. But not yet. I bought a Velocette 250, with a fish tail and girder forks, which would throb along at fifty miles an hour. I felt like an ace at Brooklands, with n o such things as crash helmets in those days. We would drive out in formation o n Sundays, down the A10 to Collier’s

End, where we would dive off an old survival dinghy from the war into the ice-cold river. We would eat some continental food at a cafe on the way home and then bomb the rest of the way up the arterial road t o Finsbury Park. We were no Hell's Angels, and they were great days of freedom, with friendships quite different from the relationship I had with my old Bunk boys, the hunting dogs, who were now hanging out in packs looking for trouble.

Despite my biking friends, I still needed the mad dogs. Intimidation was always strong in Finsbury Park, and there was a force-field all the

time trying to draw you into something mischievous. I avoided thieving, but gang warfare was a stronger temptation. There was suppressed aggression and a lot o f resentment in me. I wanted the respect given to

those serious street fighters—the swaggering elite of the Seven Sisters Road, where the tribe had a name: The Guv’nors. In a corralled car, 27

28

The Guv'’nors

the tribe would strut their stuff at dance-halls or harry the whores in Shaftesbury Avenue. One o r t w o did become ponces, but the sexual level then was little more than a flick through the carefully censored nudes in Health and Efficiency. O n Saturday nights the tribe would turn u p in

force at the Royal dance-hall in Tottenham. A refusal to dance from a

girl was hard t o bear in front of this mob, and you'd hope for salvation in the rumbling sound at the start of a good punch-up. That would make the evening and set u p an electric air when you walked in next week.

With The Guv’nors, though they were predators themselves, you felt safe from other predators, like the bigger, older criminals who lurked in the background of our neighbourhood, and the police. The police were our natural enemies. If you were caught in a cul-de-sac by the coppers, as I was on one occasion, you could be sure to be on light duties for the next week. All this, o f course, was just before the first wave o f coloured immigration in Britain. In some ways we were like

white negroes, the out groups. Though we were a funny kind of negro, since most o f us were as bigoted and racist as they come. When it came to the time for national service, I was a pretty frac-

tured personality. I had come to like my job in Mayfair, and the people there were kind t o me, but I felt as if they could see ‘Finsbury Park’ indelibly written across my forehead and ‘working class’ on the other side of my head. I couldn’t see how I was ever going t o be much more than a messenger in the world. I was sure o f one thing, I didn’t want to go into the army and be pushed around. A few years o f Bill Haley had shaken all enthusiasm for the soldier’s life out o f me. So I smarmed m y way into the air force.

29

6. TANK WARFARE

‘There you are!’ we were told. ‘One of the wonders of the world, so you'd better wonder at i t . ’

We had been marched up t o a n RAF bus, ordered on board and driven into the desert to see the Pyramids. To us recruits, the Pyramids

seemed dull and expressionless heaps of stone. The highlight of our day was the barney that erupted as w e were getting ready t o take the bus out. Some Arabs (or wogs, as with shameless lack of concern for ethnic sensibilities thugs like us called them in the Fifties) had been pressing u s t o b u y some glass jars. F e w objects were less suited t o the needs o f people o n twenty-seven shillings a week and living under canvas. Some

of the lads had resorted t o direct action by snapping down the bus windows, sharpish, on the vendors’ fingers. Jars would be tumbling in and no money would be going out. The Arabs then mounted a spirited counter-attack. At eighteen I wasn’t really ready for civilised behaviour, much less the Pyramids, but I was slowly beginning to get the hang of service life. They had said t o me: ‘Right, McCullin. You're in films. We've got a whole load of tins of film at Queen's Flight, RAF Benson, in Oxford-

shire. They need numbers painting on them. There’s a million of them.’ It was an underestimation. They had mountains o f Second World War air reconnaissance film. Painting numbers o n the cans was a long way

behind whitewashing coal in terms of interest. I thought, I ’ m not going to do this, and there was wide support for this view in my little group. We mounted a guard o n the ridge, to keep lookout for the sergeant who

periodically wobbled our way on his bike, stowing the playing cards and grabbing the paint brushes only when he hove into view. We controlled our output b y our sightings, as they say i n the RAF.

My thoughts turned t o foreign parts. I had been told that the Canal Zone was a God-awtul posting—this was two years before Suez—so I

applied for Hong Kong. Naturally, I got the Canal Zone. Those who had 30

Don (back row, right), RAF, 1953

31

32

Don, Fonthill Road, Finsbury Park, 1955

Don, Oxfordshire, 1954

33

applied for the Canal Zone landed as inevitably among the skyscrapers, junks, and almond-eyed ladies in slit-skirts of the Far East. I was posted to a barbed wire compound in Ismailia, close to the spot where Lake Timsah turns into the Suez Canal. The heat hit you

like a hammer. As soon as I arrived they put me in a tank. It bore no resemblance t o the glamorous army machine of the same name, but resembled a vat, the size o f a large room, with deep rusty sides, full o f acid crystals.

M y tank was the most inglorious part of the process of aerial photoreconnaissance. It was where the films got developed, in bulk. M y film cartoon experience amply qualified me to clean it out. Every morning I was lowered into this object for the day’s work. As a treat, I would later be allowed to stir the noxious chemicals, or

even get a go on the map photostat machine. We had t o do guard duty three nights a week, for which w e were issued with a Sten gun, a most ill-conceived weapon which could fail t o hit a London bus at ten paces. Occasionally I would catch people coming into the camp to steal and hand them over to the RAF police who would then phone the local police. You'd see this Egyptian policeman coming along the side of the Canal, complete with fez and cane. We would drive up, salute, and perform the usual courtesies. The offending detainee would sometimes protest that he was only trying to retrieve something that had gone on t o the wrong side of the wire, and the policeman would fetch him a clout round the earhole; much t o my pleasure, for I would be thinking that if it weren’t for him I would be in bed. I had a pretty ignorant attitude. One of the photographers urged m e t o take the photographic trade test. It would mean more interesting work, and more money. So I took the written test, and failed. Suddenly m y life improved. I was still a

photo-assistant but the RAF decided I should have a better posting. I was let loose o n the M a u M a u in Kenya. It amounted to exchanging the inside o f one large tank-like structure for another, this time a huge aircraft hangar housing bombers, where we slept. It was overrun with rats. A t least the army performed the guard duties.

M y elevated role in the Kenya emergency was t o work what was called a bulk-processing machine for Bomber Command, Nairobi. 34

The bombers came back daily with 3,000 or more pictures of Mau Mau country, or bombing patterns, o r both, t o be developed at speed. I was the speed. The Canberras were the worst, from m y point o f view. They could take pictures from six camera mountings simul-

taneously. The intelligence people used these pictures for the next day’s offensive against the rebels. For me the work was hectic, and n o t very interesting.

I was more appreciative o f Kenya itself. Nairobi was a charming

colonial town in those days, with Great White Hunters in safari hats trooping in and out o f the Stanley Hotel. In my time off I made a new sortie into the high life, persuading the daughter of a Dutch farmer to teach me how to sit on a horse. M y horizons widened still further when I made friends with some of the bomber crews in our hangar. They would let me fly with them as supercargo on their raids on the Kinangop plateau, then a Mau Mau stronghold. I enjoyed the raffish, Dam Busters air about the whole proceeding: these chaps in helmets and goggles with stuff all over their noses saying Bravo, Wingco. In fact the Lincoln bombers, with my illicit extra weight, were a bit unnerving, You realised what a struggle they had t o get off the ground and stay in the air when they leapt what seemed 1,000 feet after they had released the bomb load. Sometimes, on the way back, they would fly in low by Kilimanjaro, so we could get a sight of the zebra herds and elephant and wildebeest on the plains of Amboseli. O n occasion, I managed t o go up with Harvards, the little fighter escort planes. They used t o strafe the jungle in true Hollywood war-movie fashion and lark about in the sky o n the way home. In all this, at such a callow age, I never gave a thought t o the damage being done t o the villages below, o r t o the rights and wrongs of the colonial situation. To us, the Mau Mau were monster baddie Indians, well known from the bloodcurdling tales in the Other Ranks’ Mess o f atrocities and unspeakable oath-taking ceremonies. As to Great Britain’s right to throw its weight around o n another continent, that went without question. We were all Labour o f course in Finsbury Park, but when it came to anything foreign, I was a super patriot, well to the right o f Alf Garnett. M y country could do n o wrong, 35

It was an outlook commonplace then, but being overtaken by events. M y service career was a kind of extended Cook’s tour of the end of the Empire. I was posted t o Cyprus. In Nicosia, Eoka terrorists, in the name of enosis, union, were gunning down unarmed British soldiers as they shopped with their families o n Ledra Street. Ledra Street

would acquire the name Murder Mile. But, away from the capital, at RAF Episcopi, near Akrotiri, we were in another world. We emerged from our tents in the morning to crags soaring in clean air, a blue sea

directly below, and the stones of the site of theTemple ofApollo glowing in the Mediterranean light. In off-duty hours we learned scuba diving,

Sometimes w e would ride shotgun, o r more precisely Sten gun, with the escort cart that went into Nicosia. This was not too dangerous as Eoka rarely attacked armed soldiers. It gave us a chance t o see the

city and to gain some insight into the deep instability of the island: the smouldering animosity between the Greek andTurkish Cypriots. The only thing that seemed to unite them was the pleasure o f blasting songbirds o n Sunday mornings.

A more lunatic, but t o us enjoyable, way of travelling round the island was as part o f a football team which used to play the other bases. O n the dangerous mountain roads we would always be coming u p o n

trucks heavily laden with grapes, heading for the factory. As we passed it would be like Clouzot’s film The Wages o f Fear— hair-raising. The lads would all be reaching out and trying to make instant wine as we inched past. And the truck driver would be trying to bawl us out while not plunging into the ravine at the same time. Civilised encounters with the local population did not figure large o n our agenda. One evening we had a supervised night out, under guard, at a bar in Limassol. It was some PR exercise connected with the fact that there were visiting MPs o n the island who wanted to be assured that the servicemen and the local population were getting o n famously. We simply were not ready for mixed society. O n this rare human opportunity, I seized the chance to make eyes at a pretty Cypriot bar girl. It cost m e an arm and a leg in purchased drinks just to make the eyes. I tried to consolidate m y advance b y manoeuvring the chairs for a closer encounter. M y proffered chair missed its target, her descending and

36

shapely rear end, and the poor girl landed in a heap on the floor. It led to a brisk end to the cavalier career o f this particular Virgin Airman. [ emerged from the RAF with the dizzying—and complimentary— rank o f Leading Aircraftsman and an African General Service medal, which was a bit o f a laugh. I had also, in theory, seen the world. As well

as my postings in Egypt, Kenya and Cyprus, I had made flying visits t o Aden and t o Khartoum, where I caught a breathtaking glimpse of the Nile. But aside from such glimpses, I had mainly seen a world I didn’t want to know—a world bounded by a barbed wire perimeter fence.

If I failed t o become an RAF photographer, I did make an important acquisition: m y first camera. Someone had said he could get marvellous bargain ones o n the milk run to Aden. I decided that this was a better destination for m y life’s savings o f £30 than a pair o f lionskin drums.

So I became the owner of a brand new Rolleicord. It was one of those twin reflex cameras that you hold u p t o your chest and look down

into. I had n o notion then that that was the camera used by the great

photographers of the Thirties, Bill Brandt and Brassaï. I recouped some of the outlay almost immediately by taking aerial photographs o f R A F Eastleigh o n one o f m y Harvard rides. I made 150 postcards to sell off in the camp at a shilling each. The sergeant o f the photographic section came in just as another batch was going through

the developing fluid, and he started t o create. ‘Someone’s on a bloody good racket here,’ he said, ‘and I want t o get t o the bottom of it! He didn’t mind my having a racket of course, he was just narked that I hadn’t cut him i n . I ran short o f cash when I got back to Finsbury Park. And I came across this object that didn’t seem to have purpose o r place with me. I couldn’t think o f anything I could use it for. So made £5 by pawning the Rolleicord. M y mother said t o m e one day, ‘What happened t o that lovely camera?’ I told her. She said. ‘That’s terrible) and she went off and used her o w n money t o redeem the pledge. What happened as a result o f

that generous act was to have a dramatic effect o n m y life.

37

7. THE MURDER

It took a remarkable set o f circumstances to put m e back o n the road

photography, and they revolved tragically round a murder. At first, when I returned from national service, I felt as if I had never been away. The world of Finsbury Park had not changed, neito

ther had its characters. In m y absence m y mother had had a difference with the man who lived upstairs. H e was in the habit o f coming home drunk around midnight and taking the belt to his little boy. One night m y mother took the law into her o w n hands and broke a large chalk ornament (won at the Hampstead Fair) over the man’s head. There

was blood and chalk all down the stairs. She had gone off in the police Wolseley with the bells ringing and was later bound over t o keep the peace. I think the child was glad of her intervention. One notable event had taken place in Fonthill Road—the first West Indians had set u p home in Finsbury Park and many o f the locals were not pleased. I found them t o be nice, gentle people. Larkins in Mayfair took m e back and decided to make some use o f m y smattering o f photographic knowledge b y setting m e u p in a little dark room t o copy line drawings. I learned to process the film in my own way, and got t o know the artists and animators much better. They were a delightful crowd.The kick-or-be-kicked attitudes that had got m e through national service satisfactorily seemed less convincing here. What I am describing o f course is the slow beginning o f a liberal education for a person who had n o recourse to books. Trying to read only made m e feel foolish. When I was twenty-one m y entire library consisted o f two little books m y mother had bought for a shilling each when I had been in short pants—one o n painting, the other o n wildlife. The Guv’nors were still lolling round in greasy-spoon cafes, feet o n the tables, weaving their fantasies. The only visible change was the new taste in Dillinger-style hats. Once I had got m y camera out o f pawn, they were only too keen for m e to produce glossy cinema-still photos o f them 38

The Guv’nors, 1950s

39

in their new images. Then I ventured more ambitious pictures of them in different locations. I enjoyed handling the camera but had no thought

of what t o do with the photographs beyond entertaining their subjects. The favourite hangout w a sa little cafe in Blackstock Road run by a stout Italian woman with a pretty daughter called Maria. ‘Can we have

Maria’s tits on toast?’ the boys would ask, and the mother would say, ‘Come on, boys, be serious, be nice, don’t be naughty.’ The popularity o f this exchange straddled m y service career. Gray's Dancing Academy in the Seven Sisters Road was n o w the Saturday night venue. Anything less like its name was hard to imagine.

Ex-wrestling champion Bert Aserati, with ears like clenched fists, was the bouncer who could block the door with his huge bulk. The gang paid lip-service t o him because they respected him, though even Bert could not be everywhere at once. The place acquired a reputation for drawing George Raft and

James Cagney

types from all over north

London, who came with the sole intention of taking on the local hard nuts. Often they would end u p laid out like dead bandits in one o f those old-fashioned American photographs. Gray’s was in fact rather like a speakeasy, the obelisk revolving lights at your feet incessantly, as if there were a thousand mice trying t o get out of the building. The girls would come there thinking they were meeting Humphrey Bogart at the kasbah. I too was allured b y that atmosphere. I was also allured by the girls. It was at Gray's that I met the prettiest girl I had seen in my life. She was blonde, with huge eyes, and her name was Christine. She had come o n a tentative expedition with friends, from Muswell Hill, which was considered a rather upper-class area by our standards. I knew she was my girl straight away.I nearly had a brawl with another bloke who also liked her. He was quite good-looking and kept taunting me: ‘ I can have her any time.’ H e didn’t. I wound u p with her and I found she was a lovely girl. We didn’t have a lot in common. She was very bright, with eight O-levels, and could have gone to university if she had been pushed. She worked i n an office at London Bridge which imported

groundnuts and other things from Africa. She understood French and could work a telex machine, but her origins were not intimidating. Her

father was a postman, and she lived in a council flat with its own bathroom. I persuaded her that I loved her, and I became her steady boyfriend. 40

In those days there was a firmly set-out path for a young man t o follow. First he got the violence out o f his system, then he went out with a

girl for a two-year period before he married her and settled d o w nT. omy surprise, Christine’s parents accepted me as her regular chap, deceived perhaps by the wholesome effects ofmy mother’s garden hose. Yet, despite her civilising influence,I had not reached the end ofmy wild youth. I went for a bloke one day who started pestering me at a bus stop and at the end of the fight foxtrotted with Christine and a broken lip round Hornsey Town Hall. But the most bizarre fight was my last in Finsbury Park. We were on our way home from the funeral of a girl who had committed suicide over one of the local boys, and were in an emotional state, when one of the hard nuts in the back of my old Ford Consul demanded a pee in the Holloway Road. In his haste to run off u p an alleyway, he

broke the wing mirror. I got out of the car and called a name after him. I should have gone for him while he was peeing for that is when it is most difficult to carry o n a fight, but I was not fighting mad, only

The next thing I knew was him standing before me, flourishing annoyed. a brick in front of my face. I managed t o hit him in the ribs, and then I grabbed the brick and hit him across the head with it. I kept on hitting him as the blood oozed from his head. I felt it was either him or me. Then I said, ‘Have you had enough now?’ His reply was t o smash his head into my face. As we stood there, both pouring blood, he said calmly, ‘ I think that’s about even.’ We got back into the car, and I drove him t o the Royal Northern Hospital t o get his head stitched up. I didn’t know him well but he always had a friendly greeting for me after that. Christine was unnerved by this sort of violence, but she remained loyal t o me. Arriving home at Fonthill Road from one o f our regular dates at the cinema, we found

my mother, unusually, still up. She had news. “That gang you hang around with at Gray’s,’ she said. ‘They're in

trouble. A policeman’s been killed up there. It turned out that a man older than was usual in the gangs had been at the centre o f the barney. Ronald Marwood, a twenty-five-year-old

scaffolder from Islington, had gone t o the Academy with a knife t o settle some vengeful argument, though knuckledusters were as far as things went usually. H e had probably thought only o f intimidation, 41

but when the gangs took sides and fought on the pavement outside, a policeman tried t o wedge himself between the opposing sides and had been stabbed in the back. He died from loss of blood. Marwood fled, but his father persuaded him t o give himself up. Those o f us who lived in Finsbury Park spoke o f little else but the killing in the next few weeks. It also focused national thinking o n the

growing phenomenon o f delinquent youth and gang violence. At Larkins I was pumped for what I knew. I told them that many in the gangs lived in the streets around me, and that I had gone to school with them. The Guv’nors hadn’t been directly involved in the murder, as it happened, but I took some photographs o f them into the office, where I was told

I should try and get them published. Someone suggested taking them t o the Observer, a liberal, socially concerned quality Sunday newspaper which I had never read.

In those days there was none of the sophisticated security apparatus that now bars newspaper doors. In m y hopsack suit and suedes, I was

able t o walk straight into the Observer offices in Tudor Street and be directed t o the picture desk without prior appointment. The picture editor, a man called Cliff Hopkinson, looked carefully through my folder, then swung back in his chair and gave me a long inquisitive look.

‘Did you take these?’ he said at last. ‘Yes, was all I replied. He said, ‘ I like this picture, and I ' m going t o use it. Would you do some more for me?’ I left, full of excitement, with a formal commission for more pictures, and a writer by the name o f Clancy Sigal was asked t o produce the story. Yet Finsbury Park was still to have its say in the matter. Even as I was leaving the cafe in Blackstock Road, at the end o f a session photographing the boys, I saw the familiar Wolseley waiting. As

I approached, the car door opened and I heard the friendly invitation from the law. ‘Get in.

I said, ‘ N o . ‘Get in if you know what’s good for you. I got i n . Always resist the first time, but never take it too far. That was the game around here. 42

"We've reason to believe that you have been in that cafe with a stolen camera.’ I told them it was not stolen. They asked to see the purchase receipt, which o f course I didn’t have with me. They suggested a short drive t o

where I lived t o find the receipt, otherwise I'd be heading straight for the police station.

"Okay, I said, ‘but do m e a favour—don’t park outside my house. If my mother sees you, you'll be in terrible trouble.’ That broke them up: ‘So your mother is tough, eh?’ but they did as I asked. [ went in the house, rummaged through m y little chest o f drawers and found the receipt. When the old lady asked what I was doing I just said that I was tidying up. When I nipped out to show the

receipt t o the police they went all oily. ‘Can we drop you back t o where we first found you, sir?’ It was a wonderful moment, refusing a copper’s favour and seeing them off. And o f course I really had been o f assistance t o the law. If m y

mother had come across them harassing m e over the camera, there is

no question, she would have brained them with the heaviest available ornament.

The pictures were published as a half page in the Observer o n 15 February 1959. I was twenty-three years old. The big picture was one I

had taken before the killing. It showed the lads in their best suits posed in a burned-out house in The Bunk, though it had been renamed Wadcote Street t o improve its image. I had got them together as they were

setting off for an afternoon at the Astoria cinema. Now, much more than then, I can recognise that it was a strong picture. It shows an awareness o f structure that must have been instinctive because I would not have known what the term meant at the time. It was also brilliantly exposed, which must have been a fluke, for I did not possess a light meter.

That one picture changed m y life. People have told m e that if I

had not made a breakthrough with that photograph, then I would have done so with another. I don’t think that would necessarily have been the

case. I had a low tolerance of rejection, and no burning desire t o be a photographer. If I had been obliged to battle m y way into Fleet Street, I would never have got there. 43

A FASTER SIDEWALK

8.

It was not only the policeman who lost his life at Gray’s Dancing Academy; Marwood also died. After standing trial he was hanged, according t o the ruthless law of capital punishment. For these t w o men, the events that night in Seven Sisters Road led to tragedy. For me, they led to the start

of a n e w life.

When those pictures appeared in the Observer, I was described as a stills photographer in the film industry, which was pushing it a bit. M y

job only involved copying animation drawings, but suddenly everyone seemed t o be offering m e assignments. Life magazine phoned, so did the BBC. A West End theatre company wanted me t o photograph their show. The News Chronicle and the Sunday Graphic came on the line. The Observer also asked for more work from me. At Larkins the phone kept ringing until they became mildly annoyed by it. Although it was a most rewarding time, I had n o experience of being in demand o r o f the kind o f money that was being thrust m y way. When £10 a week was a good wage, the Observer had paid m e £50 for

my pictures. It was the largest s u m I had ever possessed, and it led t o my next social leap—opening a bank account. Home life at Fonthill Road also underwent a transformation. M y mother took t o searching for the Observer on Sundays, not a big seller in those parts. A telephone

was installed, so that my new career wouldn’t interfere with Larkins. Christine w a s working i n a n office i n B o n d Street a n d w e u s e d t o

House, like Trevor H o w ard and Celia Johnson in Brief E n c o u n t e r . We started making plans t o marry over a n economy bowl of soup and a roll. I would then dart off meet for lunch most days i n Lyons Corner

to photograph down-and-outs in Whitechapel or outbreaks o f teenage

rebellion wherever they might occur. I even took a portrait of the young V.S. Naipaul for his first book jacket. The sense o f being at a disadvantage for lack o f education was still strong in me. In a letter from Photography magazine, commenting o n 44

some of my pictures, the editor said among a lot of nice things that something in particular was ‘very mundane’. I thought this must be high praise, until I found the word in a dictionary. Even so, I did summon u p the courage t o leave Larkins and strike out o n m y own. I worked freelance mainly for the News Chronicle, for a magazine called Town, and for the Observer. I felt more pride walking down Fleet Street to the old Observer building than I had ever done in m y life. In truth it was a strange place, where everything seemed to be done o n a shoestring. The pigeonholes and windows looked as if they hadn’t seen an office cleaner for years. The whole building looked as if Rembrandt had a hand in lighting i t . Yet in the gloom I bumped into loveable but eccentric Observer characters, like the affable editor David Astor, and Jane Brown, who I swear was no taller than my elbow and who carried her Rolleiflex and her Leica in a shopping basket. During that period I started travelling all over England for stories, staying at railway hotels, watching men in those gloomy breakfast parlours where everyone was afraid to clink knife and fork. I began to sense a certain dignity coming over me, that a national newspaper should be trusting me, Don McCullin, t o go and take a picture of some significant event which would then appear with m y name under it. I was learning quickly. In Fleet Street you stepped o n to a much faster sidewalk.You acquire a much quicker perception because speed is important. You are always trying to go faster than the man next t o you. It’s a tempo, not a training, and I always thought it amazing how Fleet Street could pick an ungroomed person like m e and make m e see and do things I wouldn’t have believed possible, simply by plugging m e into a much higher voltage. O u r improved financial position at home meant that m y mother was able to buy the house where we lived, and shortly afterwards to sell it again, taking Michael away to the cleaner air o f Wisbech in Cambridgeshire. Before leaving she made arrangements for m e to rent the top two floors, and Christine and I were married. It was not the most stylish occasion. H o w uncomfortable and conspicuous we felt in our new clothes as we left Liverpool Street Station in a train taking a crowd o f soldiers back to barracks in Colchester, and us to an unimaginative honeymoon o n the East Coast. When we returned 45

46

D o n , 1956

our fifty-shillings-a-week flat I put up some wallpaper and magnolia gloss, which I thought took Fonthill Road upmarket a bit, and decked to

out one room to serve as dark room, kitchen and bathroom. The tin bath was kept by the stove, to be handy for transferring hot water. All

we had besides were a few sticks of furniture and a dubious television; a visitor would get the chair while we sat on the bed. Christine’s parents thought that their daughter had gone down terribly in the world. The people living beneath us were too lazy to put out their empty milk bottles and we would hear them breaking them u p with a hammer in the kitchen sink. [ started looking over m y shoulder at Finsbury Park with some

suspicion, though not without affection. I didn’t feel disloyal t o my roots but knew I was in a precarious situation, neither wholly in one

world nor the other. Both could be unforgiving. I was frightened of mixing with intellectual journalists and was becoming aware that a photographer’s status was well below that o f a writer. I instinctively

rebelled against such attitudes, and despite a strong sense of widening horizons m y feelings were confused.

Two newspapermen did a great deal for my confidence in those early days. Philip Jones Griffiths, himself a great photo-journalist, intro-

duced me t o the Pentax camera, and I bought one secondhand, downgrading the Rolleicord which rested tranquilly o n the chest. The new

toy was light, could be held at eye-level, and would take different lenses. The Observer writer John Gale teased m e to live as close to the edge as he did. One stormy night we were together covering a Channel swim when he dared m e to join him in the water that had been declared too dangerous for the competitors to enter. I can hear his great booming voice now— Guards and Sandhurst—urging m e to follow him as he was lifted u p and down by that vast, billowing sea, like some Wagnerian apparition bellowing into the night: ‘Come o n in, McCullin, you fucking coward!” For me, the real decision to live dangerously was taken in Paris, where I had gone with Christine t o make u p for our mundane honey-

moon. Paris, after all, was the home o f serious photo-journalism, with Paris-Match and the great agencies like Magnum, and so Paris could not be ignored if I was at all serious about m y work. It all started with a 47

48

Christine, 1956

Frenchman making a pass at m y very pretty wife and receiving from me—as he would have done at Gray’s Academy in Finsbury Park—the

offer of my fist and a mouthful of obscene threats, incomprehensible as they were to him. The scene reduced m y poor wife t o tears, and afterwards we sat in a cafe while I leafed glumly through the magazines. In

one I came across a striking picture of Vopos (East German military) jumping over some barbed wire. It was the beginning of the Berlin crisis and the Wall. Suddenly I saw the direction in which m y photography

had t o go. I said out loud: ‘ I have absolutely G O T t o go t o Berlin She did not flinch or complain, that wife of mine. Indeed I owe her an enormous debt o f gratitude for encouraging m y ideas. She always supported me—although she had n o inkling as yet o f h o w much her tolerance would be expected to bear in the coming years as I travelled further and further into danger, when often it must have seemed as if I were trying t o commit suicide.

We cut short the second honeymoon and returned to London. I

raced over to the Observer, to be told they were not interested in m y

going t o Berlin. ‘Okay,’ I said t o Denis Hackett, the editor on the desk, ‘but I ' m going anyway. Tomorrow. M y blood was up.

It took everything I had—£42 (a month’s earnings) for the ticket alone. I arrived in the divided city with a letter o f introduction from a slightly relenting Hackett to the Observer's correspondent and soon

found myself in a grand ornate hotel in Berlin’s artist quarter, face to face with the flamboyant and vibrantly arrogant Patrick O'Donovan.

He always wore a carnation and had a remarkable scar across his face, acquired (he later told me) when as a Guards officer in wartime he had unwisely stood u p in his tank as it approached a wire strung across the road.

‘I'm going t o show you Berlin,’ he said. ‘Are you interested?’ I was more than interested. I wasn’t about t o refuse to hit the celebrated night spots o f Berlin with one o f the great newspapermen

of the day, even if (as was then true) one pint of beer and I would be rocky. Besides, this was still le Carre’s Berlin, before the reconstruction,

and still, underground, the Berlin o f the Thirties. In one bar we found a naked lady riding round o n a horse in a sawdust arena. We were asked to leave by a man in an ankle-length overcoat when Patrick became too 49

eager t o mount the same horse. So the night progressed—out of one bar and into the next. When I collected Patrick next morning, he looked utterly untouched by the previous night’s debauch and sported a fresh carnation. We headed for the Friedrichstrasse, where the Wall was being built up, with breeze blocks. American soldiers, their machine guns at the ready, lurked in doorways, looking tense. I got out m y Rolleicord and

the little 35mm Pentax and started using them. It was on the strength of those photographs of the Berlin Wall that I made my real breakthrough in Fleet Street, the Observer giving m e a

regular contract for t w o days a week at fifteen guineas. With this untold wealth I managed to buy for £1,300 a tiny cottage in Colney Hatch

Lane, where my first son, Paul, was born a year later. Those Berlin pictures also w o n a British Press Award for the best series. I could feel ambition growing, the blood raging in a torrent round m y body. I was like a prize-fighter, trained and o n his toes, waiting only for the day o f the big contest, wanting worldwide recognition. A t the age o f twenty-

eight, and in a mood of macho exuberance, having been extravagantly pufted by the Observer’s picture editor in Camera magazine, I was ready for a big international assignment. When it came, shortly afterwards, I

little knew how powerful an experience it would be.

50

Don and Christine at a party, London, 1958

51

52

Don with his painting ofhimself and Christine, Finsbury Park, 1956, by Philip Jones Griffiths

9. THE FIRST CONTEST

Cyprus was the contest I wanted. Though I felt less than sure o f myself when I arrived at the Ledra Palace Hotel in Nicosia and walked into the bar. I hadn’t encountered before the crowd who considered themselves the elite, the international press corps, and they certainly didn’t seem eager to encounter me. A few faces turned towards m e expectantly

and then abruptly turned away again. They were on the lookout for old cronies; newcomer nobodies with cameras round their necks were o f n o interest at all. I was relieved and grateful when one chap came

over and said, ‘Just arrived?’ and started nannying me. Since I had been in Cyprus as a national serviceman a lot had happened and I was only dimly aware o f most o f i t . Cyprus had got its independence and the

Greek archbishop, Makarios, had become president. Relations between the Greeks and Turks had gone from bad to abysmal. British soldiers

were still on the scene in large numbers, n o longer as an arm o f the imperial power but as mediators in the civil war. There had been many

atrocities in the outlying Turkish villages and, my new friend thought, events were about to take an even nastier turn. We chatted o n for a bit before it suddenly became clear to m e that m y adviser had more than a professional interest in m y welfare. H e was homosexual. Nothing had prepared m e for the possibility that such a masculine profession as that o f war correspondent could harbour what,

in those blinkered days, was regarded as sexual weakness. I would learn later that heterosexuals had n o monopoly on ability, o r courage, but at the time I cut our conversation short and sought other company. I found it in a beanpole o f a man called Donald Wise, a photographer for the Daily Mirror, and another nice chap called Ivan Yates from the Observer. Yates had been doing some articles o n the Greek Orthodox Church when the conflict suddenly interrupted his pious researches and made him the man-on-the-spot. So it came about that I eventually rode

into m y first battle with an ecclesiastical correspondent. 53

The real war correspondents were all led off—as I was later to discover real war correspondents often are—for a guided tour of the island by air, all laid on by the RAF. Ivan and I were left to our o w n devices. Nothing much seemed to be going on, which again I would learn often seems t o be the case in

trouble spots. There didn’t seem t o be anything better t o do than go and look u p m y old haunts around R A F Episcopi and Larnaca. Ivan had to

be back for a dinner appointment, but he was keen t o come along,

if only to see the Temple o f Apollo. Around Limassol and Episcopi little could be seen except a lot o f British paras o n roofs keeping their eyes open. They had spotted Greeks mobilising and were worried that something might happen, but didn’t know what. We were o n our way back through the suburbs of Limassol,

o n schedule for Ivan’s dinner appointment, when it happened. We were going through the Turkish quarter when we heard this

terrific ‘braaaap, braaaap’. “The bloody exhaust has fallen oft, I said, annoyed. We got out of the car and went round the back, but the exhaust was in perfect condition. The noise I had heard was o f two Bren guns firing across the top o f the car.

‘Christ, Ivan, we're in the middle of i t I t was late afternoon, and we were deep in the Turkish quarter. I said to Ivan, ‘ I want to stay here because it looks as if this is going to

be i t I drove out t o get Ivan a cab, and then came back t o the same spot.

As I parked the car, I saw a group o f men with weapons crouched in the road. They wore old long British greatcoats and balaclava helmets. I went u p and asked for the police station. They jumped o n me, and I reached the police station under close arrest, with Turkish escort. After some hours o f questioning the police released m e and in the middle o f the night took m e to what had been a community centre and was n o w converted, because o f the hostilities, into a hospital.

After some fitful sleep, I was woken early by a clanging noise. It proved t o b e a bullet hitting the iron grille o f the window behind

which I had been sleeping.Then it started in earnest and the firing grew heavier and heavier.The intensity o f that hail o f bullets was greater than 54

anything I was prepared for. The reality of firepower exceeds almost anything that Hollywood dares to offer. I was shaking with a combination o f awe, fear and a kind o f excitement. Though it wasn’t clear at the time, what had happened was that

some 5,000 armed Greek irregulars had furtively surrounded this small Turkish quarter of Limassol and opened fire from corners and rooftops. TheTurkish community had withdrawn for safety into communal buildings, and the Turks were mounting a counter-attack. I went out into the middle of this gun battle and took shelter behind an armoured car, wrongly thinking it would give me protection.

From this vantage point I took the picture that later aroused so much comment—of aTurkish gunman emerging at a run, his shadow sharply defined o n a wall. I took risks that later I would never have taken. I was determined to face u p to fear and defy it. As the battle moved I ran here,

there and everywhere. I was wound up t o an extreme pitch, feeling completely surrounded by this onslaught and weighted down with the responsibility ofbeing the only pressman there t o record what was going o n and to convey it to the world. I ran from street to street, trying not to miss one significant thing, trying to get as close as possible, to carry myself into situations where reporters, and especially reporters with cameras, were never meant to be. Some shots I took when I was in the

direct firing line of snipers. It was a kind of madness. The battle lasted all day, and I felt I had lived a lifetime. In one street I saw a cinema, into which families had been put for safety, come under heavy fire. I saw people stumbling into the battle as you and I might do, going round the corner t o the local shops. Some couldn’t register what was going on. A n old woman got caught u p in the crossfire, and fell. A n old man, I suppose her husband, came out t o help her, as though she had slipped with her shopping

basket. She lay in a pool o f her o w n blood, and he fell beside her from

the same sniper bullets. I saw women running with mattresses over their heads for protection from the bullets, as they might put o n scarves to keep off rain.

I watched horrified as, under the duress of fire, one of the buildings disgorged its Turkish defenders and its occupants. Women and children also began to appear. I remember putting m y cameras down and 55

56

American and East German border guards, Friedrichstrasse crossing, Berlin, 1961

57

belting across the fire-field to retrieve a three-year-old whose mother

was screaming, and carrying it to safety. In later years I would develop a principle about trying t o put back into a situation from which I was taking. But there was n o theory at work that day. It was all instinct. Part of the cause of the Cyprus conflict, I sensed—and tried t o capture it in that picture of the gunman—was nothing more than the Eastern Mediterranean, moustachioed, half-bandit undercurrent of This touchy masculine pride vendetta, or what people called machismo. and honour, pride in aggression and revenge, instantaneous reaction to a situation in which there were for the combatants only black and white, only emotional certainties, no grey questionable areas or matters calling for deliberation or understanding, was all acted out in the fierce heat of the sun. Yet what remains with me even more strongly than that gun battle is m y first quiet encounter with the carnage o f war. It took place in a little Turkish village of stone and mud called Ayios Sozomenos, about fifteen miles from Nicosia. It was very still as I got out o f m y car o n the village outskirts and saw shepherds herding their flocks away. I photographed an attractive young girl o f about eighteen wearing a headscarf and carrying a double-barrelled shotgun. She held her head high as she was solemnly walking away. I could hear distant crying. And I could smell burning. I could sense there was death around. I heard voices and went towards them u p a rise in the ground. Some British soldiers were standing by an armoured vehicle. I went up and said ‘Aye, aye’ as if I'd seen them after a country walk in Somerset. ‘Morning, one of the soldiers said. “Want to see a dead body, mate? There’s one over there. Been hit in the face with a shotgun. N o t very pleasant.’ I thought, O Christ, am I going to be able to handle it? I came to this man’s feet, which were splayed, and m y eyes travelled u p the length o f his body to the face—what was left o f i t . I could see the dark brown eyes fixed in a stare, as if looking at the sky. I thought back t o my father’s death. I thought, This is what it’s like. I thought, It is bad, but it’s not too bad for m e to bear. As I walked away the soldier said, ‘Oh, there's two more in that house. 58

I went t o the stone house and knocked on the window. There was silence. I turned the handle and opened the door. The early morning cold syphoned out warm sticky air. It was a sticky carnage that I saw.

The floor was covered with blood. A m a n was lying on his face, another flat on his back. There wasn’t a mark on him, o r seemed t o be none. There was no sound. I let myself in and closed the door. I could smell something burning. In another room I found a third man dead. Three men dead, a father and two sons, one in his early twenties, the other slightly older.

Suddenly the door opened and people came in led by what I later learned was the wife of the youngest man. They had been married only a few days. All the presents were laid out in the front room, all shot u p in

the gun battle. Broken cups and saucers, glass objects and ornaments,

brought as gifts t o the wedding. I ' m in serious trouble now, I thought. They will think I have trespassed i n their house. I had already taken photographs. It wasn’t just trespass in the legal sense I had been guilty of, for I had trespassed on death, and emotion too. The woman picked u p a towel to cover her

husband’s face and started t o cry. I remember saying something awkward like—Forgive m e , I ' m

from a newspaper, and I cannot believe what I am looking at. I pointed to m y hand with the camera in i t , asking for an invitation to record the tragedy. A n older man said, “Take your pictures, take your pictures.’ They wanted me to do it. I was to discover that all

Middle Eastern people want t o express and record their grief. Grief is something they express very vividly. It’s not just the Turks and Greeks, but a Mediterranean thing, a very outward display o f mourning. WhenI realised I had been given the go-ahead to photograph, I started composing m y pictures in a very serious and dignified way. It

was the first time I had pictured something of this immense significance and I felt as if had a canvas in front of me and I was, stroke by stroke, applying the composition t o a story that was telling itself. I was, I realised later, trying to photograph in a way that Goya painted o r did his war sketches. Eventually, the woman knelt down by the side o f her young husband and cradled his head. I was very young then, and I knew that pain, and 59

60

Turkish woman b y her husband’s body, Cyprus, 1964

Turkish woman grieving for her dead husband, Cyprus, 1964

61

62

Turkish woman mourning the death of her husband, Cyprus, 1964

63

I found it hard not to burst into tears. When I walked out o f the house I was shattered. I was dehydrated. M y mouth was glued together. I think I grew u p that day. I took a step away from m y personal

resentments, my feeling that life had been uniquely tough o n me, giving m e evacuation and Finsbury Park, and taking away m y father when

I was young. That day in Cyprus, when I saw somebody else losing a father, somebody else losing a son, I felt I could somehow assimilate this experience so that m y o w n pity could cease to be personal and instead

become general. And I could just say, ‘Okay, I ' m not the only one. The next day, in another village, I photographed the family of a Turkish shepherd who had been shot in the hills. The poor shepherds were the soft targets o f course. They were preparing a makeshift coffin

and the dead shepherd’s son was looking on, a young boy about the age I was when they brought my own father’s body back from the hospital. With a curious ceremonial dignity they offered me the bullet that had passed through the shepherd’s body. Experiences like this were an ordeal, but I also felt as if they were a privilege. In an inexplicable way they were teaching me how t o become a human being. Cyprus left me with the beginnings of a self-knowledge, and the very beginning of what they call empathy. I found I was able t o share other people’s emotional experiences, live with them silently, transmit them. I felt I had a particular vision that isolated and homed in o n the

essence of what was happening, and could see that essence in light, in tones, in details. That I had a powerful ability to communicate. What I hoped I had captured in m y pictures was an enduring image that would imprint itself o n the world’s memory. I was looking for a symbol—though I could not then have put it that way—that could stand for the whole story and would have the impact o f ritual o r religious imagery. [ soon knew that m y first war pictures had some impact. B y syndi-

cating my early photographs successfully, the Observer was able t o send m e back t o Cyprus twice more in the following weeks.

64

10. DELINQUENT

PHOTOGRAPHER

[ was too young and disrespectful for the Fleet Street old guard. They

criticised everything, from my low standards in dress t o the size of my cameras. They deplored m y total lack o f appreciation as to where and

when it was proper to take photographs. I would take a shotgun in the boot of m y car when going out o f town, so that I would always be prepared for some good poaching, a habit which raised eyebrows and fed a mildly delinquent image.

Others, closer to my own age, looked upon me with some curiosity. They could see that I had a certain talent but wondered h o w I had derived it from such an ignorant and bigoted mind. They tried to educate me. ‘No, no, Don, you've got it all wrong! No, you mustn’t say that . . / Eventually I began listening t o them and slowly became

aware of the appalling things that would come out of my mouth. Some things I could never learn. I could not tolerate being called ‘my pho-

tographer’, as if I were the reporter’s very own personal possession. I was also allergic t o all forms of regimentation, and this often led t o trouble. I once found the photographers covering the Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Conference at Marlborough House all lined u p like greyhounds in the slips. Some o f them with old-fashioned plate cameras sneered at m y little 35mm job and instructed m e t o keep to m y place and not run out in front and spoil their pictures. W h y should I take

orders from these people, o r be ridiculed like a guttersnipe? When the pack of Prime Ministers arrived, I started t o dart here, there and everywhere for close-ups. I broke all their rules and earned their opprobrium. Yet I was t o step out of line once too often, and nearly got the sack for i t . I had been sent t o photograph Harold Wilson soon after the Labour government came t o power in 1964 and arrived at the House o f Commons where Observer columnist Kenneth Harris was t o interview the new Prime Minister o n the verandah. I got the details o f a prearranged plan from the PM's Political Private Secretary, Marcia 65

Falkender. While the t w o men talked, looking out over the River Thames, I was to station myself onWestminster Bridge and give a signal when I was ready t o take photographs. As I got into position, a gust o f wind blew the Prime Ministers hair all over the place. Kenneth Harris took out his comb and deftly flicked Wilson’s hair back in place while I was snapping off pictures at a furious pace i n some glee.

When I got back to the Observer office I handed in everything to the dark room for processing. The boys in the dark room grinned as they racked off some 20 X 16 prints o f Kenneth Harris combing Harold

Wilson's hair. Far too large for any paper t o use, the 20

X

16s would

nevertheless make wonderfully outrageous posters. Unfortunately

one o f these huge prints found its way into the hands o f the paper’s

managing editor, Ken Obank, and I was summoned t o his office for an explanation.

‘While I admire your timing, Obank said, ‘and your perception as a photographer, I deplore the fact that you have taken advantage of a situation given t o the Observer in complete confidence. I ' m therefore

going t o cut u p the negatives in your presence. Really I should fire you.

Had these pictures become public, the consequences would have fallen on this newspaper. I wasn’t blamed for actually taking the photographs, but they were angry about the large prints lying around where anyone could pick them up. If they had left the building it would have been undermining t o the Wilson government and t o the Observer’s reputation as a newspaper o f trust. I was properly reprimanded, and the whole matter was quickly

hushed up. M y scrapes were small when compared with those of m y brother. While I was photographing Prime Ministers, he was getting into a spot o f bother. Michael was seven years younger than m e and grew u p with a more internationally minded generation in Finsbury Park. After a brief forced exile in Wisbech, he found his way back into his old London gang which blazed the trail in Europe for the football hooligans o f later years. One day he returned from the continent covered in bruises and one eye closed. The Belgian police had caught him and some o f his mates turning over a deux chevaux outside a cafe i n Ostend. Michael

had run for it and dashed into the reinforcements round the corner as 66

Michael, early 1960s

67

they were drawing their truncheons. H e managed to escape but only after considerable damage had been inflicted o n him.

I didn’t take seriously his flippant suggestion that he could always escape retribution, like a latter-day Beau Geste, b y enlisting in the French Foreign Legion. People in deprived Finsbury Park were not

accustomed t o making gallant gestures of that sort. Yet that is precisely

what he did. Not long afterwards, I received an official letter from the Foreign Office asking if knew o f m y brother’s whereabouts. It appeared that the Belgian authorities were anxious to extradite him. I put the letter straight in the fire. A t least he kept a kind o f liberty while many o f m y Finsbury Park mates were in jail. They would write to m e for books—one at a time because that was all the authorities would allow. I could not shake off

the feeling of being uneasily suspended between t w o worlds, and still not at ease i n the self-consciously highbrow atmosphere o f the Observer

office. I was glad when a call came to send m e again into what I was beginning to regard as m y o w n territory—war. This time, in Africa.

68

Part Two

GOING

TO THE WARS

11. WITH THE MERCENARIES

I flew into the Congo with a great deal of nervous apprehension. I had heard much that was sinister about this once cannibal area. Joseph Conrad called it the Heart of Darkness. Now, in November 1964, the story was that some rebel warriors of evil repute, supporters of the murdered President Lumumba, were committing atrocities on whites and holding missionaries hostage. White mercenaries were going t o their rescue. All this was going on many hundreds of miles up-country and I was expected t o get there somehow. The place had a name that was later to become notorious—Stanleyville. — I landed at the only place from which Stanleyville was accessible a streaming hellhole then known as Leopoldville, the capital of the Congo. (It is now known as Kinshasa.) Almost a thousand miles o f roadless, impenetrable jungle and crocodile-infested river, I discovered, still lay between me and my goal. Like other journalists I plugged into Leopoldville’s sleazy, steam-bath bars, wondering how on earth t o get out, and whether this end-of-the-world situation wasn’t also the end of the road. The bars alone told the whole dismal Congo story, for those lucky enough t o be writers. Arms-dealers, dodgy minerals prospectors, experimenting pharmaceuticalists, Belgian plantation owners of the type who chopped off the arms of troublesome workers, drunken mercenaries, stranded air crews and some o f the most devilish misfits o f the world congregated here, occasionally approached by humble African ‘missionary boys’ telling them h o w well they knew their Bible and asking if they could have something t o eat. For photographers, who couldn’t use this telling material, the news was dire. Joseph Désiré Mobutu, the m a n who controlled the army and

the security apparatus, and who was already developing an alarming reputation, had put a ban on any journalist leaving Leopoldville. One journalist, it was said, had already been killed. 71

72

White mercenary and Congolese family, Paulis, north of Stanleyville, Congo, 1966

In the meantime, matters up-country were becoming critical. Rumours abounded that the rebel tribesmen—Simbas, o r lions—were

eating the livers o f public officials in the main square o f Stanleyville.

President Tshombe had ordered an army t o the rescue—of Belgian paratroops, Mobutu’s men in the Congolese army, and mercenaries of a motley of nationalities. These were led by an Irishman, known as ‘Mad’ Mike Hoare. While this operation was in progress, all ordinary traffic of Stanleyville stopped. The only free movement out of Leopoldville was of military traffic, and this gave me an idea. M y eye fell o n one o f the mercenaries who drank in the bar at m y

hotel. He was a stealthy-looking, muscular, short m a n with a sergeant’s stripes and strange eyes, eyes which said the person could be unfriendly, if rubbed the wrong way. ‘Are you English?’ I asked. ‘Yes, l ’ m from London.’ I told him I was from the Observer newspaper, which was not strictly true. I was actually on assignment for a German magazine called Quick, but I reckoned the name o f the Observer would carry more clout with an Englishman in Africa. “What are m y chances o f going t o Stan?’ ‘None at all, as far as you're concerned,’ replied the sergeant. H e

didn’t seem hostile, so I went on questioning him. ‘When do you go, and how?’ I asked. ‘We fly up in t w o days, by Hercules transports, American planes, with American pilots.’ ‘Any chance of me getting some khaki?’ He looked at m e and smiled. He had conceived, I think, a bit of a liking for this bloke with a mad idea. As mercenaries often turned out t o be, he was a bit mad-brained himself.

‘Can you fill m e in? Where do you sleep? H o w many are you? Can

I get boots?’ I kept pumping him with questions, and before I knew it not only was m y scheme shaping u p but m y sergeant friend—whose name was Alan Murphy—was giving m e help. A t the appointed time, the night before departure, I sneaked into the mercenary barracks, a fleapit hotel o n the other side o f the Congo River where they had converted the dining room into a dormitory. I was 73

clad in the clothes that Murphy had found me, jungle boots and khaki and the green beret of what they called the Fifth Commando. Silently I lay down beside a mass of snoring bodies, but didn’t sleep much. It was raining and thundering outside. ‘ I f this thing falls apart, Murphy had told me, ‘you’re o n your own.

I ' l l help all I can, but if it comes unstuck, I don’t know you.’ This drifted through my head as I awoke from drowsing at 5 a.m. t o a half-lit world of crashing rain, muffled voices and men scratching their heads and getting on their boots. The thought of going t o Stanleyville suddenly seemed thoroughly undesirable. Murphy approached, using his strange eyes to monitor m e out,

like a dog fox leavinga trail. He didn’t speak. Outside there was a truck ticking over. One o f the mercenaries

who clambered aboard was wearing the German Iron Cross. We were driven briskly t o the military airstrip, and as we dropped off the end of the truck I thought my legs wouldn’t bear me up. A man with a short-sleeved shirt and a button-down collar called, ‘Line up, you guys, line up. He was short but had a very commanding manner. I felt sure I was looking at my first CIA man, taking part in America’s big clandestine involvement in the Congo.

He snapped out names, read out from a clipboard. The only one I recognised was Murphy. At each name, someone left the line and climbed into the plane—a giant Hercules transport. Soon there were only three men left, of whom I was the quaking one. I could feel myself shrinking while my little military bag (no bigger than a school satchel) holding m y cameras seemed to be swelling to enormous size. This is it,

the game’s over, I thought t o myself. Gloomily I recalled the reputation o f Mobutu’s security men, and wondered what you had to do to

be sure you got deported. ‘What's your name?’ Gruffly and militarily, I hoped, my name somehow came out of my mouth. He scanned down the list, and looked down it again. Any moment now, I thought, there’s going t o be a n explosion. He looked u p and hard at me. ‘ I t ’ s not here.

‘ I t should be,’ I barked. 74

‘Howdya spell it?’

Spelling it out must have given full force to this wild Irish/Scottish-

sounding name, a trouble-making mercenary’s kind of name, because he said suddenly, ‘Okay, get in. M y physical tension was such that for amoment I could barely stand or walk. Then I was almost too buoyant. As I climbed into the aircraft, I was ablaze inside, smothered by internal laughter. I had pulled a stroke not

only against the Congo government, but against the CIA as well. The mood didn’t survive the flight. As the engines changed down

for the descent t o Stanleyville, my mood changed gear with them and the apprehension started again. Then the big doors came down o n the C130 and the first thing that struck me—the thing I knew the meaning

of from Cyprus—was the pungent smell o f death. The Belgian paras had reached Stanleyville before us and had shot u p a lot o f human beings. Hideous bloated corpses lay in the sun, while m e n in white masks were still levering them from the long grass. Even before we had got off, the stench of death in Stanleyville was being sucked into that plane. [ knew now, emerging into the searing heat, that this was worse, far worse, than anything I had witnessed in Cyprus. I could hear a crackling noise, which was the sound of small arms fire, and an occasional

heavy thump and crunch: mortar bombs going i n . The battle was still in progress. The killing was still going on. In Africa it is difficult to stop i t . Free beer was dispensed in quantity at the Stanley Hotel where we detrucked. Dutch courage figured prominently in the mercenaries’

plans, and I needed a drink. As I downed my beer, a jeep arrived, and I could hear doors slamming, orders being shouted, to a background o f gunfire. M e n started hurrying out. Murphy was acting as if he didn’t know me. ‘What’s your outfit?’ an officer called to m e as I hung back. ‘ I ' m from Katima, I improvised. I sat in a jeep with a helmet that had been thrust at m e along with a rifle that I wasn’t keen o n touching. We were said to be heading for

what they called mopping-up operations o n the other side o f the river. Mopping-up operations had been part o f the explanation for the bloated corpses around the airport. I began to reflect o n what I had got myself 75

into—a most hideous large-scale set-up, with n o rights or rules or immunities, with some of the most violent, cruel people in the world. A t the dock, mercenaries were grouping to cross the river near a large pile o f logging timber waiting to float downstream. By this timber

there were twenty young Africans, all sitting, all bleeding; some were as young as seventeen, some perhaps even younger. All o f them had been beaten. Some o f them looked as if they had been skinned alive. These I learned were what in Leopoldville they called the Simbas lion men.

Here they were just called the youth—the Jeunesse. I didn’t behave too professionally i n a photographic way. I just went u p and hurriedly started taking pictures, then quickly put my cameras away. ‘What's this all about?’ I asked a mercenary. ‘Oh, theyre killing these guys. You'll see them in a minute. There's a really nasty black gendarmerie chief, a really evil bastard. He’s doing away with that lot. He’s been shooting them all morning, H e takes them to

the river bank and shoots them in the back of the head, then kicks

them into the water for the crocs.’

I felt overwhelmingly moved by this little bunch of human misery, sitting there, waiting t o be killed. [ realised too h o w vulnerable m y o w n position was as a n inconve-

nient witness. As the crackle of small arms intensified, I could see Africans streaming in haste off the ferry, faces drawn, eyes rolling, urgently making as much distance as possible from the other side. Mercenaries started to lumber o n board in their place for the trip back, carrying heavy machine guns and Brownings. M y eyes kept darting to the little group of Jeunesse, some tied, some not, waiting to be shot. I had learned

an awful new fact about war and killing—that people build themselves u p for atrocity.They suppress their humanity by humiliating, torturing, tormenting their victims first. And the victims wait to be killed. While we were standing o n the dockside, someone said, ‘The boss wants y o u lot o n the other side o f the river. A n d h e asked m e , ‘Have

you got a gun?’ I said I had and got back into the jeep and sank low into i t . I could see all the other mercenaries knocking back looted whisky t o build u p their courage and kill off their fear.

The English officer then asked me, ‘Where did you say you came from before you got to Leopoldville?’ Again I told him Katima. 76

‘No, you couldn’t have done. [ thought then that I had better come clean, o r as clean as possible. [ told him I worked for the Observer newspaper. H e got o n the radio to Mike Hoare. Then he turned back to me,

very seriously, and said: “You're in trouble, old son. We’re going t o hand you over t o the gendarmerie, t o those black guys killing all these people. I felt panic. Though I had all the cockiness and fearlessness of the inexperienced war correspondent, behind it all there was a nasty shadow

saying: ‘Hang about, if they can do this t o those poor bastards, and nobody knows you're here, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t disappear too. Half an hour later word came through that ‘the old man’ wanted me on the other side. I was shipped across the river on a pontoon ferry with the jeeps, the Browning machine guns and the mercenaries, but without the rifle. I was so concerned about the gendarmerie threat, I hardly noticed the river being raked with fire. O n the other bank there was total confusion. The mercenaries had rounded u p hundreds o f people. They were sorting out those they thought were Simba warriors. It didn’t look to m e as if they were very particular in their choice. I was taken to a clearing, which was part of a mission where, I

learned, eight Belgian nuns had been murdered by the Simbas in the previous week. There were a lot of exhausted mercenaries, who had obviously been fighting, lying around. In a little hospital there I later found a doctor’s microscope with thousands of smashed glass testing sheets, suggesting a painstaking level o f destruction. I was l e d u p t o Hoare, w h o said, ‘ I ’ v e got n o time t o talk t o you.

You will stay here overnight and then I ' l l be handing you over

to

the

Congolese authorities in the morning, I have n o alternative. It was growing dark and I was hungry and tired. I was also thirsty and I was nervous. I had n o water nor any canteen food. I had the cameras but the film I'd taken o f the young lion warriors had been confiscated. I had nothing to show for m y efforts, even if the most merciful

thing happened and I was just booted out of the Congo. A mercenary came by and offered m e food. But before I could get a word out, an officer interrupted to say, ‘ D o n ’ t give this man any 77

food. H e doesn’t deserve i t , coming in here, using our unit, disguising

himself. Give him fuck all.’ “You can fucking stick your food,’ I said. I slept o n the ground, in a foetus position, wrapped around m y cameras. Next morning the fighting had died down and I could see some o f the mercenaries shipping back to the other side o f the river. After what seemed an eternity, but was probably only a couple of hours,I was taken to see Hoare again. This time he seemed more relaxed.

‘Much against my better judgment,’ he said, ‘ I am going t o let you come with us. We're going downstream. The Simbas have abducted thirty o r forty nuns and missionaries and we’re going to see if we can retrieve them, and save their lives. But I must say, you took a bit of a

risk, and if you had been dealt with by anyone else, it could have gone against you, and gone against you dangerously. But I admire a bit of spirit, and so you're welcome t o come with us.’ Relief and elation struggled for the upper hand. The deal Hoare pro-

posed was that I should consider myself a soldier first and a photographer second. I would have a weapon but I was not t o fire it unless specifically instructed. Fortunately, n o instruction ever came. T h e missionaries w e

were looking for were mainly Belgians and Canadians. It was known that the chiefmissionary, a man called Carlsson, had been shot in the crossfire when the Belgian paras had retaken the town. There were another fifty missionaries and nuns still unaccounted for—either abducted o r dead. We recrossed the river. By the timber pile another group o f Simba

‘Jeunes’ was being brutally groomed for execution. I photographed them and their persecutors. We went about twenty miles downriver in a little convoy—two big trucks and a couple o f Land Rovers. I didn’t expect that we would find any missionaries alive, or even dead, given the methods of river disposal. Alan Murphy and I could now talk to each other openly.The thought o f being friendly with some o f the other guys sent a chill through me. A South African Nazi claiming to be a doctor took a leading role in cooking the meal that night—chickens freshly slaughtered—and I decided t o make do with biscuits. The mercenaries were not over-fastidious in their methods o f interrogating villagers en route. All the information they were getting pointed 78

to

a place called Asanti, about fifty miles on, where there was known

to be a mission building that had been overrun b y the Simbas. To get

there meant another river crossing in the light assault craft. During the passage the mercenaries frightened off a dug-out canoe, deemed hostile, with a burst from the Browning gun. We got to Asanti and surrounded the mission, meeting no resis-

tance. Indeed, we m e t with no one. Then a trembling Belgian missionary appeared and told us there were some black sisters hiding in a building behind the mission. A t first they were too frightened to open the doors t o us, but eventually they came out crying, laughing and bringing several sick Congolese children with them. Outside the mission there was a makeshift shrine to Patrice

Lumumba with a glass front and gold tinsel round it. It had been built by the Simba rebels and, according t o the sisters, had been the scene of daily sacrifices of their enemies. Two mercenaries kicked in the shrine and set the thing ablaze with a drum of palm oil. In the middle of this conflagration, a n Irish mercenary sidled up t o me t o ask if I could take a picture of him with the Belgian missionary. ‘ I ' m not very religious,’ he said, ‘but it will keep m y mother happy.

We heard that the bulk of the missing hostages were being held by the rebels further down the road in a long, low building we had missed on our way from the river. We doubled back, half suspecting an ambush. Any suggestion of cover was machine-gunned, t o be on the safe side, but it proved unnecessary. The Simbas had gone. We could hear wailing when we got t o the building, then screams which turned into screams of delight.The white nuns and missionaries came pouring out, scarcely able to believe that their ordeal was over.

Not all were found. Some had been raped and hacked t o death on the journey downriver.

The rescue o f the missionaries gave the mercenaries a little hour o f glory, but in reality they were a rough crowd. I got o n relatively easy terms with Hoare, and even with the hard nut officer w h o refused m e

food, but I had n o illusions about the people I was with. Back in Stanleyville, I roomed in a commandeered house with a Rhodesian merce-

nary called Peter, a compulsive looter of jewellery who had joined up after shooting his wife’s lover. And Peter was one of the most human. 79

Their nightly diversion was t o work themselves up with an old blue movie before they went to work on the local women, whom they would

first bath and douse in Old Spice. Racism was not a qualification for the

job but they seemed t o b e racist t o a man. One night I woke u p in a cold sweat to hear a burst o f gunfire that sounded as if it was in the room.

‘What on earth’s that, Peter?’ I said. ‘It’s okay mate, go back to sleep. It’s just some silly bastard letting

off firearms.’

Unable t o sleep, I crept down t o the kitchen in the early hours t o get something t o eat. There, in a great pool o f blood o n the floor, were

the t w o young African boys who helped cook and keep the place tidy. Both were dead, riddled with bullets. When I checked the thing out it appeared that they had been killed by a rather shifty South African junior officer as part of a drunken bloodlust. His story was that the t w o boys, who had accompanied the mercenaries on the march to Stanleyville, had been stealing weapons. Whether or not they had been doing this, there didn’t seem any case for blasting them at three o’clock in the morning without any suggestion o f a legal proceeding. I made myself unpopular by reporting the

matter to a more senior officer, saying that the South African should be

disciplined. I was not so politely asked t o leave. After delivering my pictures on the German commission, I took m y Congo experiences to the Observer, where they were written u p by

my friend John Gale, under the title ‘Climb Aboard for Stanleyville’. It had a formidable impact though, for obvious reasons, I had t o conceal the role o f Alan Murphy in m y adventures. I was to hear o fAlan again in tragic circumstances fifteen years later. H e died in a struggle with two policemen, one o f whom was shot, in the East End o f London. A t the inquest his mother told a crime reporter

friend of mine that her son had ‘once saved the life of Don McCullin’, and I suppose in a way he had. I went back to the Congo twice more, soon after Mobutu had overthrown Tshombe and established himself as one o f the most evil m e n o f Africa, responsible for a lot o f killing. The restrictions placed o n

m y movements made it almost impossible for m e to operate, though 80

I did have the experience of a drunken mercenary trying to hold me hostage at gunpoint in a town called Paulus. The second time, in 1967, I entered illegally across the Rwanda border to join a group o f renegade

mercenaries led by Colonel Jean ‘Black Jack’ Schramme, who were bottled up in the town of Bukavu, surrounded by the Congolese army. They were trying to build an airstrip with their bare hands in order to get out. A sort o f phoney heroism grew u p over their stand. It circled

the world in news form as a sort of small-scale Dien Bien Phu. I spent fears of sudden

ten days in Bukavu with the mercenaries, sharing their

attack and being strafed in the streets, but it was hard to admire them even in adversity.

I shared a billet with a mercenary called Alex, who had recently served a nineteen-day sentence in a Congolese jail. H e told m e tensely that he intended killing an African for every day he spent inside. H e became more relaxed when after a few days he reached his target.

I was told by John St Jorre, another correspondent who had come in with me, of a ‘drinks party’ organised for some Indians who had returned to their looted homes. The mercenaries were lying in wait and forced the Indians to drink whisky to reveal the whereabouts o f their hidden gold. One o f the Indians protested that there was n o hidden treasure and was cold-bloodedly gunned down. The mercenaries did get out. Some deal involving the Red Cross

and, I suspect, the CIA was stitched together t o ensure their safe departure. They walked away from the siege i n a little blaze o f glory. But they could never b e heroes t o m e .

81

12. SEARCH AND DESTROY

When I returned to London after m y first visit to the Congo I discovered that m y Cyprus pictures, taken earlier in the year, had won the

World Press Photo Award, the top award for a photographer, and I was the first Englishman t o win the £500 prize. I was delighted, not just by the money but because I thought it would increase the opportunities to do the work I wanted to do. A t the same time I felt the beginnings

of uneasiness, which would become much more pronounced in later years, at the idea of receiving a prize for depicting the misery and suffering of other human beings. The award did help me professionally, without a doubt. I was now recognised as a n international photo-journalist, among the first t o be sent for when any conflict suddenly hit the news. This soon took m e

the war that was already usurping the world’s headlines and would continue to do so for the next ten years—Vietnam. In Vietnam I would learn a lot about the technical difficulties of photography under fire. One of the greatest dangers lay in taking light to

readings. Pictures can be rattled off at speed, but when it comes to making a correct appraisal of the light there is no substitute for a few

of immobility and deliberation; thus you becomea still target. Loading film was another high-risk business. O n my early trips t o Vietnam I had a camera called a Nikon F, which did not have a hinged

moments

back. You could only load the camera by taking the back off and having a good fiddle around. Under fire, I used t o lie flat o n the ground with the camera o n my chest, and do it blind. If I had put m y head u p to look at it, I

would probably have been a dead man. Vietnam killed a lot of newspapermen. The final count of those

killed o r missing, presumed dead, was sixty-eight. Both journalists and photographers were involved, but the photographers got the worst of i t . Photographers had to get out in the field where the risks were infinitely greater. There was n o security in any o f the different methods o f 82

g Hoa. Duong

Press pass, Saigon, 1965

83

covering war. Sean Flynn, the son of Errol, was said t o go flamboyantly into combat on a Honda, toting a pearl-handled pistol, while Larry Burrows, the brilliant English photographer who worked for Life magazine, was the model of professionalism and polite diffidence. Both joined the list of the missing, presumed dead. You could take all the precautions, like wearing your tin hat, buttoning your flak jacket and loading your cameras horizontally, but ultimately there was n o defence against the worst. If you stepped on a landmine, or on to the wrong helicopter, that was i t . Yet Vietnam was the war that attracted newspapermen more than any other. This was partly a reflection of the appetite for news, but it was more than that. The war had an addictive quality for those who covered it. Michael Herr, in his book Dispatches, would later suggest, ‘Vietnam was what we had instead of happy childhoods.’ I first went there early in 1965, dispatched by the Illustrated London

News, a classy old magazine that was short of money. They wanted m e t o do the pictures and the words, and were apologetic about i t , but it suited m e very well. O n the flight over I conquered m y aversion to reading to the extent o f dipping into Graham Greene’s The Quiet American.

It was good preparation though not sufficient warning of the incredible heat and humidity or the notices at the airport referring t o what the Americans called ‘an in-country plague situation’. In Saigon I checked in at a hotel that was pure Graham Greene, the Hotel Royale, run by

Monsieur Octavie, an ex-Legionnaire who had stayed on after the country was partitioned. They showed me up t o a room and a double bed that looked as if it had seen a lot of screwing, but this may have been my inflamed imagination. Though there were prostitutes in the bar below, M . Octavie, quirkily b y Saigon standards, never allowed women into

the men’s rooms. He just had very old beds, and very old everything else. At least the company was good. After the w a r was over, I heard that the building had been converted into a factory making flags for the n e w Vietnamese nation.

The American presence was nothing t o what it later became but it was already conspicuous. For a correspondent wanting to work in

84

South Vietnam there was no way around it. If you went into the field of combat you went in an American helicopter. You had to get your M A C V accreditation from the American military and they were the people who determined where you could go. Your full accreditation card would give y o u the honorary rank o f major—handy for getting around the US

bases but not, I thought, a very comforting document t o have o n you if you happened t o be captured. I was attached to what was called an Eagle Operation, directed at suspected hideouts and villages under the control o f the Viet Cong.

There was a savage procedure to these operations. It would start with

heavily armed helicopters flying over the suspected VC territory with the main purpose of goading sniper fire from the ground. Once enemy positions had been identified by this method, the search-and-destroy operation would begin. This consisted o f concentrated bombing o f the area, then sending in the Vietnamese Ranger troops at lightning speed. Their task was t o flush out the rebels. I went in b y helicopter with the Rangers to the town o f Kan Tow

in the Mekong Delta, where VC activity was suspected. The flight crew were all American. It was m y first time into a battle b y helicopter and I was really fired u p as we skimmed low over the trees. N o t as much as the Rangers though. They almost knocked m e out o f the helicopter in their haste to disembark. They came t o a mangrove swamp and started to make their way with infinitely more care. We had been warned to look out for a Viet Cong device called the punge stick, which could pierce a boot with ease. The sticks were notched bamboo, needle-sharp and almost impossible t o withdraw once embedded i n a

foot.

We gathered speed again as Kan Tow came into view. About fifty yards from the village the Rangers battalion, urged o n by its three American advisers, broke into a trot. They commenced firing from the hip and emitting bloodcurdling yells. Anything that moved—from

hail o f bullets. At first the village seemed t o be deserted, apart from the bodies

a dog t o a chicken—provokeda

o f dead water buffalo, unfortunate victims o f the air strafing. Then a

85

soldier shouted and produced a soaking wet man, shaking with terror and clutching a year-old baby. He had been hiding up to his neck in the slimy village stream. The soldiers started poking around o n the ground and came across holes covered in palm leaves. Out o f these holes emerged whole fami-

lies, though mainly women and children. I learned later that this village used to dig slit trenches, but these were automatically bombed b y the government forces. The soldiers started poking further afield. More m e n were found. They were promptly taken prisoner, their hands tied behind their backs

with their

o w n shorts. T w o m e n darted out o f a bamboo shack

just

ahead o f m e and plunged into the river. I saw one blown to pieces b y a

hand grenade. The other tried t o claw his way up the far bank only t o be caught by the concentrated fire of twenty rifles. Without a common language it was hard for me to determine on

what basis the South Vietnamese troops chose their targets. It seemed to m e they were simply trigger-happy. I also felt that what I was witnessing

was not likely to achieve the avowed aim o f American policy—winning Vietnamese hearts and minds.

All the men of the village, without exception, were treated as suspects, as clandestine members o f the Viet Cong. N o arms were found in

Kan Tow, but I was assured that the VC were expert at plunging them in the inaccessible muddy ooze of the rice fields. We took off with a load o f prisoners and as the helicopter banked I thought h o w easily some o f them could fall out. When the war grew

even uglier, some did. By dusk we were all back at the Soctrang base with another score o f new V C suspects. The interrogation o f prisoners was not something I was invited t o photograph.

O n later trips I would find myself photographing more Americans

than Vietnamese. As the US President Lyndon Johnson poured in ever more combat troops t o shore u p his South Vietnamese ally, the fiction

o f the ‘adviser’ melted away. The images o f war became unmistakably American. I was there o n the bizarre day when the Marines hit the beach at

Da Nang. They came charging up, M-16 rifles at the ready, as if t o

take and give heavy casualties in a sort o f replay o f Iwo Jima. They were 86

then met by a South Vietnamese welcoming committee of almond-eyed girls in ao dais who insisted o n adorning the would-be combat heroes with pink and white orchids. But combat for these soldiers was merely

deferred. At places like Khe Sanh and Hue, the Marines would take the most appalling casualties.

Vietnam bred its o w n species o f gallows humour and black farce.

One of my more ludicrous experiences occurred in 1966 when Quick magazine sent me out with a German reporter called Horst, who kept clicking his heels and bowing, making m e want t o hide. Horst and I went into

the jungle as part o f a n army patrol probing

for VC. The day, aside from sleeting with rain, had been uneventful, but come the night, when we were camped in slimy m u d with the rain

still bucketing down, we heard another noise—shwam, the sound of a n incoming shell. I found myself locked in Horst’s sobbing embrace with him saying t o me, ‘Dear Christ, what was that?’ The shelling went on with Horst grabbing m e each time for comfort and begging m e t o tell him when it would end. As if I had any idea. Then a gruff drill-sergeant’s voice came through the night.

‘Hey, you guys, quieten down sharp over there.’ It had some effect but that was the tour o n which m y image o f the

iron German soldier collapsed.

Like most correspondents on the road I would eat in the officers’ mess o f whichever American stockade I was passing through. These were dour places—plastic seating and red lights, with the bar as the main focus, but not a cheerful one. Human troughs of self-pity, these were the places t o g o if you wanted insight into the belligerence born

o f booze and firepower. You would see other officers holding maudlin,

sad, peculiar conversations with imported Vietnamese women whom they called ‘hooch’ girls o r ‘slopes’. These women would come in to

serve them beers, and do their washing and possibly other things. They were widely believed also t o report back to the Viet Cong, Faith in firepower made the Americans oddly immune t o the lessons o f the past, and led them consistently to underrate the enemy. Dien Bien Phu, if it was recalled at all, was remembered as a French failure rather than as an extraordinary achievement o f Vietminh arms, under General Giap’s leadership. The French artillery officer at Dien 87

Bien Phu committed suicide in despair—he had said it was impossible

for the enemy t o bring such a weight of artillery through the jungle. The scale of US presence reinforced overconfidence. Everything about the Americans in Vietnam, from the size of their soldiers t o the mountainous contours o f their a m m o and garbage dumps, seemed t o

dwarf anything Asian. To those w h o wanted t o believe in America's

global mission against Communism, it gave an impression of immovable solidity.To the doubters it increasingly spelt waste on a mega scale, waste of country, waste of lives and waste of spirit. I read somewhere that Americans throw away enough food t o feed fifty million people, and a fair bit was being pitched out in South-East Asia. Shortly after my third trip t o Vietnam, I went t o Bihar in North India and the contradictions in human society were inescapable. I moved from a situation where resources were being used o n a massive scale t o kill people t o one where no resources were being put into keeping

people alive. Almost the entire province o f Bihar—some fifty million people— was afflicted with famine. A failure o f the monsoon rains had wiped out most

of the rice harvest; and all the late crops—wheat, barley,

vegetables—had simply not appeared. I did m y work in Monaghyr, a village inhabited only b y untouchables, where the autumn harvest had

produced a tenth of its normal yield and the well had dried up. N o heroics are possible when you are photographing people who are starving. All I could do was t o try and give the people caught up in this terrible disaster as much dignity as possible. There is a problem inside yourself, a sense o f your own powerlessness, but it doesn’t do t o let it take hold, w h e n your j o b is t o stir the conscience o f others

who can help.

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1 3 . FIRST T H E L I O N , T H E N V U L T U R E S

I found it hard t o settle back into life at the Observer after my first trips t o the wars. A kind o f restlessness swept over me, as if it were time to

move on. Though I thought of the Observer as my newspaper, my home, its shoestring budget prevented the paper sending me on any but the rare foreign assignments. Usually I would go as a freelance for other

publications, and once the main job was done, I would then produce more reports and pictures for the Observer. In this way the newspaper would benefit from inexpensive foreign coverage and I could do the kind o f photo-journalism I wanted. The situation was hardly ideal. Most o f m y Observer stories were domestics. I remember being dis-

patched to Dartmoor, not for a study in landscape but for pictures o f the

grim, remote penal settlement built there originally t o house prisoners from the Napoleonic wars. While I was photographing the spectacle o f too many o f Britain’s most dangerous and hardened criminals locked u p

in one place, I noticed a young man waving at me furiously. I lowered the camera and saw that it was one o f m y old mates from Finsbury

Park. If he was resentful at seeing me there as a visitor, rather than a n inmate, he didn’t show it. Other stories I found less rewarding, though triviality sometimes provided memorable moments. I was given a very firm and precise briefing for an assignment at a nudist camp near Sunningdale. This was in the days before the Sun page-three pictures, so you could say I was breaking fresh ground, though m y pictures had to be decent enough for breakfast tables in quality-newspaper homes. I was greeted o n arrival b y a voluble and voluptuous woman without a stitch o n w h o kept saying i n a very posh voice, “Why don’t you

take your things off, you'll feel much more comfortable.” M y excuse for staying clothed was that the Observer wanted these pictures very quickly. She became suddenly highly cooperative. ‘Now where would you like me?’ she called as she leapt u p and down in the water, splashing 89

it eagerly across her breasts. A line o f naked bottoms, bosoms and pro-

truding stomachs, and heads with baseball caps on, were queuing for the naked lunch. Beyond them people were playing volleyball, a most uncomfortable game when you haven’t got yourself strapped down. One persistent young man trailed m e round the camp with the repeated

advice ‘Come on, get ’em off’. Getting a usable picture of a m a n poling a punt, as I had been asked, was something of an achievement I thought. The volunteer kept his sandals o n but was less adept at shielding the area that I knew could not be flaunted in a family newspaper. You couldn’t take

the job any more seriously than a McGill postcard,

and I felt I could do more important stories at far less personal risk. M y dissatisfaction with the Observer came t o a head with the arrival

of the colour magazine. There had been no great enthusiasm for it in the paper, but as the Sunday Times was beginning t o taste success with theirs, after a bumpy start some while earlier, both the Observer and the Telegraph decided they had to bring out their o w n magazines to stay in

the running. I was not among those who welcomed the development. I was happy with black and white: it was easier to use and often, to my

mind, produced pictures with greater impact, though later I was t o do some o f m y best work for a colour magazine.

Once the decision was taken, the Observer was faced with the need to import people who were good with colour—rare birds in those days, and mostly to be found in the fields o f fashion or advertising, or else working for geographical magazines. Some o f the assignments that I thought should have been mine went to this new crew. A t the same

time, my early patrons on the picture desk had moved on and the new picture editors tended to treat m e as if I were some kid street photog-

rapher, only to be used in narrow circumstances. I left quietly at the end o f 1965 and teamed u p with the people o n the Telegraph magazine. It was a terrible mistake. I left the slight assignments o f the Observer for even slighter ones at

the n e w paper. The only project I enjoyed was an

exploration o f the legend o f King Arthur. This involved spending a lot o f time in the West Country, an area I had come to love. I shot much o f the wild forest material near Glastonbury in a sombre, haunting colour that seemed suited to legends. The feature was well received and repeatedly syndicated. 90

The Telegraph’s main contribution to my development was to cast me away o n a desert island. The late John Anstey, the Telegraph's reclusive magazine editor, thought it an amusing idea t o abandon m e and a young writer called Andrew Alexander on a tiny island in the Caribbean and to see how long it would take before we cried for help. They chose Necker, in the British Virgin Islands. It was an island about three-quarters o f a mile long and half a mile wide, with a long hill running down the middle. It was inhabited by snakes, scorpions and tarantulas. The nearest outpost of civilisation was three miles away on Mosquito Island, where some Americans were building a hotel.We were allowed the clothes we stood u p i n , a pocket knife, a machete, fishing line and hooks, a limited supply of matches, iodine, a canvas sail (to catch rain)—all things a shipwrecked sailor might possess. A red flag was given t o us t o hoist should rescue be required. We also took t w o gallons of water t o get started; the local doctor said we would need at least four pints a day. We made ourselves a shack and called it, with rare premonition, the Chamber of Horrors. We suffered severe heatstroke through building it energetically in the midday sun o n the first day marooned. Word of this ludicrous adventure got round the islands and, after a couple of days, an American senator appeared in his speedboat and yelled, ‘Hi, you guys, how’s it going? Can I get you any goodies?’ It was the kind o f encouragement we could have done without at that stage. Andrew, who is well read and can play the piano, was at the opposite end o f the personality spectrum to myself, but we got along all right, for a time at least. In the evenings we used to talk about great restaurants in Soho which, allied t o the thirst, would make our tongues swell up t o enormous size. Sleep was always a difficulty. The mosquitoes and other insects were more venomous and persistent than any I had encountered in Vietnam o r the Congo. We often caught angel fish and trigger fish, which we would cook, wrapped in leaves, at the bottom o f the fire. We supplemented this with prickly pears—lethal, as their name suggests, but at least moistening the mouth. Water, indeed any kind of moisture, was the big problem. By the time we decided that coconuts were the answer, we were too weak to climb u p the trees to get them. Cutting the trees down—there were only three coconut trees on the island—was against the rules. By the 91

ninth day, we were down t o half a pint of water between us. By the twelfth, there was just a mouthful each. Andrew tried chewing the inside of a cactus for moisture, but without any great success. After eight days he had written in his log, “We are getting sorry for ourselves

and resolve t o stop it. Don has all the Cockney’s special capacity for grumbling and I have a morbid taciturnity in these conditions which he must find very trying. More difficult for m e t o cope with was Andrew’s slight asthma. Stress would make him frighteningly breathless. While I griped, he became tense and short-tempered. Yet everything was done in slow motion because of our gathering weakness. All that accelerated was our squabbling, which we conducted through cracked lips that could barely move. Out o f temper, and out o f water, we hoisted the red flag and were

taken off in the early hours of the fifteenth day. It was a phoney ordeal, but an ordeal none the less. We had each lost two stone in weight, and my medical report said: ‘He was in an

extremely dehydrated condition . . . Mentally he was lethargic and depressed.” We had disappointed ourselves: the newspaper thought we might be good for three weeks while we had it in mind to do four.

Then something happened t o lift our spirits. Alex Low, the picture editor, decided he could do better. He cabled t o London t o the effect: ‘Pathetic show, Alexander and McCullin. Myself and local beachcomber willing t o re-enact.’ These t w o

jokers went out t o the island, lost their

cameras in the sea, chopped down one of the sacrosanct palm trees, and ran up the red flag—all in the space o f three days. But n o lasting

damage was done by the enterprise. Andrew went o n t o become a distinguished political columnist, and I was eventually rescued by three old mates from the Observer who had since gone to the Sunday Times. One of the trio was the illustrator Roger Law, who later created the television series Spitting Image, but it was the designer Dave King who arranged for m e to meet Sunday Times magazine art editor Michael Rand, and he who paired m e with m y old reporter friend Peter Dunn for m y first assignment with the Sunday Times. The Sunday Times had money, and was ready t o spend i t . Peter and I were dispatched o n a slow swing through North America that would take us at least five weeks. Rarely before, even in war zones, had I been 92

away for more than two. It is true the paper wanted value for money— four stories in all: a piece about the lives o f merchant seamen, another about Cuban exiles in Miami, a big colour story o n the Mississippi, and a gritty look at the Chicago police.Yet it showed confidence in the people they were sending. I liked that. I had been t o the States only briefly once before. I had been sent to New York by a German magazine to cover the Harlem riots of 1964 but arrived too late for a single rioter to be seen. This trip was to be different. We left Glasgow on a 10,000-ton cargo ship on which I discovered long-distance drinking and seasickness. I remember Peter coming down to the cabin where I was lying uncertain if I was alive or dead and saying: ‘Where’re my new boots? I ' m going to sort that little bugger out.” Mercifully, we docked in Charleston before he found them. In any case, new boots would have been of little use in a fight with the Cuban exiles we met in Miami, where I got striking pictures of car boots full of machine guns. It was all said t o be for the freedom struggle, but we weren't so sure. I developed some respect for Fidel Castro, for the people he had chucked out all seemed t o be hardened crooks. N e w Orleans was a great town for hitting the jazz joints. F r o m there w e took a barge t o Baton Rouge, in Louisiana, where Peter fell sick for a couple of days, giving me longer t o respond t o the Mississippi, a wonderful river—massive, cantankerous and uncontrollable. I photographed an old negro by the riverside who said, ‘Come down into the water, boy, and let m e baptise you.’ A few miles upriver I spent the night photographing the Ku Klux Klan, with their white hoods and flam-

ing crosses. Then we went to a cotton plantation where the big-bellied

boss told us, ‘ I do believe w e treat our niggers very well on this estate.’ In Chicago the two detectives assigned as our escort took us t o a

basement area where the man in charge of the city morgue conducted us round the ‘Stink Room’. H e showed us unclaimed derelicts—some

fire victims, some killed in road accidents, and the corpses of many just found dead o n the pavement. H e lamented our missing a woman who had gone through a few days earlier. “You should have seen the tits o n this dame’ I did not regard it as a time for taking pictures. Whether it

was the Chicago morgue, o r the relief of finishing the assignment, or 93

94

Prisoner asking for water, Chicago jail, 1967

simply applying a new-found skill, I don’t know, but I arrived back at Heathrow somewhat pissed. I couldn’t even stand up, and some ambulance m e n came to prise m e off the plane. I spent the next twelve hours sleeping it off in the airport sick bay. For m e the Sunday Times was an opening into what became known

later as the Swinging Sixties. Some of my friends became celebrities and celebrities became my collaborators and subjects, and sometimes m y friends. I had moved the family to a semi-detached house o f some

style in Hampstead Garden Suburb, where one day I received a posse o f Italian film makers who arrived in two large limos with expensive coats slung over their shoulders. I n their midst was a n older distin-

guished man with crinkly grey hair w h o turned out t o be the great director Antonioni. H e seemed a little surprised to find that fashionable London photographers lived modest lives with their families around them. I could see why when he outlined the plot o f a film he was planning to make in England about a photographer who by chance finds evidence o f a murder o n one o f his negatives. What little o f it was true t o life seemed t o have little connection with mine. Style had become

everything n o w that we had left the social realism o f the angry young man behind. O n e sequence had the photographer-hero mobbed b y teeny-boppers wrenching off their coloured tights for an o r g y .Yet I was

flattered when Antonioni told me he admired my reportage, which he had seen in European magazines. What exactly he wanted from m e I was unsure, but I went around with him while he was looking for locations. H e transformed one dreary park in south London b y having everything in it painted, including the grass. I produced the blow-ups for his film Blow-Up, which became a cult movie. The success o f the Sunday Times was a Sixties phenomenon in itself. It had transformed itself from a deadly dull Tory rag into probably the most exciting newspaper in the world, and most o f the transforming was done b y people in their twenties and thirties under a brilliant and enlightened young editor from Yorkshire called Harry Evans. The Delinquent Generation o f the war years had come into its own, with a drive, commitment, scepticism and rebellion peculiar t o that age.

I felt safe and happy with these people. Harry had great enthusiasm for photo-journalism, and that made a big difference to me. H e was 95

always interested and friendly without interfering, and under him photographers gained a new status, helped no doubt by the photographic staff having in their midst a member of the Royal Family, Anthony Armstrong- Jones.

The editor of the magazine, for which I did m o s t of my work, was Godfrey Smith, a thoughtful man who knew how t o get the best out o f people with the minimum o f fuss. When I left for the war front

in Biafra the day after our third child was born, Godfrey sent my wife a massive bunch o f flowers. You pulled out a little bit more for

someone who showed he cared in this way. Godfrey’s free-wheeling think-tank—which included Dave King and Peter Crookston, whom I had known at the Observer, Francis Wyndham and fashion editor Meriel McCooey, as well as art editor Michael Rand—turned the Sunday colour magazine froma frivolous optional extra into a force t o be reckoned with. I was allowed t o edit all my own pictures at the Sunday Times, a privilege that was not extended to any other photographer in Fleet Street, nor | think in the world. In exchange I would go away two or three times a year and risk m y life. But I was also allowed some relaxation away from

the world’s wars with interesting projects like the Beatles

o r Fidel Castro’s Cuba. I photographed the Beatles o n t w o occasions, and was instantly engaged b y the personality o f Paul McCartney. It was

harder t o warm t o John Lennon, who tended t o sneer about passers-by who recognised him. As well as enormous talent, he had a n abrasive, aggressive quality that was ironic in an apostle of Peace and Love. It was n o easier to hit it off with Yoko Ono, who fussed around while I

was trying t o take pictures on a studio set (designed by Snowdon) on the top floor o f the Sunday Times building in Gray’s Inn Road. It was an all-day session the Beatles had asked m e to do for them when they got tired o f people asking them for pictures they did not possess. I had come in from taking some location shots and did not want t o hear Yoko

talking, not t o m e but t o others, about where I was stationing myself t o take the interiors. “Why is he standing there? Surely he should be here,’ she would say

as she came up behind me, making as if t o lift m e along. Needless t o say, I didn’t move. 96

One of the most unlikely matches of the time was an excursion I made with Edna O’Brien to Cuba after the missile crisis. I arrived in Havana before Edna but not before the film o f her novel Girl with

Green Eyes was showing in the cinema opposite m y downtown hotel. Photographically, it was not a good omen. I failed to get any interesting

pictures at the prison where Castro and his revolutionaries had once been held, now a technological university, and I felt decidedly uncomfortable with the surveillance I was given b y t w o North Vietnamese diplomats w h o seemed fixated by m y United States A r m y battle jacket.

I found the long tannoyed public addresses given by President Castro as tiresome as all the queuing up for meals. Dinner on the lawn of the British Embassy in honour of the celebrated Irish novelist, with the sea as a backdrop and men in white coats continually providing drinks, was much more my style. Had I come too far from Finsbury Park? I had a birthday in Cuba which Edna marked with the presentation

o f a sombre poem, ‘First the Lion, Then Vultures’. Edna, who is a very kind and considerate person, was never put off by the difficulties in Cuba. Maybe she saw parallels to her own Irish people’s struggle against

the English. Anyway, she came away from Cuba with a deep love for the place and its spirit. I came away just loving Edna.

97

14. JERUSALEM

The period o f phoney war before the onset o f six days o f vicious fight-

ing between the Arabs and the Israelis in June 1967 proved an unusually languid time for me. Under the misguided impression that Egypt would b e a key listening-post for rumours o f war, the Sunday Times had sent m e to Cairo. M y partner there was Phillip Knightley, one o f the many

Australians t o attach themselves t o the paper and enlarge its fun factor.

As day succeeded day, and the Egyptian High Command resolutely kept us away from any zone that might be remotely warlike, w e established a

routine stroll from Semiramis Hotel down to the Gezira Sporting Club, where Phillip spent time improvinghis backhand on the tennis court while I swam. Lunch and dinner were long, leisurely affairs by the poolside. It was one of those gilded but all too infrequent periods in journalism where there is nothing to be done apart from spending the proprietor’s money in the most relaxing and dignified manner possible. Not that we made no effort at all. In an attempt t o outflank the military machine one day we took a taxi to Sinai, where we had heard there was a considerable arms build-up. Arriving in the Canal Zone, the taxi driver made a n unscheduled stop at the office of the field security police, at which we were greeted with warmth by a colonel who appeared to be Peter Ustinov’s double. ‘Welcome t o Suez, English gentlemen,” he beamed at us before steering us straight back t o Cairo. After a fortnight in Cairo Phillip decided the war rhetoric would blow over. This was an opinion shared b y the British Foreign Office and by Frank Giles, the foreign editor of the Sunday Times. We were both recalled from the Cairo duty. The very next morning Israeli Mystere and Mirage jets struck the Egyptian airfields in the Western Desert. The war had begun. The Cairo experience had been negative but not futile. When it came to the business o f launching correspondents and photographers 98

off t o the war, everyone was directed t o the Israeli side where there was at least a possibility o f access. Had I stayed in Egypt I would have

missed the war in photographic terms altogether. As it was, after one night’s sleep at home, I found myself at Heathrow again with a tribe of other newsmen en route for Cyprus, the nearest jumping off point for the conflict.

The next move was not obvious. Some correspondents rushed t o sign u p fishing boats which generally proved to be a mistake. One o f their number was to spend the war marooned in Lebanon. Eventually

he cabled home, ‘Am I in doghouse query’, and received the reply, ‘Return kennelwards soonest’. Those o f us who hung o n at the airport were rewarded with the news that the Israelis were planning to send in an aeroplane t o take off journalists. Undoubtedly the Israelis felt they had more t o gain from press attention. All the chest-beating b y the Arabs about 100 million coreligionists being ready to smite an isolated Israel had had an effect. A t that stage the Israelis were considered very much the underdogs in the conflict. The Israeli plane that flew us into Tel Aviv that night was a D e Havilland Rapide o f elderly vintage. When we sorted ourselves out at the Dan Hotel it appeared that there were four Sunday Times survivors

in the first wave—myself and another photographer, Neil Libbert, and t w o writers I had not worked with before. Murray Sayle, another Aussie,

had a talent for being first. Colin Simpson was a stealthier character

altogether, best known for his cunning in exposing bent antique dealers and insurance fraudsters. H e was not a regular war correspondent, though he had nothing he needed to prove in this area. H e had seen action as a regular army officer during the Malay emergency. Our immediate problem was deciding how to divide u p the war

effort. We had no crystal ball, much less orders o n how t o go about it. Though we were all agreed that we were not going to wait o n the services o f a conducting officer, Murray seemed determined t o go to Sinai, where a tank battle was raging. I had n o intention o f being deflected from the one place that I was sure would yield the greatest war pictures— Jerusalem. Neil Libbert teamed up with Murray t o go

south, while Colin and I headed for the Holy City in a hire car. 99

Driving towards Jerusalem i n

the early morning was oddly peace-

ful. So peaceful, in fact, that we thought we might have missed the war altogether. A BBC news report on the car radio indicated that the old city had been taken.We drove carefully towards the Jaffa Gate along the Bethlehem Road only t o find it firmly in the hands of the Arab Legion. Colin backed the car at high speed, narrowly avoiding an unexploded mortar bomb in our path. Unknowingly, we had got ahead o f the Israeli troops.

We noticed that beside the road through the valley there was a deep communications trench that led from the Israeli forward positions up into the gardens o f the Dormition Monastery o n Mount Zion. Through our glasses w e could make out Israeli troops entering what looked like a tunnel.We decided t o risk the valley road again, abandon our car near

the monastery, and take our chance with the Israeli soldiers. Within minutes we were explaining to the forward company com-

mander that if he was set upon making Jewish history, it was only fit and proper that the Sunday Times should be with him to record it. We were accepted right away, and moved off with them through the olive groves. The assault battalion w e joined was called the 1st Jerusalem Regim e n t . We were with the point platoon, moving in single-file and bent double behind the scanty cover.There was n o time to crawl. The Israelis

behind us kept up a constant fire, directed at the walls of the old city. A t first the only opposition came from isolated bursts of automatic fire—usually the reassuring crack of bullets well over our heads but occasionally the chilling, sucking ‘whup’ o f one too close. O u r objective

was the Dung Gate, though w e paused briefly on the way t o check out a tented camp recently abandoned by the Arab Legion, their gear still

neatly folded o n their beds. Eventually Colin decided to hitch a lift on a friendly tank while I

stayed with the point section that would be first through the gate. Colin raised a laugh among the soldiers as he moved off when an officer said that I was the brave one, getting so close to the front o f the assault.

‘Him? He’s a Scotsman called McCullin, and just too mean t o buy a telephoto lens, that’s all This was certainly a period whenI felt that I had a charmed life, that danger could not touch me. 100

It was Colin who took the first fall. As we were going for the gate, his tank fired its gun and so surprised Colin that he tumbled off into

a clump of prickly pear. I was too absorbed t o be aware of this at the time. Colin and I were not t o meet u p again until the battle for the city was over.

We came through the Dung Gate at a rush. I was on a high, swiftly tempered by the need to concentrate in order to stay alive. We took a lot of casualties in that first hundred yards inside the

gate, coming under heavy sniper fire, bullets ricocheting in all directions as we fanned out. I found myself in a section lined with low walls, only two or three feet high, but cover o f a sort, and there I got one o f m y better-known pictures o f Israeli soldiers firing over these walls.

So exposed were we that if the Arabs had used mortars w e would not have stood a chance. As the Israelis increased their fire we edged forward into an area

o f little stone houses in very narrow streets, some barely more than a

yard wide and obvious death traps.We took the widest we could find. Suddenly a Jordanian soldier ran out in front o f us with his hands up. He

did not

appear t o b e a r m e d , but everyone was

jittery because o f

the snipers, and we all hit the ground. The Jordanian was blown t o bits. The officer told them t o cease firing, and soon after another young Jordanian and a n old man came out of a house t o be taken prisoner. The unit was moving further down the street when the lead man was shot dead, and a few yards later the next m a n received a bullet through his chest. A doctor came up t o m e and started screaming for a knife t o cut away the man’s clothing, though I failed t o understand the torrent o f Hebrew until someone said ‘knife’ in English and I fumbled for mine while the man died. Then the soldier just behind m e was shot b y a sniper behind a wall. H e was stretchered off with a

handkerchief over his face.

The weight and speed of the Israeli attack were beginning t o tell. More people started t o surrender, among them a large number of m e n in pyjama suits. Jordanian soldiers wore them instead of uniform, hoping t o b e mistaken for civilians. T h e Israelis were laughing and making fun

o f them, but I saw n o Israeli soldier mistreat anyone. They all seemed to venerate the city, and there was n o looting o r desecration. O n more 101

than one occasion I watched Israelis hold their fire when sniped at from

the roofs of religious buildings of any persuasion. Outside the city walls a tank battle could b e heard raging. T h e Jordanians had taken their tanks to high ground and were pouring shells into the city as Israeli armour moved forward to engage them. It was soon all over.

I slumped down, immobile after all the hectic action. I had no thought of what t o do now. “Why are you sitting there?’ an Israeli soldier called to me. ‘History is being made, m y friend. You must go to the Wailing Wall.’ “What's the Wailing Wall?’ I asked. I found the Wall through a series o f back alleys that today are cleared, leaving the wall exposed on an open plateau. In this warren of medieval streets Jordanian snipers had exacted a heavy price from incoming Israelis, who n o w stood with their faces screwed u p before the Wall against which they appeared t o be banging their heads. I took a picture o f those soldiers paying homage.

‘We've waited a thousand years for this, one man said t o me as soldiers were hugging and kissing each other around me, lifting each other off the ground while snipers’ bullets ricocheted off the Wall itself.

I spent time in the Dome of the Rock, where Mohammed was said t o have risen into heaven. N o w it was being used as a casualty station

and a holding area for prisoners. I took more pictures o f the victors

jesting over the vanquished. That evening I went back t o the Wailing Wall, where Israeli soldiers were standing around listening to news o f their victory o n radios

borrowed from Jordanian cars whose number plates were prized as souvenirs. Between newscasts the Israelis sang patriotic songs until

they were told to pipe down because they were making life easy for the few remaining snipers. I saw two Israelis killed by their own men. They were running t o the Wall i n the dark and were shot b y nervous sentries.

As the night wore o n it grew very cold. While the battle lasted we had been infernos, stoked with adrenalin; n o w we were drained and lifeless. I checked into the King David Hotel, scene o f the 1946 atrocity when an Irgun bomb had killed ninety, mostly British military personnel. I was told I could choose from any o f several hundred empty 102

rooms. | was too tired to take a bath before falling into bed. I slept like a dead man, and awoke next morning to see the sheets covered with red

dust. I remember thinking guiltily that I would be in trouble for that, and then made the mistake of asking for ham and eggs for breakfast! Unless I did something really flagrant, like asking for ham at breakfast o r expressing ignorance of the Wailing Wall, people seemed naturally to assume that I was Jewish. O n the other hand, in Israel you

realise that there is no such thing as a typically Jewish look. Several of the soldiers with whom I entered the city had blue eyes and fair hair. I had time for one social occasion—morning coffee with Cornell Capa, brother of the legendary photographer Robert Capa, who was killed in Indo-China while covering the war for Life magazine. Then, as I had already decided that I wanted t o get my pictures back as fast as possible, I hitched a lift back t o Tel Aviv, where I found Colin Simpson in the Dan Hotel, knee-deep in maps o f Jerusalem. It turned out that he

had managed t o climb back o n his tank and had entered the city through the St Stephen’s Gate. He thought that I might have been shot in the first assault and was relieved to see me. H e had spent part of his day in Jerusalem looking for my remains, even peering under the shrouds of the Dome of the Rock. I had been worried about censorship at the airport but in the event

just walked through. I was going so soon that they didn’t realise I was a newspaperman. They thought I was just another scared visitor baling out.

‘Why are you leaving?’ the man at the passport control asked me. ‘There is so much to see. We are victorious.’ The whole airport was in an exuberant state. We n o w know, o f course, that the great victories o f that war in Jerusalem, on the West

Bank, in Sinai and on the Golan Heights would provide the seeds of anguish in later years, but there was n o hint o f this at the time. All was rejoicing,

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15. ANOTHER DESERT WAR

I first encountered Viscount Montgomery o f Alamein in Egypt shortly before the Six Day War, and I'd had a bit o f a desert war with him myself. We were thrown together b y a Sunday Times stunt designed t o steer

him back into the limelight so that he could redirect all his old desert battles of the Second World War in print. The problem arose when I was asked t o take a picture of him. Monty had backed off with a pained look on his face. H e got into a lengthy discussion with the Sunday Times top brass escorting him and word came down the chain o f command that m y appearance was in some way not fitting for taking photographs o f the Field Marshal. It seemed that the length o f m y side-burns was

the chief cause o f offence. I put i n a special request t o return home. I n n o way was | going t o

cut m y hair to suit an old martinet, however legendary. I stuck to my

guns and ended up snapping away, side-burns intact. He liked people

who stood u p t o him. I had gone o n the trip expecting something o f a holiday. It was

my first visit since I had been to Egypt on national service, and instead o f employment as a twenty-seven-shillings-a-week skivvy I was going

back as part of a n international VIP junket. I was t o be back-up t o the official photographer, lanYeomans. Also in the party for the twenty-fifth Alamein anniversary were the magazine's art editor, Michael Rand, and the Sunday Times editor-in-chief, Denis Hamilton, a quiet and formal but nice m a n w h o had been a junior officer o n Monty’s wartime staff. It was he who had unloaded a succession o f Monty’s memoirs o n the

readership in serial form with tremendous success. For us, therefore, Monty had a double aura—not only was he a revered national hero, he was also good for circulation. I saw a different Egypt. We stayed initially at the luxurious old

Mena House hotel by the Pyramids, t o which I was inclined t o give better marks than on my first sighting twelve years earlier. In my room, 104

courtesy of the management, were a transistor radio, a bottle of eau de cologne, and a huge chocolate cake with “Welcome t o the United Arab Republic’ piped on the top. In the morning, I discovered that there was an Egyptian paratrooper standing o n guard duty outside each o f

our bedrooms. Even President Nasser seemed t o regard Monty as an honoured guest, and most of the top Egyptian brass paid court t o him at one time or another.

We moved o n t o Alexandria, t o a riot of red carpets and bands, in a marvellous old piece o f Hungarian rolling stock. W e were enjoying

an almost royal procession, though there was one rather awkward situation when a reporter and photographer o n the Daily Express tried t o penetrate the enterprise. It was Fleet Street at its most wily, attempting to get a slice o f the action—not unreasonably perhaps, for Monty was considered national property. I could see myself in their place and felt sorry for them, but it was a Times Newspapers deal and that was that.

The Egyptian authorities saw them off, protesting loudly. This stately progress continued until we reached E l Alamein. One morning a Russian helicopter descended from the sky and out o n the dunes emerged a man in full dinner jacket balancing a tray o f cold drinks for the party. Mike Rand almost choked. All laughter had to be stifled because o f the presence o f his military highness. Nobody could be seen t o be ridiculing the main event.

I had begun to think it was going to be nothing but suppressed mirth all the way when suddenly the number one photographer, lanYeomans, took sick. That was the moment when m y side-burns came under the scrutiny of the eye of history, and I found myself peering through the viewfinder at this wiry little man with the amazing translucent blue eyes that gazed back at you from a skull-like head. Monty, of course, was the entertainment. For much of the time he went around with General Sir Oliver Leese, whose main passion was

digging u p cacti in the desert for transshipment back t o England. Leese was a giant o f a man with a dreadful war wound which came o n exhibition when he tried to negotiate his bathing trunks. H e was also a very charming man, which is more than could be said for Monty. ‘Come on, Oliver, Monty would say. ‘Let’s have a talk away from these dreadful press people. When it was arranged for Monty to pay a visit t o Nasser, 105

we all gathered t o give him a good send-off. His parting words were, ‘Now I ' m going t o see General Nasser and you press people are not allowed.’ H e was a great one for pulling rank, and liked to rub it in, did Monty. I learned only later the story about Winston Churchill saying to

the King, ‘Sometimes I think Monty's after my job, t o which the King replied, “What a relief. I thought he was after mine. When we got to the battleground where Monty and the Eighth

Army had thrown back Rommel’s tanks, it was an anticlimax. Most o f

the remnants of war had long since been removed, though there were still dodgy bits of German S-mines around, still perfectly capable of blowing off your leg. W e were warned not t o pick u p anything, There

had been many serious accidents among the civilian population in an area that had been sown with millions o f anti-tank and anti-personnel mines. They gave Egypt its legacy o f amputees. After Monty had delivered a few lectures we started back in much

the same stately manner, despite unwelcome events taking place in the real world, one of which was the Colonels’ seizure of power in Greece. A telex arrived from the Sunday Times in London telling m e t o proceed to Athens immediately. Monty would have none o f it. ‘Donald will not go to Athens, he stated with an air o f finality. ‘He will remain with my party. Nobody leaves my party.’ I stayed with his party. One morning I was showing off o n the beach doing a handstand in front of the house cleaners in a hotel complex and I fell into a table full o f drinks and cups. There was a lot o f merriment. Oliver Leese must have told Monty that I was making the ladies laugh. “You must go home and cosset your wife, Monty said t o me sternly. ‘You must have nothing to do with ladies.’ When we were talking about women one evening, Monty came in with his wicked gleam. ‘You know Oliver’s got a lady.’ It was true, Oliver had a very nice lady whom he had known for many years, but Monty managed to cast a red light district glow over the enterprise. Jesting complaint was all part of Monty's funny way. He must have said w e were taking t w o years off his life at least a dozen times, and he was obviously having a whale o f a time for a man o f seventy-nine. Great m e n must be allowed their share o f oddities, though I think Monty had 106

more than most. One of the more inexplicable foibles was the shine he took t o me, and not just in the desert. When I returned from the Six Day War, he telephoned to invite m e to his home. It was Christine who took the call. ‘Are you the housekeeper?’ the piping voice demanded briskly. Once assured that he was through to the right number, he issued his request for m y presence at Isington Mill in the wilds o f Hampshire.

It would be a difficult journey, I figured, but there was n o dodging it. This was like a royal command. H e met m e at the station. The staff almost came to attention as he led m e out into the station yard where stood a lovely old Rover car. To

my astonishment, he himself was t o be my chauffeur. ‘Are you quite comfortable?’ he asked before he let in the gear

and began the slow, stately drive—at all of seven miles an hour. At one moment he dared t o lift a hand off the steering wheel and pat the dashboard.

‘This is real wood, this, he said with pleasure. “Two-thousandpound job, this vehicle.’

Lunch—a rather meagre meal—was served b y a little housekeeping lady in a room furnished in light oak. Afterwards I was escorted to an identical room upstairs—it even had the same books o n the coffee table.

“Winston Churchill gave m e that painting,” Monty said, pointing t o one o f the framed pictures o n the wall. ‘ I shall probably sell it one day.’ H e always had a wicked little kick-back in his remarks. Referring to

the consequences of the Six Day War he said, ‘Most of our friends

o f the desert pilgrimage seem t o have got the sack. “Would you like a beer?’ I think it was a very large concession o n his part—a non-drinking, non-smoking man—to pour a beer for me. A t four o’clock— ‘not a minute before, nor a minute after’ said Monty—the housekeeper brought in tea. A huge iced cake was placed beside the pot o f tea and cups o n a tray. Monty said nothing, just watched

her intently come and go. H e seemed to have little time for women. H e was like an old tomcat watching that programmed servant. H e handed m e a huge wedge of cake, and scarcely before I had finished was asking

if I would like some more. ‘ I f you don’t have it the rats will get it,’ he said, dangling the implication that the ‘rats’ might not have four legs. 107

I visited Lord Montgomery at least half a dozen times over the next three years. He would usually get in touch through Denis Hamilton, and the ceremonial of the visits was always much the same. O n one occasion, however, he had me photographing his flower beds, giving particular prominence to the red and white astilbe. Another time he honoured m e with a visit to his garage, where he opened the huge doors t o reveal Rommel’s caravan captured at the battle o f Alamein.

Usually we talked about whichever war I had just returned from, and he was always knowledgeable and precise. I remember the removal

of General Westmoreland at the time of Tet gave him particular satisfaction. He was the only person I called ‘Sir’, but I felt that this man had earned respect. As my view of him began to mellow, I saw the reality beneath all the honours as that o f a very lonely old man.

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16. THE BATTLE OF HUE

From my first visit t o Vietnam I always felt that the Americans could never w i n the war, for all their power. That sense was never stronger

than at their victorious battle for Hue. It was one of those occasions when the timing of my arriving in Vietnam went wrong—or maybe too exactly right. A s the Air France jet approached Bangkok I heard over the pilot’s radio o f the Tet offensive, the synchronised Viet Cong invasion, in the lull o f the New Year holiday,

of a hundred SouthVietnamese towns and cities, including Saigon itself. Astonishing things were happening, A Viet Cong ‘kamikaze’ volunteer had

leapt out of a taxi at the US Embassy in Saigon and fired the first rounds in the battle for the American citadel. Diplomats were said t o be returning fire from the Embassy windows. Four thousand guerrillas, smuggled in disguised as family visitors for the Lunar New Year, had materialised at the same time inside the city defences. The South Vietnamese H Q was under siege, so was the Presidential palace and Tan Son Nhut airport,

where we were supposed t o land. We were diverted instead t o Hong Kong, and there I sat, waiting, when the news came through that Saigon

had been reclaimed. The symbolic Embassy battle had lasted six hours and left twenty-six dead. I felt I should have been there to cover it. Some 37,000 people died in Vietnam in the aftermath ofTet. In that aftermath m y friend Eddie Adams, an American photographer, took the decisive picture—of the police chief, in public, shooting a bound Viet Cong prisoner in the head. More even than the M y Lai massacre, that picture was t o create a turning point in the heart o f the American people. N o longer were they in a war that they found to be

honourable. When finally I got t o Vietnam, I headed north, t o Khe Sanh. There, in a dustbowl in the hills o f north-west Vietnam, close to the North Vietnamese and Laos borders, a replay o f the French disaster at Dien

Bien Phu thirteen years before was taking place. 109

110

Shell-shockedUS Marine, Hue, 1968

Two crack North Viet divisions—directed from Hanoi by General Giap, the victor ofDien Bien Phu—had approached the bigAmerican base

in Khe Sanh down the Ho Chi Minh trail. One was the 304th, the very same that had led the assault on the French. Linking up with 60,000 troops already in the area, the North Vietnamese army (NVA) had surrounded Khe Sanh and its small strategic airfield, a key to north—south movement. The American Marines in the base—outnumbered eight to one—were virtual sitting ducks as their enemy tunnelled to within a hundred yards of the camp wire. Their lifeline was air support, on a scale the French

could never have conceived. The massive B-52 bombers dropped 5,000 bombs a day o n the besieging N V A and thousands o f tons o f napalm. [ flew up t o Da Nang, the huge US military base on the coast, still intending t o go t o Khe Sanh, though I was daunted by the amount of coverage it had received already. Reporters and cameramen were being flown in o n the planes which came to bring out the wounded. They were using American air superiority t o get their o w n job done. I had

the same thought in mind when I saw in the press centre a bone-weary David Douglas Duncan, an ex-Marine colonel from Korea, and a very, very good photographer. H e had rolls and rolls o f film from Khe Sanh. It tipped m y decision. What was the point in doubling u p o n David?

There was talk of a US counter-offensive t o reclaim the chief South Vietnamese city still in Northern hands—the Imperial City o f Hue.

This sounded a subject for me. Hue, an ancient mandarin walled city, stood o n the banks of the Perfume River u p near the demilitarised zone. It was the cultural capital o f Vietnam, Oxford and Cambridge combined. It had fallen in Tet to a force of 5,000 Viet Cong and NVA regulars, and their flag n o w flew

above its battlements. There was a large civilian population and some horror was expressed that such a place should become a battleground o f war. If the Americans were to recapture it, the action was bound t o involve heroic assault and close street fighting for the Marines. As with

Jerusalem, I was drawn to the idea o f covering a battle in an ancient city.

Under a heavy overcast sky, I joined the convoy of the Fifth Marine Commando as it started rolling u p to Hue. It ploughed through heavy m u d and rain, past houses collapsed and pitted by artillery, and columns o f fleeing refugees. It was very cold. 111

We trucked t o the southern tip o f Hue. The news was that the Marine force ahead o f us had liberated the southern half o f the city. The

task of the Fifth Commando now was t o free the Citadel, the walled city o n the north bank o f the Perfume River. A vast bridge complex running down into the river had been blown. Big spans o f it were broken in the middle. Ahead o f m e lay the northern

city of Hue, apparently dead, crawling with NorthVietnamese regulars, they said, a formidable and tenacious foe. Though not my foe. I never felt that the Viet Cong and the North Viethamese were m y enemy. Although I arrived in Hue looking indistinguishable from an American Marine, I was not o n an American mission. I was, what I always tried t o be, an independent witness—though not an unemotional one.

Waiting t o cross the Perfume River, I went out with a Marine patrol probing the firefights around the edge of the city, and checking out the seemingly deserted houses near the battle area. They went

round the houses in a very macho fashion, throwing their weight

around, rattling and banging their equipment. I hung behind, waiting at the back. They entered and emerged from a house. I heard one say to another, “There’s nothing in there but a dead gook.

I went in the house, to a dark room, and saw a mosquito net draped over the bed. There was a candle burning. As I moved closer t o the mosquito net, I saw a corpse lying behind i t , lying in a dignified way.

I looked and thought, That's a very small person. As I lifted the gauze, I saw that it was a small child in a grubby shirt. I let the mosquito net down and took stock. For the first time I pressed the emotional buttons that sooner o r later got pressed in war. I left that patrol thinking about that small boy, that curtailed small life, which didn’t amount t o anything to these m e n except as ‘another dead gook’. [ went back t o the command centre and found another patrol. They

were detailed t o routine mopping-up. Bunkers and air raid shelters were

approached with the warning cry ‘Fire in the hole!’ before a grenade was lobbed in. From one such fired hole emerged a family o f wounded Vietnamese civilians. When finally I reached the water’s edge I found a very tall US Naval Commander in charge o f operations. H e smoked a big cigar. 112

‘Good morning, I called. ‘ l ’ m from the Sunday Times in London and I've come into Hue with the Marines. Could you tell me when I could board for crossing the river?’ He looked down at me with utmost contempt. ‘Excuse me, he said flatly, ‘you will not board any o f m y boats. You will leave this compound

‘Well, I'm sorry, but I do have authorisation,’ I said, ‘and I have accreditation t o cross, and I ' m part of this set-up. ‘ I don’t give a damn. You will leave my compound. You will not board my boats.’ I knew I would get nowhere with this man. He was one of those JohnWayne types you sometimes came across, too busy admiring their

own performance t o take anything in. As I was walking away, thoroughly dejected, my eye fell on some Vietnamese soldiers boarding a pontoon assault landing craft further u p the river, out o f this man’s clear sight. [

darted through trees and gardens and surfaced close t o the pon-

toon. With a bit o f sign language, I got a friendly invitation to come

aboard. I dropped my height, bent my knees and waddled o n at the end o f the queue. The gate went up, the boat backed out, it turned and set

off downriver. I could see the huge, enthralled-with-himself Naval Com-

mander, standing with his legs apart, still smoking the stogie, surveying the scene. As we put-putted past him I stood u p to m y full height and put u p two fingers and gave him m y best smile.

O n the other side, I was getting ahead of the phase-lines, the plans of advance into battle, though I didn’t know it then. I left the Viets and found myself walking through mandarin gardens and waterparks, and by miniature lakes, within the confines of a medieval wall. It was peaceful. Then I heard small arms fire, and the crunch of incoming mortar. I had t o jerk myself out of this mood of pleasant strolling and remind myself o f the war.

I spotted some m e n taking cover in a roadside by the gardens. I

could see bandages, bloody bandages, and bloody flesh. I ran over t o them—they were Americans—and lay down in the same ditch. The crack of AK-47 rounds could be heard above our heads. “What's happening?’ I asked. ‘There’s a hell o f a lot o f V C ahead. We've got casualties already, and we’re waiting for the medics t o come. 113

At a distance, I saw a man sitting by a wall with a corpsman (as they called the medics) close t o the Citadel walls. I pointed out this scene t o the man who had spoken. “What’s going o n over there?’

“That’s a m a n who'll surely get a Congressional. He’s just taken t w o rounds in the face. I crawled along until I found this soldier sitting with his back t o the low wall. There was blood and saliva running down his face, and the huge

personal dressing he was applying was turning red as I watched. His eyes were like infernos, pleading with the pain. I raised my camera as he turned his head from left t o right, requesting me not t o do it. I backed off. Later, in a lull in the fighting, I crawled over t o another group of Marines who found me a tin helmet. One soldier, who had never met

an Englishman before, said, ‘Let me do something special for you. He conjured u p a magnificent fruit cocktail out o f nowhere. I was lying in a ditch, sipping this gift, when there came a most tremendous escala-

tion in the noise o f battle. The incoming mortars were terrifying but

so was our own back-up effort. The American fleet, fifteen miles away in the China Sea, were dropping shells in front of us in a co-ordinated pattern and, I later discovered, soldiers would spend sleepless nights

worrying about them dropping short. They were also bringing in Phantoms, just over our heads, to drop napalm. The actual canisters were released behind us to hit the Citadel

in front of us. So your imagination gazed upon this huge delivery of canisters with a lot o f apprehension.

Suddenly it grew dark. The Orientals believe that all sorts of demons are let loose at night, and sometimes they would prove t o be the Viet Cong

and the NVA, turning people’s fear of the dark t o their o w n advantage.I was too exhausted t o b e scared. Exhilaration and adrenalin exhaust you. Your nerve-ends, your antennae, are raw, hanging out. Normally they tell you everything, and they make you feel everything. I was exhausted,

but still excited and, above all, hungry. In the fading light, I hunted for food. The soldiers were issued with what they called C-rats, a personal pack with some tinned food. I knew that even after a long time in the field, there were some C-rats that the

soldiers couldn’t stomach. I soon came across plenty of discards of a concoction called ham and lima beans. 114

Spooning into my lima beans, I registered that, for the first time in m y life, I was in a battle o n a gigantic scale. M y previous Vietnam

battles, and the battle for Jerusalem, were skirmishes compared t o this. Only a few months earlier, in the euphoria after the Six Day War, I had said that I would like t o do war photography every day of the week. Hue was to teach m e a terrible lesson. The Americans had told m e they were going in for a twenty-fourhour operation. As the days turned into a week, and then a second week, I suddenly became an old man. I had a beard. M y eyes were sunken. I

was sleeping under tables in tin shacks, on the floor, shivering with the cold at night. I never took off my clothes, and I kept my helmet close by me, and a flak jacket for a blanket. I had acquired the jacket from the first field casualty station, where they cut the stuff off the wounded and the dead, and threw it o n a big pile. One morning I emerged from m y little hut and went in a n e w direction, t o the right instead of the left. O n the other side of the corrugated iron sheet which made up the side wall of this little Vietnamese house I found a dead North Vietnamese soldier. He had been lying almost head to head with me for days; shot in the mouth. The bullet had ripped its way through the back of his head. Such macabre sights were almost commonplace. You would find corpses or detached limbs. I went t o retrieve an object b y the roadside once and found it was a foot that had been run over by a tank. The human mutilation was matched by the physical mutilation. Hue, that beautiful city, was becominga city o f rubble. I heard some heavy incoming shells one morning when I was out with a Marine close to the Citadel w a l l . We both jumped into a foxhole by the wall, one that the NVA had dug for themselves for the impending Marine invasion. We were cowering under our helmets when the American said, ‘Goddammit, there’s an awful smell here.’ I noticed that this hole was not firm underfoot. Even though we were in sand, it was too soft. I looked down and saw a r o w o f fly buttons b y m y boots.

We were both crouched o n the stomach o f a dead North Vietnamese soldier and our weight had caused the stomach to excrete. Despite the shelling, we both leapt out and ran off in different directions, to find other bunkers. 115

In this kind of war you are on a schizophrenic trip. You cannot equate what is going on with anything else in life. If you have known white sheets, and comfort, and peace in the real world, and then you find yourself living like a sewer rat, not knowing day from night, you cannot put the t w o worlds together. None of the real world judgments

seem t o apply. What's peace, what's war, what's dead, what's living, You just live, what's right, what's wrong? You don’t know the answers. if you can, from day t o day. I was with some Marines one evening, probing below the Wall, when someone said “Tsai Kong’, the name for the Chinese stick gre-

nade, a small grenade like a lollipop. I saw the grenade lying between me and all the other soldiers except one, a tall gangling Marine who was standing behind me. I dived into the dip in the ground. There was a colossal muftled explosion, followed b y a rush o f fragmentation. I felt a lot of stuff hitting my legs, and my waist. My lower half went numb.

This is it, I thought, I’ve been wounded. I tried t o recall what I'd read about being wounded and remembered Robert Graves saying it was like someone hitting you with a forceful blow. There had been force-

ful thumps all over my body. I thought, Any minute now I ' m going to feel blood. I put my hand down t o my crotch. . . I had already called out, I suppose as a child would call for its mother. There was a shout of ‘Corpsman’. Then I felt down my legs. There was no blood, and there were no

holes, just the numbness. had been struck by all the debris and stones but not by the fragmentation. The gangling man had taken the whole lot in the back o f his head, under his helmet. H e was down, with blood oozing from his head and neck. The other soldiers were all firing in the

direction from which the grenade had come because that meant close proximity. Very close. Then the back-up came and they poured all kinds of M-60 into the area, heavy machine-gun rounds. We pulled back to the compound where Myron Harrington, the

commander of Delta company, was based. Harrington was now looking

with dismay at every n e w casualty. This was n o mopping-up operation. His company was fast being whittled away by the Wall. And only at the

Wall. One day I had stood chatting in a courtyard, and had just stepped into an adjacent courtyard for a moment, when a mortar shell landed 116

just where I had been standing, seriously injuring the two soldiers with whom I had been talking.

The Marines have a tradition; they don’t abandon their wounded o r their dead. Harrington would send out details at night t o bring back

anyone unaccounted for. I went o n one o f these night missions and felt as if | was intruding o n something very private. They were bringing t w o

bodies in and it was the first time I had seen aWestern soldier weeping. H e was black and was crying over a dead white comrade. [ took a picture o f another black Marine hurling a grenade at the Citadel. H e looked like a n Olympic javelin thrower. Five minutes later

this man’s throwing hand was like a stumpy cauliflower, completely deformed by the impact o f a bullet. The man who took his place in the throwing position was killed instantly. One day I took a picture that was not o f soldiers in action but o f a dead Vietnamese with all his scattered possessions arranged around him in a sort o f collage. It was composed, contrived even, but it seems to say something about the human cost o f this war.

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17. LESSONS OF WAR

Sometimes I crawled ahead o f the phase-line in order t o be in position to photograph the Marines advancing towards me. O n one such occa-

sion the advance was suddenly blocked and two men were killed right

The platoon commander next t o me, whereI lay eating dirt in a foxhole. had his throat clipped by a round from an AK-47, and I saw him trying t o get his finger into his throat t o stem the bleeding. A muscle i n his

leg had been lifted right back. I crawled over to him after most o f the

others had crawled away, leaving us extended. The officer began talking heroically about bringing fire down on us, for a diversion. ‘Listen, let’s not be irrational now, I said. Suddenly the remaining m e n were looking t o me for leadership. With the officer out of action, I was easily the oldest there. The fire was too intense t o entertain any immediate thoughts o f carrying the

officer t o safety, so w e held o n until the old M-60 came up again and gave us covering fire.

To my way of thinking, the battle plan of these Marines lacked sophistication. There was altogether too much charging straight down the line,

like American cavalry shooting from the hip. With the benefit of raised positions, NVA snipers were just picking men off. Through sheer force of numbers and firepower, it seemed that the Marines must eventually win, but at what cost? You could see that they were losing faith in the war. The swing o f public opinion against the war at home in the States was also manifesting itself here in the front line as it was being fought.

Several soldiers had told m e that if they got out o f Hue alive they would be writing to their Congressmen, opposing American involvement in the war. Most American soldiers were openly contemptuous o f the South Vietnamese troops who operated in the rear. Even in Hue you could see ARVN looting the possessions of the people they had come to liberate. One day a child appeared suddenly in the thick o f the battle. Thousands o f civilians still hid in Hue, though they tried t o flee from the 118

front lines, and this child just appeared, an unexplained presence so far forward in the battle. Everyone’s attention turned to i t . Soldiers became human beings again instead o f warriors. It hurt these nineteento twenty-two-year-olds to see this lost infant. Gently they shepherded him to a corpsman, who took him into a house and dressed the nasty

gash on his head. I photographed this being done by candlelight, and the soldier who carried the child away from the sniping and the mortar

fire did so as if he was making the most important delivery o f his life. The Citadel was eventually taken. It took such a torrent o f shells

to do it that there wasn’t much worth having. Hue was devastated. The

wooden houses had been blown away, the city centre was rubble. They had destroyed the city in order to save i t . Almost 6,000 civilians were killed in Hue, more than the military dead on either side. A t Khe Sanh, where the siege lasted seventy-seven days, the bombing and shelling exceeded five Hiroshimas. Yet this was not the whole cost. The minds o f the living were being mutilated as much as the bodies o f the dead. O n one o f m y last days in Hue I heard some whimpering behind a shack. Two Marines, real old rednecks, had got a little Vietnamese with a rope round his neck and were leading him around as if he was some kind o f pet billy-goat. They blindfolded and gagged him and made him kneel and lie down in the dirt. They put him through misery and torment. It was the same cowardly, murderous sequence I had seen in the Congo, now being practised b y apostles o f freedom in Asia.

Eleven days I had spent in Hue. . . I am not sure what it taught me. I don’t know if it taught m e anything beyond a new appreciation o f how terrible war can be. It certainly made m e ashamed o f what human beings are capable o f doing to each other. In a grim way I suppose it taught m e to survive, and part o f that new knowledge was knowing when to leave.

Very early in the battle, a Marine chaplain had come up and offered m e the last rites. H e had frightened m e , and I had said firmly, ‘No,

I don’t want that.” Somehow he put the fear in me, offering m e the sacrament, and the flesh o f Christ. I thought, this man is offering me a very pessimistic ending here. He spooked me. I thought, I've got t o

put some distance between m e and this man. 119

That night I mentioned the incident t o a friend. I must have displayed great emotion, because he urged me to take it easy. There are people at home, he reminded me, thinking of you. I was touched by what he said at the time, but it wasn’t until I got back t o England that I felt its full force. While I had been courting death in Hue, my little boy Paul had almost died at home. He had been playing with a bow and arrows, the ones with rubber suckers, and he had put one in his mouth. It stuck t o his throat, and he very nearly suffocated.

Before I left Hue I thanked Myron Harrington for what the Marines had given me—camaraderie to one who didn’t bear arms. H e told m e he would see m e in London. Wrongly, I didn’t believe him, and took m y leave.

I went down t o the casualty clearing station where they kept the body-bags, the plastic body-bags, and the living bones. I saw the priest w h o had spooked m e before, and he smiled.

He said, ‘Are you going t o Da Nang?’ I told him that I was, and he said, “Well, I ' m going t o Da Nang too. When the helicopter arrived they said there was room only for one person. The priest suggested I should take it. I said, ‘No, no, it’s your place, Father.You take it.’ ‘Don’t argue, I ' m your senior.’ I said, ‘Listen, I ' m sorry about back there. It just frightened me.’ “You don’t have t o explain, he said; ‘go. I got in that helicopter and flew down the coastline of Vietnam. I couldn’t speak, and felt as if I had aged twenty-five years. Another photographer aboard that helicopter, a very courageous Frenchwoman, Catherine Leroy, who had been among the Viet Cong in Hue o n the other side o f the battle, later astonished the world with her pictures o f

the war. She sat opposite and looked at me, and I gazed at her. I didn’t want t o talk t o her. I didn’t want t o speak t o anyone. I had a screaming in m y mind, as if the shell explosions and the fire were still raging there. Images o f blood and death and dying. It was all still there in m y

head. I was totally shell-shocked. In D a Nang I thought I could start to restore myself with a hot bath and a bed. Then, in the press centre, I met Fred Emery from The Times. 120

‘Listen, he said, ‘they want something in London urgently about what it is like u p here. Could you talk it through with me? Would you

do that?’ ‘Can I have a bath first, Fred, I said. M y sleep was a long series o f linked battle nightmares. To get home

I had t o fly first t o Saigon, and then t o Paris, where I found myself on stand-by at Orly. At ten o’clock there were still 100 people missing from the plane. Then I heard some of them coming, English rugby fans who had been t o the France versus England international. They were

singing through Orly, peeingin the pot plants, dragging fallen comrades. Fallen from drink, not war.

Years later I went back t o Hue and walked through that battleground, where I had been so close t o death, where I felt I was death’s permanent companion. It seemed so inconsequential, the whole thing. Those men who died, and those men who were maimed for life, went through all that, and it was totally futile, as all wars are known to be.

Without profit, without horizons, without joy. I remember there was a street in Da Nang called the Street Without Joy.They could have called the whole country after that street.

121

18. CHILDREN

OF BIAFRA

Five minutes after setting foot o n Biafran soil I was i n

jail. I

had made

the journey after hearing reports that a woman had reached Iboland with the severed head o fher child in a bowl you would normally eat your rice

meal from. M y Time-Life reporter colleague, George de Cavala, on the plane t o Port Harcourt, had been diligently typing up his notes. They thought we were spies. Five hours later we had talked our way out. I was free t o embark on one of the most emotional assignments of my life. As a nation Biafra survived for no more than three years. In each of these years I recorded its fragile existence, its struggle and its decline. The feelings around the Biafran conflict are n o w hard for Europe-

ans to recall. But in 1967 intense emotion seized not only Africa, but the whole world. A t one stage it threatened to split even my paper, the Sunday Times.

The breakaway fragment of Nigeria had become a separate country on 30 May 1967, when Lieutenant-Colonel Odumegwu Ojukwu proclaimed its secession from the Nigerian Federation. The Ibo, the dominant tribe of the n e w nation, had a prime motive for declaring independence—fear of genocide. George and I had just returned from the north of Nigeria, home of the hereditary enemy of the Ibo, the Hausa. It was from here that the woman with her gruesome rice bowl had fled. Here, in medieval mudwalled cities, Muslim emirs presided in feudal fashion. In the Strangers’ Quarters o f places like Kano, which we had just left, migrant Ibos

had been savaged, looted and murdered by Hausa and fanatic Muslim extremists. Almost 50,000 were said t o have died. The Ibos, intelligent and resourceful, seemed fitted t o escape their oppression and to declare the secession o f their eastern territory. They had the wealth ofNigeria’s oil andmineral resources in their lands.It later became apparent that some foreigners with oil and mineral interests were not averse to seeing the Ibo free of the uncertain politics of the Nigerian 122

Federation, where Britain still exerted a strong influence. Most of these outside interests were French. But Biafra’s fatal weakness lay in its inability t o defend itself. All the heavy equipment and most of the military organisa-

tion were on the Nigerian side. After a few weeks’ pause, the Federation,

under the leadership of General Gowon, decided t o invade. Totally outgunned, Biafra seemed likely to collapse in a matter o f

weeks but its resistance was fierce, and enduring, As the bitter conflict dragged on opinion polarised. While the French gave covert support t o the Biafrans, the British Government, behind a public pretence of neutrality, pumped large amounts o f arms into Nigeria. The Soviet

Union did the same, only more openly. Popular opinion in Britain was split, and this split was reflected b y m y o w n newspaper, where the Foreign Department took the pro-

Nigerian line, fearing ‘Balkanisation’—one breakaway state in Africa leading t o many more—while the magazine (with which I worked) strongly sympathised with the Ibos. We were influenced by the magazine’s guru figure, Francis Wyndham, a brilliant writer and a friend of mine. He was closer t o the fray than most. He knew Ojukwu. Harry Evans leaned t o the Nigerian side but he was much too good a n editor t o suppress honestly held alternative views. Throughout the conflict, the magazine ran Biafra-sympathetic pieces totally at odds with the view

in the paper as a whole. Such subtleties of British feeling of course had not penetrated t o the Biafran police who arrested m e at Port Harcourt. In their eyes I was suspect, merely by being British. And our wanderings in the north of enemy heartland could only make us more suspect. We had seen the army in Kano trying to contain anti-Ibo feeling there, b y patrolling the streets with staves and punishing looters—the same army that was trying to bring Biafra to its knees. We did have some explaining to do, but the Wyndham connection worked. One hour after our release I was taking tea

with Ojukwu.

H e was a noble and dignified man—a gentleman, I thought, and

well equipped t o handle the English-speaking press. He had been brought u p in Epsom and educated at Oxford. H e was thoroughly at home fielding our questions. Only one gave him pause—my request t o g o t o the front. 123

I got permission, though the circumstances were ironic. I went

with a French photographer, an ex-para called Gilles Caron. In terms of nationality we should have been on opposite sides. In fact, we were very good friends. The other irony was that, given the size of Britain’s undercover contribution t o the war, any bullet I encountered in this fray would have been paid for out o f m y own taxes. Two days later we joined a Biafran battalion which planned to cross

the Niger River and hit the Nigerian army from the rear. They had t o go behind enemy lines and creep up t o attack and seize a strategic bridge, the key central crossing from Nigeria t o the new Biafra, at a place called Onitsha. We had qualms when we saw the troops. It was a rag-tag outfit, 600-strong, many with the backsides out of their trousers. Some had equipment and a uniform, some had not. Many had n o shoes for this sortie into the bush. Winkle-pickers had high status. O n some bearers’

heads, cushioned on banana leaves, were borne very modern rockets. They also carried—to my astonishment and pleasure, though I thought more important things should have come instead—many crates ofbeer. Silently we crossed the Niger River into enemy territory. It was n o

smoking, no lights, and all very clandestinely exciting, I knew this was the real thing. Not just a charade laid on for the benefit of pressmen, as sometimes happens. We found a village in which to stay overnight and

then set off through swamplands with the soldiers. Progress was painfully slow. It took four days t o cover little more than thirty miles. And we were getting weaker by the day. Our provisions ran out long before we reached our destination. By the end Gilles

and I were chewing o n coconuts t o stem the hunger and dehydration. Still, there were limits to what I could be persuaded to regard as food. O n the night before the attack, one o f the bearers brought m e a meal just as I had taken off into the bush for a pee. I was conscious o f a patient but irritated presence behind m e while I performed and turned to see a man standing with a bowl which he held out for m e to take. I

could not identify the large round substance in it. “What's that?’ I asked in some alarm. I t is your meal, Sir. It is Congo meat. N o blood, n o bones.’ It turned out t o be a giant snail, the size o f a small goldfish bowl. 124

‘ I can’t eat that. You have i t . The m a n was delighted, and dug out the insipid flesh with great relish. H e wouldn’t otherwise have eaten that night. This was a meal prepared specially for the visitors.The troops, it seems, were going into battle o n empty stomachs. Before long I worked u p a powerful dislike to the colonel in charge o f operations, who went b y the name o f Hannibal. H e spoke English, strangely enough, with aYorkshire accent, and was married to an Eng-

lishwoman, though this did nothing t o soften his scorn for the British position over the war. As a result he didn’t like me. Gilles was altogether different and much in favour. By the fifth day friendliness between

Gilles and Hannibal had waned, and it finally disappeared when some deserters were spotted and rounded up. What happened t o them was quite unexpected. A t a clearing in the bush Hannibal drew the m e n u p into a square, like the quarter-basse employed at the time o f Napoleon. After orders

were given for the attack on the morrow, the men caught trying t o run away were brought forward to be disciplined. Three rag-tag people were

made t o lie down while soldiers of some rank (displayed by their better uniforms) went off to cut staves six feet long which they were flexing as

they returned. Punishment was twenty-five strokes of the rod. Gilles’s sense o f military honour was affronted by the spectacle o f the victims

rolling around in the dirt, biting their knuckles and trying not t o scream. Parched and in need o f fortification after the caning, I asked Gilles if he thought we could plunder some o f those crates o f beer we had seen. 1 went u p t o the man standing o n guard by the crates. ‘Any chance o f one o f those beers, m y friend?’ I asked in all innocence.

The m a n giggled, and then they all started laughing, eyes rolling hysterically as the camp became engulfed with laughter o n the night before the attack. I stood looking from one to the other with n o understanding o f what they all found so funny. Eventually one o f them explained after wiping his arm across his face. ‘ I t is not beer for drink-

ing, Sir. It’s enemy beer. Still in the dark, I said, “What do you mean, enemy beer?’ ‘ I t is for . . . we take a light, and we throw it at the enemy.’ 125

I went back t o Gilles more disturbed than usual. “This operation’s mad,’ I said. “That’s not beer at all, they're Molotov cocktails. They're going up against Nato rifles with beer bottles filled with petrol.’ Next morning the silence of fear was in the air. I said to Gilles, “This lot are definitely going over today.’ ‘T hope so. I want t o get this over and get back. Around nine o'clock in the morning, rather late in the African day which usually starts in the cool o f dawn, the first mortars started

dropping. There was a lot of running about, a lot of confusion. Men were already returning wounded from the front. One, with his intestines bubbling out from between his fingers, was trying to incarcerate his stomach with the palms of his t w o hands while he walked. I moved o n t o the front.

There, in the dense smoke and noise o f small arms fire, I met a horrific sight. I t was a jeep o n fire, a Nigerian army jeep i n the back o f

which sat a woman engulfed in flames. She was alight, burning from

head t o foot. I was harrowed by this sight of a human torch, slowly moving backwards and forwards, mouth open, emitting sounds, beyond all help. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ I said t o one of the officers. ‘Do something. Do anything, Put her out of her agony.’ And he said, in a drawly Sandhurst voice, “Why should I? She’s only a tart.’

I ran round the front of the jeep, and there was a Biafran struggling furiously t o get the clothes off the dead driver before blood and fire ruined them. Ahead o f us some m e n were being pushed in our direction. They were prisoners: Nigerian soldiers who, like the occupants o f

the jeep,

had been caught off-guard. Rapidly men started stripping the clothes off the soldiers’ backs

andblindfolding them. Hannibal was taking map co-ordinates. Someone came over and said, “What shall we do with the prisoners?’ Without

looking up, he replied, ‘Shoot them.’ Gilles said t o me, ‘ I don’t believe this. I had thought this was an honourable man.’ But Hannibal repeated the order.The Biafran soldiers 126

looked at each other a bit perturbed and very gingerly pulled back the bolts o f their AK-47s. Then they looked at each other again. The prisoners started weeping, and their legs were shivering: they were breaking out into uncontrollable crying and shaking. Then someone opened u p with an AK-47. A n d then there were more shots.

One of the prisoners seemed t o have become the main target of all the shots. He slumped t o the ground with a dreadful thumping of the body and a terrible heart-rending sound. This was followed b y an exhalation o f air. It was like a beast in an abattoir. I was rigid with

shock. I couldn’t move. The other man, who had been missed, was in full flood of tears, vainly pleading and begging. I stood there incapable of speech, incapable of movement. Gilles was also rooted t o the spot. It was a long time before we could speak a word to one another after that.

The bridge was taken, or rather our end of it. We moved on to the bridge. U p to this point the assault had been going according t o plan, but the Nigerians had managed t o regroup themselves and were counter-attacking. In the space o f an hour they dropped some 300 mortar shells around and o n the bridge. I remember to this day the sound o f the mortar shells as they were hitting the huge bailey-type

iron construction, the clattering echoes, and the ricochet of bullets coming off the ironwork. Things were becoming critical. I t was soon clear that our new position was not tenable. There was a general withdrawal fast. We

started moving away, aware that the operation had failed totally, retreating as fast as we could. I was very anxious not t o be left behind in a headlong flight. The sight o f two Westerners in Vietnam camouflage could easily have given rise t o the interpretation we were mercenaries. Most o f the mercenaries involved in the conflict were o n the Biafran side, though the Nigerians had Russian and English mercenary pilots. Once the retreat had begun there was general terror o f being captured. Fears o f reprisals for Hannibal’s methods o f dealing with Nigerian prisoners were n o w added t o the fears o f genocide. It became a rout. The walking wounded, and the too severely wounded, the crawling

wounded, started grabbing desperately at us, saying, ‘Please Sir, do not 127

leave me. Take me. Take m e with you, Sir. Please carry me, Sir. They were grabbing at my legs as I was crashing through the bush. There were men lying with their eyes hanging out, the socket gone; men lying with mortar wounds in their legs, unable to move and desperate with the fear o f being captured by the Nigerian army. The fire and the mortars kept coming, Leaving these wounded behind made it a terrible retreat.We were all, every man who could run or walk, intent o n saving our own skins.

We just crashed on and on, putting as much distance between ourselves and the bridge as we possibly could. W e were still i n enemy territory. A n d there was still the Niger t o

cross, and at least thirty miles t o go before w e reached the crossing point. We got to a village and a Biafran officer commandeered every bicycle in it. Gilles and I , and a Telegraph journalist who’d arrived, were

given bikes, and with a guide ahead of us who knew the dry tracks we pedalled furiously through the bush and the jungle footpaths. We made tremendous speed until we reached the Niger River where big boats were waiting to take us t o the comparative safety o f the other side. We reached the boats soaked in sweat, utterly exhausted. It was dark. We got into the boats and crossed the river.The relief at having kept our lives made it one o f the greatest river crossings we could remember. It was totally still. A galaxy o f stars hung in the sky but the air over what

was left of this hopelessly outmatched little Biafran battalion was heavy with disappointment and failure.

There were epilogues, both happy and tragic, t o this day’s events. I was not able t o find out what happened t o the wounded we had abandoned, but the Nigerians were in general far more merciful in victory than they had been reputed to be. They did not go in for vicious reprisals, o r bloodbaths o r genocide. They behaved well. Hannibal, in

contrast, became a wanted w a r criminal. Gilles was t o die tragically, in circumstances similar to the atrocity we had witnessed, as a prisoner, in another dark jungle a long way from Africa. [ went back t o Biafra as often as I could. M y access was due to the

offices of a strange public relations firm called Markpress, which operated out o f Geneva. They used to vet people who were trying t o go to Biafra. Unless you were wholly pro-Biafran you didn’t get i n . I became 128

a so-called trusty of this organisation. At that time the machinations behind the scenes in this war still hadn’t become apparent, but with each visit m y o w n belief in the soundness o f the Biafran cause dwindled. I went back in 1969 to work o n m y own. M y plan was go west u p t o the Okpala front where the 5 2 n d battalion o f the 6 3 r d brigade o f the

Biafran army was reported to be trying to break through the encircling

Nigerians. I made it t o the front but, as I got out of the Land Rover, m y legs buckled under m e in the sand. I had gone down with malaria, o r something very like i t .

I woke u p in a grass hut with a Biafran woman tenderly bathing m e

with lukewarm water. It was part o f a field hospital. A doctor injected me with what, he apologised, was not a virgin needle. I lay in a feverish daze for two days until I was strong enough to fulfil an engagement to eat breakfast at the army commander’s house.

Some fried plantains had been placed before me. I was politely trying to dig into them with the commander urging m e to eat, because

the attack was t o take place today, when renewed waves of fever and nausea overcame me. I hastily excused myself and collapsed vomiting in the sand outside, with my eyes, I ' m told, rolling all over the place. I passed out again and woke to find a woman wiping m y face with a leaf. I doused myself with water and was rescued b y one o f the Biafran officers. H e was very pukka, right down to the Sandhurst swagger-stick, except for a large pair o f wellington boots. H e fed m e some palatable

rice to strengthen me for the two o’clock push. A t noon they started bringing in ammunition. They brought in mortars: huge French ones, 1 2 0 sTo. go with them were precisely t w o shells. Then they started dishing out two rounds o f ammunition t o each soldier. I must have been looking askance, because m y rescuer— Captain Steven Osadebe—explained, ‘ I ’ m sorry, Donald, but we do not have much ammunition. We give each man two rounds. Then when we go forward, we capture Nigerian weapons and get more ammunition that way.’ Then the boys were paraded. I remember one, o f about sixteen. H e was wearing an ill-fitting, old-fashioned pinstriped suit. His feet were bare. Some o f these boys were ferociously disciplined for trying t o run away, they were beaten about the shoulders with the swagger-stick, o r 129

shaken and knocked about the head. All were lectured. The officer stood on his toes and sprang around using his hands, much like Jonathan Miller at the NationalTheatre. A whistle blew, and we went forward—myself still deliriously feverish—into the most fearful barrage o f Nigerian small arms fire.

It was as if someone had a huge whip and was striking the trees. The bullets were zipping through and cutting trees, cutting leaves. It was like music. A whipping mistral o f firepower. Then the mortars started coming i n . Soon m e n could be seen running with hands clutching at

ripped bellies, men running with bloody faces. A man next to me was thrashing about in the undergrowth. When he tried t o stand I could see that a bullet had gone through his mouth and taken out the side of his cheek. Another next t o m e was lifeless. I was trying to load m y camera and shoot pictures. Some casualties were coming in so fast that I slightly got the willies. I saw the commander bent over one o f the dead soldiers and talking to him as if he were still

alive. He was praising the man’s courage, and thanking him on behalf o f the Biafran nation. It was moving and alarming at the same time. I went back to the front line to where the wounded were being sent

and saw again the pinstriped suit, now with a bullet hole in its shoulder. I saw men carrying other men on litters, home-made litters. There was an old truck, which looked like a Dormobile van with the windows gone and the doors off. It was in an ill state o f repair. M e n were sitting in the truck and holding their wounded arms and legs. One was lying with his intestines dribbling out o f his hands. The Biafrans didn’t have the medical facilities you see in other wars. These people were pared down to the bone. A man with a huge gaping hole in the side o f his face could not be spared any morphine. Head wounds are less painful than other wounds, but they are still dire. Most o f the wounds in this battle were to shoulders, upper arms and the face, because the m e n were crawling forward o n their arms and knees. I asked the driver with his load o f wounded why he didn’t move off. "We cannot leave until we are completely full, Sir.We cannot spare the petrol. In the rear o f the battle I saw Captain Osadebe again, in an agitated state. H e had taken a Nigerian army round, a Nato rifle wound, in his 130

right leg. They'd pumped some morphine into him and taken him into

the house. He was becoming delirious. He said, ‘Donald, Donald, I ' m worried. Please, Donald, promise me you will go and tell the men t o move forward. They will listen t o you. I couldn’t face sending m e n further t o die, crawling o n their stomachs against insuperable odds and firepower, with their non-existent ammunition. Clearly, what I had been told was not true, there was no general advance o n a twenty-mile front. I also knew Steven needed some reassurance to still his agitation.

I said, ‘Okay, Steven.’ I went outside the house and lurked about, and then went back in again. He said, ‘Did you do that?’ I said, ‘Yes, Steven, they're moving forward. I was suffering from the after-effect of malaria, fear and reaction t o the non-virgin needle. M y body had had enough and was breaking out i n huge blotches. I found sanctuary at a big Catholic mission about ten miles behind the front. O n e o f the nuns had a remedy that stopped

the itching and the blotching almost instantly. I slept a long deep sleep o n a mission bed. It was through the mission that I came t o see the Biafran horrors that were t o leave the most enduring impression o n m y mind. I was

directed to a mission in the Umuiaghu area where I could see a different kind o f victim o f the war—the orphaned and abandoned children o f Biafra. They were also close to starvation. The war o f course had

disrupted all forms of agricultural production. Relief supplies, mainly from France, rarely got through. What food there was went to feed

army bellies. At the mission, I m e t Father Kennedy, one of those people who are both strong and good. H e took m e t o what had been a primary school but was n o w a hospital for some o f the many war-orphaned children. There were 800 there. As I entered I saw a young albino boy. To be a starving Biafran orphan was to be in a most pitiable situation, but to be a starving albino Biafran was to be in a position beyond description.

Dying o f

starvation, h e was still among his peers a n object o f ostra-

cism, ridicule and insult. I saw this boy looking at me. H e was like a living skeleton. There was a skeletal kind o f whiteness about him. H e 131

moved nearer and nearer to me. H e wore the remnants o f an ill-fitting

jumper and was clutching a corner of a corned beef tin, an empty corned beef tin. The boy looked at m e with a fixity that evoked the evil eye in a way which harrowed m e with guilt and unease. H e was moving closer. I was trying not t o look at him. I tried t o focus m y eyes elsewhere. Some

French doctors from Médecins sans Frontieres were trying to save a small girl who was dying. They are doctors renowned for going into the centre o f the darkness to help. They were trying to revive the little girl b y thrusting a needle in her throat and banging her chest. The sight was almost unendurable. She died in front o f me. The smallest human

being I had ever, in all m y grim experience, seen die. Still in the corner o f m y eye I could see the albino boy. I caught

the flash of whiteness. He was haunting me, getting nearer. Someone was giving me the statistics of the suffering, the awful multiples of this tragedy. As I gazed at these grim victims of deprivation and starvation, m y mind retreated to m y o w n home in England where m y children o f much the same age were careless and cavalier with food, as Western children often are. Trying to balance between these two visions produced in m e a kind o f mental torment. I felt something touch m y hand. The albino boy had crept close and

moved his hand into mine. I felt the tears come into my eyes as I stood there holding his hand. I thought, Don’t look, think of something else, anything else. Don’t cry in front o f these kids. I put m y hand in m y pocket and found one o f m y barley sugar sweets. Surreptitiously I transferred it to the albino boy’s hand and he went away. H e stood a short distance off and slowly unwrapped the sweet with fumbling fingers. H e licked the sweet and stared at m e with huge eyes. I noticed that he was still clutching the empty corned beef tin while he stood delicately licking the sweet as if it might disappear too quickly. H e looked hardly

human, as if a tiny skeleton had somehow stayed alive. M y mind was assaulted with every kind o f affliction that starving children can suffer. There was an English doctor cradling a dying infant w h o was determined t o stand o n legs devoid o f all strength. I n the other

arm she sheltered another child with a drip-feed tube through its nose.

Half-blind children with bellies like beer barrels (from malnutrition 132

A nine-year-old albino boy clutching an empty corned beef tin, Biafra, 1968

133

and kwashiorkor) stood on legs like sticks. One boy’s arms hung out of their sockets, attached only by thin strips of skin due t o the muscular collapse. Others lay dying in their own excrement with flies encrusting their sores. It was beyond war, it was beyond journalism, it was beyond pho-

tography, but not beyond politics. This unspeakable suffering was not the result of one of Africa’s natural disasters. Here was not nature’s pruning fork at work but the outcome of men’s evil desires. If I could, I would take this day out of my life, demolish the memory of it. But as with memories of those haunting pictures of the Nazi death camps, w e cannot, must not be allowed to forget the appalling things we are all

capable of doing t o our fellow human beings. The photograph I took of that little albino boy must remain engraved on the minds of all who see i t . Before leaving I found a young girl o f about sixteen sitting naked

in a hut, looking ill and very frail, but beautiful. Her name, I was told, was Patience. I wanted t o photograph her and asked the orderly if she could persuade the girl t o cover the private parts of her body with her hands so that I could show her nakedness with as much dignity as possible. But the sight of her stripped me naked of any of the qualities I might have had as a human being. The whiplash of compassion and conscience never ceased to assail m e in Biafra. We all suffer from the naive belief that our integrity is reason enough for being in any situation, but if you stand in front of dying people, something more is required. If you can’t help, you shouldn’t be there. Was I of any use at all t o the Biafran people? O r was I simply aiding a w a r that was not i n their interests, a secession generated b y

power-hungry zealots with no thought of the anguish and deprivation they left behind when they moved their weapons o f destruction on? I was ravaged and confused by this war as never before, and could see not the smallest justification for it. O r for my presence here—unless it was to remind people, through m y pictures, o f the futility o f all wars. Even the means o f m y being there, through the assistance o f Markpress, made m y position tenuous and dubious. This was a man-made

famine—made by the secession and the response t o it, made by the

134

greed and foolishness on both sides and, most of all, by the dishonesty o f the original conspirators who created the breakaway state. I never thought I had a great insight into politics. But it doesn’t matter when y o u see what I saw i n that mission hospital that day. It does

not require much political acumen to see what is so plain that it pushes itself down your throat. Richard West wrote a strongly pro-Biafran piece which appeared in the magazine with m y pictures, though the pictures were not partisan. I would like to think these images brought help to the beleaguered hospitals with their dying children. I knew my pictures had a message, but what it was precisely I couldn’t have said—except, perhaps, that I wanted to break the hearts and spirits o f secure people. All we knew at the time, though, was that neither words nor pictures could do anything t o halt the advance o f the Nigerian military machine. For once I resorted to a little direct political action o f m y own. One o f m y most tragic photographs was o f a Biafran mother trying to feed her baby with withered breasts. This I converted into a poster after it had appeared in the magazine. Francis Wyndham put a suitable inflammatory caption o n it— ‘Biafra: the British Government Supports This War. You the Public Could Stop It’—and then we fanned out and fly-posted it around the city. M y wife, Christine, and I paid special attention to our o w n area o f Hampstead Garden Suburb where the Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, had his home. As the months went b y and Biafra’s position became more desperate I was eager t o get back, but there was a problem. The differences between the pro-Nigerian and pro-Biafran factions o n the Sunday Times had become so bitter that they could not agree o n a suitably neutral candidate t o write about the war. Eventually, after much rancourous argument, they agreed to send the veteran Antony Terry. His qualification: he was the Central European correspondent, relatively innocent

o f African affairs. H e was, however, a very quick judge o f a bad situation. When we landed at Uli airstrip the officials there were trying t o commandeer all

the hard currency they could and issuing huge heaps o f Biafran paper

in exchange. As Tony came away from exchange control, stuffed with

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136

A twenty-four-year-old mother and child awaiting death, Biafra, 1968

his load of worthless currency, he gave me a look and said, “They’ve had it here, haven't they, this lot?’ We went to the front. Terminal demoralisation, it was clear, had set i n among the Biafran troops. General Ojukwu had already left, tak-

ing with him, among much else, his Mercedes limousine. Mountains of empty wine bottles outside the General Staff headquarters testified t o the lifestyle the little echelon of top leaders had pursued at the expense of their people’s starvation. By n o w I knew them as opportunist spivs. I took some food and others things for the children of a man called Chinua Achebe, one of the genuine idealists on the Biafran side. He was a novelist, who wrote a book called Things Fall Apart. That was precisely

what was happening now. He was a young man, an honourable man, a nice man. I remember the last time I saw him. H e took the gifts without

any emotion. He had cut off any feeling he may once have had for the one o r t w o Westerners he thought really cared. I felt he was looking through me, as if I didn’t really exist. And I could see that the ruin of Ibo culture had made him feel exactly as I had when coming out of Hue—totally shell-shocked. Biafra finally surrendered o n 15 January 1970, t w o days after my return. Despite all the hysteria, it is only fair t o record that the Lagos

authorities treated the defeated Ibos with decency. It was the only grace of that war.

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19. PEOPLE WHO

EAT PEOPLE

Though I have spent much o f m y life getting o n and off aeroplanes I

have never been at ease in them. Once the wheels touched the ground again I would feel in some way redeemed, as if I had been given a new lease o f life. Each landing would be a kind o f rebirth. I t was this feeling, not the actual air travel, that I was hooked on. By m y mid-thirties I had travelled, mainly by air, to over seventy countries; b y the end o f m y career o n the Sunday Times, to 120. N o t all m y travels involved wars. I also like exploring other countries for their own sake, though sometimes I got the feeling I might be safer in a war zone. This was especially the case when I teamed u p with travel writer Eric Newby and his wife Wanda. They had m e t in the war, after Eric had been picked up treading water i n the sea off Mussolini’s Italy. H i s Special Boat Section opera-

tion had gone awry, he had been taken prisoner and subsequently had escaped from prisoner-of-war camp near the Adriatic. Wanda was one o f the Resistance workers who spirited him out. They spent months together in the Apennines before Eric was recaptured by the SS. Since the war their life together had been a more agreeable adventure.

I had run into them first in Sardinia, when they were travelling slowly round the entire Mediterranean. I had gone to get pictures o f the bandits who had held hostage and killed a British tourist and his wife. The assignment was not a success. I was chased from the bandit hill town o f Orgosola, not b y bandits, but by irate old ladies wielding pitchforks.The occasion however cemented a friendship between myself

and the Newbys, which was t o confirm my taste for travel. They took m e t o India, where they were planning a slow and hilarious 1,200-mile journey by boat down the Ganges. Early in the venture Eric went to interview Prime Minister Nehru, and took m e along for the historic man’s photograph. In his book Slowly Down the Ganges, Eric recalled m y bobbing u p from a camera position behind the sofa and 138

saying t o the Indian premier, ‘You must find it difficult t o control this rough old lot.” My education still had some way t o go. Later I accompanied the Newbys o n a tiger hunt as guests of the Nawab of Paigah, Eric with a Holland rifle, me with my Pentax. Eighteen hours of waiting up a tree failed t o flush out a tiger, but eventually brought Eric face t o face with an outraged sloth bear. After dispatching one bear, Eric found himself confronted by its angry mate, with n o cartridge left. For a moment he thought that he would have to ruin his expensive and beautiful rifle by using it as a club, but then the Nawab,

whom everyone called Owly, stepped in and felled the attacking sloth with a shot that narrowly missed Eric’s ear.

‘Lucky, said the Nawab, ‘ I had only that one shot left.’ Afterwards, like someone in a fairy tale, Eric asked the Nawab if there was any favour he might do him, in return for the boon o f saving

his life. ‘What I'd really like; said Owly, the maharajah-who-already-hadeverything, wistfully, ‘is the bumper Christmas edition of Dog World. You can’t get it here because of the currency restrictions.’ I took away an abiding love of India. Kashmir—until the tourists flocked in—-remained my favourite place in the world. O n its lotuscovered lakes, which reflected the Himalayas, you lived on large fretworked houseboats left behind by the Raj. They were like old Oxford college barges, where bearers still dished up sensational Mrs Beeton— type cheese soufflés. In the daytime Eric and I would drift round the lakes, among kingfishers and floating islands, some with Mughal gardens o n them, in little boats called shikaras. Curtained and cushioned, they were a sort

of cross between a gondola and an Edwardian punt. The whole place was a magic amalgam o f Mughal and Anglo-Saxon civilisations, and it stayed in m y mind through much rougher experiences as an image o f how glorious life can be. I grew less fussy about food after India. I have even eaten rat, when

pushed a bit, though I drew the line at dog, which I saw Taiwanese women hanging out to air-cure o n washing lines. In Niger and Upper

Volta I was able, after a dusty eighteen-hour drive across the desert, t o countenance ostrich, washed down by warm goat’s milk. When people 139

140

Don and tribesmen, New Guinea, 1969, photograph by Tony Clifton

who have not enough t o eat offer you a delicacy, and would be offended by your rejection, you accept. TheTuareg left an indelible impression on m e o f human dignity in an ancient way o f life. There had been n o rain for seven years, and they were forced to beg, surviving in the main o n

aid hand-outs.Their nomadic way of life will probably die in my lifetime. Drought and disaster are not the only threats faced by the ancient p e o p l e s o f the w o r l d . T h e impact o f Western civilisation is

just

as

serious a matter. I was shown this graphically in Papua, where I went

withTony Clifton, one of the liveliest of the Aussie Sunday Times mafia, to record the gathering o f the N e w Guinea warrior clans at Mount Hagen. I t was an astonishing spectacle. To throbbing drum beats, 30,000 tribesmen were rioting around town in grass skirts in groups

of about 200. They were decorated in every hue of ochre and bird of paradise feather. Where once a bone would do for an ornament, it was now fashionable to wear through the nose the most recherche object that could b e found—ballpoint pens, plastic cocktail sticks,

screwdrivers and bits o f copper piping. O n e man wore across his

forehead, t o dramatic effect, a trouser zip. Someone had donated, as a n added decorative luxury, a five-gallon drum of Mobil oil. The tribesmen were gratefully smearing i t over themselves, an ochre substitute, as i f i t was sun cream.

Life in N e w Guinea today is much more deeply contaminated by such modern influences as alcohol; then, in the Sixties, it was still a place where people ate people. We made a ten-day trek into the rain

forest, t o the edge of the country of the Porgaiga and the Hewa, both practising cannibal tribes. With us were sixty bearers o f the Duma tribe, led by an Australian patrolman. We were taking supplies to the edge o f

the Porgaiga lands t o establish a food dump for a later patrol that would chart the unknown Hewa country and take a census o f its inhabitants. Like the warriors, all our bearers wore grass skirts. A t night they used

them t o roof and shelter the temporary huts that they built. They still

made fire with two pieces o f wood. Their trekking capacities were daunting. They had wide feet for their size, which took them unerringly over the slippery logs that tra-

versed the ravines. Tony, struggling t o keep up, fell between t w o logs and was saved only b y his gut. I n revenge for m y jokes about his

waistline, 141

he pointed t o my furry chest when I was washing, saying, ‘Jeez, man, you look like a busted open settee.’ Despite the jokes, things were decidedly reserved, spooky even, between us and the Duma. Though there was no record of their having eaten anybody recently, darkness brought o n a certain nervous tension. O n e night I introduced a snake, a green rubber

job I had bought

in Singapore, and conjured it out o f m y nose. It cleared the camp in a

second. After the Duma had come trooping sheepishly back, Tony and I found ourselves enjoying a n e w status, as miracle workers as well as

laughter makers. Most o f the laughs, it has to be said, were o n us. We met some Porgaiga o n the fourth day out, an experience which made Tony feel like a trout in a restaurant tank. They were small and muscular, with

droopy Napoleon hat wigs made from human hair clippings and decorated with brilliant yellow button flowers. Dog’s teeth necklaces and G-strings threaded with shells and beads covered the rest. Their last

known human repast had been t w o of their o w n tribe, eaten when they had run out o f other food. Hunger was the main motive for cannibal-

ism. It still happened, I was told, in remote villages when someone important died. The mourners would eat him t o absorb his strength and intelligence, as Stone Age Britons are said t o have done. Head-hunting for cannibal purposes, though rare, was still not unknown. The chief disincentive t o the practice was a very nasty brain disease called kuru, in effect something close to dementia.

One evening, at the furthest point of our travels, a member of our party shot a cassowary bird, which is the size o f an emu, weighs about

forty pounds, and which, for conservation reasons, should not be shot. The Duma tore out the feathers, then gutted it, split open the thighs with sharp bamboo, wrapped it in ferns and banana leaves and cooked it under hot stones. It tasted pleasant, rather like beef. We were told by a smiling Duma that you cooked a human being in the same way. I

decided that, even if had become less finicky about local food, I would always play safe with breakfast. I would go nowhere without my supply of Ready Brek instant porridge. The distinction between m y travel stories and m y war assignments was not always precise. I went to Guatemala to do a story about the 142

culture and kept overtaking the civil war. In Eritrea, where I was sent for a story about the revolutionary struggle, I ended up doing nothing but travel, very, very painfully. The rebel camps were over 100 miles into the trackless Sahara,

and our only method of approach (after effecting illegal entry into the country via Khartoum) was by camel. M y desert companions were Colin Smith o f the Observer, and Charlie Glass, a very pleasant American who later became celebrated both for his coverage o f Beirut and for

escaping from kidnappers who held him hostage there. Camels are unattractive beasts, arrogant, disdainful of man, and totally against doing what they're told. They move in a sort of tidal wave, heave and slump motion. If they gallop unexpectedly, you feel they will heave and slump you over their heads. I was prepared t o put up with my camel only because I had become more than a little addicted t o deserts. The dry heat evaporates all the

stickiness and sweat off your body, so you can travel for weeks without a bath, but, as the Desert Fathers and T.E. Lawrence claimed, the desert also cleans your mind. It triggers the mind, liberating a kind of psychic energy, and making space for you t o realise things about yourself. It really does produce a touch of mysticism, a sort of spiritual voice. That is, if your camel is behaving properly. Colin’s was not. Even flogging it (the standard nomad recourse in these circumstances) didn’t

have the effect of getting it t o move. The beast just started frothing at the mouth in a most alarming way, like a washing machine gone crazy.

Colin had t o get off and walk. We never got t o the Eritrean front. After w e jolted our w a y deep into the desert, there was nothing for it but t o turn round and jolt all the way back. I found myself in the desert again—this time with writer James Fox—to cover the war in Chad, where m y brother Michael had his posting with the Foreign Legion. It was years since I had seen him. The French Foreign Legion does not encourage contact with the outside world. I didn’t know if he was being ‘Faithful unto Death’, as the Legion’s motto has it, or if he was simply stuck with i t . I had caught

one glimpse of him in Paris, on a Bastille Day, where infantryman McCaullin, in all the gear—epaulettes, kepi blanc, and white breeches— was marching with the Legion down the Champs-Elysees. They were 143

performing their uncanny slow march with a fixed stare, to a stomach-

turning low chant. They looked like dead men on parade. Michael, at twenty-seven, was now promoted sergeant, and his unit was fighting rebels in the great land-locked country in the heart of Africa, bounded by Libya to the north, Sudan to the east, Niger, Nigeria

and the evil empire of Bokassa (the Central African Republic) t o the south. It was 2,000 miles further into the Sahara thanTimbuktu. Chad was so unstable that n o fewer than twelve armies could be marching o n its capital, N'Djamena, better known as Fort-Lamy. The French had once colonised i t . N o w they had sent in their Foreign Legion and

French troops t o back up President Tombalbaye in his struggle against insurgents. He claimed 95 per cent of the popular vote while half the population was in revolt against him. The activities o f tax officials had

ignited spontaneous uprisings among people who earned, on average, £12 a year. Libya’s Colonel Gaddafi, eager t o extend his own revolution, backed the rebels, who were mounting a spirited resistance. Short o f weapons—sharing one gun among ten—they sported impromptu

home-made devices such as barbed spears made from motor car springs, with which they had already killed five Legionnaires. When James and I arrived in Fort-Lamy, we found events taking

us away from Sergeant McCullin. His post, with 2nd para, near Mongo in the south o f Chad, had been under heavy pressure. Political exiles from the capital had combined with local chiefs to form a National

Liberation Front. The idea was t o capture Mongo, the administrative capital o f the region, and five other towns. Had it been successful, it would have split Chad in two. M y brother’s outfit, with the support o f

the French and Chadian security troops, had fought the rebels off, and the situation had eased. The immediate attack was now to the n o r t h , in the BorkouEnnedi-Tibesti region, near the border with Libya, an underpopulated wasteland o f desert and mountain ranges where nomads had declared themselves in revolt against the administration. We flew to Faya-Largeau, the largest town in the north, in a FrenchTransal troopcarrier full o f young and nervous-looking Berets Rouges and a tough Foreign Legion padre with thirty parachute jumps to his credit. H e was not a comforting sight. 144

We landed in the furnace heat of a desert airstrip, where the wind was whipping u p the sand. The Berets Rouges, in goggles and peaked caps, looking remarkably like Monty’s old Eighth Army, were grouping to move o n all-night truck rides into the mountains, to take u p positions.

The Legionnaires we had come across were truculent and suspi-

cious, addicted t o the consumption of large quantities of alcohol and endless talk about killing, We drove into Faya-Largeau past the wrecks o f armoured cars and transport trucks—Ieft there since General Leclerc’s

march through Libya in 1943. Faya was like some isolated French garrison o f the nineteenth century. Guns protruded through battlements and m u d walls. The tricolour flew overhead. A tidal wave o f the Sahara and its dunes crept u p to it as if reclaiming its rights. A n old man and his son showed us the magic o f the dunes. When you slid down them,

they produced an extraordinary singing sound, so loud it seemed to fill the entire desert. M y hair stood o n end. It was the most remarkable sound I ever heard. We joined one o f the convoys into the mountains, though not without difficulty. I tried to hitch a lift with a Dodge truck which I could see was carrying the Foreign Legion padre we had met o n the plane. The padre leaned out and sharply told m e it was full. I caught another truck. Three days later, as we were travelling in convoy, the Dodge toppled head first over the sheer end o f a sand dune. The padre

survived, with three broken ribs. I went o n patrols i n which trucks and jeeps would drive into mud-

walled ‘bleds’, o r townships, to find horsemen, identified as the rebels, galloping away at top speed. A bloody chase would ensue. It was after this sortie to the north that I heard some extraordinary news about m y brother, in a bar i n Fort-Lamy.

‘Sergeant McCullin?’ the Beret Rouge had said. ‘There has been

some problem with this m a n Some months earlier, it appeared, m y brother had been involved incident with his adjutant. The officer had come u p to him, strange a in apparently in high spirits, and stuck a pistol in Michael’s mouth, telling him t o stick ’em up. When m y brother had warned him, ‘Careful, it

might be loaded,’ the officer told him not t o worry and for reassurance 145

turned the pistol towards his own temple. He had then blown part of his own head away. The French soldier had also heard that there had been some kind o f tribunal o r hearing. The story sounded so improbable it was thought that Michael must have shot the officer. There were n o very close wit-

nesses, it seemed. He thought that my brother had been cleared, but wasn’t sure. It was James who managed t o fix the transport t o the outpost. He wangled me on t o a ‘milk run’, one of the French planes that took supplies around the camps. Only one seat was available so James, with some anguish, stayed behind. Arrangements weren't ideal for me either. I would have to return with the same plane—get in and get out in not much over an hour.

As we descended to a dusty runway in the middle of nowhere, and emerged into the hot wind, I saw a lean, dark, shaven-headed figure in dark glasses at the head o f a reception committee. Not in the kepi o f course, or even the khaki, but in off-duty sports gear, with trainers. H e looked very rugged, but was still recognisably my brother. He spent a long time arm-waving and gesticulating when he learned how little time I had. As he ushered m e to the bamboo hutted camp beside the runway he told m e he had organised hunting parties and patrols for my benefit. His arms flailed with the unfairness of it all, and [ realised that my brother had become more French than the French. O f his ordeal and the tribunal, he had an extraordinary tale t o tell. He had not been punished for the shooting, he said, because the adjutant was still alive. H e had lain o n the floor, his white neck-towel turning

red, moaning, ‘What is happening t o me?’ Michael said, ‘You've shot yourself.” Later, the wounded officer was well enough t o give evidence o n Michaels behalf. It was logged as a self-inflicted wound, and Michael was cleared o f all suspicion.

Over lunch Michael told me that Legion training was less harsh than once it had been. H e said that if ever he left the Legion he figured o n a security job. There were networks that could fix you up, he said,

as there were in the SAS and the mercenaries. The main difference between Legionnaires and the mercenaries was financial —the Legion

146

didn’t pay much. The Legion was also still toughly disciplined; mercejust a rabble. He told me that Legionnaires bought women from local tribes. In Algeria four were officially provided once a month, in cubicles, to naries were

service some o f the company, and Michael recoiled at this. M y brother

had a contract with a local man for his daughter. It worked out at £5 a month. They preserved the French military priorities: food, then women, and only after that la guerre. But the women you could see walking around in clothes that looked as if they had been shipped in by Oxfam were less than appetising. The Legionnaire’s most common disease, he said, was piles. It came from bouncing around in trucks over endless miles of unmade tracks. Michael’s unit would drive across desert scrub to mud-walled oasis

kasbahs, with their date palms and wells, and flush the rebels out. They would shoot them down as they fled. As in Vietnam, it was a dangerous place to be seen running, If contact was made outside the settlements,

there would be battles on the scorched plains between trucks and warriors on horseback. It seemed bizarre to me, in this era o f high-speed jets and rockets,

that there should be bush wars going on between tribesmen and Legionnaires. It also seemed an unequal war, between barely armed primitives and some of the hardest soldiers in the world. Selective pacification, as they called it, seemed more like the sport of hunting men than any kind of political programme. ‘I’ve got a really great present for you, Michael said as I was about to leave, ‘ I w o n it in a poker game. H e then flourished an elaborate

hunting rifle, complete with telescopic sights. ‘ I thought you could go hunting with it today, he said, ‘but now there's no time. Take it home with you.

I didn’t know what t o say. It was a mad situation, and also a mark of h o w far we had grown apart. It must have been well over six years since I had used a gun—I had stopped soon after I started taking pictures of war, when I got a better idea o f what guns could do. ‘What o n earth am I t o do with i t , I had t o say, ‘in Hampstead

Garden Suburb?’

147

He was upset by my attitude but I was incapable of accepting his gift. I left thinking Finsbury Park must have done something strange to both of us, for us to wind up in this godforsaken place. Two McCullins meeting o n a battleground in Africa. One offering a bad conscience

about not being able t o stay, the other offering a rifle. I felt sad as my plane took off, leaving that lonely figure in the bush. I would soon be home in Hampstead with m y wife and children. Then I

realised that pity was not the right emotion. My brother was completely at h o m e with what h e was doing. I was the one afflicted with doubt and

division. For Michael, war was now a disciplined profession. For me, it had become an abhorrence that I could not bring myself to leave alone.

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20. WOUNDED IN ACTION

There was a lethal atmosphere in Cambodia from the start. When I arrived I learned that three American network television men had been ambushed in the jungle and killed by an insurgent force known as the Khmer Rouge. Even more distressing for m e personally was the rumour that Gilles Caron, my friend and rival from Biafra days, had fallen into the hands o f the Khmers. [ hurried round t o the office o f Agence France Presse t o get the

latest word o n his disappearance. All I found were a lot o f gloomy faces

and Gilles’s travelling bags, all packed. They had been lodged in the hotel for safe-keeping, but they would never be reclaimed by their owner. Yet despite the ever-present danger t o them, correspondents still thronged to Cambodia and its capital Phnom Penh. Before it was touched b y war it was always said to be an exquisite place. Richard West once wrote: ‘ I have seen the past—and it works.’ But even after the country

had been sucked into the war it retained its charm. Newspapermen,

jaded by the jagged edges of Saigon, came t o look upon a Phnom Penh posting almost as R and R. The people were different, softer altogether, with friendlier faces. Compared t o Saigon, everything in the Cambodian capital seemed smaller and cosier, and the Americans were much thinner o n the ground. N o t that their presence wasn’t much felt. When I first went there, in June 1970, Prince Norodom Sihanouk, aruler o f infinite craftiness when it came to playing off East against West and vice-versa, had finally fallen off the tightrope. His replacement b y General Lon Nol was said to be more suitable to American interests, and few coups took place in South-East Asia in those days without a suspicion o f CIA involvement. In this case the suspicion was almost certainly correct.

The American administration, under President Nixon, was already embarked o n a secret bombing campaign in the west o f Cambodia t o destroy the infiltration routes from the north, down through the 149

Parrot’s Beak, into Vietnam. It was no secret of course to the Cambodian peasantry who bore the brunt. The massive scale of this operation, conducted mainly by high-flying B-52 bombers known as “Whispering Death’, was concealed from the American Congress for many years.

The Cambodian army, which enjoyed a less than awesome reputation, had been bolstered with a lot o f support from the South Vietnam-

ese army, which operated with the Cambodians in much the same way Americans operated with the Vietnamese in Vietnam. The enemy was invariably described as ‘the VC’ though in most cases it was the indigenous Khmer Rouge who presented the problem. There were strong

links between the North Vietnamese and the local guerrillas, but the Khmers would subsequently assert their independence with ruthless

and terrifying effect. It was a hot sticky day, with a monsoon approaching, as I flew by helicopter towards Prey Veng, thirty miles east of Phnom Penh. It was known to be an area o f intense Khmer activity as the guerrillas tried to cut communication between Saigon and Phnom Penh. By the riverside you could see the Vietnamisation of Cambodia as before I had witnessed the Americanisation o f Vietnam. Boys were cadging chewing gum and cigarettes. The Vietnamese general I approached for a helicopter ride wore a baseball cap and was smoking a big cigar. To my request, he said, ‘Sure, n o sweat.’ When we got over the front line, the pilot decided it was too risky t o put the machine down. Instead he hovered a few feet above ground while we jumped out. I came down new Marks and Spencer desert boots first and landed u p t o m y crotch i n a rice paddy. A n y resemblance

between the smartly attired photographer who had left Phnom Penh that morning and myself was n o w purely coincidental. O n an embankment b y the rice field I saw a lot o f soldiers milling around and two Khmer prisoners, n o more than seventeen, bound hand and foot. That evening I made myself unpopular with their captors b y giving them some chocolate and some water, which they accepted with a kind o f resigned courtesy. They had given u p all hope o f survival. Cambodia can be enchanting by day, but it is spooky by night for Westerners and Orientals alike. T h e Vietnamese are very superstitious 150

about ghosts. They bedded down t w o by t w o for reasons that were not erotic. One soldier said to me, ‘Eh, you, you want to sleep me?’ and I was glad of the offer. So we paired off in the stubble of the last crop of rice, little twosomes all over the field. M y partner took out his ‘indigenous rations— t w o plastic bags of pre-cooked rice—and spread his groundsheet for us. From the direction of Prey Veng w e could hear the sound of tracer bullets, B-40 rockets and 120mm Chinese mortars. All this was eclipsed by the arrival of what was known as ‘Puff the Spooky Dragon’, a droning old Dakota with a faint red undercarriage

which suddenly burst into an incredible yellow, like a huge sunflower in the sky. The parachute flare glided slowly to earth lighting up the countryside, and then came the pyrotechnics, as the gunship rained down fire o n the illuminated targets. For some strange optical reason, however, it actually looked as if the bullets were pouring back into the gunship. In my half-awake condition, it seemed the most phenomenal fireworks display, a great, if sinister, piece of theatre. Next morning a platoon of Cambodian soldiers showed up, looking like gypsies. They arrived in basketball boots, baggy trousers and all kinds of exotic headgear. They had AK-47 automatic rifles and a standard-bearer who proudly held the Cambodian flag aloft. The plan was that they should go in first across the rice paddies to see where the fire was coming from and, if possible, link up with some beleaguered troops in a hamlet, less than a mile away. The Vietnamese commander advised me against going with them, but I was too keyed up not t o go. As we set out—a little platoon of no more than a dozen men— the Vietnamese were calling out insults to the Cambodians, ‘Number Ten’ being the most popular. We crossed three dry rice fields and then some that were full of water. Suddenly a hail of fire rose from a line of trees and the water started splashing u p around us like fountains. There

seemed t o be a great many fountains round me, possibly because I was

a head taller than anyone else on the march. There was a ridge to m y right, and I managed to lie in the water with m y head almost under while m y right hand held the cameras propped o n the ridge. I made u p m y mind to move away from the bank and get behind the radio operator. M y one thought was to avoid a head 151

wound, and I thought the big radio should give me some shelter. I was in a panic, and began to feel that someone was drawing a line o n m y

position, and would keep firing at me whatever move I made. All over the paddy there were figures up t o their necks in slime.The absence of any returning fire indicated that most of them had discarded their weapons. I edged away from the radio operator and bumped into three m e n in black outfits lying face-down in the water. They were Khmer Rouge, killed in the previous day’s fighting. I noticed that one

of the dead men was wearing ‘Ho Chi Minh 1,000 milers’—the name for shoes made out of car tyres. Worry about staying alive mingled with concern t o keep m y cameras dry. I made it back to the ridge and crawled on my back the 200 yards t o the edge of the paddy. When I got up t o run the last stretch, it was like a bad dream. M y legs were like two heavy weights. I was doing a sort o f zigzag run and the mortar fire was hitting the ground all round me, earth exploding in huge cascades. I was labouring under the camera equipment and the sodden clothes and heavy fear. When we got back, I crashed out in an exhausted state at the feet of the Vietnamese commander, who smiled at me when I looked up. H e had told m e so. I started to check over the condition o f m y cameras and found that one of my Nikons had the perfect imprint of an AK-47 round. The discovery was oddly exhilarating. I thought t o myself, Boy, you've done it again. You've managed t o get away with it. N o mood was ever more fleeting.The commander came over again and said, “We are ready. Are you ready?’ Old Skyraider aeroplanes had started t o bomb the flanks of Prey Veng t o keep the VCs’ heads down, and the 400 men of the South Vietnamese Crazy Buffalo battalion were moving i n .

I crossed one field with them before I heard sniper fire again and lost m y bottle. I lay down and became a coward. But I couldn’t forgive myself for losing m y nerve; shame got m e to move again. A Vietnamese corporal came u p and shooed m e on. ‘Go, go, you are with crazy buffaloes. Go, mister, go. These buffaloes rarely stood more than five feet in height but their numbers made the advance impressive. We crossed more fields, then dropped down into a little valley and, before we knew i t , were trotting 152

along the road into town. It was just gone ten o’clock in the morning but seemed as if a whole day had passed by. The arrival o f rescuers was n o great occasion for rejoicing. T h e V C went o n stepping u p the mortar

fire into town.

I found a huge rice store full of women and children crying, I felt wretched in front of them, and they seemed suspicious of me. I pulled out packets of peppermints. At first some of the kids resented the gesture, they thought I was evil, but others began to enjoy the sweets and t o smile. Pretty soon y o u could hear twenty sucking mouths. I found

myself getting tearful as I took pictures.

With VC mortars still exploding, reinforcements started t o arrive. By nightfall there must have been over a thousand soldiers in the little town.

Around t w o o’clock in the morning there was a very loud crunch. I woke stiffly and reached for m y helmet. Two mortars had landed o n the compound where the Cambodian soldiers had been sleeping. Ten o r more were injured. I walked away. Enough was enough.

When I woke in sunlight, you could hear the birds. It was a sign, better than any peace treaty. I knew the VC must have moved on. However, there was still work t o be done. Near where I had been sleeping I found a low wicker bed with a dead man o n it covered b y a white

sheet. I looked closer and saw t w o little feet sticking out beside him. They belonged t o a pretty little girl with dead staring eyes. I wandered off and came across two dead Khmers in a pit. They looked like exhausted lovers o n a b e d .To the official war machine these

men were just part of the body-count that was supposed t o define military success. It was all highly dubious. Commanders would always overcount and often lump in ordinary civilian deaths just t o make up

the numbers. The Vietnamese claimed a body-count o f 150 V C after the battle but I saw only about thirty o f their dead. I got the first helicopter out o f Prey Veng that morning, along with a bunch o f wounded Vietnamese soldiers. The pilot, still apprehensive about Khmer ground fire, climbed too quickly for his engine revolutions. As the helicopter plummeted back towards the earth I had plenty o f time to review m y life, but the only thing I could take in was the extent o f the gold fillings in the screaming faces o f the soldiers. 153

Somehow the pilot pulled his machine around and we made it back t o Phnom Penh without further surprise. Jon Swain, the Sunday Times man in Phnom Penh, had the face of an English schoolboy, which indeed he had been until very recently. He was an alert and resourceful correspondent, always ready to help those who came in with his local knowledge. I asked him t o let m e know if he

should hear of any firefights on the city outskirts. A couple of days later he called in at my hotel to tell me o f some Khmer Rouge activity in a

place called Setbo, only a short distance from the city. He was due t o attend a press conference that afternoon—with Marshal Ky, the South Vietnamese war leader who idolised Hitler—and proposed t o run m e

down there t o link up with some Cambodian paratroopers who were probing the area, and t o pick me up when the press conference was finished. I felt reassured at the prospect of being with paratroopers, always the elite troops in any army. W e took a route snared with roadblocks but enlivened b y friendly

Cambodian soldiers. About t w o miles from Setbo we came across a cluster o f highly coloured buses which gave the impression o f an English trav-

elling funfair. Soldiers in red and yellow scarves, with personal flower arrangements and wearing flip-flops, turned out t o be the Cambodian paratroopers. Their commander said that where we were going there

would be ‘beaucoup VC’. T o me it all seemed too lackadaisical to be real.

The sun was streaking golden light through the leaves of trees beside the Mekong as we stopped o n the embankment above it. The trucks behind us were loaded with sacks o f rice and pots and pans, but I could also see machine guns and mortars being lifted down. The soldiers grouped and then moved forward. Khmers must have been watching us all the time.

I was walking in front o f a jeep, with soldiers probing forward, when the breeze from the river blew off m y jungle hat. As I went to retrieve it from the middle o f the road, a hail o f AK-47 rounds started

pouring round me, whipping and lashing. I could see the road spitting

dust as the bullets struck, andI dived down the side of the embankment where houses o n stilts stood in the water. I peered back at m y hat, still i n the road, defying m e t o pick it up.

Bodies, some bearing red wounds, came tumbling down the bank. The 154

commanders then started to mount the semblance o f a counter-attack and I went back u p to the road with them.

I crouched behind a jeep. As the m a n with m e made t o move forward we were rocked b y the blast o f a tremendous explosion. I could

feel ringing in my ears, and stinging in my legs, and the shock waves blasted m e backwards. M y ears were in terrific pain. I realised I was deaf. I was in a daze and could feel something burning. I looked down and saw blood coming from m y legs and crotch. I tried to get away. Instinctively I wrapped m y cameras and half-

crawled, half-scrambled down the embankment. Some men fell on top o f m e and were treading o n m y legs. I knew from the pain o f their impact that I must have taken some wounds. I dragged myself o n hands

and knees for a couple of hundred yards, falling into a pit of wounded men—one o f them with two holes in his stomach—and then into a pit

full o f ants. M y legs felt as if they were o n fire.

With the fate of Gilles Caron so fresh in my mind, I was determined not to be taken prisoner. Like Gilles, we had walked into a classic ambush. I wanted to get at least 300 yards from the point o f ambush before I would allow myself t o feel at all safe. I thought o f hiding the camera bag and swimming for it in the Mekong. It might even ease the pain in m y legs.

Then I came across the medics behind a culvert, trying t o patch up some raw, red flesh. Two paratroopers saw me and dumped me in a house where there were more wounded. I wasn’t taking very much

in at that moment. I was only interested in getting m y trousers down to see what had happened. M y dick was bleeding like a pig but it had only been nicked by a piece o f fragmentation. The more serious area was m y right leg, which had taken four mortar fragments, one in the

knee joint. I had another wound just above the knee of my left leg. I still could not hear properly. Someone jabbed a morphine needle into m y right leg and the next thing I knew I was being dumped unceremoniously with the other

wounded o n t o the back of an open lorry. To my horror, they turned the lorry round and backed 300 yards towards the ambush from which I had

just fled. They wanted t o pick up more wounded, among them soldiers who had got the worst o f the mortar explosion that had hit me. 155

156

Don, French Hospital, Phnom Penh, 1970, photograph by Kyoichi Sawada

As they brought the wounded t o the lorry and started piling them in, the Khmers suddenly opened up with another round of mortars. The driver ran away. We were left on the back of the lorry taking a lot of incoming flak while the wounded were screaming and trying t o hide. I

recognised the soldier lying next to me. H e was the man who had been

just in front

o f m e by the jeep when the first explosion took place. W e

had shared the fragmentation, but he had taken most of it in the stomach.

With some courage, the Cambodians were still loading the injured o n t o the lorry under heavy fire. Eventually the driver was located and

forced t o come back. I cannot say how relieved I was when we drove away from that place. As we passed the primitive medical station there was new encour-

agement. Jon Swain, true to his word, had come back in his little black Citroën, and I heard him sing out, ‘Okay, matey. You're going straight t o the hospital. I ' l l follow The deafness and the shock were wearing off. I took m y mind oft the pain by photographing the wounded soldiers. The day had become evening as we wound through the leafy suburbs of Phnom Penh, and caught the sweet smell o f cooking. People o n verandahs looked down nonchalantly to see the distorted shapes in our lorry. The shock would just begin to register on their faces as we pulled out o f view and they realised how close they were t o the battle. The man beside m e with the awful stomach wounds sat u p and was kicking his legs, pleading for life. Minutes later I noticed he was lying down again, his feet drumming too perfectly with every motion of the lorry. I knew that he had gone. It could so easily have been m y dead corpse rattling. I thought, He’s gone instead o f me. There were chickens running round the hospital. Jon Swain did not think it was satisfactory. H e had m e whisked away in an ambulance to a French civilian hospital where I slept for most o f the next ten days. The only excitement was a telegram rushed round from the British Embassy. It had been facilitated by the British Foreign Secretary, Michael Stewart, and was a ‘get well’ message from m y fellow Sunday Times photographer, Tony Armstrong- Jones. A n ambulance took m e to the airport, where I found that the Sunday Times had splashed out by buying m ea first-class ticket. I couldn’t help 157

thinking that you had to go to ludicrous lengths before you merited this privilege. O n the way back I had plenty o f time to reflect o n m y first battle

wounds, but there seemed little of a profound nature t o be thought o n the subject. I must have seen thousands o f wounded o n battlefields since I first started going to the wars. W h y them and not me?

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Don, French Hospital, Phnom Penh, 1970

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21. BESIEGED

M y leg wounds did not detain m e in England for long. Generous indus-

trial injury terms did not seem t o apply t o war correspondents, and I had a mortgage t o clear and the dream o f a n e w home in the country.

I was back in action again within four months o f the Cambodian

adventure—under fire with my colleague Murray Sayle in Amman. One of Murray’s many nicknames was “The Camel’, which derived from his ability to go for enormous lengths of time without any visible means of sustenance. It was an ability that came in particularly handy when I shared a room with him for ten days at the besieged Intercontinental Hotel. Inside the hotel there were breakdowns o f every form

of supply—heating, lighting, food and water. Outside there was the near-certainty of death by sniper fire. For the most part, w e stayed in. The siege for us and several score o f the world’s press was caused by what was known as ‘The Battle of the Beds Versus the Feds’. The ‘Beds’ were the fiercely loyal Bedouin troops of the Jordanian King Hussein; their battle-cry was ‘Allah, Malik, Watami’ (God, King and Country). The ‘Feds’ were the fedayeen guerrillas fighting on behalf of Jordan’s huge Palestinian community.

The conflict centred on who was running Jordan—the King or the Palestinians? A punch-up had been in the offing for some time. All that

was required was the spark—provided ultimately by the Palestinians when they hijacked three Western airliners, one of them a British VC-10, and brought them all to land in Jordan at a place called Dawson’s Field. It was an amazing feat, which highlighted the government’s impotence, and its

inability to control what was happening o n its own territory. [ went t o Dawson's Field t o photograph the planes as smouldering

ruins. The passengers had already been evacuated, many o f them to the

Intercontinental. When I got back t o the city, the Jordanian army had taken t o the streets and were attacking Palestinian strongholds around the city. 160

In our hotel, a Swedish reporter took a bullet in the leg; just down the road, in a smaller hotel, a Russian correspondent was shot between the eyes. The electricity and the water supply packed up, and we were

told the whole city was a no-go area t o correspondents. Because the hotel was bursting at the seams everyone had t o double up. This was how I came to be living on intimate terms with “The Camel’. I did not know Murray Sayle very well, though we had been with the newspaper roughly the same length of time. In his early forties, he was the oldest of the Aussies, and by far the most complicated. He was a large m a n with a large nose that almost quivered with inquisitiveness. People would say that he could talk the legs off a donkey without ever letting you know what was in his mind. H e was considered eccentric

though this may have been because he never dressed any part other than his own; he once turned up t o a reception at the Athenaeum wearing a crash helmet and a T-shirt with ‘Bloomsbury Wheelers’ emblazoned across the front.

He had suffered a disappointment in life—the suppression, for alleged libel, of his novel about journalism, A Crooked Sixpence, which opened with the rhyme: There was a crooked man Who walked a crooked mile

Hefound a crooked sixpence It wasn’t enough.

Before Amman my contacts with him had been brief. In the Six Day War I was nervous o f him, afraid that he might trample over m y inside track o n Jerusalem. We should have met u p in Prague in the spring o f 1968, when Russian tanks rolled in to crush Alexander Dubcek’s hopes for socialism with a human face. I made it to the Czechoslovak border but the word ‘photographer’ in m y passport put paid to any further penetration. A n understanding official at the British Embassy in Vienna told m e I had ‘lost’ m y passport and issued m e with a new one in which I

featured as a ‘businessman’. While I continued t o languish o n the wrong side of the border, Murray cruised in with a car brimming with sales leaflets and some cock-and-bull story about a trade fair. 161

The only time we actually managed to work together was on a story about the American crack troops, the Green Berets, in Vietnam a year earlier. For the most part, he went his way and I went mine but w e did meet u p at Loc Ninh, a n isolated Green Beret fortress near the

Cambodian border. Murray aroused hostility in the garrison b y going

to interview a French rubber planter who was thought to be in the pay of the VC, but this was a mark of Murray's professionalism. If anything, Murray was o n the hawkish side inVietnam—few correspondents wrote as sympathetically about the ordinary American soldier—but he was nobody's partisan.

In the Amman siege, Murray was never idle. While at Dawson’s Field, he had picked up a charred coffee pot in one o f the burned-out

airplanes. He used t o sit, wholly relaxed in his long john underpants, polishing it back to normal as if he were under contract to the airline to clean it up. Somehow he wangled himself o n the organising committee, run on strict prison camp lines, and Murray would receive complainants

while polishing his pot. There was no shortage of complaints, especially when the food was reduced t o what seemed like pigs’ trotters and rice. Resentment also fastened o n those people who had presciently filled

up their baths before the water was cut off—should they share, o r were they entitled to the whole reservoir? The big problem, however, was the odious toilets, eventually solved when Murray’s committee

organised the digging o f latrines in a protected part o f the gardens at

the back of the hotel. For much of the time even the briefest glance out of a hotel window was greeted with a barrage of fire from both sides. People kept their heads down, but all ears could pick up the din of battle, and sometimes more than the din. Arnaud d e Borchgrave, a snappy dresser w h o worked

for Newsweek, went t o his bedroom wardrobe t o find that a bullet had punctured his suits—all thirteen o f them. It took troops two hours to clear out one half-completed block opposite the Intercontinental. I could see four snipers being led away.

Then, during the night, new snipers infiltrated, and it took three hours to clear them. And so it went on. There was some education t o b e had from hanging around and listen-

ing t o the wit and wisdom of Murray Sayle. He believed that journalism 162

only required three things: rat-like cunning, a plausible manner, and a little literary ability. But for me the situation was most unpleasant—cheek-by-

jowl with my peers, with no scope for independent action. After five days I decided t o break out o n my own, only t o be sent back at gunpoint by the Jordanian army patrol just outside. Next day, when the fighting had died downa little, I asked Murray if he would like to exercise a little o f his cunning and come with me for another

attempt. We both agreed that the objective should be the home of the First Secretary of the British Embassy, who lived only a few streets away and was said t o be in daily contact with the King. This time the patrols were less vigilant and we made it. We returned

with the promise that a n army jeep would call for

u s the next day t o

take us t o Hussein at the Palace. We were on t o a big ‘exclusive’. The jeep arrived when Murray, taking advantage of renewed water supplies, was in fully soaped condition in the bath. I had to run

back downstairs and tell the Jordanian army, and by extension the King, t o wait while Murray Sayle finished his ablutions. Fortunately they did. As we came hurrying through the lobby, you could see the other journalists sniffing that something was afoot. Most of the correspondents had entered into an arrangement to pool their information. The reasoning was that all journalists were operating at a disadvantage, so it was only fair that any available scraps should be shared. I never liked

such arrangements, and usually made myself scarce when anything of that nature was being discussed. As we were nearing the door, Arnaud de Borchgrave, the m a n with the punctured suits, made t o cut us off. ‘Where are you guys going?’ ‘None o f your business. ‘ I want to remind you guys that this is a pool

‘It’s not a pool for me, I said. ‘ I don’t pool for anybody.’ The exchange concluded with him calling me ‘a bastard’, and my promise t o see him when I got back. Siege conditions rarely improve people’s tempers. There was no way Murray and I were going t o risk our necks for a pooled dispatch. We got to the Palace to find King Hussein in high spirits. H e reckoned that his gamble had paid off. The fedayeen had been crushed, he 163

said, and the rest was mopping-up. He looked forward t o an immediate restoration of law and order, which would include lifting the siege of the Intercontinental. We got all this, but not quite exclusively. A BBC Panorama crew was there too. And an obscure row broke out between Murray and a BBC man whom I happened to know slightly from Vietnam. Murray seemed to think the BBC crew were trying to pull a fast one b y organ-

ising a Friday transmission (which would scoop him) rather than the usual Panorama spot o n Monday (which would leave Murray in front). The BBC m a n seemed t o think that Murray had poached his questions, though why Murray should ever need anybody else’s questions was a mystery t o m e .

That evening we gathered at the First Secretary’s house for a mild celebration. The diplomat’s wife was serving the drinks. It was best-

behaviour time. I could hear this ludicrous r o w rumbling up again, and suddenly it took a turn that was to provide m e with the most terrifying moment o f the whole civil war.

Murray grabbed my arm and piloted me out into the garden, where he proceeded to take a pee over the First Secretary’s rose bushes. Simultaneously the First Secretary’s wife came out to hang some washing o n

the line. In an agony of embarrassment, I began thinking that pissing o n English roses in a foreign field might even constitute high treason.

Fortunately the diplomat’s wife did not see us, o r pretended not to. I could hear Murray, all oblivious, wittering on about this friend o f mine who seemed to have some kind o f problem. . . Later in the week I met Murray glowering over his typewriter in the bar o f the Intercontinental. H e was saying that nothing n o w would persuade him to file a story, and I got excited about our missing the biggest story o f the week in the world. Murray remained resolute. It seemed that the features editor had got u p his nose by telling him to write t o the brief “The City That Committed Suicide’. Murray was saying it was just like those egomaniacal deskmen back home.Their idea was t o write the headline first, regardless of what the slobs in the field were saying, and then mangle the words t o fit in. He raved on. There

was n o way this city had committed suicide; most o f its citizens were

still alive and, being built o f stone, it was in no danger of collapse. H e 164

was damned if he was going t o file t o fit the preconceptions of a man whose arse never left the office.

There was much in this tirade with which I could sympathise, but none o f it amounted t o a reason not t o

file. W e had t o

d o our

job, I

said, even if we didn’t like how others did theirs. I was coming on like a b o y scout, but Murray was just winding m e up. H e had already filed before I entered the bar. But the last laugh belonged t o the features editor. M y pictures, along with the dispatches o f Murray Sayle and Brian Moynahan, all

seamlessly welded together, appeared under the headline ‘In the City That Committed Suicide’.

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22. RAIN FOREST GENOCIDE

I have argued with a lot o f journalists in my time, and the fault was

often not theirs. I could be bad tempered and erratic, especially in the approach t o a big assignment. Friendships with writers sometimes came under strain, and occasionally broke down. While running repairs

could usually be effected at the nearest bar, there would always be some legacy of damage. There was one writer, however, who always brought o u t the best in me. His name was Norman Lewis, and in a way I became his disciple. Norman was the kind of man you could pass in the street without realising anybody had gone by: tall, slightly stooped, with glasses and moustache. I t was hard t o imagine yourself in the presence o f one o f the world’s greatest adventurers. H e was old enough t o be my father, and this may have been relevant t o our relationship.

I had n o difficulty in being deferential to him, and he never seemed t o find it hard t o be kind and considerate t o m e . Over a period o f twelve years we teamed u p whenever we could t o go to some o f the most inaccessible parts o f the world, and on only one occasion did

we exchange cross words. It had been a tough assignment among the Panare Indians in the Venezuelan interior and we were weary as we stumbled back across

the Orinoco. I had torn the flesh off my ankle while pushing the ferry boat off a sandbar and Norman walked into an iron bar that formed part o f the ferry canopy and landed flat o n his back with a bloody gash across his forehead. There were options o n the other side. We could charter a small plane that would get us t o Caracas in plenty o f time for the flight home to England. O r we could make a riskier connection b y taxi—a

horrendous journey of some seven hours. There was no doubt in my mind, given our condition and the possibility that Norman might be concussed. It had to be the airplane. But Norman didn’t trust small 166

Norman Lewis, 2001

167

planes, which he believed fell out of the air all too frequently. So we took the bruising taxi ride instead. It wiped me out, but it left Norman,

in his seventies, as composed as ever. I served an apprenticeship before working directly with Norman. come back from Brazil in 1968 with an amazing story about had e H genocide o f the rain forest Indians in the Amazon. Mineral and land

speculators, in league with corrupt politicians and officials, had continually usurped the Indian lands, destroying whole tribes in a cruel struggle The food supplies in which bacteriological warfare had been employed. o f the Indians had been poisoned and epidemics created b y issuing them

with clothing impregnated with the smallpox virus. Norman had covered every aspect of this hideous saga, except the pictures. The Sunday Times magazine asked m e if I could reach some o f the threatened tribes and provide suitable photographs to go with

his powerful account. Before I left London, Norman himself gave me a precise briefing on what he wanted, though he warned me that it wouldn't b e easy.

I soon began to feel it was impossible. Stuck in Rio, getting the mañana treatment every day from Brazilian officials, I couldn’t see any way o f getting to the Indians. Eventually a man at the Ministry o f

the Interior recommended that I go and photograph the Kadiweus, a mounted tribe often referred t o as the Indian Cavaliers, who could be reached by a missionary plane.

Though it was not my objective, I was interested enough t o follow this up. I remembered Norman telling me t o beware of what he called the ethnocidal tendencies of the North American missionaries in Brazil. H e saw them as the instrument b y which the Indians lost their

land, their self-respect, and finally their identity. I had no structured religious beliefs myself, but this judgment sounded harsh t o me. I had seen missionaries in Biafra and other countries, who seemed to m e to be working for the general good o f the people. All that I found remaining o f the Kadiweus were a few sick and starving women and children who rode even hungrier-looking horses down to the mission house to beg for scraps. The American missionary there did not seem greatly interested in them. H e was busy o n his

168

translation of the Epistle t o the Galatians into Kadiweu, and expected to finish the work in another ten years.

‘But won’t they be dead by then?’ I asked. ‘Yes, they will,’ he said. “Then what's the point?’

The missionary gave this some thought, and said, ‘It’s something I can’t explain, something I could never make you understand.’ I began t o get some inkling of what Norman might be on about. I really wanted t o get t o Xingu, in the heart of the Amazon forest, where t w o dedicated anthropologists, the Vilas Boas brothers, had created a secure place in which a number of endangered tribes had found refuge to live in their own style, without any danger o f missionary c o n t a c t . The Boas brothers shared Norman’s view o n the subject.

After more days of frustration in Rio, I finally managed to fix it. [ flew into Xingu on a Brazilian air force plane as the companion o f a

visiting doctor of tropical medicine. I presented my letters of accreditation to a short, grizzled, muscular man who said, “They don’t matter to me. We don’t want you here, the Indians don’t want you.

I felt like a man who had just climbed Everest only t o get turfed off when six inches from the summit. The one thing I had not antici-

pated was that a photographer would come in the same category of contamination as a missionary. It would be five days before the aircraft returned and, from the hostile reception I was getting, it looked as if I

would be spending them with my camera bag unopened. That evening, as the Boas brothers and their staff were about t o sit down to dinner, I said, ‘Before I left Rio, I bought a few things—

cheese, salami, bits and pieces from the delicatessen—that I would like you to share with m e . To people contemplating another night o f rice and beans, this had a wonderfully melting effect. Besides, I had shown respect for the Indians in the short time I had been there. They must

have seen that I wouldn’t behave like a tourist. Anyway, for whatever reason, there was a complete thaw.

I felt greatly honoured t o photograph the tribes, some of which were pitifully small in numbers. Overrun by diamond hunters two years earlier, the Tchikaos had been reduced from 400 t o forty-three. The

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Kamairos were highly musical, blending their music with religion—*‘we speak t o the Gods with the sweet music of flutes’. I was invited t o attend a ceremony where the women—naked except for the smallest shreds o f rattan—danced frenziedly t o the rain god. I spent time with the men—some o f whom were six feet tall, and all o f them muscular—as they anointed their bodies with extraordinary colours and ochres. With the children I chased insects and caught an

enormous grasshopper, all of seven inches long. A t the end of it all the Boas brothers set the seal o n our friendship by presenting m e with a magnificent Indian headdress.

I took the grasshopper back t o Rio, smuggled it t o England in m y camera bag and arrived in Hampstead Garden Suburb in time for

Christmas. ‘I've got something really interesting t o show you, I told the kids. There were screams of delight when the grasshopper emerged, though ten minutes later it died. That trip made friends o f Norman Lewis and me. We often spoke

joint expedition, though it would be another t w o years before we could get together. By then, early 1971, I was deliberately o f making a

trying to broaden m y range as a photographer. I didn’t want t o give u p war reporting but I also didn’t want t o get a reputation for repeating

the same images.

What impressed m e about Norman was h o w meticulous his approach was to an expedition. His level o f research was quite incredible. I used to think that he had uncanny powers o f prediction but in

just k n e w a lot. “Tomorrow, said Norman, on the third day of our first expedition together, ‘you will see pagan rituals o n the steps o f a Christian church.’

reality h e

Sure enough, this was one o f the strange sights that Chichicastenango, in the heart o f Guatemala, had to offer.The church bell had been replaced b y an Indian who squatted in the tower thudding an enormous drum. Chichicastenango was the kind o f place that Norman thoroughly

approved of, a place where the ‘civilising mission’ of the white man had been slowly throttled. It was an almost all-Indian town fifty miles from the nearest qualified doctor, and yet it seemed to be in good healthy shape. The combination o f Indian life and old Spanish colonial architecture made for a certain style. I can remember writing h o m e 170

from the comfort of my four-poster bed in the Mayan Inn and thinking, This is the life. Norman loved the small details and turns ofphrase in life. I remem-

ber inexpertly trying t o beat down a man who was selling a silver figure, and I asked Norman t o intercede with his gift for languages. After a brief exchange, Norman turned to me laughing and said, “This is a very smart man. H e says he is not dealing in vegetables.” Other sights and sounds were less agreeable.

In Guatemala City, w e noticed a large skinhead population but they bore n o relation t o the British ‘skins’. They were the result of police initiative in dealing with the hippie problem. In remote Tekal, the greatest of the ancient Mayan cities, situated in the largest rain forest in the northern hemisphere, the view was suddenly marred by the appearance of fifty combat-ready paramilitaries. Guatemala was, as usual, in the grip o f a civil war, with left-wing

guerrillas in the hills and right-wing death squads in the city. The most feared group was called Ojo por Ojo (eye for an eye). After nine o'clock at night (curfew time) the army shot anything that moved. Each morning the Prensa Libre would list the corpses found round Guatemala City. Norman made it his business t o find out what progress had been made since 1954, when the left-wing President Arbenz, whose reforms threatened the holdings of the United Fruit Company, was overthrown in a coup organised by the CIA. It transpired that fewer than 200 families still owned 98 per cent o f the land. Norman thought it could be safely said that Guatemala still retained its status as a banana republic, and the most murderous one at

that.

Meanwhile, there was still the consolation o f small pleasures, and Norman found another one at our last port o f call, Puerto Barrios, an almost wholly negro town o n the Gulf o f Mexico. Upon hearing the most fearful screams outside our hotel, we went to investigate. Round the back o f the hotel we found the source o f the commotion—dozens o f big rats in cages.

‘It’s highly likely,” said Norman, with his schoolmaster’s chuckle, ‘that w e are looking at tonight’s supper.’

171

23. HIDING

BEHIND THE CAMERA

M y first book of photographs, called The Destruction Business, was published in 1971. The paper was cheap and the printing diabolical, but I was enormously proud o f it. Putting it together gave m e the chance to assess where I had been and where I might be going. I wasn’t about to find serious fault with m y o w n work but I could see there was an emphasis on soldiers at war rather than civilians in war, though when the casualty numbers were finally added up it was often the civilians who had suffered the most. In future I wanted t o reflect more o f what happened to the women and children caught u p in war, and the chance to do so came sooner than I expected.

In March 1971, soon after I came back from Guatemala with NorThe West Pakistan army man Lewis, civil war broke out in East Pakistan. moved in with the intention o f destroying all Bengali ambitions for an independent state. The brutality of their intervention would soon give the green light to involvement by the Indian army.

Like most photographers, I was not eager t o go. This was not due t o the risks, but mainly because of the lack of them. Both the Pakistanis and the Indians were highly skilled at not letting newspapermen anywhere remotely near the front. I went to the Indo-Pakistan war o f 1965 and for m e it was a total wash-out. Nothing but a diet o f briefings way

behind the lines, something for the reporters t o nibble on but useless for photographers. If they ever took you t o what was called a front, you could bet it was last month's front.

Confident that I wouldn’t be called upon, I went ahead with booking our first family holiday abroad. We settled o n Cyprus, a place which had a special significance for me. I still read newspaper reports about the Pakistan conflict, and remember being riveted one morning b y a story in The Times. It spoke o f the possibility o f a million

people fleeing the war and crossing the border into India. It

seemed

a staggering number o f people t o b e dispossessed and homeless at 172

one time, and in a country where the monsoon rains were due any day. I spoke t o Mike Rand at the Sunday Times magazine and he gave m e the go-ahead t o do what I could o n m y own. I had less than two weeks, though m y deadline this time was imposed not so much by the newspaper as the family holiday.

By the time I flew into Calcutta, a million refugees was looking like a flimsy underestimate. I took a cab and headed north. It was soon apparent that the problem was beyond counting,The road was an endless

flow of people: of people carrying the crippled; of the crippled carrying the more crippled; of people on sticks with legs that bent backwards. Every form o f human disfigurement, in terms o f emotion and physique, was going d o w n that road towards

Calcutta.

I stopped at Hasanabad, about fifty miles north, t o take some pictures. The little railway station, which would have looked busy with a

hundred people on it, was now the only shelter for 8,000 refugees. You could see the families with bundles all down the track. I arrived near the border where a battalion o f the Indian army was camped under canvas. All the soldiers were o n full alert. M y first thought was that I might stay with them but they said it wasn’t possible: they were expecting to be o n the move into East Pakistan at any moment. They directed m e instead t o a church d o w n the road.

The Catholic sisters there said I could have a bed, on one condition. I would have to be ready to vacate it o n Saturday night when the travelling Father arrived for a night’s sleep before Sunday Mass. It was the beginning o f a chain o f kindnesses that sustained m e through the catastrophe. Transport was supplied by a bicycle from the neighbouring farm, and I pedalled off to find the refugee settlements. They were dotted all around, some in old vacant buildings, others in tents supplied by the Indians, still more in primitive grass huts. They all told the same tale o f dispossession and misery.

I had a strange anxiety. The rains had not arrived. Each morning

Themonas I pedalled out the sky was brilliant blue, almost cloudless. soon o f course is a great blessing in a land with the ever-present fear o f drought. N o w the flooding could only make the plight o f the refugees more dire. Either way, the outcome was not in human hands. 173

I had just five days left, and that morning had travelled less than a mile on my bicycle when I felt the first droplets of rain on my cheek. By the time I got to the little cluster of huts that marked the settlement of thousands o f refugees the monsoon was raging, and its effect was more devastating than anything I could have imagined. Already weakened people were collapsing under the weight o f the torrential downpour. Husbands were carrying dead wives, and I could see men and women carrying dead children. There were virtually no medical supplies, and within twenty-four hours of the monsoon starting a cholera epidemic had broken out. Often I found myself not wanting to look at what I had come to photograph. As I went quietly about m y work I was never made to feel intrusive, yet I was horrified and heartbroken. M y abiding thought was that those comfortably at home in Britain should see h o w these people were suffering, I saw one woman cradling her dead child whom she had carried round all day. When finally, towards evening, she squatted down and released the child it seemed even more sad than when she had clung to the corpse. In a makeshift hospital I saw a man and his four children clustered round the sickbed where their mother lay foaming at the mouth, her eyes spent. The nurse told m e that she was dying because she had been given the wrong drugs. When finally she died, the family went into a frenzy. “What happens now?’ I asked the nurse helplessly. She answered patiently. “Well, we're going t o take the bodies from here to the dead body tent over there, so the m e n can take them away. The dead woman was carried out o f the waterlogged hospital and her stretcher put down beside the body tent. The family waded across and lay down beside her while I was taking pictures. They couldn’t believe their mother had gone. I felt as if I were using the camera as something t o hide behind. I stood there feeling less than human, with no flesh o n me, like a ghost that was present but invisible. You have n o right t o be here at all, I told myself, my throat contracted and I was o n the verge o f tears. ‘Mister, where will you go?’ I asked the man in a trembling voice. ‘ I don’t know, he said. “To Calcutta maybe. And what would Calcutta do with him and his family and the two million other refugees? 174

I gave him every rupee I had in my pocket. It was t o help me, as well as him. I photographed the refugees under the monsoon rain for four days

before my cameras started t o give o u t . The leather cases disintegrated and the water got in, while my own body became shaky from a diet of tea and bananas. Emotionally I was drained. I thought o f m y pictures

as atrocity pictures. They were not of war but of the dreadful plight of victims o f war.

Before flying home from Calcutta I went t o visit Mother Teresa’s House of the Dying, where I saw marvellous work being done for the destitute. There was a dignity about the place, and I took some pictures of Mother Teresa who, unlike the refugees, seemed very practised before the camera. As I left I decided to stay with victims and to look more closely at

conflict through civilian eyes. There was no need t o travel the world t o find what I wanted, for the situation was there on my own doorstep, in Northern Ireland. I can vouch for the effectiveness of the CS gas used by the British army against riotous demonstrators in Northern Ireland. The first time I received a serious dose, in the Bogside area of Derry later in 1971, I went blind. The demonstration had become ugly, with rubber bullets and great shards of glass from shattered milk bottles flying around. Then, suddenly, a tremendous burning sensation seized my nose and throat, and forced me t o close my eyes. I can remember groping my way back from the fray and leaning my face to a wall. I was thinking that if I could zone in o n an area o f total darkness and flick m y eyes open, the trouble would go away. It didn’t work. As I stood there in total darkness—eyes, nose, throat, ears, mouth, all burning—I felt a great lump in m y back. It was

a rubber bullet. Behind me a voice said, ‘The bastards. The inhuman bastards.’ I was grabbed unceremoniously by the jacket and hustled away. I thought I must have been arrested by the army. Then close t o my arm I heard the voice again, and there was no mistaking the vowel-mangling Ulster accent. I was led a short distance down what seemed like the corridor of a house. The ‘inhuman bastards’ kept going in a stream at 175

my side as if these were the only words my unseen companion had ever learned. I was made to sit down. When again I tried to open my eyes, it was as if someone had thrown fire into them, and still I couldn’t see. I called into the darkness for a damp cloth, and several voices

shouted, ‘Get him a damp cloth. A damp cloth here.’ In the background I heard the sound o f a desperate animal honking. W h e na stinking floor-

cloth was placed in m y hand, I managed to clear m y eyes enough to make out m y immediate surroundings. Through a burning haze I focused

just below m e . They were t w o eyes, so near that they looked like t w o close-ups of the moon. M y host, a midget, was standing o n t w o globes

just in front o f me. For a moment I thought I had woken u p in a Fellini

film. My host was repeating, ‘Are you all right? The focking bastards.’ His eyes were streaming too. Beyond him I could dimly see more

people, women, children, dabbing faces. From outside came another burst o f loud hee-hawing. Someone said, ‘The donkey’s been gassed too.” A pall o f burning gas lay over everything in that little Catholic community.

For a journalist, one of the prevailing emotions in Ulster was feeling

like a Judas t o both sides. It was there again when I left the midget and his little house after thanking his family for their kindness. I had to pass the British soldiers posted at the street corner. I held u p m y cameras

prominently as the badge of my profession, and saw the looks of scorn and heard the swearing under their breath. As far as they were concerned I was consorting with the enemy which they had just tear-gassed.

Civil rights marches, boisterous but not violent, rather like Ban the Bomb demonstrations, were the order of the day when I first visited the province three years earlier. Catholics were protesting about discrimination in jobs, housing and voting rights, though under the surface old sectarian enmities smouldered. The Greens harked back to the Irish nationalist martyrs and those who had died at the hands o f the Black andTans, while the Orangemen owed direct descent from the Scottish mercenaries sent in by Cromwell to pacify and colonise Ireland in the seventeenth century.

O n the night of 4 January 1969 the old traditions welled up when the overwhelmingly Protestant Royal Ulster Constabulary led the pre-

dominantly Catholic civil rights marchers into a Loyalist ambush at 176

A sergeant hit by a brick, the Bogside, Derry, 1971

177

Burntollet Bridge outside Derry.There hordes of men wielding cudgels with nails in, wooden staves and bars of iron swept down on the protest marchers like the wild Picts and Scots of earlier times charging upon the English from the Border hills. It was the green light for the IRA

gear themselves up for a struggle. They too were hard men, made stubborn because they felt cornered and had nothing t o lose.

to

In the Bogside itself in those days we received great kindness and hospitality from gentle people who felt oppressed b y the structure o f

their lives. I am sure that they did not want t o see the blood-letting come t o their community, or spread through Ulster, but the stage was n o w set for just that to take place. When British soldiers arrived to keep the peace they were seen at first by the Catholics as saviours. It didn’t take long for attitudes to change when the army took u p their stance as protectors o f the status quo. Young Catholic girls were tarred

and feathered for fraternising with the soldiers, and Protestant Loyalists were inflamed by the emergence in the Catholic community o f the

Provisional IRA, ready t o use the gun and the bomb. I chose the Bogside for the many visits I made to Northern Ireland in 1971 because it was easier to bring out the issues photographically in

an area not much bigger than a football pitch than in a large, anonymous

city like Belfast. In the Bogside, after the pubs turned out on Saturday afternoons, you could almost guarantee that something would happen. It began with youngsters hurling stones at the troops and escalated t o Molotov cocktails and sniping gunfire. Then the army would retaliate. The pictures I took o f a charge by the Royal Anglians became famous because it gave such a clear view o f the soldiers’ difficulty. Kitted out

in flak jacket, perspex-visored riot helmet and awkward samurai-style leg and a r m shields, they appeared like Bushido warriors t o housewives as they passed their doorsteps. Burdened with all this medieval armour, they were expected to chase kids who could run and turn o n a cat’s whisker. O n e day I was approached b y two m e n in the Bogside w h o demanded to know what I was doing with m y camera. With m y usual level o f tact I told them to mind their o w n business.

‘If y’know what's good for ye, I was informed, ‘y’ll do as ye're told an’ clear off’ 178

I stood my ground and said that I had never cleared off at anyone's behest in all m y life, and wasn’t thinking o f starting now.

Later that night at my hotel, the City, which was eventually flattened by a bomb, a wild Catholic porter calledTommy came up t o m e after I had been relaying m y experience to other journalists in the bar and offered m e words o f assurance.

‘That man who stopped you this aft’'noon, I've fixed him. Ye're okay now.’ “What do you mean?’ I said. ‘Them's the Provos. But ye're all right now.Y’won’t have any more trouble. I've told them ye’re from the Sunday Times

I didn’t have any more trouble of this sort, but it was uncomfortable to know that I had been vetted by the Provisional IRA before I could

take pictures freely. It was no more comfortable crossing the lines, passing the army at checkpoints on my way t o and from the other side. With tension running high in the Creggan estate, and youngsters setting fire t o

hijacked lorries,

I spotted a n older m a n taking u p a position i n

a front garden near me. I sensed that he was a sniper, although I could

not see any weapon as quietly he got himself organised. M y companion explained what was going on, and it put me in a dilemma. Here was a man lining u p t o shoot and possibly kill a British soldier and I could do

nothing about it except move away, as I was told, and keep quiet, for I was being closely watched. N o British soldiers were killed that day in Derry, but that was just m y good fortune. O n another occasion I saw a soldier stretchered out o f a garage after being shot in the back. I went forward to take a photograph and was confronted b y another soldier w h o tried t o beat m e back with his baton-gun. I could understand h o w

he felt after seeing m e among the Catholic youths who were causing the trouble. It might not have been a full-scale war but covering events in Northern Ireland was an extremely dangerous business. Apart from being mistaken by one side for a member of the other, at any time I could

be struck by a stray missile, a bottle or a brick, and suffer severe brain damage—as could any other innocent passer-by using the streets t o go about his o r her normal business. The hazards o f civilian life in this province are nowhere more vividly illustrated than in an extraordinary 179

press picture of me running from both bricks and an English Saracen armoured car that was trying t o run m e down in mistake for a dem-

onstrator. The vehicle has its wheels off the ground and looks as if it is trying to seize m e in its jaws. Bricks hurled at the Saracen came heading for me. There was a final irony t o m y acquaintance at first hand with the Irish troubles. I phoned a contact in the Bogside during one week to

ask if anything was likely t o happen at the weekend. ‘ I think ye'd better get y'self over here, was the cryptic reply. The Sunday Times had other plans for me that weekend, and so I missed what became known as Bloody Sunday, when thirteen Catholics were killed i n the Bogside i n an appalling day o f rioting and shooting. I

should have been there—or maybe it was Fate that intervened.

180

Part Three MATTERS AND

OF LIFE

DEATH

24. PRISONER OF IDI AMIN

When Christine read Donald Wise’s report in the Daily Mirror, that I was among those fellow journalists who had just disappeared in Uganda before he managed to get out o f the country, she was sure that I was

dead. She knew that Donald and I were close, and that some of the missing Western newspapermen had been taken t o Makindye jail, Idi Amin’s notorious killing-house. Tension was already building when I arrived at Uganda’s Entebbe Airport in the middle of a power cut. There was talk of a coup, and President Amin had begun a bloody purge of his o w n police force. I drove the eighteen miles t o Kampala o n a narrow potholed road with jungle hanging overhead. All the signs o f a corrupt regime coming to an end were in the city—no service, defective plumbing, sewage backing

up, shops looted or bare o f goods. The Asian temple in the centre o f

the town was besieged by Africans begging with menace. Most Asian shops had been ransacked. Finally, in the Apollo Hotel, there was the vulture-like influx o f

journalists o f w h o m I

was one.

I homed in o n the Strangers’ Quarter where Somalis, Congolese, Rwandans, Burundians and all manner o f Asians—people whom Amin

considered trouble-makers—hung out in a crumbling, overpopulated

shanty town. I knew from experience that when uprisings or disturbances are in the air, this is the sort o f place in which they start. As I

moved around, making friends and taking photographs, I was suddenly confronted by a huge soldier with lizard-like eyes. He was dressed in English fatigues, English-style jungle shirt rolled up at the sleeves, combat jungle boots and a soft jungle hat. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded in a snakish and hostile fashion. When I told him the obvious—that I was photographing these people—he snarled. ‘You are not supposed to be here.

‘Yes, I am. I have a permit, I said.

183

His eyes flicked t o the permit which he snatched out of my hand. I tried to grab it back.

‘No! Get into this car. The vehicle, driven by another soldier, nosed up t o us. This was the sort of car, I thought, that could make you disappear.

‘No, I won't. A crowd was gathering, for had become the focus of an unheard-of public scene. A black sergeant was ordering a white man t o jump to it

and do what he’s told. In those days in Africa n o black man, whatever his authority, talked t o a white man like that. It entailed a calculated abandoning o f respect. Repeatedly I refused to get in the car. Even so I found myself eased and nudged towards it quite against m y will. Then

I was hustled in and the car was driven away, tyres screaming, after the driver had executed a high-speed three-point turn that almost demolished a section of the crowd. I was taken to a large army complex and left in a room. A t least l ’ m not in some anonymous spot in the forest, I reassured myself. I

tried to remain cool and pretended not to care. Two m e n came in with files—and when I see files I get nervous. The files were placed o n the table and there was a babble o f conversation in Swahili before the lizard-

eyed sergeant left. I smiled and spoke firmly. ‘Can I ask you a question? W h y am I here?’ ‘Why were you taking photographs in this district?’ ‘Because I am working for an English newspaper and have permis-

sion to do so.’ ‘What are these pictures for?’ “To show that life in Kampala is going o n as normal,’ I said with as much innocence as I could muster. I was asked to hand over m y money and personal possessions, and I refused. I tried a high and mighty tone. ‘No, I ' m not giving them t o you. You can’t have them. I ' m here for legitimate reasons, and I want to know why this is happening’ They left m e to cool off for an hour. When they returned it was suddenly all courtesies.

‘Well, we're going to let you go. We are sorry we had t o bring you here.’ 184

I was so relieved I said, ‘Oh listen, absolutely no problem.” Once you've been released you don’t fuss about being screwed u p for the

last three hours. They drove m e back to m y hotel. O n the way I made a few comments about the lovely Kampala girls, just t o keep the mood congenial.

I even asked them if they would like a beer, but they declined; they had their duties. It was some days before I discovered exactly where I had been and what these duties were. I had spent my time in the office block of the Makindye prison and my interrogators were members of Amin’s secret police. All the same, I don’t like being intimidated into not doing my work, so I went back t o the Strangers’ Quarter, this time taking m y tripod for moral support. I was not far from the spot where I had been arrested when I came

upon an excited crowd in the middle of which stood a seedy sweatyfaced man, his suit rumpled, his manner drunken and belligerent. H e

squinted at m e through red eyes. “Who are you?’ ‘It’s none of your business. I must be a slow learner. ‘Show me your passport.’ I refused. He said he was a soldier. ‘Prove to m e you are a soldier,’ I said with disbelief.

H e put his hand into his pocket as if to bring out papers. Instead of papers a clenched fist smashed into my face. I reeled back, clutching for my tripod. As the crowd moved in on me I swung the tripod like some demented Scottish hammer-thrower, trying t o get a distance between me and them. Seeing a gap, I took off like a hare up the street. Behind m e the m o b swarmed and took u p the chase, with m e as the focus o f a great hue and cry. A t full spring, I heard a voice call m e from an alleyway and I dived into the shadows to draw breath. ‘Sir, sir, follow me. I know a way for you.’ I had n o idea who the African was but there was little choice. Full of qualms, I followed him quickly through a warren of alleys, the mob clearly audible behind me. With relief I found myself back in the hotel district, and I could see a broad path leading to the Apollo. M y guide held m e back as a large Mercedes loomed from the end o f the street. ‘Dada is driving around,’ he said. 185

Sure enough, the gorilla outline of Amin Dada could be seen hunched at the wheel o f the car as it drew to a stop before very slowly moving o n again.

‘Sir, you must leave this country, my rescuer urged me. ‘In t w o or three days there will be big trouble in Kampala.’

I took a deep breath and bolted as fast as I could for the hotel, arriving breathless, adrenalin pumping, Christ, this job is getting t o be a nightmare, I thought. That night the press met for one of those super-charged drink-ups you tend to have in beleaguered hotels in troubled zones in troubled

times. | remember drinking with David Holden, who was in a serious mood. ‘ I don’t like the look of this place, he said. ‘ I ' m getting out of here quickly.’ I respected David’s sense o f when to stay and when to go. H e was knowledgeable and not easily scared. If anything, he dared too much. A few years later he would be killed in Egypt by an assassin’s bullet. Maybe he knew something I didn’t know. Anyhow, I listened t o David and thought it over. I had some good pictures, though not as many as I would like. I decided to go—but how? Communications were in turmoil. Even British airlines were curtailing their services. It was becoming unsafe for the crews. Alitalia was still flying, but for how long? I wangled a seat with Alitalia o n the eight o’clock flight that evening. Those o f us left gathered round the pool for a farewell swim under

the eyes o f Amin’s ever-present security m e n . I

was just thinking about

a second dip when a strange murmuring sound drew us t o the verandah.

Columns o f armoured vehicles told us that Amin had mobilised. Later we discovered that Ugandan guerrilla exiles had grouped in force o n the border with Tanzania with the aim o f toppling Amin and replacing him with Milton Obote, the man Amin himself had deposed.

Obote had the support o f Tanzania’s respected President Julius Nyerere, but the incursion was botched, driving Amin to paranoid extremes. The first evidence o f this was the armoured cars stationed outside our hotel. Phone and telex lines were cut. Pulling clothes hastily over

my swimming trunks, I decamped with Donald Wise t o another hotel that might still be in touch with the outside world. When I went back to 186

the Apollo t o retrieve my cameras, I found the place surrounded

by the Ugandan army. I held back and watched people being brought out and put into army trucks. A European emerged surrounded b y soldiers with weapons and was forced t o lie face-down o n the floor o f

a Volkswagen truck. This is going to be very unpleasant, I thought, if they feel the need to humiliate people in this way. It crossed m y mind to abandon the cameras and make myself scarce as quickly as possible. Almost immediately I saw the risks. I didn’t fancy the consequences o f being caught running away. I strolled with a confident air into the lobby, trying to look as if I knew what I was doing while all that was going o n had nothing t o do with me. A British flight crew were standing stock-still, their faces pale and worried. We exchanged wide-eyed looks but n o words. Suddenly I was surrounded b y tall burly African soldiers. Amin’s Nubians were a

daunting sight. They asked me for my room number, and I told them, very politely. Under escort I was led to the reception desk to pay m y

bill. I took this as a good sign, allowing myself the consoling thought— Alitalia, here I come! "We will go t o your room n o w and pack your bags.’

Four of them accompanied me t o my room and began rifling through m y belongings. In a photographic magazine containing some

of my Biafra pictures, they came across the pictures of the skeletal albino on the verge of death, which made them giggle and fall about. These people aren’t just evil, I thought, they're crazy, mad. I was marched downstairs again. When I asked where they were

taking me, they said to the police station. I clung to the hope that I was

just being deported. The police station was a madhouse. Everyone, black o r white, who might conceivably be opposed t o Amin had been rounded u p and brought in. The crush forced us to sit o n each other’s knees. I spotted John Fairhall o f the Guardian in the throng, as well as someone from Reuters whom I knew by sight and the man from the Telegraph. Beside m e was a young German boy who had lived in Uganda for some time, and who spoke Swahili. Suddenly he started crying, I asked what the trouble was and tried to comfort him.

‘I've just heard one of the guards saying we are all being sent t o Makindye. It’s a terrible place,’ he said. ‘No one comes out of there alive.’ 187

‘No, I ' m sure that’s not right, I said. A m a n i n a short

jacket, w h o I

later discovered was also a m e m -

ber of Amin’s secret police, was saying loudly in English—indicating me and Fairhall and the others— ‘Who are these people?’ The desk sergeant told

him that w e were journalists and the m a n registered the

word with distaste. ‘Journalists,’ he repeated. “They are dirty people. We of the press were weeded out and taken t o a long Land Rover. The man I had seen being pushed t o the floor of the truck outside the Apollo was also there. They bellowed at us to get into the vehicle. After a push and a shove, and a few punches thrown, we were heaped in on

one another, all tangled up with our baggage on the Land Rover floor. It screeched away angrily in a leftward direction. I relinquished the last hope that we were going t o the airport. We disembarked in a yard with verandahs giving on to it. Piled

outside the gate was a large stack of empty beer cans—not a reassuring sign. Uniformed men lounged on the verandahs, tossing back cans of beer and chatting up women. As the guards yelled at us t o get out of the Land Rover, these men put down their cans and came loping over t o us with sticks in their hands. Now the bullying tempo started t o pep up. ‘Get down. Sit down. Take off your shoes and socks.’ One of our group, an ex-colonial policeman, stood straight and said, ‘ I beg your pardon!’ Thump. The punch landed squarely o n his chin and rocked him o n his feet. “What the devil's that for?’ Thump, came another. I had seen some o f this sort o f treatment meted out in Biafra and the Congo, though not to whites. M y shoes and socks were off in a flash. I was beginning to feel really scared. We sat hunched in a semicircle, almost in a foetal position, cowering under the baton blows that came raining down. I felt a boot i n m y back and thought,

Christ, w e

are going t o be murdered!

We were shoved into a guardroom. A heavy African body came flying through the air and crashed into our midst. It was a drunken soldier, being punished b y his comrades. Later, when it was only half-light, we were taken out t o a courtyard and stood against a

wall. I

was sure w e

were going to be shot. A guard with the novel experience o f holding white m e n at gunpoint was sniggering in a way I had learned m e n do

when they torment prisoners, before they are dispatched. I ' m going t o 188

die here, I thought. This is where my life will end, in a dark and dingy African killing-house. [

waited for the rest of the firing squad t o arrive, my legs barely

able t o hold m e up. There was a lot o f scuffling and running around.

Other men came, and Fairhall and the Daily Telegraph man were taken away. We were just left there. Eventually they moved me and the policeman further on. M y legs didn’t feel as if they were carrying m e along. I just seemed t o float, as if m y crushed spirit were carried o n a magic carpet.

Dimly i n

this

zombie glide I heard the rattling o f keys. A door opened and I saw in

front of me another white man. He said genially, ‘T’m Bob Astles. Sit down. Have a drink. You look as if you need a drink.’ It was the most needed drink o f m y life. Later I learned that this man was of the most sinister provenance, but the sound of his voice at that time was like sweet music. Fear had soaked up every droplet o f moisture in m y body. I felt as if I had spent a month in the Kalahari desert.

“You're in a bloody dangerous place here, Astles said. ‘It’s really

bad. ‘Don’t tell me, don’t tell me,’ I said. It transpired we were in the VIP wing o f Makindye prison. I had

no idea what was t o come. I looked round a high-ceilinged room with sub-cells leading off it, fronted with bars like cages in the zoo. All the cells were fully occupied, and there were cots for the overspill. VIP privilege meant that prisoners were not locked into the cells but could move from one t o another and into the small communal area.

Among a handful o f white prisoners was an English schoolteacher

who wore glasses and had a very nasty head wound. He had been coshed with a rifle. There were Asians and a brooding Tanzanian among the Africans. One man was locked in his cell with a stack o f coffee-table books. H e was said to be the richest man in Uganda, and Amin was bleeding his fortune away for privileges and ransom. Astles was filling m e in o n these and other more alarming details. Fairhall and the Daily Telegraph man had almost certainly been taken t o the execution block, where the sledgehammer was the favoured means o f cheap and blunt dispatch. Nineteen m e n in succession had 189

been battered t o death, I was told, by a twentieth acting under duress, whose own head was then smashed in by the guard. Astles had grisly atrocity pictures t o show around. All this took place in another block, not far away.They could come for you just as easily here. Astles pointed to the marks o f recent terrors in our block—mattresses stained with blood and scratches o n the walls.

While Astles told his mounting tale of horrors, the Reuters m a n kept trying t o catch my eye. M y mind twitched with the humiliations undergone and fear o f what might come. I lay in the dark o n m y bloodstained mattress in deep

shock. Suddenly, in the stillness, | heard the rattle of rifles and then the crashing o f doors. A prisoner was thrown into the outer room. There were terrible thudding sounds.

At one o’clock the rattle and crashing of arms approached again. They stopped just short o f m y c e l l . I heard howls and beating and whimpering as the Tanzanian man took a terrible pasting before he was dragged away.

‘S’all right,” Bob Astles drawled out of the darkness. ‘He’s for the chop. Poor bastard never stood a chance anyway. They've broken his arms. H e detailed the punishments inflicted onTanzanians, which were similar to those suffered b y policemen o f suspect loyalty. Screams pene-

trated the night from somewhere outside the block. I dozed fitfully, waiting for the crash of doors again. Humiliation and terror and despair chased each other across my brain. It was won-

derful t o see the dawn break, but appalling t o realise you faced another day of the fear you had just gone through. M y heart thumped at another scuffling approach. The door opened t o reveal two Africans holding between them a dustbin, which was steaming. Both had taken fearful beatings. One was covered in welts

and bruises, the other had a n eye hanging with a sack of fluid. As the jailer loomed up behind them I tried t o muster some dry-mouthed spirit.

"What have you got for us there?’ I said.

‘It’s your breakfast, said the jailer. The sinister steaming substance in the dustbin turned out to be tea. Rarely has tea tasted so good. A n d there were hard tack biscuits t o 190

go with it. We were fortunate. Prisoners in Amin’s jails often starved t o death. As I bit into the hard tack, squatting o n the floor, the Reuters man tried to raise morale with a wry smile, ‘ I heard something funny in

Swahili last night. The guard told the jailer that these Wa-zungi cannot run away because they had taken our shoes and socks.” Shoeless or not, I

would have run out of there barefoot and broken-legged, over a mile of burning coals and broken glass, if there had been any chance of escape. While we washed—another VIP privilege—we were out of earshot of Astles. The Reuters man said quietly, ‘That Astles—he’s not kosher.

He's not o n the side o f the angels. Astles was one o f the most feared white m e n in Uganda. H e had risen to power as one of Amin’s leading advisers, but recently there had been talk o f him falling out with Amin, though this wasn’t generally

believed. If he had not quarrelled with Amin, the Reuters man thought his presence among us more than sinister. When I asked Astles why he

was there, his reply was vague. ‘ I was rounded up with the others,’ he said. ‘Amin’s gone mad. He’s just gone mad.’ [ spent hours staring through the window grille at the egrets and the little weaver birds. From time to time they were scattered b y the arrival o f a party o f vultures.

"They always come,’ said Astles. ‘They come for the body-truck. For four days I looked out through the bars and watched the trucks leaving with the bodies o f those executed. They were the four longest days o f m y life. A tall officer with a large jungle hat arrived at m y cell door carrying a whip. His henchmen were armed with cudgels, knives, daggers and whips. As they all crowded in I thought, in a state o f acute alarm, This is i t !

‘Are you a newspaperman?’ I looked straight at him and said, “Yes, I am. T a m giving you this form. You must fill in this form. I don’t want a statement. I want you t o fill i n this form. If you don’t you will b e

chastised.’ There was nowhere to do it except to kneel down before him and write it o n the floor. As I scrawled m y name and passport number I 191

The officer’s manner thought, At any minute now my skull will explode. suggested barely suppressed rage. At any moment, I thought, I would be whacked in that most vulnerable position. When I clambered back t o my feet, the man scanned my writing with displeasure, staring at m e after registering each detail. Astles, who never missed anything, was rocking t o and fro and laughing. “You’ll be all right now, he said. I didn’t believe him, but the words raised a little hope in me, soon t o be denied. I was taken to a hut in the yard to collect my shaving things. Inside I saw a mountain of shoes and pathetic little cases, some held together with string, others no more than bundles. I saw my own suitcase there, shiny new in this derelict heap. ‘Leave it there, the escort said.

I felt dismayed. I’ve been here before, I thought with dread. And I had been there—in those photographs of Auschwitz and other Nazi death camps. The mountain of shaving brushes and the piles of spectacles, the sort of cases people took from the Warsaw ghetto. I was more stricken by the sight of that room than by people I had seen shot in front of me. I returned to my cell physically drained, smelly, my clothes stained, spent.

In the block were t w o n e w prisoners. ‘These men, said Astles, ‘were customs officials at Entebbe. They're going t o get the chop. They know they’re for the chop and would like t o have a church service. Would you care t o join in?’

A square was formed. I stood on one side, Astles was across from me, the t w o doomed Africans formed a third side. The spectacled schoolmaster stood in a corner.They started singing, and I tell you there is n o more beautiful sound than an African singing hymns in harmony with another African. M y mouth opened but n o sound emerged as I watched the Englishman gradually slide down the wall in his corner, overcome by the fever in his head wound, the fear in his belly and the

sheer sadness of the situation. ] fled into m y cell when I heard the keys rattling once again. The

Reuters m a n crouched beside me, tense. But they weren’t taking any-

one, just pushing someone in.

192

I went out t o find the upright, clean, handsome figure of Sandy

Gall, and my heart rocketed with the reassurance that seeinghim gave. He told me that Donald Wise had been deported. Then he asked what it was like in here. I said truthfully, ‘A bloody nightmare!’ The next day men came and dug half a dozen grave-like pits outside our window. My heart plummeted.We'renot going t o be released at all,

I thought. It’s all a con. They're going t o kill us. The party o f vultures

was again in position on the roof.

Then the guards told us, “You're being released.’ Astles got up and said, “What about me? Don’t I get released?’ ‘Oh, no, he was told. ‘Not you, Bob. He seemed very sanguine about i t . ‘Maybe tomorrow,” he said. ‘Maybe. We were taken to the huts and I rescued my suitcase from that piteous mountain. I felt a new spring in m y ankles but joy had to be

curbed. You can’t show joy t o those who stay behind. As we made our way to the main gate indescribable screams pur-

sued us. The Nubian officer with the lizard eyes was on gate duty and took offence at Sandy’s look. He was affronted by Sandy's elegance, his cleanness, his composure. He walked across and said, “Why are you looking at me? There is still time t o chastise you, now, before you leave. Sandy pushed back his hair. ‘ I ' m not looking at you, old boy, he said. ‘ I can assure you.’ As w e waited, listening t o the terrible thrashing and screaming, there was the sound o f a truck starting up. It produced intense joy in me and an undercurrent o f fear. What if it wasn’t release after all? I had heard that some people went from Makindye to the forests outside

Kampala, where bishops and other religious people had been disposed of by Amin. Maybe even now w e were being duped. At Entebbe Airport they gave m e the most pleasing document of my life—a certificate of deportation from Uganda. John Fairhall and the Telegraph man were reunited with us. They had been in quarters next to the execution block, and we heard with numbness that the sledgehamWe trashed our filthy mer tales were true, and more that was unbearable.

clothes, and on the plane Sandy said, ‘Champagne all round, I think.’

193

Fog diverted the flight from London to Manchester. For four hours after landing we stood back t o back with commuting businessmen o n a packed train t o London. T h e British Rail restaurant car hadn’t been

attached. It was, even so, still heaven.

The fields were peaceful around our new farmhouse home near

Bishop’s Stortford. Idi Amin’s Uganda seemed like another world, though. Makindye had reached into the English countryside. The shock o fbelieving I had been killed brought Christine out in great red blotches. It took t w o years for them t o clear.

194

25. HANDSHAKE

BEFORE HIGHWAY

13

A brief social interlude followed quickly on my return from Uganda before I found myself back in the thick o f the fighting in South-East Asia. It might seem like a punishing schedule—for both m e and m y family— but I had accepted the invitation to go to Peking some months before. It was not so much an assignment, more an appointment with history. With the Cultural Revolution behind them, the Chinese were confident enough to receive honoured British guests while simultaneously responding cordially to President Nixon's overtures, so enabling China to play a pivotal role in bringing to an end America’s long and

discredited war in Asia. These great political matters concerned me less than the business o f photographing a handshake. A pioneer o f the

British sortie was my own boss, LordThomson, the proprietor of both The Times and the Sunday Times. He had approached me, before Kampala, to be the official photographer o f the historic Anglo- Chinese friendship sealing moment when he shook hands with Chou En-lai. Also in the

party were Denis Hamilton, the editor-in-chief; Frank Giles, the Sunday Times foreign editor; Louis Heren, a seasoned correspondent who later became deputy editor of The Times; and Lord Thomson’s son Kenneth, heir apparent t o the newspaper empire.

O n the face of it, our proprietor had few of the conventional attributes o f a transatlantic tycoon who was to strike oil in the North Sea. H e was below average height and his homely features were dominated b y thick pebble-lens glasses which were said to be made especially for enlarging the tiny print o f the financial columns. H e made it a policy to appoint strong editors and keep his o w n interference to a minimum. Despite his legendary reputation for meanness, he financed big expansion plans for both papers. As he edged towards his eightieth year, one young journalist had the temerity t o ask him if there was anything he thought he had missed in life. Lord Thomson reckoned that he had missed something i n not having a proper university education—though 195

perhaps not, he added, for ‘then I would have wound up like you, working for a guy like m e ’ .

Most of us endured the nineteen-hour flight, fidgeting and trying in vain to get some sleep, while our proprietor showed n o

sign o f

discomfort o r irritability. He read a book, located no more than three inches from his nose, throughout the entire flight. Curious to know what he thought it necessary to equip himself with for his conversations

with the great Chinese Communist leaders, I kept craning for a glimpse o f the book’s title but could see n o more than that it was a thriller by Alistair Maclean. We were welcomed in Peking by the Red Army ensemble playing

the Eton boating song and tunes from The King andI . O n the great day, I carefully followed instructions and got into a suit—not m y normal

attire—well before the appointed hour. I even gilded the lily by shaving, though some misjudgment brought blood out o n to m y face. I dabbed at it with lavatory paper and all kinds of after-shave without any effect.

When the call came t o say that a limousine was waiting, I grabbed a handful o f the coarse revolutionary paper and raced downstairs. In the chilly air I ripped off the paper that had stuck to m y cheek and hung m y face out o f the car window to dry. As we arrived at the Great Hall a small river o f blood was running d o w n m y n e c k .

I was still trying t o load m y cameras and at the same time staunch

the flow when one of the top brass came up t o me and said, ‘Come along now, Donald, be ready. Be ready on the signal. They’ll be here at any minute.

Concerned Chinese hands were propelling m e into position for the

historic encounter between Capitalism and Communism, symbolised b y Lord Thomson and the Chinese premier pressing the flesh. It was the ultimate handshake picture. [ missed it. Later, feeling pretty dejected, I was bullied into taking m y place in a group photograph with the whole Thomson party and Chou’s men. [ stood forlornly at the end i n m y ill-fitting suit while the blood went

on trickling down my face and neck. If Lord Thomson was upset, he didn’t make a meal o f i t . What impressed m e about him as I busied myself taking pictures through the three hours o f talks—conducted 196

through interpreters—that followed was his spitting precision. As a heavy smoker he had frequent recourse t o the spittoon, which he never failed t o hit dead centre.

Lord Thomson genially introduced m e to Premier Chou as someone who had spent a long time in Vietnam. I was unsure t o what extent

this endeared m e t o the Chinese leader. Whatever he thought, I was soon back in Vietnam again to find the old war had taken a new turn. The superior discipline and vastly improved armour o f the Com-

munists had turned the battle o f QuangTri into a rout. For the South Vietnamese

this struggle for control in the north o f their country

represented the beginning o f the end, but it was to be a long and

bitter finale. I was with the television reporter Michael Nicholson when we

found t w o badly wounded soldiers at the side of the Q u a nT gri road and tried to flag down help from the truckloads o f their retreating comrades as they went thundering past. None would stop even for the moment it would take t o pick u p the injured. I became so angry that I snatched

up an M-16 rifle from one of the wounded and tried t o stop the next truck at gunpoint. It slowed down but then, as it drew close, speeded u p again and roared past. I could hear Mike yelling at me. ‘Don! You

must be crazy. What would you have done if they'd started firing?’ The answer was not a lot, because my rifle had no magazine. We managed to manhandle the wounded m e n o n to the bonnet o f Mike's car and drove very slowly t o the nearest casualty station. Both soldiers

died the next day. A t that time, in the early summer of 1972, another two dead in Vietnam meant little to anyone in Britain. Vietnam had become the forgotten war. The rage exhibited in the demos o f the Sixties seemed to have been replaced by indifference. Because the Americans under President Nixon had greatly reduced their combat presence inVietnam, it was assumed that the war had lost its ferocity. Nothing was further from the truth.

I went t o Vietnam again with James Fox, the magazine correspondent, and William Shawcross, who was then writing for the news pages. There was a wide choice o f battle zones to visit, and everywhere the North Vietnamese seemed to be o n the advance. I decided to concentrate 197

first on one of the more southerly theatres, on An Loc and Highway 13, where the close combat seemed t o be at its bloodiest. I had Alan Hart of BBC television to thank for getting me within range. | found him at a staging-area, with a helicopter organised and a full film crew, but minus the eyepiece for the camera. For the want o f a

little eyepiece they were all grounded, so I had the use of the helicopter. O n the approach to A n Loc, the fire was so intense that the pilot decided to set m e down o n a position behind a ridge about two miles from the town. As I got out an American adviser told me, “You've come t o the wrongplace. This is a very bad place.

We're taking a lot of rounds.’

It was already getting dark and I decided to dig i n . I offered a sip

from my brandy flask t o a passing American soldier, who declined. Seconds later we found ourselves o n the receiving end o f the night’s first incoming shells and I had this big soldier o n top o f m e in m y pathetic

little hole, almost crushing the life out of me. “You know what?’ he said when there was a pause in the shelling, ‘ I could sure use some o f that brandy now. It was an appalling night under shell fire. Next morning I heard

automatic gunfire and got out my field glasses. I could see men all over the landscape, running through paddy fields and down hedgerows. They were coming in our direction, South Vietnamese paratroopers in full flight, many of them carrying heavy red wounds. A helicopter came down by the ridge and I persuaded the pilot t o take me out. Then a party of wounded arrived, and they were all loaded in around me. We flew back t o my original staging-area, which looked somehow different. Something was missing. While I was away

overnight, VC sappers had crept in and blown 800 tons of ammunition sky high. For concentrated devastation those twenty-four hours were among the nastiest o f m y life—which said something for the resilience o f the Forgotten War. Some South Vietnamese units were suffering as

many as 50 per cent casualties. The suffering caused by the An Loc battle was overwhelming. James Fox interviewed a pregnant woman who was the wife o f an A n Loc police officer. A bomb from a South Vietnamese plane had hit her house,

killing her father, brother and three children. She herself was wounded and some North Vietnamese soldiers put her arm in a splint. Eight days 198

later her husband was killed at a police post by a B-40 rocket. Her only other relative, a younger sister, had been arrested b y the North Vietnamese.

After my retreat from An Loc, I took t o probing up Highway 13 every day with an American friend in his big old car. We would load u p

with cold beers, park a mile or so from the action, and walk the rest of the way. The action o n Highway 13 was astonishing to see, especially when the B-52s bombed in such concentration that you could swear nothing would be left alive for miles around. Minutes after the bombers had gone overhead the North Vietnamese would come out o f their bunkers

and start inflicting more casualties. One day I was asked if I could deliver some mail to two Americans in a forward position, and so found myself acting as the crawling postman. Ensconced in a culvert b y the road, I was assailed by a metallic screaming noise unlike any sound o f battle I had heard before. A white flame seemed t o be bobbing with the contours o f the road ahead, and it was coming m y way fast. The missile went past m e and headed o n for the M - 6 0 tank coming u p behind. It made a direct hit.

I went back t o the colonel t o ask if he’d be kind enough t o figure out an alternative postal service and found him pointing to the gruesome

sight of a man in an armoured personnel carrier, holding the wheel but without a head on his shoulders. His commander, who had been thrown twenty yards down the road, was being picked up and folded like a child’s rag doll.

Besides the B-52s, there were also the Cobra helicopter gunships, crewed b y the wildest Americans around. They would drop calling cards o n their targets with messages like ‘Killing is our business and the business is good’, or “The Lord giveth and the 20mm taketh away’. I wondered too what the conquerors made o f graffiti in the lavatories

T ri when it fell: “Withdrawal is something that Nixon's father in Q u a n g should have done 58 years ago.’ It certainly expressed a common feeling among South Vietnamese that their country’s fate had nothing to do with their President Thieu and everything to do with the Americans. I came across some South Vietnamese soldiers rejoicing over the kill o f a North Vietnamese medic. They were horsing around with an 199

200

Don (on left) and Michael Nicholson with wounded men, Quang Tri Road, 1972

Don (on right) with wounded Time magazine journalist, Vietnam, 1972, photograph by Henri Bureau

201

N V A flag and making gestures with their penises as if to pee o n the

body. In the midst of their celebration I saw a little red book and asked the lieutenant if I could have it. He had t o play with me for a while, pretending to rip it up, but eventually he gave it to me. It was a diary, meticulously kept, and I wanted it t o have a further

journey, a further

life. Eventually extracts from it appeared in translation in the Sunday Times under the banner ‘Diary o f a North Vietnamese Soldier’.

Cambodia was regarded as no more than a sideshow t o Vietnam, and, in consequence, it received little attention. As Vietnam faded from the news, Cambodia disappeared almost without trace. Yet when I next visited Cambodia, in the spring of 1973, the country was literally being

apart. Caught between the ravages of American bombing and the cruelties of the Khmer Rouge, it was now a land of refugees. Almost a torn

third o f the seven million population had been forced to flee their homes. I arrived in Phnom Penh to find that the main topic o f conversation among the press corps was a German photographer who had persuaded a Cambodian soldier to cut off the heads o f dead Khmer soldiers and hold them u p for his camera. It was enough to tell m e that war-freaks

were in the ascendant. I couldn’t get out of Phnom Penh fast enough. I went down t o the airfield and hitched a ride on the first old Dakota going south. The friendly Taiwanese pilot eventually brought us down expertly o n a road that had been converted into a runway. There was a little township nearby, but I forget its name. People were waiting to get o n for

the flight back, among them a lady who took an interest in what I was doing. She said her chauffeur would be pleased to drive m e into town. N o sooner did we reach this little town than I heard news that came

as a sickening shock. It hit m e like a heavy blow to the solar plexus. The old Dakota that had deposited m e here less than an hour earlier had been blasted to smithereens by the Khmer Rouge at the end o f the runway as it was taking off again. Everyone o n board had been killed,

including the friendly lady whose driver had just dropped me off and the Taiwanese pilot with whom I had been o n such good terms o n the flight i n . I felt a rush o f panic. If the Khmers were that close to the airstrip they were much too close to me. M y nerve started giving out as it had 202

never done before under fire in the thick of battle. Ghastly images of savage Khmers bludgeoning m e t o death invaded m y mind and wouldn’t let go. Soldiers fighting, however fiercely, was one thing but t o end up one o f a million corpses in the Khmers’ killing fields were something

just wanted t o b e out of i t . I junked m y US army fatigues, bought some cheap regular clothes and made m y way back to the airstrip else, and I

to spend most o f the day using too much imagination. Nothing was taking off. M y stomach churned in a knot o f fearful tension. Towards five o’clock in the afternoon I heard the distant sound o f an aero engine and prayed that it would make a stopover. Pandemonium broke out as the aircraft circled a few times before landing. A fat

Chinese man, who seemed to be in charge, waved me away when I asked him if I could be taken to Phnom Penh. Once the cargo was unloaded

the aircraft would return almost empty, but he kept shouting that I couldn’t go because I was not o n the manifest. When his attention was diverted I threw m y gear into the D C 3 and climbed aboard.

‘Come down, mister, the irate man called as he spotted me. When [ refused h e surrendered with a shrug and the plane took off almost

vertically, like a rocket. I gazed down at the ashes of the morning’s tragedy, still smouldering, as we banked steeply away. Nightmares dogged m y sleep long after I returned home from Phnom Penh, and to this day I carry a scarred memory o f the time when I experienced fear running riot.

203

26. DEATH ON THE GOLAN

HEIGHTS

With the American retreat from war in South-East Asia went a paral-

lel decline in American enthusiasm for Israel in the Middle East. The Arab oil cartel changed perspectives there, and in October 1973 an

emboldened Egypt and Syria mounted a lightning assault o n their old enemy during the Yom Kippur holiday.

It was like an echo of Ho Chi Minh’s successful Tet offensive, and I was sent in with a full Sunday Times team to cover the war from the

Israeli side. O n 17 October, in the second week of conflict, my colleague Nick Tomalin was killed on the Golan Heights front. The car he was driving, some distance ahead of mine, was blown t o pieces by a Syrian wire-guided missile.

Nick was forty-two and, many of us thought, the best English

journalist o f his generation. H e

was one o f those writers w h o could

do everything well, from turning a funny gossip paragraph t o producing long and moving dispatches from the front line. His feature, “The

General Goes Zapping Charlie Cong’, opened more eyes t o the war in Vietnam than a thousand photographs could ever have done. There were many on the Sunday Times who thought that Nick should become the editor in the unlikely event of Harry Evans tiring of the job, and I was one of them. He was no popularity-seeker; indeed he could be prickly and sharp with those who displeased him, but I cannot think of a single journalist who did not admire him. We had never previously gone t o war together, though we often operated in the same theatres. This was not entirely a matter o f coin-

cidence; like me, Nick had a preference for working alone. Unlike during the Six Day War, when some correspondents failed t o turn up until after the last shot had been fired, the entire Sunday Times photographic first team—Steve Brodie, Frank Hermann, Sally Soames, Romano Cagnoni and m y old friend Bryan Wharton—were soon in action. With the benefit o f surprise, and greatly improved military 204

discipline, the Egyptians chose the Day of Atonement t o attack from the south while almost simultaneously the Syrians piled in from the north. We all knew this would be longer and bloodier than the 1967 engagement.

I made for the Golan Heights where the Syrians had taken out a good

deal o f Israeli armour

i n fierce fighting. As the light began t o

fade o n m y first recce I made m y way to a kibbutz where a number o f photographers had agreed to meet for a meal. We pushed a few tables

together and made a party of it. Apart from his commitment, there was no need for Nick Tomalin, as a writer, t o be so close t o the front. I can remember him turning round imperiously and saying, ‘You know, something has struck m e as very strange about you photographers. Not one o f you has asked for the bloody wine list.’ H e had arrived in Israel before me and was enjoying himself, shooting out that slightly cockeyed look from behind his glasses t o see if everybody was with him. Already he had sent home a detailed brief o n

the war’s progress by smuggling it past the censor in the shoe of a friend returning to London. It provided the core for the Insight team’s story, and it was typical o f Nick to contribute in this way to team efforts o n

the Sunday Times. Now the essential individualist would, I knew, be out t o get a big story o f his own.

Nick drew m e aside before going to bed. ‘ I heard you have a spare combat jacket,’ he said. “Would you lend it to me? Can I come and get it in the morning?’ I assumed he was teaming u p with Frank Hermann to go to the front. I was lacing m y army boots at around 6 a.m. when the tap o n the door came and Nick was standing there with an air o f impatience.

‘Can I have that jacket you said you'd lend me? I now...

want t o

get away

‘Shouldn’t you wait for Frank?’ I said. ‘No, I can’t, Nick said. ‘I’ve got an arrangement with this man from Stern magazine. He’s got a Peugeot, and I told him I drive a Peugeot. So l ’ m going to act as chauffeur while he takes his pictures.

I asked about Frank again, but Nick snatched up the combat jacket and raced off. ‘See you later, he called over his shoulder. That was the last time I saw him alive. 205

An hour or so later, when the rest of us had sorted ourselves into two cars and had been gathered u p b y the inescapable Israeli escort,

we began to move slowly up towards the Golan Heights. Tanks hidden in groups o f cypress trees caught m y eye. A black pall o f smoke rose froma valley some way ahead. Soon an Israeli officer in the road was

flagging us down. ‘Will you stop here please, he said. ‘You cannot get any further. There’s been one journalist killed already. A man from the Sunday Times. I got out and went straight u p to him. ‘Listen, I ' m from the Sunday Times. What's happening?’ ‘ I don’t know, and you cannot go t o see. The car was hit by the Syrians. They're

just over there and, as y o u can see, we're here. Your

friend was in the line o f Syrian fire. There could be n o certainty that Nick was dead. Perhaps he was critically wounded and waiting for help. I thought o f his wife Claire, and o f m y o w n family and o f what they would have a right to expect if

I were lying badly wounded. I became like a man possessed, taken over by madness, n o longer in control. I put down m y cameras and pulled on a helmet. I ran in a stooped position to make m y head less vulnerable. It was extraordinarily quiet. “Why are you doing this? Why are you doing

this?’ a voice in m y head kept saying. I passed dead Syrian soldiers lying near some knocked-out Russian tanks.

There was n o chance o f going unobserved b y either side and I expected t o stop an AK-47 round at any moment. I f I could see the shape o f a body, I told myself, I ' l l turn back. N o one could survive

in that blaze. I was angry, willing Nick to be alive so that I could take him back. When I got nearer, I could see n o shape in the car. Perhaps he had been thrown out. I made m y way round t o the other side o f it and found him lying there. I tried t o talk t o h i m , so far gone was I with terror and grief, though there could be n o doubt that he was dead. Picking u p his glasses from the road, I ran back in the same eerie stillness. I was speechless when I returned. Terror had drained the moisture from my body, from my lips and my mouth. I gulped down mouthfuls o f brandy. I clambered into the back o f a car where I could shed the tears for Claire and his kids i n private. 206

O n the way back to Tel Aviv we talked, and it didn’t take long to piece together what had happened. Nick’s German companion had been Fred Ihrt, one of Stern’s senior staff photographers and a very experienced operator.They had seen the dead Syrians by the burned-out tanks and Nick had turned the car down the narrow side road. When Fred leapt out and started taking pictures, Nick had driven ona little way to where the road widened out and he could do a three-point turn. The missile hit the car as it was returning to collect the photographer. With a spare five-gallon drum of petrol behind the driver’s seat, the explosion had been devastating.

Philip Jacobson met m e in the hotel lobby. “You're to go back to

London, did you know?’ he said. ‘Message from Harry says he doesn’t want you taking any more chances. Frank, too. At the airport I was singled out for a disagreeable strip-search. I was never given a reason for the humiliation. Maybe they had me logged from the time of the Six Day War, when I had managed t o evade the censors. If they were trying to lay hands o n m y Yom Kippur pictures

they were wasting their time, for they didn’t exist.

207

27. THE TRIBE WHO KILLED CHRIST

The question I ’ m most often asked about going t o war is—how much danger money did you get? And I can always detect a certain incredulity when I give the only possible answer: ‘None. [ have a letter of contract, dated 13 February 1974—almost exactly

ten

years after I started going t o the wars—in which the Sunday Times

agrees to pay m e £5,392.80 a year, in return for which I am pledged to make myself available forty-seven weeks o f the year, and not to work for

any other British national newspaper.Work for any other publication of any kind had t o be cleared with the editor of the magazine, and while [ retained the copyright of my pictures, Times Newspapers could use them at any time without a fee. While £5,000 was certainly a reasonable wage in those days, it was n o more than was paid to senior sub-editors who never emerged from

behind the security of their desks in Gray's Inn Road. Compared with earnings in the field o f advertising and fashion photography, it was o f course not even modest.

There is n o reason to believe war correspondents are less grasping

than other human beings, but I have never come across one who went t o w a r t o get r i c h . There were some

journalists, good ones t o o , w h o

would not go to war if you gave them the Mint. Others would show

up at the front without permission and no more thana faint hope of recouping their expenses. Like every other journalist, war correspondents might expect a bit extra, usually in terms o f time off, after a good

or a particularly harrowing job, but danger money never came into it. And really, when you think about i t , the idea is laughable. The amount

of money that would compensate you adequately for getting your head blown off doesn’t exist. M y life, though, was about to enter one of its less dangerous phases. The death o f Nick Tomalin had been a brutal shock. Nick had been good friends with most o f the top executives o n the newspaper, with Harry 208

Evans in particular, and while unquestionably he had acted on his own initiative, the question arose as to whether he would have used his ini-

tiative in this way if so much had not been expected of him, or if there had not been so much enthusiasm for going t o the limit for the paper. Inevitably Nick’s death cast a shadow over the paper’s swashbuckling style. I cannot remember a memo on the subject going round, but there was a definite sense of reining in, of a new caution, particularly in the foreign field. It was a change of mood rather than a decision, and for that reason its effects went deeper. The main consequence for m e was that I found myself doing more but safer assignments. This trend was accelerated by a change of magazine editorship. Under Godfrey Smith, and his young successor Magnus Linklater, I had enjoyed the easiest o f rides. Both were genuinely curi-

ous about foreign parts and would, after little persuasion, allow m e to go almost where I pleased. This situation changed when Linklater gave

place to Hunter Davies who, though a very considerable journalist, made no secret of the fact that he was less than infatuated with happenings beyond Dover. For eighteen months I didn’t cover a war of any sort, though I was rarely idle. Coming from Carlisle, Hunter Davies was keen on the North and I was up there several times, photographing Hadrian’s Wall at its best and the dustridden steel town o f Consett at its consistent worse. After Consett we got a lot o f flak. A local schoolmaster wrote i n : ‘Now that your reporter and photographer have crawled back to their holes

in London, we're rather proud of our . . / I ' m always amazed by how lovable awfulness can become. I took a spin around Japan with Alex Mitchell who was charmed by the opportunity t o dismember the corporate state, and I did a long story about racist hoodlums in Marseille with Bruce Chatwin.We tried t o trace hoods w h o machine-gunned Algerian settlements b y night, but

there was also a High Society element to the investigation. One evening Bruce and I were invited to dinner b y the estranged wife o f the mayor o f Marseille who seemed to occupy the official residence with a woman friend while the mayor and his new lady were away. As the wine flowed the two women started competing for Bruce's favours. T h e mayor’s wife brought out all her

jewellery, which she had 209

had crushed into a huge dice. She threw it on the table, saying, ‘I've had my jewellery refashioned.’ Not t o be outdone, her companion then brought out her own dice and threw it down. Bruce sat there egging them on with that angelic, mischievous face thrown back in laughter, and that is the image o f him that came back to m e when I heard o f his tragic death in 1989. The most interesting enterprise o f this peace period was the investigation I made with Norman Lewis o f the disappearances o f Aché Indians in Paraguay. When a new road to Argentina was driven through the rain forest habitat of the ‘white Indians’ —as the Aché are called because of their light skin colour—land prices shot u p and Indian hunts began. Many of those captured were taken t o a camp at Cecilio Baez and about half that number never seen again. In response to an international outcry, the Paraguayan government dismissed the camp’s administration and invited an American missionary group, the N e w Tribes Mission, to take over. Norman Lewis was not reassured. The New Tribes Mission drew support from the born-again Christians in the Bible belt o f the American South. It was aggressive in its pursuit o f Indian souls and not too fastidious in its methods. To Norman's mind, the way the missionaries attracted Indians with gifts ofknives, axes and mirrors as bait, and then would ‘integrate’ them into their settlements, was scarcely better than methods adopted by the more rough-hewn Indian-hunters. Those Indians who didn’t die o f white man’s diseases (like the common cold) were rapidly demoralised and, in white man’s hand-me-downs, fitted only for poverty-stricken lives in the teeming city slums. The Indian clearing services provided by the missionaries were appreciated by many Latin American dictatorships who would show their appreciation by handing over chunks o f land. A Paraguayan army officer once told Norman that missionaries were more efficient at clearing Indian areas than the army. “When we go in we shoot some, and some get away. They get the lot. When the missionaries clear an area they leave it clean Norman and I flew to the Paraguayan capital o f Asuncion with the idea o f seeing conditions in Cecilio Baez for ourselves. The Paraguay o f General Stroessner, Latin America’s most enduring dictator, was not a place that disgorged its secrets easily. It was probably this discretion that 210

made it attractive t o the many Nazi war criminals who lived there. When Norman spoke about our mission to a distinguished local anthropologist

in Asuncion, he was advised against seeking a permit from the Ministry of Defence. The best method was to go in by village bus with two hired

trusties, otherwise we might be the ones t o disappear. We decided t o enlist the help of the British Embassy and found a willing accomplice there in Julio, a Paraguayan schoolteacher who worked part-time on the Embassy staff. It was Julio who smoothed our way t o the Ministry of Defence, where w e m e t polite, but vigorous, attempts t o dissuade us. The official explained his reluctance

give us a permit by reference t o his last bad experience. He said that a French couple, ostensibly o n a scientific mission, had filmed the Ache in Cecilio Baez indulging in sexual intercourse and that this to

film had surfaced in the blue movie parlours o f Panama. Then, after a

few days, the barriers seemed t o come down and conveniently Julio found the time to drive us halfway across Paraguay to Cecilio Baez

in his deux chevaux. It was a long drive and heavy rains made the dirt road impassable. We diverted for the night to Julio’s home in Caazapa. Julio was a most entertaining companion, chatty and well read, but I remember Norman

saying t o me that he had never before come across a schoolmaster who held himself in quite the way he did. That evening Norman came up t o m e and said with a quiet chuckle, ‘ I accidentally opened the door t o Julio’s room and saw our schoolmaster buckling on an automatic pistol.

He also had a dagger strapped just above his right ankle.’ Next day

Julio showed u s h o w t o have a good time i n

Caazapa i n

the rain. H e explained that vendetta duels used to be conducted conveniently close to the cemetery. Since the showing o f the film High Noon, they tended to be held in the main street. A sudden buzz o f excitement led m e to believe a duel was being laid o n for our benefit, but it was

only a local bullfight. I became excited photographing the storm clouds and the effects

on the light, and this obviously moved Julio, who told me I was opening his eyes t o the beauties of Paraguay. And while I didn’t feel nervous of Julio, whose presence was presumably designed to protect us, I thought it reassuring that the man with a gun should admire what I did. 211

It became clear that this particular mission t o Cecilio Baez would have to be aborted, but there was one more diversion on the way back t o Asuncion. In the little town of Coronel Oviedo there lived the Great

Witch of Paraguay. Her name was Maria Calavera (Mary Skull) and General Perôn o f Argentina was said to have been one o f her regular clients. Her speciality was helping people to put their affairs in order b y predicting for them the exact date o f their death.

This was not the kind of information that I was keen t o acquire, but Norman couldn’t resist. I'm not sure what he got out o f Mary Skull but he had a quiet smile o n his face when he returned to the car.

We made another run t o Cecilio Baez a couple of days later, this time in a Land Rover with a driver (again referred to us through the

British Embassy) who was an English veterinary surgeon with n o discernible armament about his person. Clearly we were unwelcome at the camp. The head missionary, who looked like a crop-haired Marine, grumbled about our turning up three days after we were expected. With a slight edge o f surprise o n our side,

we tried to allay his concern by saying we had no intention of making blue movies as the French couple had. The missionary looked blank. There had never been a ‘French couple’. H e surprised us by saying he had 300 Indians in the camp, for this was considerably more than we had been led to believe and suggested that mission care was indeed keeping more Indians alive. H e explained that the overriding purpose was to bring salvation to those in a state of sin. All the missionaries in Cecilio Baez ‘worked with the unreached’. While Norman was still talking, I slipped away and started taking photographs. The stench of neglected sanitation in the hutted camp area was overpowering. One thing soon became obvious: there were nothing like 300 Ache in this camp—at most there were fifty Indians, all o f them in pitiful condition. The young children all had distended stomachs and decayed teeth that told o f malnutrition. The adults all seemed unfocused and listless. Some o f the young missionaries hovered uncertainly around m e while I took pictures, though I achieved some immunity whena little flaxen-haired boy, the son of one of the missionaries, decided t o take a liking t o me. I accepted his offer t o carry m y tripod. 212

As I went over t o a little hut, a missionary started gesturing no admittance. I went in and found two old Aché women, emaciated and very close to death. In the next hut lay a young woman with untreated

wounds, a small tearful boy beside her. I asked my missionary boy what hadhappened andhe, unaware of the grown-ups’ party line that everybody in Cecilio Baez had come there voluntarily, told me the truth. All three women and the boy, he said, had been taken in a recent forest round-up; the youngest woman had been shot in the side while trying to escape.

This confirmed Norman’s evidence, from other sources, that some o f the missionaries went on Indian-catching raids. Indeed, it was wholly

impossible t o credit the notion that the Ache could be ‘attracted’ t o this place without coercion. It could be that the missionaries were saving Indian souls but the evidence o f neglect o f their bodies was there to be seen. While we were going about our business the younger missionaries formed u p a rank and sang hymns. Norman described it as the most sinister experience o f his life, and it wasn’t a moment I wanted to prolong. We tangled again with the N e w Tribes Mission some years later when Norman heard a curious story about the Panare Indians who lived in the Venezuelan interior. The Panare were known for their immunity

to any white man’s attempt to civilise them, and resistance to evangelism was enhanced by the lack in Panare language o f words for sin, punishment and guilt. A census-taker had come across a Panare community in the Colorado Valley and had tape-recorded them singing their ancestral songs. She returned a year later with the intention o f playing back the songs t o entertain the Indians. Once the tape-recorder was switched on, the Indians leapt u p in panic and denounced the voice o f the devil. For Norman, this was a sure sign o f N e w Tribes Mission activity. We made the expedition t o the Panare in the company o f Paul Henley, a n anthropologist who spoke their language and who was an adopted member o f the tribe. The first Panare we saw told the whole story. H e was a young man in the traditional red woven loincloth astride a bicycle bearing the message ‘Christ Saves Us’. The Panare, it seemed, had been half-saved, incorporating bits and pieces of Christian culture but essentially going their o w n way. 213

We were allocated one of the thatched longhouses and made welcome—up t o a point. The Colorado Valley Panare did not want me t o photograph them. At first I thought this might be a prohibition imposed by the N T M missionaries, but then the missionaries all took off in their charter plane soon after our arrival, leaving behind them a piggy bank for every Panare child and a reworked version o f the Crucifixion story in which the Panare killed Christ. It was still ‘no photographs’, even after the missionaries had gone. The Panare are a highly photogenic people, lithe and graceful in movement, and I could just imagine the art editor’s response if I got back saying, ‘Listen, they were really amazing-looking Indians but I

don’t have any pictures.’ I started trying t o win hearts and minds with m y small repertoire o f conjuring tricks and succeeded in elevating m y status with the Panare children. T h e adults were harder t o crack. Paul

Henley told m e that my best chance of beating the ban would be t o photograph them in some kind o f action. The opportunity came with a most unusual fishing expedition. The operation began with a trip into the mountains to cut down quantities o f a liana called enerima before the Panare gathered in force

on a quiet reach of the Tortuga River, a tributary of the Orinoco. Some fifty Indians lined the bank while the lianas were crushed and put into

baskets which were then rinsed in the flowing water. In a couple o f minutes the water began to turn milky. Soon you could see fish leaping out of the river and going doolally.This was the signal for the Panare to move in with their spears. Norman estimated the full catch at around a ton. The enerima must have contained some kind o f nerve poison. It did not kill fish but just paralysed o r stunned them temporarily. While this astonishing spectacle was in progress I was able to take photographs almost at will, though photographing the Panare remained a delicate

and difficult matter. From Colorado Valley we would make excursions to other smaller Panare communities. Some o f these required Norman and m e t o under-

take intrepid treks across country, even wading rivers waist deep. In one such crossing Norman, w h o was ahead o f m e , stopped t o draw m y

attention to a host o f hummingbirds skittering along the bank. Suddenly he began hopping u p and down alarmingly in the water. 214

‘What is it?’ I said. ‘What's wrong?’ ‘ I ' m not sure, dear boy, his benign voice floated back t o m e as he tried t o regain his composure. ‘Feels as if something is biting at m y

crotch.’ The cause o f this discomfort was not easy to discover but eventually

we spotted the tiny fish, only a few millimetres long, that were trying t o make a meal of poor Norman's genitals. The most bizarre location we visited was close to a diamond mining township called Tiro Loco (Crazy Shot). There the Indians traded fresh vegetables for the miners’ pots and pans. Norman bore with m e while I enjoyed some freedom among the diamond miners. They were some o f the most evil-looking characters

I had ever come across, but that didn’t seem t o inhibit them from asking m e to take their pictures. Here you could actually see drunks being pitched head first out of saloons into the street, though we were

assured by one citizen that you had t o work hard t o get yourself shot. The only hotel in town turned out to be a whorehouse. While neither

Norman nor I was accustomed to frequenting such places, it excited m e t o b e taking m y first whorehouse pictures. For m e the whole place

was rather like grabbing at a live wire.

As the light faded I took t o gulping down quantities of local beer,

known as Pola, while a raucous crowd was assembling for the cockfight. Through the haze I became aware of Norman saying, ‘Have you finished your work?’ Yes, I suppose I had, I admitted in a slurred voice. “Well then, shall we go?’ he said. As ever Norman’s delicate invitation had the force of a command.

215

28. WAITING FOR POL POT

The Khmer Rouge were busy in the spring o f 1975 dropping Russian

rockets o n the Cambodian capital, Phnom Penh, and killing people left, right and centre. Thousands of mines laid around the city were claiming a dozen amputees daily. The airport was under constant fire from Khmers who had overrun all the country save this last small enclave around the capital. Even twelve-year-olds were being kitted out b y a

beleaguered government, handed an Armalite each and pushed into the front-line defences. The situation was so desperate when I arrived it was hard t o know where to begin. Combat photography seemed almost inconsequential beside the real story taking place in the hospitals, where conditions could only be described as Crimean. Patients with ghastly wounds littered the floors while the few remaining doctors tried t o keep pace with demands for emergency surgery. There was n o time for bedside manner o r finesse o f any sort. I watched a twelve-month-old baby having the wound left by its amputated arm stitched hurriedly as if it were an old football. The speed-sewer was not a doctor but the

only

man available who could work with a needle. While the blood-letting went o n all around Phnom Penh operations were being cancelled for a lack o f blood transfusions. Along with the carnage went the starvation.

More than fifty babies a week were said t o be dying from malnutrition. When the Red Cross started t o withdraw their medical teams, I knew that the writing was o n the wall. Phnom Penh and every person in it would soon be at the untender mercy o f Pol Pot, the fanatical leader o f the Khmer Rouge. For correspondents it was big decision

time—whether t o stay or go. The Khmers had already bumped off more than twenty correspondents; disposing of a few more would give them little trouble. Yet t o people like Jon Swain the idea of leaving the city seemed like a betrayal, like walking out o f a theatre before the last act. 216

START .

BIE

cred 3

Ep

At a madhouse after the guards had deserted, Phnom Penh, 1975

217

I was very much of the cut and run party. Not through cowardice but as a matter of common sense, though eventually the moral authority for the decision was taken out of my hands. Harry Evans sent me a cable requesting me t o move on t o Saigon. I remember Martin Woollacott drawing me to one side and saying, ‘I'd be careful in Saigon if I were you, as I do believe your name is on a blacklist.’ To be honest, I didn’t think much of the warning because I didn’t see how a government on the verge of collapse could be much concerned about who was taking the photographs. I also thought it would be a lot healthier in Saigon than

in Phnom Penh when the Communists came marching in. Indeed, everyone thought that the Khmers would prove t o be much crueller than the North Vietnamese in victory, though nobody anticipated the genocidal nightmare that was t o come under Pol Pot’s regime in Cambodia.

I flew into Bangkok o n the day after receiving Harry’s message and shipped my Cambodia film back t o London. For security reasons, I usually carry my film back, but I had no idea how long I would be in Vietnam or what communications would survive the crunch. As I boarded the aeroplane for Saigon, I received a curious amplification of Woollacott’s warning from John Pilger of the Daily Mirror. ‘ I don’t want you t o think I ’ m being funny, he said, ‘but would you do me a favour. When we arrive in Saigon, would you totally detach yourself and not have anything to do with me. Because if you are o n

the blacklist, I don’t want t o draw attention t o myself by being with you. So if you don’t mind—nothing against you meant by it, of course.’ I didn’t hold anything against John either, because I knew he was only protecting his ability to operate and do his work. All the same I couldn’t help feeling a bit leprous as we touched down and I watched

John disappear through passport control. N o hold-up on his part.Then I presented m y own passport. The official disappeared with it for five minutes and then came back with a squad o f ‘white mice’, as the Saigon police were called, determination written o n their faces. ‘You very bad man,’ they told me, ‘you no stay in Vietnam. You go,

you go, you go now, back t o Bangkok. There was a rush as they tried to overpower me, a lot o f pushing

and shoving and a bit of a scuffle. I crashed back on a desk, breaking an 218

airport telephone. An officer told m e I was on a special list of people who were not friends of Vietnam, and there was no way I could enter the country. I was locked in a little room t o cool off. A t n o stage was

I told why I was on this special blacklist, though I could only imagine it was because o f m y coverage in 1972 when I had photographed a

demoralised South Vietnamese army in flight from QuangTri. From a window in the room I could see a number o f English jour-

nalists drifting about, among whom I spotted my friend Mike Nicholson from ITN (Independent Television News) and quite a few others. I shouted through the grille t o attract attention, and t o find out what was going on. It turned out that David English of the Daily Mail had chartered a whole aeroplane t o take Vietnamese war orphans back t o England. I knew there was little chance now of my entering Vietnam, but I might at least avoid being sent back to Bangkok. ] managed to get out a request for a seat o n the refugee plane. And

the message from David English came back, ‘You're welcome absolutely t o join us, but would you do one thing? Would you mind caring for one of the children on the flight?’ I got word back that I'd be delighted, and I was on.

Once the Vietnamese realised that I was prepared t o go quietly, any further objections dissolved. I got back m y passport and joined David o n the runway. M y long experience o f Vietnam ended with a flight home cradling a nine-year-old spastic boy and a pretty three-year-old girl with a gigantic abscess o n the side o f her face.

219

29. A CHRISTIAN MASSACRE

] first visited Beirut in 1965 when its decadence had style. While

staying at the Palm Beach Hotel, I decided t o cross the road one day for lunch in the St George, the last known watering hole of superspy K i m Philby before he surfaced in Moscow. Philby was evidently more o f an English gentleman than m e — I was turned away for not wearinga t i e .

Below that surface correctness, Beirut was a raffish place.The city excelled in the provision of drugs, brothels and financial services. It was like one great big racket that worked for everybody—or everybody with money. It was also known as the safest place in the Middle East. The greatest danger in Beirut when I first went there was o f being knocked down b y a whole Lebanese family parading o n Hamra Street in high Gucci fashion. Journalists were drawn to the place, partly for its quality as a

listening-post in the Arab world, but chiefly because its communications were so good. I must have passed through Beirut half a dozen times without actually working in the Lebanon. The last such stopover was in 1974, when James Fox and I had completed our portrait o f the new king o f Saudi Arabia in an opulent apartment owned by the arms dealer Adnan Khashoggi. I was offered a lift back to Beirut in Mrs Khashoggi's

private aircraft, which was equipped with a cinema and a good supply o f expensive chocolates that Soraya Khashoggi’s entourage consumed in great quantity when they weren't playfully throwing them around. Finsbury Park never seemed so far away. When we landed in Beirut, Soraya said, ‘ I expect you to take m e to dinner tonight,’ and that sent a shiver o f fear down m y spine. We ate Lebanese in a small restaurant near the harbour, and then she expected m e to go dancing, which produced another stab o f fear for I was well out o f practice. I was relieved finally to make m y escape from the high life o f the rich in Beirut. That style had only a few more months to run, 220

and even as I played the tongue-tied escort I detected that something strange was in the air. For years the whole structure o f Lebanese society had been biased to protect the economic and political privileges o f the elite, which was

mainly Christian. The Christians had the politics tied up with their hold on the Presidency and a system of representation that ensured the Muslims, no matter how numerous, could never achieve power. It was a Levantine version o f Northern Ireland, yet with guns even more freely available. The social divide was also important. As the rich Lebanese got richer, so the poor became destitute. To this explosive mixture were added the Palestinians, who had descended o n Lebanon in huge

numbers after the sacking of their bases in Jordan in 1970. As the slum areas and Muslim ghettos of Beirut expanded they overlapped the Palestinian refugee camps. Pressure on the city increased further with the arrival of more refugees from the Israeli bombing in the south. Alliances between the Left and the Palestinians began t o form and the predominantly right-wing Christians became more and more paranoid about keeping a grip o n what they had come to regard as their country. Their most concentrated venom was reserved for the Palestinians. One morning a bus full o f Palestinian schoolchildren was riddled with fire and all the enmities erupted at once. The serious fighting began in April 1975 and the business and banking district in central Beirut was soon a battlefield. The kidnappings were worse than the shelling, for these were the expression o f long pent-up hatreds. The bodies o f

the unfortunate victims—some with their private parts cut off—would usually b e found i n the rubbish dump a day o r t w o later. There’s nothing

worse than vengeance in the Middle East. When I climbed aboard m y flight from Heathrow t o Beirut in November 1975 I could tell that the rich had already made good their escape. There was not a soul in the first-class compartment. Desperate for company and conversation, the pilot summoned m e u p to the flight-deck and plied m e with rather more drink than I could normally handle. I sobered at the sight o f the Beirut skyline. I could clearly see

the Hotel St George and nearby the Holiday Inn and the Phoenicia lit u p by gunfire. 221

The airport buildings were lit by candles, which gave a sinister slant t o formalities like passport control and getting a taxi, and when a policeman took my taxi driver to one side for a quiet talk I became unreasonably nervous. I knew that I would have to keep m y imagination in order.

We drove through the darkened city, eerie without lights. There had been many cases o f people being killed in their baths b y snipers at

The snipers were still there on night, or while just watching television. the Moor Tower, a large unfurnished building, and in the abandoned hotels which looked down o n West Beirut. But the population had learned how to make their ugly job more difficult after dark. I checked in at the Commodore Hotel within earshot o f sporadic firing. Several thousand rounds would go out before the night was

through. The Commodore itself enjoyed some limited immunity from the conflict due to its reputation as the overseas journalists’ main hang-

out. Two local newspapermen had been tortured and killed, and had their tongues cut out and their eyes gouged, but the Western press escaped the worst. Even the most murderous factions were keen to impress the justness o f their cause upon the world. M y problem was deciding which faction to follow. Colleagues I spoke to in the hotel thought I would have a hard time with the Left o r the Palestinians. They would not let you see any action first-hand and their propaganda machine was too sophisticated—you were taken to

see only what they wanted you t o see. I went off t o get myself attached t o the Christian Falange. I crossed the Green Line, an imaginary dividing line between the factions in the Muslim area, and made my way t o Ashrafiyah district, a Christian stronghold. I found the Falange headquarters there and experienced n o difficulty over accreditation. They gave m e a pass stamped with some indecipherable script and I moved straight in with a group o f fighters holed u p behind the Holiday Inn. I found myself in a warren. People had made tunnels between the houses so that they could run from one to another without being seen. It was like aTube network. One night I slept under a magnificent chandelier,but the normal conditions were squalid and rat-infested.The Falange fighters existed ina litter o f half-eaten kebab sandwiches and 222

soft-core pornography in which the faces and pubes of the contorted women would be blacked out. The stench o f the unburied dead was something t o b e endured.

I gained the fighters’ trust by staying with them under fire, and after days I was taken t o the Holiday Inn, which was occupied roundthe-clock by the Falange t o pour fire into West Beirut. Bizarrely, the lifts were still working and I was taken t o one of the upper floors t o meet the resting troops who were lying around cleaning their Kalashnikov AK-47 a few

rifles. Other fighters were o n the top floor getting theirs dirty again.

They weren't very excited t o see me, but neither were they totally hostile. One of them, who I thought had an extraordinary amount of hair for a fighter, turned out t o be a strikingly beautiful woman. She reminded m e o f the character played b y Maria Schneider in Last Tango i n Paris, and I

could feel my depression, induced by the days and nights in the warren, beginning to lift. She was the first woman I had ever seen in war combat. Two days later she was hurling hand grenades and tied-up dynamite into the nearby Phoenicia Hotel. The Holiday Inn billet had its disadvantages. The cellar had survived almost intact. Beer, brandy and champagne were among the easiest

commodities t o come by. I stayed there for three days, but always went back at night t o the rat-holes, where I slept with one eye open and one ear cocked for the tread o f the man coming to mutilate me. A t dusk,

the Holiday Inn made me nervous, because the military advantages o f the day became vulnerabilities b y night. There was n o seeing the

enemy from afar, and the danger of being trapped was considerable. Some time after I left, the Holiday Inn was overrun by leftist factions, including one popularly known as ‘The Looney Tunes’. They cornered some members o f the Christian Falange o n the top floor and cut off their penises before throwing them alive off the roof.

One morning I was told by a fighter, ‘You are going t o see something good today, m y friend.” H e smiled and told m e to get into a

jeep. We took off, with a man standing, legs astride, in the back with a 30-calibre machine gun. We screeched t o a halt at a gathering of some 200 o r 300 fighters. A woman came over t o m e with some blue ribbon and safety pins. As she put the blue ribbon round m y neck, I asked her, “What's this 223

224

Christian woman with grenade, Holiday Inn, Beirut, 1976

for?’ She couldn’t understand English, but the man beside her told me, ‘It’s for identification. Look, all the fighters have one. In case w e shoot each other.

Staccato orders were shouted and there seemeda lot o f confusion. In times of confusion l’ve often found it a good idea to play the dumb fool. There’s time enough to be smart when you're actually doing the

job, but a little false naïveté in the lead-up can be very beneficial in terms o f information.

I heard the name ‘Quarantina’ mentioned several times, which didn’t mean much to me other than the fact that it was one of the many districts in the city. But gradually I learned that it was a Muslim ghetto that had somehow planted itself in Christian East Beirut, in a poor area

near the docks. It also contained many Palestinians, and these Falange fighters were going in there.

‘We're going t o clear out this place, get all the rats, a fighter told me. More fighters arrived, and the day was wearing on. Suddenly one of the fighters approached me with a big grin and said, ‘Look, photograph that.” He pointed t o something I hadn’t noticed on a telegraph post. Someone had arranged in the form of a collage the dismembered pieces o f a cat. It was a sight which clarified m y view o f the people I

was with and made me nervous for Quarantina. I went running in with the first wave. It was evening and raining

hard. They all wore hoods. We stopped behind a low wall and watched people being shepherded out of a hospital for the insane. People came to the windows o f one wing. One o f the Falange fighters shouted and when he didn’t get a proper answer he shot a burst o f automatic fire into the window. A Falangist followed m e into the main building and looked out o f the same window as I had. There wasn’t much to be seen but he took a sniper’s bullet across the bridge o f his nose. The first drop o f Christian blood incensed the Falange.

When darkness fell, the shooting quietened down and the hospital became a Falange dormitory for the night. I bivouacked in a windowless corridor with an Arabic obstetric diagram at one end and a morgue at

the other. Next along was a Falange who spoke good English, as a result 225

of working for a British airline. He was a great Anglophile, and we talked ourselves to sleep, though it was hardly sleep—more an unconscious wrestling with bad thoughts.

There was the same snip-snap of sniper bullets in the morning, Everyone seemed to have shrunk into the centre of Quarantina. An old American truck, like a Dodge pick-up, was brought up with a huge 50mm machine gun mounted on it. The Falangist on top was pouring out fire indiscriminately.

I spotted an old man lying dead in the street, a pitiful sight, and

take a picture.The Falange fighter accompanying me said, ‘Take no photos, my friend. Otherwise I kill you.’

went over t o

For the moment, I did as he said. The Falange had taken casualties

from snipers that morning and were in no mood for an argument with me. Although my papers allowed for photographs, when the killing started they amounted t o nothing, I was trying t o take pictures of things they did not want t o be seen, and that made life difficult. I heard screaming and shouting and saw women and children being herded from a stairwell. Two men were standing with their hands up, looking very disturbed. The women were giving them furtive glances. They were obviously husbands or brothers and they were being followed by a gang of Falange. I photographed them. A Falange fighter came over t o me and cocked his rifle. It was the same man who had threatened me before. ‘ I told you n o photographs; I'm going t o kill you, he said.

‘No, no,I didn’t photograph you,I photographed only the women, I said. O f course it was not true. I had got him as well. H e tried to

wrench the camera out of my hand. I ducked away and said, ‘Look, I've got a pass. Look. H e calmed down and I backed towards the stairwell where the two m e n were still being held. The Falange had an old M - 1 carbine

trained on these t w o men and they shot them down at point-blank range. As he was falling, one o f the m e n used what air was left in his lungs t o say ‘Allah’. [ held one of the banisters, tight. Hang on t o yourself, I thought. You're going t o see a lot of this today, so hang on. Don’t give the game away now. 226

A lot of people were surrendering, crying, begging and pleading, and some were being put aside, segregated. Women and children went one way, men and older boys were led off another. The very old seemed harder to categorise. I saw one captured old man being forced at knifepoint to take down his trousers in the middle o f the road. They

wanted t o find his sons, but when he said he had no sons, they turned the whole episode into a taunt against his manhood. Another old man I saw did not live long enough to be humiliated. H e shouted defiantly at a Falange fighter and was instantly shot i n the belly.

I saw three young m e n being pushed into a factory yard. Then I spotted the English-speaking fighter I had slept beside the previous night. "What are they going to do with these young men?’ I asked.

‘ I don’t know, my friend,’ he said. ‘You do know what they're going to do. They're going to kill t h e m We could both see a group o f Falange putting fresh ammunition into their magazines in preparation. I said to the man, ‘Last night you and I spoke as human beings, and you spoke o f your love for English people. Try and stop what is happening now. Try and stop it because the world’s press is here and it will look bad for you. H e tried to say it was not his responsibility but we were attract-

ing attention. Another fighter came over to me and said, ‘ I t is not your business. Leave this yard.’ [ think they knew that I had photographed the situation, for a few minutes later the three captives were being booted out o f the place. They had a temporary reprieve but their chances o f surviving through the rest o f that day were very slim. Great hordes o f people were surrendering now. As an area was cleared the torches went i n . You could hear eucalyptus trees exploding as they also burst into flames. Everything that was burnable was burned.

The whole scene was something out of the Dark Ages, like our image of what happened when the Goths and the Huns swarmed across Europe and Asia, pillaging and burning. It was more than frightening, it was catastrophically fearful, like the dawn o f a new dark age. I photographed, and went o n photographing.

Again I heard the injunction: ‘No photographs, leave the district.’ And this time I did as I was told. 227

That evening I m e t up with Martin Meredith in the Commodore and we agreed to go back into Quarantina the next day. As we came up t o the Green Line we were stopped at a checkpoint, and I could hear a lot o f screaming outside. Our driver said, “They want your pass. PASS.

Thoughtlessly I produced the pass from my pocket and put Martin, myself and the Canadian journalist who was travelling with us in mortal danger. All hell broke loose. They came running around the car, and said, ‘Get out. We're going t o kill you. They hauled us out of the car and startedbundling us towards ahouse. We had t o pass through scores of weeping and wailing women, women who had just been widowed in Quarantina. We were pushed into a room, and a man came u p to m e and said, “We are going to cut your throat.

I asked him what for, and he said, “You are a spy.You are an enemy. You are Fascist Falange. I knew then all too well what I had done wrong. I had tried t o get through a left-wing Muslim checkpoint by flourishing a Christian Falange permit. With emotions running so high against the Falangists,

this was a perilous mistake. Unfortunately, the throat-cutter did not seem to want to understand the mistake.

‘You are a Fascist Falange, he kept repeating, ‘you are a spy. He then lapsed into an ominous silence. As w e waited t o see what our fate would be, people kept cracking open the door to cast an evil eye over the Fascist spies. I was in bad shape not only with my own fear but with guilt at having put my colleagues at risk. Eventually higher authority arrived in the form of a young man in a leather jacket with a fur collar. He was mercifully brisk.

‘Mr McCullin, you have made a big mistake,” he said. “These people want to kill you. You have given these people a Christian Falange pass. I

know you have t o have this pass, but they don’t understand it. They are dealing with the survivors from Quarantina whose loved ones have been murdered, and they want to be revenged. I know you are only doing

your job, and that you have t o go from side t o side, but my friend, be very careful, because you are very close t o death’ He asked if we would like some coffee. So shocked were we that we could hardly muster enough saliva between us t o say we would. I had to resist an impulse to stoop down and kiss the man’s feet. 228

I took some photographs of the refugees outside, then Martin and I headed off into Quarantina. There was no mystery about what had happened t o the m e n who had been led off o n the previous day. As we made for the north o f the district, where fighting was said still to be

going on, w e started passing heaps of charred dead bodies. The streets were strewn with scores o f dead Palestinians.

I remember seeing an overweight man, wearing a cardigan, a cableknit cardigan such as you can buy in Marks and Spencer, lying on his back with his eyes open. Next t o him lay a woman, I think his wife, who was still holding a bunch o f plastic flowers. A plea for mercy. One o f the Falange came forward and set fire to their clothes. I photographed very carefully and only when I thought I wouldn't be seen. I was still shaky from the checkpoint incident and I didn’t want t o push m y luck so early i n the day. W e came upon Christian Falange

looting homes that had escaped torching. They came u p the road carrying their booty o f television sets and cassette players. I marvelled at the

capacity of people t o covet the possessions of those they despised. The looters had very little time. We saw a fire truck go b y and then stop to spray petrol over some abandoned shacks which were then set alight. In an area o f small factories I saw a fighter from the Holiday Inn with a shaking old man backed u p against the wall, threatening to cut off his privates. O n the other side o f the road a captive group was being kicked systematically in the face and stabbed. Then I saw the girl fighter from the Holiday Inn looking shame-faced and alone. There was an argument going o n between a Palestinian and his captor and I asked

her t o interpret. ‘One o f these prisoners is claiming that he and his son are members

of the Arafat family. So, you know, they will survive for the time being. She looked at m e with embarrassment and walked away. Surreptitiously I started taking pictures. One brutalised man summoned u p the courage to run. As he ran the fighters started firing at him. Bullets struck the wall by Martin and m e and fizzled like worn-out fireworks. The fighters ran after the man and we ran after the fighters, willing the man’s escape, but he ran into another bunch o f Falange who kicked him to the ground. One o f the fighters stepped u p and emptied a whole magazine into the man’s head. 229

Again we got the message: ‘You two, leave this place now. And do

take any photographs, or you will be killed.’ As we moved on I saw a pile of dead bodies which had not yet been burned. I was shaking as I took a picture quickly. not

Further down the same road we heard strumming. A young boy was playing a lute ransacked from a half-burned house. The boy was strumming it among his mates, as if they were at a picnic among almond

groves in the sun. In front o f them lay the body o f a dead girl in puddles o f winter rain. M y mind was seized by this picture o f carnival rejoicing in the midst o f carnage. It seemed to say so much about what Beirut had become. Yet to raise the camera could be one risk too many.

Then the boy called over t o me. ‘Hey, Mistah! Mistah! Come take photo. I was still frightened but I shot off t w o frames quickly. This, when it’s published, will crucify this lot, I thought. As we picked our way over the rubble o n the way out I could hold it down no longer. ‘The bastards. The BASTARDS,’ I yelled out loud. ‘ I ' m going to get you bastards!’ Martin looked startled, but I didn’t care. I had pictures that would tell the world something o f the enormity o f the crime that had taken The Christian Falange knew it too, for soon afterplace in Quarantina. wards I heard that they had put out death warrants for two photographers. One was for the person who had taken the picture o f a Christian soldier toasting victory in Quarantina with champagne, the other was for the photographer who had taken the picture of the boys with the mandolin.

It was m y duty now to get myself and m y pictures back to London as fast as possible. Martin advised against the airport. Conflict between the pilots, who were mainly Christian, and those who controlled the

surrounding area, mainly Palestinian, had totally disrupted all flights. Lingering at the airport was never advisable. It was a prime site for kidnapping. I left the Lebanon by a less predictable route. There were still a

few drivers who would risk the Bekaa valley, though it had been heavily infested with sectarian guns. Two innocuous Japanese typewriter 230

salesmen who had found themselves marooned in

the

Commodore

Hotel recruited one and I hitched a lift with them. It was a bone-shaking eight-hour drive through the valley and o n into Syria. With m y last reserves o f energy I managed t o organise a Pakistan Airways flight from

Damascus t o London. The film survived intact, but I was emotionally burned out.

231

232

Young Christians beside the body of a teenage Palestinian girl, Beirut, 1976

233

30. PICNIC WITH

ABU AMMAR

Hunting for, waiting for, watching, reacting t o the disasters of the world had taken a grievous toll on my spirit. You cannot walk on the water of hunger, misery and death. You have t o wade through t o record them. I was chilled, numb and lonely. M y head ached with the intensity of my experience, the intensity of my thinking. It had taken all the energy, all the self-discipline I had t o keep myself working t o survive, t o not go home t o a scalding bath, a warm fire, clean clothes. I felt I had seen so much horror that it was likely t o destroy me. I needed t o be at home. I needed the peace of my own country, England. Yet when I go home and sleep in my own bed, I soon become restless. [ am not shaped for a house. I grew up in harsh surroundings. I have slept under tables in battles for days on end. There is something about this that unfits you for sleeping in beds for the rest of your life. M y contact with wars, the way I've lived, is like an incurable disease. It is like the promise of a tremendous high and the certainty of a bad dream. It is something I both fear and love, but it’s something I can’t do without. I cannot do without the head-on collision with life I have when I am working. M y violent experience in Quarantina led t o further work in the Middle East. Naim Attallah, the publisher of Quartet, proposed that I should produce a book with Jonathan Dimbleby, whose journalism I much admired, exploring the identity of the Palestinians. This assignment, along with others for m y paper, would see m e returning regularly t o the Middle East trouble spots, with only short pauses for exhaustion,

through the late Seventies, when the war in Lebanon raged on bloodily

and unabated. I was drawn t o the place less by the conflict than by my sympathy for the Palestinian people, whom I had first encountered in refugee shacks and shanties in Gaza before the Six Day War. Dispersed in the Arab world, they seemed t o m e surprisingly similar t o the 234

Jews—hard-working, highly motivated, an intellectual elite providing a professional class for many another country.

There was also a rougher edge to the Palestinian movement. In

Jordan they had not confined themselves t o regaining their own land but had created a revolutionary state within a state, and had become a

threat t o King Hussein. Fatah supporters had screamed round the city of Amman in Land Rovers bristling with sub-machine guns, a personal vigilante security force for Palestinian establishments, and not always above extorting contributions t o the cause at gunpoint. Ousted from Amman, they had regrouped in Lebanon and emerged behaving in a similar fashion in Beirut. By then the Black September extremists had taken measures like the Munich massacre, with which I could in n o way go along. Like some o f the Christian warlords o f the

Falange, some of the Palestinians reminded me of Chicago gangsters of the Thirties. We would see the spokesmen of the different factions by turns in the Commodore Hotel—where they would come to give informal press conferences. They would like t o mingle with journalists, but even more they liked the indulgence o f the playboy life. It was like a curious and unnerving variety show.

Getting t o see the Palestinian leader, Yasser Arafat, was far more complicated. He was Public Enemy Number One ofboth the Christians and the Israelis, so his movements were highly unpredictable, perhaps even t o himself. He had a number of dens around Beirut, but there was never any advance warning where he might be at a given time. After long negotiation Jonathan and I were told w e would be allowed t o see him. It was only after a hair-raising drive in a Mercedes, squashed between two garlic-breathing, heavily armed guards, that we realised exactly where—at a picnic for the Beirut University brigade o f Fatah, held in the dappled shade o f olive and cedar trees near a decaying yellow stucco villa in the hills above Tyre. The roads round about were blocked

by Japanese jeeps and British Land Rovers filled with Fatah commandos pointing their 106mm recoilless rifles at the sky. Fear o f the arrival o f Israeli intelligence was as intense as ever. Lebanese and Palestinian Fatah supporters brewed lamb and chicken i n large cauldrons and drank tea and coffee, until at noon Arafat’s convoy 235

swept u p in a cloud of dust and a confusion o f military, all shouting

orders. The small, paunchy and unprepossessing figure of Arafat, in a well-pressed but not well-fitting uniform, was soon lost in a sea o f fol-

lowers trying t o embrace him and kiss his hand. It was not until he launched into a passionate oration o n the evils

of imperialism, the glory of the Palestine martyrs, the need t o sacrifice one Palestinian for every mile of lost Palestine, that you could sense the demotic power of the man, the voice pitched o n a rising tone, the

gestures perfectly timed. The gathered students, refugees, young fighters, were rapt. By this time my own brief encounter with Arafat had come and gone, and I had concluded that he was both charming and enormously wily. Before the speeches we had eaten at trestle tables. M y main concern was t o photograph him. I noticed h e had that knack common t o world

leaders o f pausing just the right time for the motorwind o f the camera.

Though Arafat himself was relaxed, his bodyguards, like leopards about to spring, fixed their eyes on m y lens in moment by moment alert, as

if the camera might hold an assassin’s bullet. He extricated himself from my focus with great skill. ‘Here, he said, hospitably, offering m ea large piece of lamb from his plate. ‘Eat. Eat. Enjoy. By the time I had choked it back, and got the grease off my fingers enough t o work the camera again, he had swept benignly away. Now w e were t o meet even more alarming members of El Fatah's revolutionary council, in the course of hearing the Palestinians’ story from their own lips. We spent a week with the man under whose force’s fire Murray Sayle and I had been when we were holed up in the Intercontinental Hotel in Amman. H e was a legendary figure among the Palestinians and later figured as a leading character in John le Carré’s book The Little Drummer Girl. His name was Salah Tamari.

Jonathan’s contact with him was through Salah’s wife, Dina Abdul Hamid. The story of Salah and Dina was an astonishing one. She was a Hashemite princess and the first wife of King Hussein of Jordan, whom she'd divorced because of his lady-killing propensities. Salah and Dina had married in remarkable circumstances—during

the actual siege of Amman, where Salah was commander of the Fatah 236

forces, and therefore the leading foe of his love’s ex-husband, the King. During that time, we heard, Salah had kept constantly o n the move—

making only one pause. This was t o hijack a priest and get him, at gunpoint, to perform a marriage ceremony between himself and Dina.

N o w they lived in a fine but ancient villa, in an old garden, outside

Sidon. He was a handsome, dominating man, made of equal parts of unpretentious warmth and, I would also think, anger. He was a m a n who had seen much action at close quarters. H e had held the line against the

Israelis at the battle of Karameh. We had much t o talk about. Through him w e also m e t other Fatah leaders, Abu Douad and Abu Moussa; and another legendary figure, who with Arafat had founded El Fatah o n the

West Bank of Jordan, Abu Jihad. His name meant Holy War. I remember seeing him with his daughter, and after he was killed years later by Mossad, I thought sadly of that little girl. But I couldn’t altogether yield to the charm and humanity o f the Palestinian leaders.

Salah himself was a Bedouin born in Bethlehem. His uncle, a tribal

judge, had ridden a horse carrying a sword by his side. That was i n

the

days when the lands which later became Israel were 95 per cent owned by the Bedouin, and 70 per cent occupied by them. When the British needed American and Jewish financial support in World War One, they duplicitously ceded a Jewish homeland after it had been promised

independently t o the Arabs. But in Salah’s uncle’s time this homeland had been a small unthreatening settlement. Abu Douad had grown u p

happily side by side with Jewish Palestinians. He still did not hate Jews at all. He hated only the militant Zionists. Hitler changed everything.The flight from genocide made ordinary Jews, not just Zionists, heedless pressers o f a path into lands that for 2,000 years had not been their own. Extremist Zionist organisations,

the Stern gang and Irgun, had used all known violent means t o destroy the British administration which had tried t o stem the flow of new migrants. Aeroplanes were dynamited, banks were robbed, British officers were kidnapped, British sergeants were lynched and hanged from

trees. Virtually all the tactics later deployed by the extreme Palestinians had been used by Irgun first. This terror was used with popular support in the West. The Ameri-

can scriptwriter Ben Hecht had written, in the NewYork Herald Tribune, 237

to the Irgun: ‘Every time you blow u p a British arsenal, wreck a British

jail, send a British railroad sky high, let go with your gun and bombs at the betrayers and invaders of your homeland, the Jews of America make a little holiday in their hearts.’ A s the British moved out, the w i l d e r extremes of the Jewish movement began ‘cleansing operations’ in the Arab villages. Jacques le

Reynier of the International Red Cross found bloodcurdling evidence of a M y Lai—style massacre at Deir Yassin. Abu Douad, as a twelve-year-old, was present at another grim massacre o f Arabs b y Israelis at Ramlan. It

had been called by the Palestinians, ever since, The Catastrophe. Douad says that it is right the West should never forget The Holocaust, but they

should also remember The Catastrophe. The Palestinians fled throughout the Middle East. From being judges in Palestine, Salah’s family became labourers in Kuwait. But exile, over two generations, changed the nature o f the people again. Like the

Jews in exile, they became intellectuals, lawyers, powerful businessmen and, as in the case of Arafat’s twin brother, respected physicians—and also militant revolutionaries.

The dreadful cycle of violence, born of Palestine, continued. Soon after I arrived back in the Lebanon, I heard that, in revenge for Quarantina, the Christians of Damour in southern Lebanon had been driven out, and Damour sacked. In return 30,000 Palestinians had been besieged in the fortress of Tal Al Zaater. I was in the country again soon after the Syrians marched in to exercise what was called a peace-keeping role. The Syrians, always

regarded by the Israelis as their most formidable foe, had arrived initially by invitation o f the Saudis, though the Syrians had their own interest in

that they saw Lebanon as a part of Greater Syria. Like the other militias on the streets of Beirut, they did not much care for journalists. I was arrested for photographing a Syrian soldier who had perched himself o n the bonnet o f a car and was waving his pistol joyously in the air.

Even with the ‘peace-keepers’ in town, hysterical militiamen of all varieties continued t o fire wildly at the smallest excuse. You would still get the occasional incoming shell. And if it was sometimes quiet at weekends it would be because all the fighters were off in the mountains where they did their training and inhaled their deadly doctrines. The 238

dictum of the Christian Guardians was: ‘It is the duty of every Lebanese t o kill one Palestinian.’ One day the sight o f m y camera got m e arrested by a Palestinian

militiaman. He seemed t o be under the influence of drugs, and I had to think fast. I said I was a friend of Abu Ammar, which is Arafat’s nom de guerre. “You are really a friend o f Abu Ammar?’ he asked.

I replied that I was, and that I had been playing chess with him that very morning, and asked if he had seen the photograph in the newspaper. In fact, there was a picture that day of Arafat playing chess with a BBC friend of mine. I was asked, ‘How did our chairman play? Did he beat you?’ I replied that of course he did. He looked at me, smiled and put his arms around me and gave me a huge squeeze which the 9mm Russian pistol in his waistband made rather painful. He then held me back from him and looked me in the eyes and said, ‘ I am very pleased. You can go. There was a chilling aftermath to m y Palestinian wanderings with

Jonathan. I got involved with some of the Nazis who had done so much to create the Palestinian problem in the first place. It happened through

my friendTony Terry, with whom I had last worked in Biafra, where he arrived sweltering and resplendent in black suit and red sock suspenders post-haste from some north European conference. O n that occa-

sion he’d had to use his considerable astuteness to plumb the African

politics he was encountering for the first time. O n this occasion, in the autumn o f 1977, I was being sent to meet him in West Germany, very much his home ground. We were going to see a group o f extraordinary old Nazis, with whomTony had ingratiated himself. They were the survivors o f Hitler's o w n personal SS guards, the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler.They included an enormous blond man, at least six-and-a-half feet tall, who was treated with much deference. H e turned out t o have been Hitler’s personal

bodyguard. They were, unbelievably, trying t o scrub up their image. They had produced a sentimentalised publication about their war efforts. From its glossy pages you would believe that the SS were into n o more than genial comradeship and healthy living. As it happened Tony had been a 239

commando in the raid on the German U-boat base at St Nazaire andheld a prisoner of war for three years. He had thereafter worked in British Intelligence investigating atrocities committed by this very same unit. He was not at all impressed by their attempt t o burnish a latter-day reputation as social workers, but he was a master at not showing his distaste. He'd talk politely t o these appalling people,purse his lips when Adolf’s name was admiringly evoked, give a little smile and move on.

He only let the emotion out when he sat at the typewriter. We wound up being invited t o their reunion dinner held in Nassau, which had been their garrison town during the war.What went o n inside the hall was in some ways more interesting than what went o n with the old Nazis at their revels. There were a few anti-Nazi demonstrators about but the solid citizens seemed very solidly o n the side o f the SS.

Among them was a reserve officer in the present West German army who told us, ‘If I had been asked t o become a concentration camp guard I would have done so as a matter of course. But things are different nowadays.’ I hoped they were. I left with the queasy impression

that it was not just in the Middle East that the old wheels were turning full circle.

240

31. SHADOW OF DOUBT

I had begun t o wonder where home was for an old war-horse like me. While I was away in some dreadful hell-hole I yearned to be back with

my family; when I was at home, tinkering around with the outhouses attached t o my farmhouse in Hertfordshire, I itched t o be away again in foreign parts. O n e thing had t o be recognised—things were changing at the Sunday Times. Lifestyles rather than life were coming into fashion

o n the magazine.

So much o f m y war reporting had involved watching national identities take shape that I began to ask myself who I was. What were the English and what did they represent? What for that matter did I rep-

resent? I decided to take to the road in my own country to find out. For the better part o f two years I travelled round England, discovering i t , taking pictures, sometimes for the paper but often at m y own expense. I was searching not only for the English identity but for a key t o something i n myself that would enable m e t o turn a corner into a n e w

world. What I found was that m y eyes had grown accustomed t o dark. All T saw seemed to echo m y childhood and the scenes o f deprivation,

dereliction, death and disaster, smashed minds and broken bodies, that I had witnessed in other countries.

I immersed myself in the industrial communities o f the North and soaked u p the desolate beauty o f cities like Bradford. Though not myself down-and-out, I could not help identifying with the derelicts and outcasts o f society. I went into the slums it was hard t o believe still

existed in England, where people brewed their children’s tea in old beer cans, where wallpaper hung in great furls from damp walls, where fungus grew around greasy stoves that occupied (as in my childhood) the centre o f impoverished homes that boasted few other amenities o r possessions.

I ate and slept in a Salvation Army hostel, to breathe in its life. I spent weeks photographing in mental hospitals. One o f m y o w n fears 241

has always been that I would lose my sanity, and that I too would be institutionalised. But the scenes I witnessed in the hostels and hospitals and o n the road fed a social anger in me. There was a darkness in m y o w n country that I reacted against, but there was also a darkness in me. When I photographed people at English

seasides they looked unhappy. It crossed m y mind that the unhappiness was not in them but in me. I was still seeing the dead bodies I had

crawled past and touched in other people’s countries. Burning stubble at evening time in English fields reminded me of scorched-earth strategies, and that is how it came out in m y photographs. Mallards rising in the mist from marshes looked like formations o f B-52 bombers. In English woods rain drumming o n the leaves transplanted m e back to tense jungle patrols. I was happiest wandering like a lost soul o n open

moorlands with heavy rain clouds overhead. I longed for winter, for the abrasive struggle with the weather and the nakedness o f the landscape. People told m e it was a form o f masochism.

When I published my book on England, called Homecoming, it was described as over-sombre, a collection o f war pictures taken in times o f peace. A t about that time AssociatedTelevision made a documentary about m y war photographs in which I was asked about m y attitude to w a r i n the future. I had a ready answer. I wanted t o photograph

just

one more war, do it well and say, finish. In reality life is rarely so tidy. War itself is never tidy.

While on a dangerous job I would overcome the fear of leaving

Englandby telling myself I worked for a great newspaper.The paper was as large a part o f the identity o f all its journalists and photographers as we were o f i t . Few o f us realised how large until the Sunday Times closed in November 1978, and stayed closed for a whole year. It is always sad when a newspaper dies for lack o f money. When it closes for lack o f common sense it makes you angry. The reason for the closure was a decision t o move away from traditional hot metal printing methods and go for the new computer-

based typesetting technology. The great Lord Thomson, whom I had accompanied t o China, had died. His son Kenneth, whom I had also befriended, was eager to press ahead with modernising his inheritance.

242

So was the Sunday Times management team. The print unions were all for standing still. N o compromise meant n o solution. The Times and the Sunday Times, which both sides were intent to preserve, disappeared

from the streets. Journalists and photographers, who were not part of the dispute, were left stranded. Most of us continued t o be paid, but newspaperm e n without

a newspaper are pathetic creatures. F e w are prepared

for the demand o f anonymity. I would go into the Gray’s Inn Road building and feel like a morgue attendant. People would drift about

in ones and twos, like the inmates of a mental institution, giving one another suspicious looks of the kind you expect from the paranoid schizophrenic. Nobody really knew if we should or shouldn’t be there. Without the newspaper you could feel the erosion o f loyalties and trust. For me, it was unbearable to think o f the risks I had taken to produce this o r that story for a newspaper that n o w had absolutely n o value. It all seemed farcical. N o one thought the closure would last for more than a few days. As it stretched into weeks, then months, until finally it seemed it would have no end, I found it hard t o work up enthusiasm for anything, Like everyone else, I watched the Iranian Embassy siege on television. I wasn’t looking for danger for a newspaper that didn’t exist. If the management and the printers were not prepared to take any risks in negotiation, why should any journalist do so? Only when the Victoria and Albert Museum approached m e to mount a retrospective exhibition of my work was I dragged out of the doldrums. Apart from Henri Cartier-Bresson, I could not remember another contemporary photographer being accorded the honour of a major exhibition at t h eV and A . I confess I felt uncertain as I printed u p the pictures t o be exhibited in the pigsty I had converted into a dark room. It is one thing to show pictures o f horror and suffering in a newspaper whose function is to reflect what is going o n in the world and quite another t o put them u p o n gallery walls t o b e admired. I n the event

some 40,000 turned out t o see them, most of them young, The exhibition led directly t o a most agreeable meeting. M y agent,

Abner Stein, wanted me t o produce a book of t h eV and A photographs

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under the Conradian title Hearts ofDarkness and asked David Cornwell, better known as John le Carre, t o write an introduction t o it. He agreed, so long as he could meet me. I felt a little overawed, and attempted to read one of his books by way of preparation. The Honourable Schoolboy was said t o be based on some of the people I knew at the Sunday Times, but even the portrayal of our Far Eastern correspondent, Dick Hughes, thinly disguised as ‘Old Crow’, couldn’t keep me going. Dyslexia had impaired my concentration too much for the complexity of his plot

and his prose. I put the book aside and made a mental note

to

avoid

literary discussion.

When David Cornwell arrived at my home, Christine fed him watercress soup, for which he thanked her very nicely. I showed him the chickens and he became the first person ever t o be invited t o cross the threshold of my dark room. In the cowshed we came upon my discarded copy of The Honourable Schoolboy trodden into the mud. He pretended not to notice. We got o n well and talked o n into the evening. As he was

leaving I remember saying t o him gravely and rather gauchely, ‘Maybe you can tell me where I ' m going, whether life is just beginning or just over. What a question t o be asked of anyone after only a few hours’ acquaintance!

O f course he was unable t o tell me, but he produced the s o r t of surgical operation on my psyche for the book that I am sure I did not deserve. Yet he helped me t o put a painful, self-searching period behind me. He thought my work was ‘the product of a restless, slightly puritanical mind, deeply ill at ease with the world’s condition and his own’. He could say that again! Another passage made me feel more uncomfortable: ‘He has known all forms o f fear, he’s an expert in i t . H e has come back from God knows how many brinks, all different. His experiences in a Ugandan prison alone would be enough t o unhinge another man—like

myself, as a matter o f fact—for good. H e has been forfeit more times than he can remember, he says. But he is not bragging. Talking this way

about death and risk, he seems t o be implying quite consciously that by testing his luck each time, he’s testing his Maker’s indulgence. To survive is to be condoned and blessed again/

Could it be true? I can’t altogether deny it. 244

We became friendly, and later I went with him t o Beirut in search o f locations for the film o f his book The Little Drummer Girl. Sensibly

the filming was moved t o Jordan. We went looking for Salah Tamari and Dina while we were in the Lebanon and found their handsome

villa locked up. We clambered over the wall but came away none the wiser as to where they had gone. Later I discovered that Salah was in an Israeli jail.

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32. EARTHQUAKE

IN IRAN

I went t o Iran just before and just after the revolution and I can’t honestly say that I took t o that country on either occasion, though I did very much take t o a man I m e t there who the Ayatollah Khomeini later had imprisoned. Since he was jailed in 1986, Roger Cooper had been described in

the British press variously as ‘an academic’ and ‘a businessman’, and by the Iranians as a spy. I knew him as a newspaperman and a very good one at that. H e travelled round with m e o n both m y tours in Iran.

Roger is the nephew of the poet Robert Graves, which may partly explain the endearing eccentricity of his nature. He wore sandals and rode a bicycle, and carried all his gear—notes, knife, pepper-grinder and other vital equipment—around in an outsize woman’s hessian bag.

He had lived inTehrin for many years and spoke Farsi (and indeed many other languages) like a native. I liked this man at first count. There was a bit of sparkle about him. H e was brilliant in traffic jams. A torrent o f Farsi would emerge

from Roger and the oftenders would back off. He would tell them, ‘As Allah is my witness, you will be punished.’ Like Norman Lewis, he got enormous enjoyment out of the small things in life. I once stood in line to use a rudimentary but popular urinal in a railway station when the man in front o f m e turned round and started

talking t o me. I smiled weakly, not understanding a word he said. The m a n then had an exchange with Roger behind me, at which Roger broke into a bellowing laugh. "You're not going t o like this, D o n , he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘ H e wants t o know why m y friend is so rude that he doesn’t bother t o answer when spoken to. When I told him you didn’t understand the language, he said, “Well, I spoke t o him in Turkish, isn’t that good enough for him?” The funny thing is the Iranians consider the Turks t o be thick.’ 246

When I first went t o Tehran, in the autumn of 1978, radical students were out o n the streets shouting ‘Death t o the Shah’ and were gunned down b y the army.The official death toll was 100, but Roger wasn’t satis-

fied until he had counted the fresh graves inTehran’s main cemetery. He put the figure nearer 500, and he felt sure there would be more in other

places. Only a short time before my arrival seventy theological students had been shot in a disturbance in Qom, one of Iran’s holiest cities. It was clear that w e were witnessing the death throes of a regime. The Shah’s autocracy, underpinned by Savak, all-pervasive and muchfeared secret police, was finally losing its grip. We were watching the beginning o f a major revolution, with major international implications.

Iran’s oil, and its proximity t o Russia, made its political destiny of special interest t o the major powers. Britain had substantial interests there, particularly in construction; Israel and South Africa depended on Iranian oil, but the interests of the United States, which had paved the way for the Shah by a CIA-engineered coup against his left-wing predecessor, Mossadeq, exceeded all others. Now, after years of sustaining the reliably anti-Communist Shah, and unloading huge defence contracts, the Americans were faced with a situation in which the only predictable thing was an end t o the Shah. In those early days, I don’t think anyone could tell which o f the

Shah’s many enemies would emerge triumphant. Most o f the noise was

being made by radical students bent on social revolution but a more solid opposition was emerging from conservative Muslims led by the mullahs, worried at the pace ofWesternisation. Suddenly the political disaster that Iran had become gave place to a natural one. A n earthquake in the desert flattened the oasis town o f Tabas in thirty seconds. It was said that 20,000 people had died. Roger and I managed to fly in o n a military aeroplane. While we were there, sleep-

ing under canvas, there was a second tremor which I count as one of the most unnerving experiences I've ever had.

I thought I could handle most disaster situations but nothing quite prepared m e for the scale o f the dying that comes with an earthquake, o r the sight o f bulldozers burying hundreds o f bodies. The bodies had t o b e buried fast t o prevent a n outbreak o f disease, but w h e n y o u see

m e n laying their shrouded dead babies in the path o f the bulldozer, it 247

becomes hard to hold a camera. While I was in Tabas, the Shah flew in and I took a photograph of the King of Kings coming down the steps of the aeroplane. The whole story of all the political and natural disasters was written on his ravaged face. It was impossible t o keep politics out of anything, even disaster relief.The mullahs were there with their field kitchens and many people remarked t o Roger o n h o w much they were achieving compared t o the

government’s feeble effort. There was also a group of young medical

students from Mashhad University w h o were inoculating against typhus. They dismissed the clergy’s efforts as ‘propaganda’. We went on t o Mashhad, where a most exquisite mosque with a turquoise dome was surrounded b y tanks. Roger had an appointment with a mullah who told us—'for our o w n safety’—to turn round and go back t o Tehran before the airport was closed b y the army. Seeing

our reluctance, he went off briefly and came back with t w o little boxes, planting one in Roger’s palm, the other in mine. They contained two

of the most beautiful turquoise stones. “There’s no way I can accept this,’ I said t o Roger. ‘Will you do me a favour, and keep it,” Roger hissed. ‘He will go

mad if you try and give it back. It’s his way o f trying to show us hospitality even while he’s telling us to shove oft.” So we flew out with our precious stones, and I later had mine made into a brooch for Christine. It wasn’t exactly a window-shopping sort o f situation but I was entranced b y the carpet souks near the British Embassy. There was

obviously great depth t o Iranian culture, though not much t o its cuisine, which mainly consisted of boiled rice with a knuckle o n top. It

was incredible t o me that a country which could come up with Persian carpets and turquoise domes should content itself with such lousy food. Roger and I travelled to many little villages and other towns like Tabriz, where religious fundamentalists had burned down cinemas and

banks, apparently as symbols ofWestern decadence.It was always tough going. The men seemed surly, and it was hard to know what to think of the women with so many o f them shrouded in the chador. It was a relief for us to go u p into the Kurdish Hills, where the landscape seems t o have an almost biblical quality, and people were genuinely pleased t o see us. I k n o w that a lot o f 248

journalists fall i n love

with the Kurds, but there’s good reason for it. The men are always ready to smile and the women go in for gloriously cheerful colours, golds,

reds and blues. I was fascinated by the way they lived on top of their houses as well as in them, though really it was a practical way o f being

ready for any dangerous approaches. M y particular Kurdish friend was a young man of twenty-four who showed me round his village and told me of his nation’s history. Said t o be descended from the Medes who were conquered by the Persians over 2,000 years ago, the Kurds preserve a distinct national identity. I asked my friend how he managed t o acquire such good English in the mountains. H e said it was the result o f a brief descent to Hatfield Col-

lege in England. A year later I went back t o the Iran of Ayatollah Khomeini. Savak had been swept away along with the Shah, but the torture ethic survived under the mullahs. Public hangings also made a big comeback, and when the gallows broke there was usually a machine gun handy t o finish the job. The United States, the Shah’s great ally, had become the house of Khomeini’s ‘Great Satan’. It was a pleasure t o see Roger Cooper again, though he was now in constant demand. Tehran was thronged with newsmen from all over

the world, trying t o figure out what the Iranian revolution was all about, and Roger seemed to be the only one who could actually read a Tehran newspaper.

Most journalists were concentrating their efforts o n the American Embassy and the hostages story. President Carter had already made his big mistake, trying t o free the Embassy staff with a military operation. There was a belligerent, gloating atmosphere in the capital. I did a couple of shifts facing the dragooned, drummed-up chorus outside the American Embassy denouncing anything and anybody from the West, including me. I was relieved when Roger managed to break loose from his commitments so that we could leave Tehran. Iran is a country of many ethnic groups. Almost half the population is composed o f minorities like the Kurds, the Turks, the Arabs

and the Baluchis, and most of them live outside the capital. Our idea was to get to these minority peoples and see how the revolution was

affecting them. 249

We decided to take the train to Tabriz, where there was a large disaffected Turkish community. Despite the mullahs’ prohibition on booze, Roger would not be parted from his home-made elderberry wine, and brought along a bottle with h i m .We both refreshed ourselves at the station before he plunged the bottle down t o the bottom of his hessian shopping basket for maximum security. The train moved off. Not long into the journey we were visited by the ticket collector who was accompanied by a grim-looking, unshaven revolutionary guard. A t that stage o f the revolution the guards were more feared than the army o r the police. They had powers t o dispatch people after only the most tenuous legal proceedings. When the ticket collector departed, the revolutionary guard poked his head back in the door. ‘ I smell alcohol on your breath,” he said t o Roger. ‘ I would like a cup. He then left, saying he would return shortly. We had three tense minutes in which to decide whether this was a puritanical guard trying to get us to incriminate ourselves before hauling us off, o r

whether he was another secret sufferer from the dry revolu-

tion. I let Roger make the decision. H e reckoned the guard probably needed a drink. When the guard returned and pulled down the blind I

realised, with relief, that Roger was right. InTabriz the revolutionary guards were out in oppressive strength. I tried to photograph some local Turks being roughed u p b y the guards and immediately found myself rammed u p against a wall. Again it was

Roger who extricated us from a nasty situation, but it took a lot o f talk to some pretty thuggish characters. I ' m n o expert o n revolutionary theory but in revolutionary practice you always see very unpleasant people o n the rise. When bad things have to be done they are usually better done by bad people. The demand for them in Iran and the Lebanon was plain t o see. We got u p to the Kurdish Hills again to find that revolutionary guards had rampaged there before us. The Kurds had fought them off but they had left many dead—among them m y young friend from Hatfield College. H e had been dragged out o f his car and executed o n the spot. O n the way back t o Tehran I witnessed another kind o f carnage.

With flights disrupted, Roger and I took a taxi 400 miles along the 250

country’s most famous road, once used by rally drivers going from Tehran to Tabriz, then through Afghanistan and into India. I was hop-

ing t o sleep but was kept wide awake by the spectacle of one appalling motor wreckage after another. Some were rusting and had obviously been there for years, perhaps to discourage reckless driving, though there was n o sign o f this happening. In any event, this seemed t o be the area with the clearest continuity o f policy from the tyranny o f the

Shah t o that of Khomeini. One day Roger said he'd heard o f something incredible happen-

ing just outside Tehran o n the edge o f the mountains. According t o his information there was a secret firing range out there specifically for

churchmen. It was true. As we approached the range we were m e t by a mullah with a 9mm pistol where you would normally expect a prayer-book to be. Naturally

it was the old story—no pictures. Then Roger really started to lay it on, telling the mullah how glorious the revolution was, how keen we were t o further its aims. He cited my revolutionary credentials, and how I was ‘close t o Arafat’. The mullah was still having none of it, but I could see that he was intrigued by the Arafat reference, probably because the Palestinians were identified as fellow revolutionaries. I drew Roger to one side to tell him that I just happened to have in my hotel room a copy of The Palestinians, the book I had done with Jonathan Dimbleby, and as a matter of policy I always carried my room keys around with me. Next minute we had the cab driver roaring back t o Tehran t o get the book while Roger continued t o work o n the mullah. Two hours later w e saw the dust of the cab charging back. Roger

advised me o n a suitable inscription—some perjury about wishing the revolution well and this group especially well. Roger handed the book

over to the mullah, then turned to me and said, ‘You can do i t . Take the photos.’

Photographically it was amazing. Khomeini had spoken o f a “twenty million person army’, which sounded ludicrous in a country o f thirtyfive million people, but n o w I saw h o w he could do i t . There were

mullahs everywhere lying down with splayed legs, trying t o get their Kalashnikovs u p straight. Some were having trouble with their skirts, and those who weren’t tended to have turban troubles while in the 251

prone position. They were banging away, with every appearance of enjoyment, and a few were already quite good shots. There were squads of girls and young women too, many wearing the chador but some in informal gear, also learning to be marksmen.

I noticed that the women tended t o get a poorer choice of weapons. Some had G3 rifles which have a very nasty kick. Only the lucky ones had AK-47s. The general effect was of seeing a synod of Anglican bishops and several troops of Girl Guides getting down to some serious gunplay together.

At that time, before the outbreak of the terrible war between Iraq and Iran, I was most struck by the elements of farce in the situation, though it did occur to m e that a country which set out to militarise its

clergy and its women, t w o of the greatest restraining influences against war in any society, could probably do a lot of harm.

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33.

A SHORT WALK WITH THE MUJAHEDDIN

By the spring of 1980 the Sunday Times was anxious to reclaim circulation lost during its closure, and spending money as never before. The lid on the foreign budget flew off. Everyone seemed to be on the road. I pursued m y projects i n Iran and

the Lebanon, and also took

a short

walk in the Hindu Kush. The summer saw me in Sinbad the Sailor outfit, with a brand new pair of Doctor Martens boots, trekking beside Roger Cooper and some vicious-looking members of the mujaheddin up the Khyber Pass. Well, not directly up the Khyber, but close. We were entering Afghanistan illegally while the Russians were in occupation. Our forty mujaheddin, we had been told, were bent on giving the Red Army a bloody nose, and we had to blend in with them. We had been secretly vetted, turbaned

and supplied with very wide, very baggy trousers. After travelling to Peshawar, where we collected food, w e were t o join a band of guerrillas who were heading north into the mountains.

We stood on a parched area of hillside with t w o large and heavy sugar sacks containing our supplies—predominantly pilchards. All we had been able t o buy on the North-West Frontier were tins, which the mujaheddin escort would have preferred u s not t o bring, but I had

learned my lesson about going on long marches without sustenance. Besides, guerrillas in mountain country usually have mules t o carry

such things. When our hosts arrived, bristling with arms and moustaches, they brought n o mules and immediately set off in an upward direc-

tion into trackless country, leaving Roger and me standing with the sacks. When Roger translated from the Farsi the news that they didn’t want t o carry the sacks, I complained that I couldn’t carry the cameras and the pilchards for a hundred miles over the Hindu Kush. Two aggrieved Pathans were then deputed t o heave u p these daunting

mountains of food. 253

Before long we stopped for target practice. A small hand mirror was produced and placed a hundred yards away for the guerrillas to fire at with their AK-47s. Nine out of ten of them missed by a wide margin. It was going t o be quite a show, I thought, when they engaged the Russians. Roger and I felt it prudent t o decline their invitation t o have a go. For four days we kept u p the hard walking through immensely

rugged terrain, along crystal streams packed, I noted wistfully, with darting trout. We stopped at mud-walled villages and slept in Afghan fortified houses, eating with our hands from the communal pot. I was dubious about this, but it was obligatory for the sake o f good relations. It was for the sake o f relations as well as m y fastidiousness that eventually I broke into the sardines. That was when I discovered why the streams were still well populated with trout.The Afghans don’t like fish.

We made more of a hit with Roger’s field glasses. They passed from hand t o hand, and that was the last w e saw of them. The one boy in the band was blamed for their disappearance, though he was clearly not responsible. Other journalists told us later that this was par for the course. Indeed we may have got off lightly. Making people carry heavy sacks was reason enough to bump off a Westerner o r two o n the North-West Frontier.

Two Russian MiGs came rushing through our high valley and we

were forced t o take cover under mulberry trees. I knew now that we were close t o a Russian outpost, our presumed objective, and I made efforts to pin down our commander o n when we would be arriving at

the front. Always his reply was, ‘Soon. Very soon. The MiGs came over again, and once more I pressed the commander. This time he surprised me. Three o’clock. We move at three o ’ clock. With a few spare hours in which to prepare ourselves, Roger and [ went to bathe in one o f the crystal streams. Be clean, I thought, if you're going to the front, in case you have to meet your Maker. I lay back luxuriously in the clear water, then leapt out swiftly. I was covered in leeches. We got them off and returned to find the mujaheddin snoring

in a cave. I said to Roger, ‘ I don’t believe this lot intend going anywhere near the front.” Roger tried out his Farsi again, and so it proved. 254

“We are not taking you to the front in case it brings the Russian air power down on us.’ Instead they took us t o an old Russian helicopter that had been shot down long ago and looked remarkably like one that had appeared in every T V news report I had seen. They posed o n it for the camera in a practised sort o f way before Roger announced that they were taking

us next to see a newly captured gun which they planned t o turn o n the fort. It turned out to be a Russian howitzer with flat tyres. There was n o way it could be moved, and no way either that the Afghans were ever going to become close-combat fighters.The terrain has never made

it necessary. They are nevertheless very effective at long range, as the Russians found to their cost. You can starve people by surrounding their

positions, even cut off whole areas. Because of the frequent ambushes, n o one could get to them. You can achieve a total amputation, but it is a long and slow business that doesn’t lend itself t o the camera.

For the whole eight years o f the Afghan war n o journalists who went

in ever came out again with any credibility.They all got the same old runaround, the same Russian helicopter shot. So after seventy miles of hard hill-walking I was feeling pretty fed up and said t o Roger, “We’ve done all this sweating for nothing. I won’t walk another mile with these people.

We started back in the care—if you can call i t that—of two unfriendly brigands from the guerrilla gang. So protective were they o f their charges that after prayers one day they left their rifles behind. ‘ O h dear, one o f them gestured, hitting the side o f his head comically, as if to jog his memory before going back for them. Roger became highly suspicious o f their conduct. ‘You know the

old Afghan tradition, he said. ‘If they want t o bump you off, which they often do just t o be rid of you, they wait until you're asleep and then drop a great rock o n your head. ‘ I n that case,’ I suggested, ‘you sleep while I watch. Then you can do the same for me.’

We slept at night in caravanserais when we could find them, so as to be with groups of people. In the morning our guards said their prayers and then we would be off. One day, as we were climbing a steep escarpment, the MiGs came sweeping in again. They bombed the caravanserais below and we heard frightened whinnying as half the camels ran away. 255

256

Don and tribesmen, Afghanistan, 1982

257

Further on, I washed my feet in a stream in what appeared t o be an abandoned village. I had an enormous blister and my boots were filled with blood. An old m a n appeared with a filthy bandage o n his finger, the top of which had been chopped off. While I was treating it with antiseptic, t w o surly Afghans with rifles came up. A shouting match ensued. They thought we were Russian spies, and the old man, deeply insulted at the slur on his new friend, went for them with a knife. I launched myself after him like a rugby forward, and just held on to his wavering old hand as it brandished the knife. I brought him away

with my arm around his shoulder until we reached the outskirts of the village, where w e shook hands and said goodbye. In all this our t w o protectors w e r e nowhere t o b e s e e n .

That night w e kept guard in turn in the open, scanning the astronomical positions of the great galaxy of stars. Fifteen miles from the Pakistan border, Roger started t o look very strange. H e was forty-eight years old and the strain was beginning to

tell. He had a hiatus hernia and was building up a fever. Somehow

he staggered through o n aspirin and at the border fell into the nearest transport, which happened t o be a pick-up truck full of refugees. Physical tiredness swept over us like a tidal wave, but there was still the Pakistani post t o pass. We were entering illegally of course, just as we had left illegally. Black with the sun, with light Caucasian eyes, we were dead-ringers for Russian spies for those with suspicious minds.

As I lay drowsing at the border post I felt a digging in m y back.

‘Come down, mister, come down.’ Roger, on his last legs, collapsed into manic laughter. Two English Sinbads climbing down from a Japa-

nese truck. Two escapees from Sadler’s Wells and Gilbert and Sullivan were being taken under armed guard t o a police station in Peshawar.

I wondered if illegal entry came under the Islamic laws o n flogging.

After much explaining we ended up before the turbaned District Commissioner at a very grand residence. ‘Well, gentlemen, I suppose you'd like a cup o f tea,’ he said. I felt we were all right as we sat there

on the lawn in our filthy garb, gazing into the fading sun. I knew when I saw the arrival of the cucumber sandwiches. Afghanistan was a lesson to me. I had always thought that shared

hardship brought you closer t o people. The Afghans were a special case. 258

I approved of their aims, but despite sharing a hard time there was no way I could feel affection for them. I am not so sure about Roger. I saw him in London a few months

later, after he’d created quite a stir coming through Heathrow in full Afghan rig. I brooded on about the wretchedness of our adventure with the mujaheddin, but he said it hadn’t been so bad. While convalescing from his fever, he told me, he had learned Arabic.

259

34. THE UNEASE OF CHANGE

I was not surprised when the Sunday Times did not use my Afghanistan pictures. There wasn’t much mileage in the same old boring helicopter, the posing mujaheddin, and the static gun. When my Beirut pictures also flopped, few being used, I was uneasy. They were of a different order altogether—outstanding anywhere in the world. Finding a home for them was not difficult. Publishers were pressing; I planned a n e w ‘Beirut in Crisis’ book, but I was worried about what was happening

the newspaper. Although the Sunday Times had regained its readers, the Thomson family had lost its appetite for the fray. In the autumn of 1980 Ken Thomson put The Times and the Sunday Times on the market. He was exasperated by the long struggle with the printers. The best buyer in his view—though not in that of the journalists— was the Australian proprietor Rupert Murdoch. He was already well represented o n Fleet Street through his ownership of the Sun and the at

News o f the World.

There were printers who thought that they had done everybody proud by seeing off the Thomson family, though this proved, t o say the least, short-sighted. In industrial terms, Murdoch would soon butcher and knee-cap all his printers with his move t o Wapping. Murdoch was deeply unpopular with Sunday Times journalists, who had tried to get his deal blocked by the Monopolies Commission, but his first moves as the new proprietor were cunning rather than inflammatory, beginning with a change o f editor. Harry Evans (ill-advisedly as it turned out) left his firm power-base in the Sunday Times to become editor o f The Times. O n the Sunday Times

he was succeeded by his deputy, Frank Giles, a well-respected journalist but without Harry's fire. Through 1981 it appeared that Rupert Murdoch might content himself with just picking o n the printers, but the journalists’ time would 260

come. We were in a phoney war period, watching, waiting, as some of our structure began slowly to crumble beneath us. Some o f the best

journalists, feeling the first tremors, made a decision and left. We had yet to experience the full force o f the landslide. In this time o f unease I had much uneasiness o f m y own. Too many o f m y assignments were half-baked, o r going off half-cocked. Either m y

timing, or the newspaper's, o r possibly each, was falling off. I got to Rhodesia when it was becoming Zimbabwe, but only after the guerrillas had already won and were handing in their weapons. I

had t o content myself with taking pictures of them with these arsenals, which were like a dream memory sequence o f all the weapons in all the wars I ' d ever known—{from the old British Lee-Enfields and Stens o f Cyprus through the guns o f Vietnam t o the present.

I headed for the Tamil troubles in Sri Lanka with Ian Jack, but I failed t o get around the army’s block o n photographers going t o the front. I felt really low about that. Though one can’t expect t o win them all.

I had more success in India, where I went with SimonWinchester. We did a story about police torture o f suspected criminals in Bihar— the notorious Bhagalpur Blindings—but even there I was conscious o f missing the picture. The most wanted criminal in Bihar at that time was

a woman bandit leader called Phulan Devi, who was said t o shoot her lovers when she tired o f them. I never did get to photograph Phulan. Back in England there was frustration o f a very different kind. I was subjected t o a lengthy Press

Council case.

It had seemed a mundane magazine assignment: to photograph the Liverpool Police in action. Police treatment o f suspects had become a hot topic. Controversial too were stop-and-search campaigns. I pho-

tographed, among much else in this connection, the routine searching in a police station o f a poorly dressed old man who seemed much the worse for drink. Flak, the first o f this sort in m y long career, came from an unex-

pected quarter—not from the police, but from the old man’s solicitor. He took a complaint t o the Press Council, asserting that I had invaded his client’s privacy. H e was said to be particularly incensed because

the searching officers were wearing gloves, giving the impression that 261

his client was unclean. M y fault was said t o have been failing t o ask the man’s permission before taking the photograph. These were moot points o f course. I had been invited by the police to photograph events freely, both o n the streets and in the station, so I assumed that there

was a general clearance. In addition, the old man did not seem t o have

the time. I lost the case and was given a Press Council reprimand. I didn’t feel

any objection at

guilty, but it left a nasty taste in my mouth. If consistently pursued, the

Press Council’s line would make photo-journalism and news television almost impossible. N o film of any arrest, demonstration, disaster, riot or disorder, war or crime, would be possible if all those depicted had first t o give permission.

While this was rumbling on interminably in the office, other uneasiness was troubling the tranquillity of life at home. A coolness was imperceptibly pushing Christine and m e apart. It was always her way to walk through troubles with her head held high, but our difficulties now were o f a different kind. I think she sensed there was another woman though I had never hinted at it, and hadn’t really thought of it that way, for I still loved my wife. I had met Laraine Ashton at a high-life cocktail party at the Ritz—not part of my customary stamping ground. After my lonely prowl through the under-class of English society and the publication of Homecoming, the Sunday Times magazine had sent m e o na lightweight jaunt in the opposite direction, to the Paris fashion shows. It was a stunt typical o f those ambivalent days just before the closure—man o f action in haunts o f beauty sort of stuff. I enjoyed myself, believing I had earned a respite from stinking foxholes under constant bombardment, but at the same time I felt faintly corrupted by the exercise. Much as I admired the skills o f m y old friend David Bailey in this field, I didn’t feel it was mine. It was in Paris that I m e t Bailey again after a long absence since our capers in the Sixties. With

the paper’s closure, and my future livelihood shaky, I began t o see much more o f h i m and t o find m y way around that glittering world i n which he always seemed t o shine. So it was that I found myself at the Ritz, with Bailey’s wife Marie Helvin introducing m e to Laraine. We dined that evening at Langan’s Brasserie, where somehow Marie had arranged a separate table for Laraine and m e away from the rest 262

of the party. I felt relaxed and talkative as I gazed into those huge eyes under that great shock o f blonde hair. A week later Laraine appeared at the Olympus Gallery with a copy o f Homecoming and asked the receptionist if I would

sign it for her. I

signed it and a connection was made. By then I knew that Laraine was not only very beautiful but also a high-powered businesswoman w h o

ran her own model agency. She invited me to her flat in Notting Hill, which seemed to m e the most stylish apartment I had ever s e e n .We sat o n the floor in front o f the open fire and drank wine and talked in the flickering firelight. I stayed late, but not very late because I had t o pick u p m y gear and be off before first light o n an unromantic story about oil rigs in the North Sea. That was how the affair began. It had its fire and its fights, and a romance I yearned for. I was no longer the lonely outcast of the Homecoming book. I didn’t expect it to last, but it did. We were too strongly attached emotionally t o bring the affair t o an end. While Christine grew silent a change was taking place in me. I lost

the avid energy that had propelled m y career. I was less drawn t o the

thick of the action. I no longer wanted, if I ever had, to commit a longdrawn-out suicide in the pursuit o f heroism. I wanted to live without testing m y courage all the time. Yet war was still a part o f me. It was important to m e to know that I could still face it out there, still keep

my head under fire, if I had to, and yet I also felt that this part of me was doomed. I couldn’t go o n doing these things for much longer. I was

looking for that one last war to express all knew before walking away.

263

35. WHITE TOWEL FROM THE CAMINO

REAL

When the chance came I had a premonition that all might not be well. It was a feeling that did not go away as I flew off once again a few

thousand miles across the world with a few rolls of film, a bag, and a knowledge of the violent course of revolution. In this case the revolution was another in the chain that started in the Caribbean with Castro, and it set off the usual avalanche o f American arms and aid for the

government side. El Salvador, declared President Reagan, would never become another Cuba. W h e n I arrived i n the small but strategically significant Central

American state in the spring of 1982 I was not to know that this was where I would really come unstuck, nor that in a few days I would be sitting in a guerrilla camp eating red kidney beans and hearing over a crackling radio that four journalists had just been killed for attempting what I had succeeded in doing, All the same, I found a certain tension mounting i n m e ,

Part o f m e relished being in Latin America again, amid that decaying Spanish architecture and the tropical vegetation. Another part o f m e felt a certain unease in relating to the situation that I had read up.

There were the nightly murders, adding up t o 200 deaths a week. Most victims were kidnapped and shot in the back o f the head. The bodies

were deposited on rubbish dumps on the outskirts of the capital, San Salvador. A massacre had taken place o n the steps o f the cathedral just before m y arrival. Extreme right-wing death squads dominated the towns while left-wing guerrillas operated from the hills.

Elections were pending, t o determine which political direction the small state took—a matter o f great concern to the United States. The American networks were there in force to cover events, one news team having as many as thirty-five reporters. So frenzied was the buzz in the Hotel Camino Real that I even heard one T V man in the next cubicle in the lavatory communicating with his colleague in the dining 264

room by walkie-talkie radio. In this mélee I made contact with Philip Jacobson t o plan an escape from the vociferous mob. He suggested teaming up quietly with a Newsweek photographer by the name of John Hoagland, who not only spoke Spanish but had a truck at his disposal and knew the lie o f the land.

Polling day dawned to a bloody sight before Hoagland arrived. The Left had spirited their people into the capital during the night, taking up positions near the polling booths to oversee what they called ‘corrupt elections’, and the army had been set against them. I ventured out early in the morning to track down the source o f gunfire that had disturbed m y sleep. In the hour at which most capitals have their water-carts out dousing the streets,I found soldiers dragging corpses by the heels through the accumulated rubbish and swinging them u p o n to open lorries.The guerrillas had been cut to pieces. It was not a good omen for an open ballot. Election over, I was free t o penetrate the guerrilla strongholds, despite the government decree that anyone doing so would be counted an enemy and shot. I took this as merely intimidating propaganda. In Hoagland's absence I teamed u p with a French cameraman I knew who had made contact with the guerrillas and was trying to get his crew t o one o f their encampments. In true Hitchcock style, we met his mysterious contact in a downtown hamburger parlour. W e had equipped ourselves with aVolkswagen

camper from which all gear had been removed save the cameras and mikes. It didn’t d o t o look as if we were heading far up-country. After a

long drive on rough dirt roads we arrived in the large square courtyard of an old hacienda in the hills. The camper was concealed in a barn and w e slept until cock-crow. While w e were still drinking coffee brewed

b y one o f the women at the farmhouse, couriers arrived from the main

guerrilla unit to conduct us to our destination. M y spirits were rising, This could be the big scoop.

There followed several hours of hard hill-walking, burdened down with video cameras and sound equipment. Great caution was needed to avoid an army ambush. We kept to hidden tracks and stole like ghosts

across the main highway near the town of Berlin, so called by the exNazis who settled there after the Second World War. In the villages we were greeted warmly by the peasants and felt among friends. 265

Sore of foot, tired and hungry, we came at last upon the guerrillas’ outlying guard post. A loudhailer was broadcasting t o the camp when we arrived. Women, children, whole families were running around like chickens. Armed men with Kalashnikovs and rocket launchers lounged in hammocks. Many o f the guerrillas seemed to be n o more than sixteen or eighteen years o f age. Joining a food line got us the

camp issue—a bowl of red kidney beans—after which we slept on the ground in the open. The following morning camp routine was interrupted by a sudden tension as people clustered round the radio. Someone told us in a halting Spanish accent that four Dutch journalists had pleaded for their lives after being caught trying t o make contact with guerrilla fighting units. They had been shot in the back while running away. In a state of some alarm, as soon as our work was done w e set off o n the long and wearying journey back t o the vicinity of the PanAmerican Highway—a dirt-road where a journalist had been killed i n

a car the previous week. We were striding out along a path when just ahead we saw a movement. It was an army patrol. Doubling back t o avoid detection, we returned to the farmhouse by a circuitous route. By this time we were looking very rough—haggard, unshaven, and covered with dust. All was unnaturally quiet at the ranch, and the peasants appeared t o have fled. When at last they emerged from their hiding places they were agitated and told us the army had been in the vicinity, searching for Western journalists. Theman who had taken us there in the camper-van

had since driven it away. We spent an uneasy night awaiting his return. The van and its driver were still absent the next morning, so we rolled out of the ranch at early light, with all of our equipment piled o n a farmer’s creaking bullock cart. The peasants had offered t o get us as far as the Highway, and that took courage o n their part. There w e

waited by the roadside for one of those Third World mountain buses, packed with people going to market in the capital, their produce net-

ted o n the roof. There was no room inside and so w e were loaded on t o the roof. We swayed and lurched our way downwards until we reached a small town where a bridge had been blown b y the guerrillas. Telegraph poles 266

and telegraph wires were also down. By the bridge we ran into an army checkpoint. M y heart started racing as they took all the

males from

inside the bus and made them turn round and put their hands behind

their heads. Then they called up t o us, ‘Come down, sefior. Come down. Our Spanish guide started talking t o them, and there was much brandishing o f our Salvadorean passes and our passports. Pandemonium broke out. A small boy o f about eleven had been seized and was being picked u p and pulled around. They had found wrapped round his waist like a cummerbund the revolutionary banner he was smuggling into

town. They took him t o an opening 200 yards or so down the road, a barracks or police post o f some sort. I could hear his cries and wailing, and our guide said, “That little boy will probably die when it is dark.

They run as couriers for the guerrillas, and the army knows that I thought wildly and briefly o f making a fight for it. The French cameraman had a long scar down the side o f his face and the look o f a

hard man. His sound engineer was built like a rugby forward. But then the small boy was returned with tears in his eyes, and they calmed me down.

N o w it was our turn. M y instinct to fight immediately turned to one o f flight as I sensed the soldiers’ level o f aggression pumping u p in that manner I had seen in Biafra and in Uganda. While our guide negotiated eloquently on our behalf, I was making plans t o run. M y heart pounded when the cameraman turned t o m e and said, They want us to go with them in their truck.’ As the truck lurched sharply away we were sitting knee to knee with escort guards festooned with ammunition. I envisaged at the very least a most disagreeable search and interrogation, and probably something much worse. I reached in m y bag, as if rummaging normally, and dealt with what could immediately incriminate m e . With m y hands unseen, I exposed the easily developed black and white film. The colour film could not be developed before Philip Jacobson had time t o raise an outcry about m y disappearance. Barely had I done this before the truck came t o an abrupt stop. The lieutenant in front leapt out and took off his shirt. With care he draped round his muscular torso several bandoliers of ammunition, 267

Rambo-style. He picked his way t o a spot some fifteen yards down the road where another man stood with a gun. This is i t , then, I thought. Still ideas of running raced through my head, though I knew it to be futile. Even if my legs would carry me, there was nowhere t o run to. I could hardly believe it when the lieutenant came back and got back in the front of the truck. So we weren’t to be left as bodies in the ditch. It was not reassuring, however, t o be taken on t o an army barracks.

In the event, we were simply held at this army complex for a few hours. We were not even interrogated hard. They chose to believe our

story ofbeing stranded without transport after filming in the villages near the highway. All the same I was shaking internally. From the township— called Usulutan—we chartered a light plane back t o San Salvador. A day or so later I was in shape to start my promised journeys with

John Hoagland. W e conceived the harebrained scheme o f hunting

for

gunfights and guerrilla hideouts, and hanging out a white flag from his Dodge truck. We had a n object for the purpose—a white towel from the Camino Real hotel. We found ourselves in trouble sooner than we thought. Entering

a small country town held by Government forces, Hoagland prowled round the edge of it while I focused on the square and market place. Then, without warning, a staccato of gunfire erupted. I dived on t o the floor in the covered market, feeling brave enough in time to photograph the peasants who were also cowering there. The sound o f bullets hitting the corrugated iron roof was astonishing.

I started shouting—' John, where are you?’ ‘Hello, I ' m here, man,’ he called as bang, bing, ping, pong, pang, the bullets ricocheted and detonated off the roof. It was like a thun-

derstorm, this sudden outburst of fire. It came and quickly went. Our main concern then was getting ourselves safely out o f that town. A day came when we got word o f a big battle near the country’s second major army garrison, the garrison near Usulutan where we had been taken for interrogation. The army had a spotter plane u p when we got to the area and we could hear heavy firing, Without noticing we ran into a position where the guerrillas had taken control o f the road. There was a

fallen tree ahead,blocking our path. Behind the tree was a rocket launcher 268

and behind that a young boy. He was aged n o more than fourteen. John was able to start an amiable conversation with the guerrillas in Spanish.

"They've captured a small hamlet outside town, he said. ‘Any chance we could get in there?’ I asked.

Overhead a spotter plane, like those I had seen in Vietnam, was circling. We sank into the dappled shade o f some banyan-like trees with

the guerrillas, who were in radio communication with their newly won

position. John translated: ‘Okay, man. We can go i n They took us slowly through ravines and dried-out river-beds and

dried-up roads. It was very hot. There were men, armed guerrillas, o n all the hills, watching us go in. At length w e reached the mangroves and the newly w o n conquest.

The guerrillas—about 150 of them—seemed t o outnumber the villagers. They proudly showed us a couple of dead soldiers, a rather unpleasant sight. I wasn’t keen to stay too long. I knew that the army was bound to

retaliate—and soon. They would not be able t o accept the loss of face involved in losing a position so close to their stronghold, and when armies reclaim lost ground, they do it with as much firepower as they can muster, and that meant a lot more than anything at the disposal o f our guerrilla hosts. We took our pictures very quickly. [ said to John, ‘Can we take any wounded with us? Take them to hospital?’

‘Hang on, this might be tricky. Let’s take it slowly. John began t o reason with the guerrilla commander, sorting the thing out. Ten minutes later he said, ‘Okay, man, we can take them.’ People started appearing with their wounded. One m a n was brought out in a garden chair with a bullet hole in the side o f his stomach. Another had received a bullet through his arm and a wound in the chest cavity.

“There’s one more, John said. ‘And it’s going t o be nasty.’ We were then taken into a house where a man was lying o n a handwoven rattan carpet into which a pool o f blood was soaking. A t first I could see only his shoulder blades and the twisted torso. H e had been hit in the face. The whole area from nostrils to throat had been blown away. 269

We brought him along a beautiful gladed track t o the road. He was making a horrible noise and flies were trying to settle on the congealed blood around this orifice. A dog, scenting the blood, came after us. I asked one of the women accompanying us for her white shawl t o cover the man’s terrible injury. O n the way back from this foray we ran into an army encircling

movement, but as some o f the wounded in our truck were soldiers

from their unit, we were helped on our way. There was n o one around at the hospital when we arrived. When I

found some of the staff lounging around in the dark at the back, I started shouting in English, which is not widely understood in the country. When they saw our travelling wagon and its burden o f wounded, they just stood and stared. I clapped m y hands and slowly they lifted down the wounded, except the man whose jaw had been shot away. I became angry and opened the truck door wide, lifting him down myself. As I carried him in I hoped to God he wouldn’t fall or faint on me. They laid him on a trolley and took him away. [ kept returning t o Usulutan like a bad dream. A guerrilla onslaught on the town itself took John and me and an American girl photographer back there one afternoon when the town was under heavy gunfire. We saw a group of soldiers, almost as young as the guerrillas, firing without helmets on down a road. They were ill-equipped and undisciplined, and went into some houses and started clambering across the roofs. I followed them but Hoagland wasn’t keen and the girl dropped behind as I climbed on t o a roof for pictures of the soldiers. A rattle of gunfire rang out. As the soldiers took cover I found myself falling backwards, trying t o hang on t o Spanish roof tiles.They were giving way under the weight. Just before I hit the ground I got my elbow in position t o break the fall and protect m y spine. I was in a frenzy. [ jackknifed off the ground and rolled over i n the dirt. The pain was

indescribable. I seemed t o be paralysed all down one side. The inhabitants o f the houses were taking cover from the gunfire and the soldiers had cleared off as I writhed in agony o n the ground. A n old lady came out and threw u p her hands in horror at the sight o f me. I did not want to

be caught and taken by the guerrillas for a mercenary, so I dragged

myself back over the roof in the reverse direction from the way I had 270

come, back in the direction of Hoagland. I dropped into a courtyard where the pain started hitting m e terribly.

Crawling on my hands and knees into a doorway, I heard the crackling of a military radio. It was some kind of communication post, with a soldier in residence. I dragged myself into the room and tried to speak t o him in English, but he didn’t understand. I lay on that floor for twelve

hours through the sleepless night. I thought I had broken my hip, but m y abiding worry was that the guerrillas would kick in the door and throw in a grenade.

In the morning the gunfire had stopped, and a woman and a small boy appeared at the door. She screamed with surprise but quickly recovered and made a splint for m y left arm from a cardboard box. A truck eventually arrived and took m e to the same hospital I had visited with a cargo o f wounded only days earlier. They put m e in plaster and released m e o n to the streets once the battle was finally over. Victorious soldiers

were parading, and among the crowd I found John Hoagland and the American girl.

‘Jesus Christ, man. I was worried,” Hoagland said. ‘ I thought you were killed. God, a m I glad t o see you. As the effects of the morphine shot they had given me in the hospital wore off, so the pain once again became severe. John and a very kind journalist from Time magazine organised my return t o San Salvador where Philip Jacobson took over and had me X-rayed. (There had been n o X-ray unit in Usulutan.) M y arm was broken in five places. I was put o n to the first flight out with—for the second time in m y life—a

first-class ticket paid for by the Sunday Times. I seriously wondered whether it was m y luck o r m y skill that was running out.

271

P a r t Four

THE END OF THE AFFAIR

36. THE TASK FORCE GETS AWAY

El Salvador was the beginning of my undoing—of my health, of my marriage, o f m y career. I was going home t o a family which had always

had to live with the fear of my coming back a broken man. M y wife had seen m e injured before, and I had suffered the pain of seeing her pain, and her dread o f what might become o f me. N o w it was not just in m y

own home that I would be inflicting pain, for there was also Laraine. O n the flight back to London m y mind drifted over the emotional tangle in which I was n o w caught. Laraine knew about m y wife but not h o w close I still was to Christine. Christine did not know about

Laraine, though I guessed she suspected something. I swallowed more painkillers, poured some more beer, turned up the Panasonic. M y spirits were lifted at the airport by Mike Rand, the Sunday Times art editor and friend ofmany years, who brought withhim a newer friend, the writer David Blundy. They took m y films and whisked m e straight t o

the Middlesex Hospital where I lay for the best part of a morning, naked

under a sort of shroud. Staff kept coming up with a cheery ‘Hello’ and lifting the sheet inquisitively before I could stop them. ‘Could I have my clothes back?’ I said finally. ‘ I ' m tired of being a peepshow. Then someone, a visitor, walked u p as I lay waiting, and I saw it was Laraine. It was like going public o n our secret.

M y hip wasn’t broken, but my ribs had been snapped like dry twigs, sending paralysis down one side o f m y body. It was t o take almost two years to restore reasonable mobility to m y arm. I went home to an unhappy household. M y wife had discovered m y affair with Laraine. I should have made a complete break but could not bring myself t o abandon her o r the children. W e lived i n a h o m e

we'd built together, and m y ties to both family and place were still very strong. | had made the mistake a lot o f m e n make; I had allowed myself t o fall i n love with someone else. It was a savage time emotionally. 275

It was not long before I began to fret about work also. A crisis in the Falklands was blowing up. With my arm in plaster, like a broken jackdaw wing, I got on the phone t o the office, disturbed that they hadn’t already been in touch with me about it. ‘Listen, I want to be in o n this, I said. ‘Yes, okay. We want you to be in o n i t , I heard down the line with the merest touch of hesitance. ‘Do you think you can make it?” ‘Yes, I can make it,’ I said with concocted bravado. ‘ I can get my hand up t o my face now. I’ve already taken some pictures with one hand. O f course I can do i t . So will you get me on to this task force?’ ‘Okay, Don. Everyone here’ll be working on your behalf. We’ll get you on if we possibly can. We were in the fourth year of Thatcherism, and the magazine was now in the hands of a new Murdoch-appointed editor, Peter Jackson. Already policy had started going against too much hard photo-journalism and further into softer areas, like consumer goods and fashion. Mike Rand and the rest of the old crowd on the magazine were hanging in, but it wasn’t always an easy matter. One day Mike had come on the phone and said, “We have a problem.’ ‘What?’ I said. ‘ I don’t know how to tell you this, but there's a real battle in the office. Jackson's spiked your Salvador story. I said, ‘He can’t have. He can’t have thrown out those Salvador pictures. If he’s done that, I'm going t o resign.’ ‘Jackson says it’s because the Falklands task force i s assembling. H e

doesn’t want pictures of dying Salvadoreans when there might be dying soldiers at any minute.’

British

“That can only be an excuse,’ I said. It would be weeks before the task force made any contact, assuming they ever did, and British soldiers dying then could hardly exclude

Salvadoreans who had died already. Those pictures of El Salvador had been taken at some cost. I went t o the office and spoke t o t w o friends there, Phillip Knightley and Stephen Fay. I was pacing up and down like a n angry lion. There was more than my pictures at stake, there was a principle. N o front-line photographers could be expected t o go out and 276

take risks if they were t o have their work junked for non-photographic

reasons when they got back. In a fuming condition, I typed out my resignation. Knightley called out, ‘What are you doing? N o , don’t resign. You mustn’t. It would be

very foolish. See Frank Giles.Try t o negotiate this one with the editor.’ Despite his good offices, I went over the top. The editor was out, so I slid m y resignation under his locked door.

Giles called m e in to see him soon afterwards. H e was adjusting his

clothes, shooting his cuffs t o expose his gold Rolex, grooming himself as if he had difficult things to say. But in this case he was generous. H e was searching for a solution, trying to prevent me from falling into my o w n emotional trap.

‘ I ' m not going to accept your resignation,’ he said. “What we need is

some kind of compromise. Don’t panic. This can be sorted out.’ Agreement was reached. They would reinstate m y story. I would withdraw m y emotionally charged resignation.

But Jackson still wanted t o impose his will. Mike Rand had made a brilliant cover from m y Salvador pictures. It was all laid out and in proof. Jackson chucked out the cover. I was very fed u p at this: I had an arm

which the doctor said would never be 100 per cent again, which might mean fewer prospects, and now the hard-won cover was thrown away. For all the danger and damage, I felt I had received a wretched award. I threw myself into the Falklands prospect. The selection system for the task force was that each newspaper put forward the names o f

journalists they wanted t o go, and the Ministry

o f Defence decided

which o f them actually went. The reason for this was said t o be the need t o limit the number o f correspondents. There were other reasons

too, it emerged. I phoned the MoD. ‘ M y name’s D o n McCullin and I would like to check m y name is down for the Falklands o n behalf o f the Sunday Times.’ “Yes, we know who you are, old boy. We'll put your name down o n

the priority list.” It should, I thought, have been there already. “There’s n o problem. Don’t worry about i t . We’ll come back to you. They didn’t. I could see the task force getting away without McCullin being part o f i t . I started drinking. It was painful t o m e not t o have been one of the first people they had approached. I even wondered, in 277

the light of the Salvador episode, if my own newspaper had blocked me. Whatever it was, there were n o signs I was going to be aboard one of

the ships that were leaving almost daily.The Uganda set sail, the Canberra got away. I plotted their course. They were going t o Ascension Island, before they made the long run t o the South Atlantic. I was heartbroken. I convinced myself that the Sunday Times had deliberately avoided establishing m y credentials. It was utterly plain I wasn’t going, I was fran-

tic, and more depressed than anyone can imagine. I wanted t o be with the British task force. I had been with every other serious army in the world in the last twenty years and had more experience o f battlefields than any senior officer o r soldier going down to that South Atlantic war.

I made one last desperate effort. I went t o the ImperialWarMuseum and discussed the situation with their photographic department. I knew they had sent a woman artist to paint and draw pictures of the action,

and askedifI could also go t o the Falklands as their official photographer. They said they were amazed I wasn’t already on the high seas, steaming south. I was promised a speedy answer to m y suggestion. It came soon enough. They would very much like m e to go for the Museum but they could not afford the fee.

‘T’ll go for one pound,’ I said in a rush before they could change their mind. They promised t o make arrangements immediately.

Weeks went by. The last ship to leave headed south. I sent telexes to government ministers and was o n the phone constantly. I knew that

Commander Jeremy Moore had not yet departed and that he would be flying t o Ascension and joining the convoy there for the last stretch o f the voyage. I also knew that one o f the trustees o f the Imperial War Museum was an Air Vice-Marshal, and that if they really wanted m e to go then he would be able to fix it for m e to fly with Moore. I waited o n tenterhooks.

There was n o explanation. It just didn’t happen. I became overbearingly demonstrative. I felt a terrible humiliation from m y arm and everything else.

Yet it was not m y arm that had led to this situation. Nor had the Sunday Times dragged their feet o n m y behalf. It wasn’t until I read an article b y Fred Emery, an old Vietnam hand, in The Times that I discovered 278

the real reason. Those chosen to accompany the task force were, for

the most part, inexperienced people, and this was a calculated policy designed t o keep the flow of information under tight control. I later learned that my name had been on the original list at the Ministry of Defence t o go t o the Falkland Islands but it had been struck off by higher authority. By whom exactly? Mike Nicholson of Independent Television News and Max Hastings of the Evening Standard were the only really experienced, senior war correspondents who got there. They worked impeccably. Max knew how t o get himself in, and his stuff out. Few others did. It became a very British wall of censorship. The Falklands war was—and is now—pretty poorly documented, even at

the Imperial War Museum, not t o say the Sunday Times, which didn’t have a photographer there at all. Only one reporter, John Shirley, went for them. Only two photographers were there for the entire campaign,

and of those one was an agency man. I wrote a letter t o The Times. This was most unlike me, but I was angry. I dictated it and Christine typed it out. I felt I had earned the right to be at the Falklands war with m y own blood. I'd spilt blood in Salvador, I'd spilt blood in Cambodia, but when it came to m y own country, m y blood wasn’t good enough for them. I would rather have

bled for England, bled in the Falklands, along with my own army. But that army was denied me. It was a point of honour. I felt dishonoured by my own country. I sat awake at nights, a man o f forty-six, in tears. I was boozed u p and

tearful when the bulletins and dispatches started coming back from the Falklands.

279

37. BREAKING POINT

I was saved from too much vodka and introspection b y another war.

While the task force was mustering in the South Atlantic, a new conflict broke out in the country I had been drawn back to again and again over

many years—the Lebanon. This time the Israelis, incredibly, were to press their war against the Palestinians into the city of Beirut itself. There were risks in m y getting there. A death warrant was still out for m e in East Beirut, and there was n o quick way into West Beirut. The

airport, of necessity, had been closed. I could only get there in good time by boat from Larnaca i n Cyprus, and that boat docked i n Jounieh,

above East Beirut. It was an edgy crossing.The boat, which was run by a forceful blonde woman and her chap, was called the Ark. I

felt I needed an ark. I was still

in a pretty raw state. Indeed, I had a row with some Lebanese who pushed in front o f m e in the queue, which was not wise. While I slept o n the overnight crossing, the offended Lebanese inquired o f the blonde lady

who I was and where I was going. His story was that he wanted t o make amends, to invite me to his house. I didn’t believe a word of it. ‘It sounds t o me,’ I told the lady when she reported it t o me, ‘more likely he wants me killed.’ Landing, showing my passport and crossing through East Beirut t o the West was a tense business. But the Christian Falange

had, it

seemed, forgotten or lost track o f m y offence in Quarantina. They let m e through. I went to t h e Commodore, where I found m y old friend

from New Guinea days, Tony Clifton, covering the Israeli advance for Newsweek. | was there when the Israelis arrived. What they did t o that sad city was really quite unbelievable. They bombed it and shelled it with phosphorous shells. Children were

burned, people were maimed. The civilian population of West Beirut came under a rain o f fire. It was very hard to stomach. 280

Darting round, trying t o work under this assault, was a daily gamble. One day Clifton and I set off for his office as a great cluster o f shells and rockets started exploding in front o f us. We ditched the car and ran for the shelter o f a nearby building. We took cover under the alcove o f

the stairs. Emerging during a pause in the shelling, we saw women and children running among a host o f burned-out and broken cars. We ran

back to the Commodore hugging whatever cover was available. ‘It’s a miracle you turned back before you reached the Newsweek

building,’ a journalist told us. ‘It’s taken t w o direct shells. One of them hasn’t exploded. It’s still lying there in Tony’s office. T h e Israelis’ main objective was presumed t o b e

the Palestinian

camps o f Sabra and Shattila. The aim was to destroy at least Arafat’s

power-base, and if possible the man himself, but from the widespread nature o f the shelling it seemed as if they were intent o n reducing the

whole of West Beirut, if not t o complete ruins, then at least t o the maximum o f tears. There were strange rumours o f n e w types o f bomb

being used, bombs that could suck up air and collapse concrete buildings at one blast. There was no mystery about what the phosphorous shells could do. They could reduce people t o shrivelled burned husks. A small but pressing concern for newspapermen as they covered such wretched sights was that they worked under threat o f kidnapping. Kidnappings which were not all political. Beirut was more than ever a

lawless city, a lair for bandits, spivs and thugs. The Commodore was full of such types, profiteering from the media, running film t o Damascus at a cost o f hundreds o f thousands o f dollars. When the local driver o f a British T V team was killed in the shelling, his brother came to the hotel and took the T V reporter and his cameraman away at the point o f a Kalashnikov, t o hold them hostage for ransom, b y way o f compensation.Their station came through eventually with £22,000. The brother bought, it was said, a Mercedes with the money. Yet these risks paled to insignificance beside the suffering o f the population. The consequences o f bombing a mental hospital are something it is hard to wrap the mind round, but this is what I saw one day. I was taken to a half-ruined building in the Sabra area at least half a mile from any PLO post. It had been attacked with artillery, rockets, and naval gunfire, despite the flags on the roof—one white, the other 281

bearing the Red Cross. Shells had rained down on that hospital, decapitating people who were sitting in their beds, killing them with blast debris, slicing into them with glass shards. Most of the staff had fled the bombing, except t w o of the most courageous. Now the wounded insane were tending the insane. They were to do so without relief for five days, cut off by the battle. An insane woman kept coming up t o me, thinking I was a French doctor from the old days. She was carrying a spastic child. She kept saying, “Where shall I go, Sir? Sir, what shall I do?’ In the wards children had been tethered t o their beds, pushed into the middle of the room for protection from blast and debris. Now they lay in pools o f their own urine and excreta, which were covered in flies,

while the sisters desperately tried t o get round. There were hundreds of patients, and only t w o staff. One o f the sisters took m e to the most helpless and uncomprehending o f their children. They had put them in the safest place in the

hospital, a windowless small internal room. The sight was appalling, as of t w o or three litters of new-born rats on the floor.They were children with severe congenital defects. They were blind, incontinent, deformed, sometimes mongoloid, writhing i n their o w n secretions.

‘When the bombing came,’ said the sister, ‘to put them in here was all we could do. I took more pictures in the geriatric wards. One elderly and dignified patient came u p to m e and said, ‘ H o w did this happen? Have the

sane no conscience?’ Twenty-six patients and staffhad been killed and seriously wounded in the shelling, The sight of that hospital will never leave me. Not long after the mental hospital bombing, I was present when a huge modern apartment block took a direct hit. It was an expensive block for the very rich. It was one event in a sequence of endless horrors i n Beirut but, like the mental hospital, it scarred m y brain.

All the press corps had turned out after the huge explosion. It was close to the Commodore Hotel. The Israelis were bombing here, it was

assumed, because of Arafat. He had a number of ‘safe’ houses in the city and it was suspected this could be one of them. H e would travel

unpredictably between the locations, often with heavy security guard. The Israelis tried to follow him around with their firepower. 282

They had many spies in

West Beirut, posing as vendors and janitors.

A seemingly simple-minded old man who had sold hard-boiled eggs o n street corners turned out t o have b e e n their forward control officer.

These people, it later emerged, helped co-ordinate the Israeli assaults. When we reached the site of the explosion, there was total devastation. The whole building had collapsed. People were tearing at the concrete. There was a man half-hanging out o f what was left o f this

building, still alive. He was dragged out. Then we stood, not knowing what to do.

Suddenly there was a scuffling and a spine-chilling screaming and wailing, A large buxom woman came round the corner in an uninhib-

ited paroxysm of grief. Men were trying t o comfort her, t o restrain her without touching her. You cannot touch another man’s wife in the Middle East. M y mind was slow and stupefied with horror. I did what I rarely do—clumsily I snatched a shot o f her. The woman charged at m e in hysterical outraged anger as a Palestinian with a 9 m m pistol tried t o wrench the camera from m y wounded a r m . Then the woman piled

into me. She hurled herself at me and battered and pounded me about. For a moment I became and felt like all the evils that had ever beset this city. I felt for every reason or unreason in the world that somehow I deserved this punishment.

A few hours later a journalist approached me at t h e Commodore. He said, ‘That woman . . ‘Don’t talk about it, I said, ‘Don’t tell m e . He told me first of her circumstances, the reasons for her anguish. Other journalists had asked her about her fight with me. She had told them o f her grief—how her whole family had been exterminated in that bombed building.

Then he told m e the rest. ‘As she was telling her story, a car bomb went off just where they were standing. They were unscathed. She was

killed outright.’ Back in England I became absorbed in another wretchedness o f m y o w n making. I did the most painful thing o f all in a painful life. I think now it was also one of the wickedest things I ever did, and it hurt m e almost as much as seeing m y father die. I left home and began t o live

with Laraine. 283

284

Child tied t o bed in a mental hospital, which was under Israeli shell fire for five days, Sabra, Beirut, 1982

It was a situation in which no one could be happy. I had to choose t o give u p Laraine o r give u p m y family. But I felt there was n o choice,

even with my wife and children crying at the door of our house. I drove to London in the darkness, down the M11, trying not to look back.

In time I bought a house in Somerset, and Laraine and I threw ourselves into doing it up and working the garden. We travelled all over the world together, and when we were in London the phone never

stopped ringing with invitations to exciting events.We talked of having a child. It seemed like a perfect time, but I was dogged by a shadow of conscience, even though my wife and children became forgiving. I took some time off work, not with the thought o f giving u p but to let the upheaval in my life settle down. When I returned it was to

another assignment with Norman Lewis, and just the prospect of it was enough t o restore the light t o my professional world. I had such fond memories of our times together in Latin America when, the day’s work done, Norman would lie in his hammock, looking out over the Venezuelan savannah, andI would add some lime (which I had scrounged from the Indians) t o his glass of vodka. I would watch him quietly and contentedly sipping his drink in this beautiful and lonely place, and was as happy then as I have ever been. The sequel was t o be bitterly disappointing. The Vietnamese were gearing up for their tenth anniversary celebrations as a united country but there was little prospect of Western journalists being allowed in. Norman felt sure, however, that they would make a few exceptions. His credential was a long record of support for a united Vietnam, whatever the political colour; mine was the distinction o f having been thrown out by the expiring South Vietnam regime. The Vietnamese refused to issue us with visas. It was not a rejection o n the Falklands scale but it was a rejection none the less, and it

hurt. As in earlier times o f stress I went back to the Lebanon, where war was still raging. That turned into a farce.

The Druze was being hammered by 17-inch shells from an American battleship that had recently been taken out o f mothballs, while the

Christian Lebanese army was also engaging them in a spirited battle in the Chouf mountains. From the roof o f the Alexandria Hotel David Blundy and I watched this million-dollar fireworks display, ducking 285

behind the concrete lift-shafts whenever we saw tracer bullets coming in our direction.

Before going into the Chouf we received a private briefing by the Lebanese General Aoun, during which David’s eye settled on a clockwork toy o n the general’s desk. It was irresistible. David’s obsession for

wind-up toys knew no bounds. His long arm snaked out and, without taking his eyes off the general, he began absently winding it up. It then shot out o f his grasp and started leaping furiously all over the briefing table. Like some huge cat, David was trying frenziedly to pounce o n it

and stop it. The general droned on as if nothing were happening. In the mountains our escorting officer steered us clear of the front, though David never did lose his obsession with clockwork toys o r dan-

gerous places. One of them was El Salvador, where he was killed some years later.

286

38. THE NASTIEST PLACE ON EARTH

The rumblings since Rupert Murdoch’s arrival at the Sunday Times became much more ominous towards the end o f 1983 when there was

a change of editor. Frank Giles, a survivor o f the old regime, was edged into early retirement t o make way for a m a n little more than half his age.

Andrew Neil, then thirty-four, although he looked much older, was said to be Murdoch’s first choice as editor. H e was appointed, it was said, to

shake up the newspaper, t o get those staff who would serve the new

Murdoch purpose hopping in fear o f their lives, and those who would not o n the road. The idea was, in business parlance, to emerge with a

leaner, fitter and more profitable enterprise, stripped of all unserviceable assets. It was a sign o f the Thatcher times. I didn’t have much chance t o appreciate Neils early impact because the magazine had mercifully sent m e off to ‘the nastiest place o n earth’. The plan was for Simon Winchester and m e to identify and then go and explore the place that best fitted that description. It obviously had to be one o f those African republics where the leader always had a fresh

supply o f blood in the fridge, but the problem was deciding which one. In the end we homed in o n the island o f Fernando Po in the Republic

of Equatorial Guinea where, as Simon later put it, independence had ‘transformed purgatory into utter hell’. The country had not long since got rid o f its Amin-figure. Macias

Nguena Bioko, the deranged leader of a tribe known as the Fang, had led the revolt against Spanish rule. As president o f Equatorial Guinea, he ruled by terror, superstition and arbitrary edict, killing off count-

less subjects and twelve of his o w n ministers. The church was banned. When his wife Monica ran off, he issued a decree forbidding any child to be named Monica. Life after Macias had scarcely improved. A United Nations report o n the country described it simply, and accurately, as ‘decomposed’. O n the island o f Fernando Po plantations were overgrown and the cocoa crop lay rotting and unharvested while people 287

starved in the streets. Poverty and demoralisation were all around.

Simon and I spent most of our fortnight there sleeping on warehouse floors and dining on bananas and stewed rat. It was a relief t o get back t o civilisation, though soon after reaching London, at a dinner party with Laraine, I started feeling very strange, very sick and—after one glass o f wine—very drunk. She took m e to

the local hospital, where they diagnosed a stomach upset and sent me home. It was only due t o Laraine’s persistence I didn’t die from cere-

bral malaria. Eventually she got me into the Tropical Diseases Hospital, where they diagnosed and treated the real condition. At the same time Simon Winchester was in the isolation wing of a hospital in Oxford, suffering from the same revenge of Fernando Po. When I was well enough t o get my bearings again, Andrew Neil was in the fourth month o f his reign at the Sunday Times. Distinct parallels with Equatorial Guinea were emerging. Demoralisation was widespread. Heads rolled. Reporters complained of their copy being axed, or rewritten; political lines were enforced; photographers moaned about cut-backs. Redundancies were on offer and many rushed t o take them as a retreat from what they saw as a bullying regime. Each day would see another person clearing his desk. It was obvious that Neil had an open cheque to clear out the old Harry Evans hierarchy and replace it with his own loyalists, more amenable t o Murdoch’s way of thinking, I had n o personal quarrel with the editor. I saw a lot o f people I'd worked with closely departing even before Neil's pogrom. James Fox and Francis Wyndham had left t o write books, Phil Jacobson and David King had gone freelance, Alex Mitchell departed t o become the cutting edge of British Trotskyism, while Murray Sayle had gone t o Tokyo t o start a family at the age o f fifty. I was well used t o people going while I

stayed in the same place. Yet I was also o f an earlier era which the new management seemed to find abhorrent. And I was not what you might call a Company man. O n the whole I do m y own thing, which previously

had been the paper’s own thing also, in a very committed—some would say over-committed— way. Hitherto I'd been seen as an advantage to the paper. I didn’t see why that should change. I didn’t see myself as a

threat to Neil, or why he should so view me. Running the newspaper 288

wasn’t my job, though like all newspapermen ofmy length of experience I would put in a word if things went badly astray. But the new order was really not interested in anything the old had t o say. For a while the polite forms were preserved between us. Neil and

I would exchange strained rictuses in the corridor. I did not find him an attractive character but I never thought that was a necessary quality in an editor. It did not count for much if the man was running a great

newspaper. But I began to have my doubts on that score, particularly in m y o w n area. Great events would be taking place around the world and I would not be sent. I put up ideas of my o w n — t o cover the famine in Ethiopia, the turmoil in South Africa—and again I would not be sent. The work did not dry up by accident. At an early stage Neil gathered the magazine staff around him t o describe the way ahead. A friend who was at the meeting summed u p its message for m e when I returned from abroad: no more starving Third World babies; more successful businessmen around their weekend barbecues. And that was the direction things took. When I began as a photographer, I believed that my work would suffer if I allowed it to become political. In the event it turned out t o be nothing but political for I consistently took the side of the underdog and the under-privileged. It had now become so political that I found myself having t o fight merely t o b e allowed t o take m y pictures—and

I was losing that fight. I grew deeply unhappy. I was not doing the work for which I was

known and which I had the ability t o do. I

was

just drifting round the

office, loitering without intent, very fed up. One night I met u p with a friend o f mine, an American called Bill

Buford who ran Cambridge University’s magazine, Granta. We found ourselves in a little Italian restaurant in Soho, sloshing back pasta and glasses of rough red wine. H e wanted to run an interview with me, and a lot o f m y pictures. I unloaded m y feelings about the Sunday Times. I told him that I thought m y working life was finished. They were going exclusively for a Leisure and Lifestyles magazine. All I was doing n o w was standing around i n a safari jacket while the safari itself never took place.

In due course the following appeared: 289

I still work for the Sunday Times, but they don’t use me. I stand

around in the office, and don’t know why I ' m there. The paper has completely changed: it’s not a newspaper, it’s a consumer magazine,

really no different from a mail-order catalogue. And what do I do, model safari suits? Cover some Women's Institute reception? Someone in the office said recently that I should think up new approaches

to my work: ‘You ought to learn how to use strobe lighting, because we don’t want t o use any more of those photos of . . . People are starting t o reject, or at least turn their backs on, my sort. They seem happy with the way the press is developing. They certainly don’t need me to show them nasty pictures. I should wise up: what is the point of killing yourself for a newspaper proprietor who wouldn't bat an eyelid o n hearing you'd died?

A few days after Granta came out, the story about my disenchant-

was picked up by the Guardian diary column. Michael Rand phoned me in Somerset. ment

‘ I think you should get o n the train and come up. Neil's seen that

piece, and he’s hopping mad. ‘Do you think it’s curtains?’ I asked. ‘Well, it might be, he replied. I arrived at the Sunday Times and went straight t o see the editor’s secretary, Joan Thomas, and said, ‘ I believe Andrew wants t o see m e . I was asked to hang around for some minutes until he was ready. Then

it was, ‘Hello, Don, will you sit down please.’

Neil said something about it being time t o roll up my sleeves, which I thought was a slightly unfortunate choice of words, but I responded politely. I mentioned ideas that I had put up which made good journalistic sense but which had been vetoed. It was a conversation going

nowhere because I picked up right away that Neil was not really interested in having a discussion. H e wanted m e out. H e wanted me out

because I was an irritation, an embarrassment, someone like Sir Walter Raleigh, who had been left over from the previous century, and had t o be executed t o tidy things up.

He just wanted t o manoeuvre the dialogue so things would come out the way h e planned. I k n e w this for sure w h e n h e asked a junior 290

executive on the magazine t o join our icy deliberations. Had he really wanted a ‘roll u p your sleeves’ talk about what I could do for the maga-

zine he would have called in Mike Rand, who was the best art director in the country, who had handled my pictures for twenty years, and who

was just twenty paces down the corridor. This three-handed game was played for a while, with me saying I thought the magazine needed revitalising, and Neil rejoining with—Oh, we're not doing that, it’s no longer that sort of magazine, and that’s not what we want any more.

We were not getting anywhere. I said, “Well, I don’t want t o be dragged into your office every six months and bollocked for not

doing well.’ Neil then worked u p the bottle to tell m e what he had intended all along. ‘ I want t o say one thing about you. I don’t like people w h o take the money and criticise the newspaper. So I think you should leave.’ H e looked across at the junior executive and back came the echo—

‘Yes, I think Don should leave. I stood up. ‘That’s fair enough with me, I said, and I turned my back o n him and walked out o f the room. I went straight to Mike Rand

and said, “Well, that’s it.’ I walked out for good from the paper I had served for eighteen

years.

291

39. HEART OF DARKNESS

I went out into a chilly and uncertain world, a middle-aged out-of-work

photo-journalist without prospects. There was a kind o f shock wave going through Fleet Street—and not

only Fleet Street, but the whole of the magazine world. It was the

unofficial announcement o f

the end o f photo-journalism. These were

the monetarist-sharp Eighties and they didn’t want any more shocking

pictures of war, horror and famine. They wanted style. They wanted t o g o for consumer images. N o marketing operation wanted its products

advertised alongside a dying child in Ethiopia or Beirut. N o w they didn’t have to worry any more. The newspapers were o n their side. Domestic marketing could hardly be the driving force o f what I

understood by journalism. Nor after all my wars and journeys did I Square One, snapping garden parties and celebrities, t o be phoned up by a picture editor at any time of the day o r night t o be told—'Don, could you go from A t o B and photograph want t o be back at

C’—and be off like one o f those messenger boys who ride motorbikes around town. Bleak times lay ahead. I tried to meet them with a semblance of the surface confidence which had carried m e through dangerous times before. Inside I was a man losing his identity. M y whole training had been to look out, to scan the horizon for new stories to tell. Suddenly I was forced to look inwards. In there lurked old darkness, and a new guilt from m y marriage break-up. I tried a television version o f Homecoming, but m y still black and

white pictures, which had such force o n a page, did not transfer well t o a small screen demanding movement. M y thoughts—at this moment

of flux—wouldn’t coalesce into commentary. Besides, this Homecoming path was one I had trodden before. It is never wise, in a mechanical way,

to retrace old ground. I felt like that clockwork toy o n General Aoun’s desk—wound u p t o do m y act. 292

At first, and for some while, life with Laraine was an idyll. But though we did astonishing things together, I wasn’t achieving much. I was lurking around the flat in Notting Hill, waiting for the breadwinner t o come home. I went adrift once those Sunday Times days were over. | had no commitment. I was lonely. Two households mopped up a lot of redundancy money. I was hard up, and though Laraine’s generosity stretched beyond all imagining, there’s nothing worse for a man like m e than someone else paying the bills. I am old-fashioned. I

don’t feel comfortable in the receiving role. I made a point of paying in restaurants, though without regular income it was a lifestyle I found impossible t o sustain. A t the same time I was being polished up beyond recognition. I had been happy as that shadowy figure jumping on t o aeroplanes with army gear, kitbags, helmets and boots, and wading through mud. I was that man of action. I wanted to be that man. N o w I was being groomed into something else. I was persuaded to buy a dinner jacket.We were at a party, and someone said you could get one at Hackett, but whatever

you do, don’t buy the dead man’s shoes. Because Hackett’s is a posh

second-hand shop, where rich old girls take their old men’s gear when they pop oft. So I was walking round in a dead man’s dinner suit. I don’t know why it’s different from wearing, as I did in Vietnam, a dead soldier’s flak jacket, but it is. When I went to those expensive dos at night, it was another person in that dinner jacket. Not old D o n McCullin. I was just airing it for this dead man. Keeping his image alive.

M y real self sneaked off somewhere else. I found a new peace exploring landscape. I found it healing; the blunt side o f the knife. You

can run your hands down it, and they are not injured. You can touch i t , and there is n o blood. I found another peace in exploring distant

places —travelling with my friend Mark Shand, going off t o live with primitive tribes, sleeping rough and wading through rivers, losing the rubbish from m y mind. I found greater peace working in our house in Somerset with Laraine. We eventually had a small elf o f a son whom I

totally adored. We called him Claude. But all this took money, and I needed work. With supreme irony I found the readiest projects from the enemy that had driven m e out of 293

journalism—advertising itself.The pay was quite startling. I could earn in one day more than I earned in two months running across battlefields for the Sunday Times. They wanted me there because, bizarrely, while reality was fleeing from newspapers, it was creeping back into ads. They called it pseudo-

realism. It was the surface style, not the essence they were after. They ordered a touch o f realism just as they ordered a touch o f nostalgia; just as post-modernist architecture uses a touch of classical porch. I gave my best with this advertising work, as I did with journalism, and sometimes—especially when I did public service advertising—I felt it was worthwhile. But sometimes I found I was obliged to set up, with actors, for the purpose o f artistic effect, the kind o f scene I'd waded through in blood in real life. It was not what I was about.

Essentially I was still a newspaper animal, confronted with a lot of work I didn’t particularly like. I had what I considered the most beautiful house in the world but I would leave it t o take pictures I often found ludicrous. If you ask me deep down what spiritual satisfaction existed in the work, I would have to say almost entirely none. For that I fled to

landscape in Somerset, and t o foreign parts. All this had little to do with the real reason for the shadow on my mind that kept me in a state of furious agitation, hardly sleeping or even eating, That came from something different, something utterly dreadful. Something that told me fate had really turned her face on me. I am not a dead man now. I am an insomniac, not sleeping, not eating. I feel wild. I a m angry, actually. I a m angry. Because my last t w o years must go down in m y small history, in all the dreadful years, as the worst of all. It began on a lovely July day in 1987. I was working in my dark

room in Somerset, when the phone rang. I had a premonition. I mean, a telephone is just a telephone yet it can destroy you with one ring. As

I left the dark room t o pick up the phone, I thought, Shit, I've got t o go out into the light. [ don’t like going out into the light when I ' m in the dark room. I like the consistency o f the dark. It keeps m e safe. The dark room is a very good place to be. It’s a womb. I feel I have everything there that I need. M y mind, m y emotions, m y passions, m y chemicals, m y papers.

M y negatives. And my direction. In the dark room I a m totally together. 294

Laraine Ashton and Claude, 1987

295

296

Don, Mentawai Islands, Indonesia, 1980s, photograph by Mark Shand

297

I emerged into a lovely day to answer the phone. It was m y daugh-

Jessica. ‘ I ' m afraid I've got some bad news for you. Mum's leg has gone funny. It’s sort of paralysed. It happened in the garden at home yes-

ter

terday. Something has gone badly wrong with her. She can’t walk and

she’s gone t o see the doctor. She sounded very worried. When I called back she said. ‘ M u m s arm has gone funny now. I put down that phone after m y daughter’s conversation and went into the dark room. And it died for me, the dark

room, that day. I just switched o n all the lights. I threw away all the chemicals. I made a cup of tea and walked ceaselessly round the house, trying hard not t o put t w o and t w o together or think of all the brain injuries I had seen in all those wars.

298

40. OF LOVE AND DEATH

Christine had the support of a friend called Michael, who was an educated and charming man. He rang m e t o say, ‘ I ' m afraid things are very bad. We've seen a specialist in Harley Street. He's told Christine he’s afraid it’s a brain tumour. She collapsed in the surgery. We took her straight t o Barts.’

I drove t o London. Laraine took me t o St Bartholomew’s hospital and waited outside. I saw m y wife’s mass o f blonde hair as she sat o n

the edge of the bed.

I said, ‘I’m here. ‘Michael’s coming too, she said. ‘Back from Cambridge.’ We talked. She asked m e to help her t o the end o f the ward. Suddenly I saw she was a cripple. Overnight this lovely young woman I married twenty-two years ago had become a cripple. She was dragging

her leg, and her a r m was stiff and useless. She was virtually paralysed all down one side. M y beautiful Christine had become a hemiplegic. M y feelings were so strong I had t o leave the ward. I went back t o Laraine sitting in the car. I felt utterly numb. I could hardly handle myself.

I talked t o the consultant. In these circumstances, you don’t take much in. It could be a progressive sort o f thing or not, I gathered. It could have a poor prognosis. But there were astonishing cures. They had identified the tumour. When it was possible, they would operate to remove it, though it was a very large-scale operation. Much had to be done. Many

tests were needed. Many investigations, many scans. . . It all took time. W e should try t o focus o n normal life. I had been planning t o take m y

son Alexander to Sumatra in September: should we, I asked, go now? ‘Nothing at all can be predicted,’ the consultant said, ‘nor at what precise time we can operate. M y advice is always go ahead as planned.’ I focused o n this journey t o stabilise the turbulence n o w overwhelming m y brain. Alexander hadn’t been told, at Christine’s request, h o w bad things were. 299

We left London, worried and tense. The last stage in the journey to the Mentawai Islands, off the west coast of Sumatra, was a sixty-mile sea crossing in what looked like a most unseaworthy local boat. People

said don’t worry, they're the best sailors in the world in these parts. It struck me that a lot o f the best sailors in the world are at the bottom

of the sea. Halfway across, at two in the morning, we hit a Force 10 electric storm. It started with lightning and got worse and worse. The seas were climbing and forming great canyons. Like the circumstances n o w o f

Christine and our family, they had grotesque and gothic scale. Looking behind, I saw, in lightning, a wall of sea about sixty feet high. Our forty-foot boat was dwarfed as we plunged into the yawning trough. There were women and children below decks and they were wailing as we tossed. I looked for the captain and found he had abandoned his post and taken shelter from his lack of courage and lack of knowledge. He was unconscious, or fast asleep, on deck. We rolled into him to revive

him. As the storm went on through the night I began t o believe I had brought m y son here t o die. I prayed, sincerely. We limped into the islands in the morning eight hours later than

scheduled, more or less alive. M y son, in the quiet aftermath, caught a fish the size o f a settee. I told him how bad I felt, putting him through such dangers. H e looked u p and said, ‘ I thought it was great.’

There was a sort of grey glass between me and the sights we saw on our journey upriver. The hibiscus and the orchids, and the fishing tribesmen went by like a glazed moving film. I said one morning, ‘ I wish we could telephone home.’ Our Indonesian guide startled me by saying, ‘You can telephone. From Mentawai town. There is radio bounce. Radio bounce to Padang,

Padang bounce t o Jakarta, Jakarta t o London. We made the journey by dug-out canoe t o the little port that had this radio communication. Three and a half hours later, t o my astonishment, because much dealing and money had been involved, they said that London was o n the line. I could see Alexander outside the booth. H e looked scared. I heard Laraine’s voice. ‘ H o w is she?’ I said straight off.

‘She’s fine. They've done the operation. And it’s going t o be all right. 300

I came out of the booth and I could have embraced my son. I could have embraced the world. I said, ‘Alexander, she’s going t o be all right. Your mother’s going t o be all right!’ A smile spread on his face, and the tears sprang in his eyes. From there o n we were like two smiling chimpanzees. We joked our way through everything, the rats, the sea storms, everything,

We went straight t o the hospital when we got back t o London. The doctor intercepted m e before we reached the ward. “You've got to prepare yourself for a shock. The blood left m y head.

‘No. It’s not

what y o u think, h e said. ‘ I t ’ s

just that she w o n ' t look like

the woman you saw here before.’ It had been an eight-hour operation to remove her tumour. I went i n , tentative and alarmed. I approached and could see first o f all . . . something like a sock where her forehead was. Her hair had all gone.

For a moment I saw a little hunched-up old man. Then I drew closer. She was dozing.When her eyes opened, I thought she still looked beautiful. We talked gently. Our son was there. I left. I did strange, distraught, unhelpful things after seeing Christine. I walked i n a frantic sort o f state round the wig department o f Selfridges.

I looked at the women in the shopping crowds. I looked at their hair.

I got angry, thinking why are all these women here, with flowing hair, walking and laughing.

As I was leaving the hospital the doctor had come up t o me and said, ‘Can I talk t o you, M r McCullin?’ N o w there’s a funny thing about doctors. They won't tell you what you need to know.They skirt round i t . It’s a new thing with them—they don’t actually hit the nail o n the head. They keep o n hitting your fingers with the hammer instead o f the nail.

I said, ‘I'd very much like t o talk. What is going on?’ ‘It’s not good news. I ' m sorry. I went cold. “What are you trying to tell me?’ ‘ I ' m not trying to tell you anything, he said. ‘Only that it’s not

good news.’ After a moment’s silence I said, ‘ I ' m totally confused. I don’t find

that helpful. Please, doctor, what is going on?’ 301

“Well, we’ve removed the tumour, he said, ‘but I ' m afraid there is a mischievous tumour somewhere else in the body and we can’t locate it. She’s had all the tests that anyone could have.’ I found myself floundering helplessly in a situation that was too bewildering to face. M y confidence started dying with Christine. I realised you could shoot photographs until the cows came home but they have nothing to d o with real humanity, real memories, real feelings. I started a sort o f

non-stop analysis of my life, who I was and what I had done. It went o n for twenty-four hours a day in m y head, as I did futile and hopeless

things that weren't any use t o Christine. I didn’t know the danger I was t o myself and t o Laraine too. I had become unwittingly, unknowingly, a danger to our relationship. Like the women in Oxford Street, I resented her. I resented her privileged health. For a year and a half o f Christine's life-and-death struggle, Laraine had to struggle against m y resentment and inchoate actions, until she became resentful herself at this treatment. It became our daily bread. I went to visit Christine in Bishop’s Stortford. She was o n a blood-

thinning drug, so she was always chilly, even in summer. She wore a wig, Her hair didn’t grow again. For a while it looked as if she was holding on, reviving even, car-

rying on, despite her disabilities, as normally as possible. But the day came when she had a fit. She was rushed t o hospital.

A scan found another tumour. I was with her and Michael when the consultant told her: ‘I'm afraid I have t o tell you you've only a short time to live. It was like a shattering blow. It pole-axed her. She collapsed in his surgery and vomited. I phoned m y elder son Paul in Australia. The tacit agreement had been that the state o f things shouldn’t blight the children’s lives so hard too soon. N o w there was nothing for it. Before I could tell him m y news, he confided his. ‘Dad, you must all come out here. I ' m going to get married.’ [

had t o tell him. ‘If you don’t come home right away, you might

miss your last chance to see your mother.

302

He came thundering back. Months later Paul was still at his mother’s side. By n o w the condition had altered Christine’s gentle character.

Her personality had changed, though she was still bravely doing her best t o keep up an ordinary life. She told me once, ‘Whatever you do, don’t show your grief before the children.’ Paul, trying t o do his best, struggled t o reconcile love and death. H e would move the wedding from his girl’s Australian home. H e would give his mother the greatest pleasure he could before her time. H e

would have the wedding where his mother could attend, in England. N o one felt that the smallest gaiety could be raised at Bishop's Stortford. M y son asked if the wedding could be held at our beautiful

Somerset village. It seemed the only solution. [ put the hardest o f questions t o Laraine—could w e bring Christine

here? Could we hold the wedding reception in our house and garden?

Laraine looked sad as she said generously, ‘ O f course we can.’ She threw herself into organising marquees, getting the catering done. It was a most difficult situation that she was facing, Christine was taken b y Michael to buy a new outfit. She was hold-

ing on, and holding out for this wedding. Two weeks before the day, she had another relapse. She was being eaten away b y cancer. H e r

doctor said she couldn’t survive the journey

o r be moved. Frantically arrangements were cancelled and rearranged again. A small wedding would take place at Bishop's Stortford.We would

gather there in the living-room for the reception, so that she could be with her son on his wedding day. Christine survived until the morning o f the wedding but did not see her son married. The undertakers came t o the house to collect her before we set off for the church. It was at this terrible moment that we

decided t o go ahead, t o honour her, as if she was still with us.

303

P a r t Five WARS

AND

PEACE

41. ALONE W I T H THE GHOSTS

For a while I went through something like madness. I never quite went over the edge, probably because there were a few practical matters relating t o my children that needed an element of sanity. After Christine's funeral, Paul returned t o Australia, but his younger sister and brother,

Jessica and Alexander, opted t o start their working lives i n London. So I had t o arrange the sale of their Hertfordshire home, using the proceeds to equip them with a large flat in Hampstead. The other urgent necessity at that time was for some repair work o n m y relationship with Laraine

after her many months of being side-lined by Christine’s illness. failed utterly in that task. I think the combination of grief, guilt and introspection must have made me a hard—maybe impossible—person t o live with. In any event, Laraine began t o ask for what she described as ‘more space’ in our relationship. And when I proposed marriage, this only seemed t o increase the distance between us. Eventually, after a few months, she said she wanted us t o separate. She wanted no more of Somerset and proposed t o live exclusively in London, with Claude, then aged two. I thought I'd been hit by a bus. For the first time in my adult life, I felt truly alone. Although I had spent a large part o f it travelling abroad, it had always been with the

knowledge that there would be loving faces and arms t o return t o when I got back home. Now, it seemed, there would be just an emptiness. I was being driven back into myself. I felt as if all my nerve ends were

jangling and hanging out. Totally vulnerable, I felt unfit for any human society, and for a long time I did not seek any. [ later learned that m y old journalist mates in London took t o describing m e as ‘the hermit’. They were right in a way, but it was not quite the whole story. As it turned out, this period o f acute loneliness

had beneficial side effects. I spent many long days in the dark room and with m y archive o f

5,000 prints and 60,000 negatives. I felt protected in this environment, 307

and with classical music—usually Bach or Beethoven—piped in there was a kind of tranquillity. However, in going through my filing cabinets there was always an attendant risk of the ghosts rising up. And sometimes they would d o just that. I'd see them like those m e n marching through the mist in All Quiet on the Western Front. Dead men I knew would emerge from a mist and come out and join m e . Friends and colleagues like Nick Tomalin, David Blundy, David Holden and Gilles Caron. The fragile albino Biafranboy. Scenes of destruction and desolation and death that I had known, and could not forget. A t such times, it was hard not to wish for some more life-enhancing content in my archive, something

that would at least mitigate the horrors. I had long been uncomfortable with my label of war photographer, which suggested an almost exclusive interest in the suffering of other

people. I knew I was capable o f another voice and now, I realised, I had the chance t o prove it, almost o n my doorstep. M y first move was to build an extension to the old privy round

the back o f the house. A few extra bricks rendered it almost perfect as a studio for still-life studies. It was also handily close t o the hedgerows

that provided its flow of raw materials. M y main preoccupation, however, was with landscape. Previously, I had looked on landscape photography as a pleasant kind of hobby, occasional light relief from my regular assignments. But n o wI really wanted t o make a go of i t , and bring t o the task the intensity and discipline that I ' d had to show in war zones. I was resolved that there could be nothing chocolate-boxy about a McCullin landscape. Nearly all o f

them were shot in winter when the trees were like skeletons and the clouds gathered in great Wagnerian clusters. I would choose m y sites carefully, going out long before dawn and

waiting heron-like for the right conjunction of light and cloud cover. In general, the fouler the weather, the better. I just loved the experience, even on the days that seemed unproductive. One morning, as I was standing near a dyke, an otter popped u p with an eel wriggling in its mouth. It gave m e a cheeky look before scuttling away. I didn’t get

a decent picture all that day, but it still seemed a great day. Truly, t o be free and alone and o n the edge o f an unfolding landscape is a therapeutic, possibly even spiritual, experience. 308

Dew pond, Somerset, 1988

309

People told me that, after the double bereavement of Christine's death and Laraine’s departure, I should have sought the help of a psychiatrist. But I ' m convinced that I found a better healer in the English landscape. And, to my great delight, it seemed there was an audience for

my non-war pictures.The publisher Jonathan Cape liked my landscapes

and still-life studies and brought them out under the title Open Skies. The novelist John Fowles, who wrote the introduction t o the book, spoke of the ‘scars’ of my war experiences emerging in my landscapes, which was entirely possible, probably unavoidable. It could be what gave them their distinctive quality. The war years were certainly uppermost in m y mind when I was

engaged on a follow-up book commission from Jonathan Cape. They asked me t o take a stab at writing my autobiography, which I did. With my hermit phase receding, I was quite often u p in London doing

advertising work but also seeing old mates capable of refreshing my memory of times, places and key events. Work on the autobiography also constituted a kind of healing. It gave some much-needed coherence to m y life at war and also, as I then thought, sealed its closure. Readers

were informed that those days were well behind me. Soon after finishing the original version of this book (published in 1991), I was sitting at home in Batcombe vaguely wandering what to

do next when the phone rang. ‘Oh, Don, said the voice, ‘it’s Charlie, Charlie Glass, here. I was just wondering whether you'd like t o go t o the war. As it happened, among the people I would most like to go to a war with—that is, if I was t o go t o a war—would be Charles Glass, who then rejoiced in the title of Chief Middle East Correspondent for ABC News in N e w York, but had an English wife and spent much o f his time living in London. Since we had first accompanied one another o n camels galumphing across the Eritrean desert, we had established a firm Anglo-American friendship. And the war to which he was n o w

inviting me, namely the revolt of the Iraqi Kurds against their country’s brutal dictator, Saddam Hussein, also seemed hard t o resist. Like most newspapermen, I was fascinated by the Kurds, who had been among the losers in an international carve-up back in the early 1920s, which followed the collapse o f the Ottoman Empire. Denied 310

a homeland of their own, the Kurds found themselves reluctantly rebranded as citizens of Turkey, Iran and Iraq, mostly Iraq. It was the

beginning of a long series of risings and repressions culminating, in the case of Iraq, in the Saddam regime’s gas attacks o n Halabja, which killed 5,000 civilian Kurds in 1988. But by March 1991 a radically different picture seemed to be emerging. Saddam’s invasion o f Kuwait had

been thrown back by force of American arms, and the Iraqi military appeared to be in complete disarray. A n American pilot described the

experience of strafing Iraqi soldiers as they fled back towards Basra as being ‘like a turkey shoot’. The American president George Bush then loudly invited the minority populations in Iraq t o rise up against Saddam. In response t o this call, Kurdish fighters, known as the Peshmerga (‘those who confront death’), had taken over most of the towns and cities in the north of the country, and were even said to be advancing o n the biggest prize o f all—the oil-rich city o f Kirkuk.

I had to be interested in such a war. I couldn’t help myself. But [

explained t o Charlie when he called, ‘ I haven't got a newspaper any

more. I’ve got n o outlet, n o one to back me. I can’t just go without backing,’ It was m y last feeble attempt at an excuse for not going, but

Charlie was ready for it. “Try the Independent,” he said. A t that time the Independent’s magazine section was edited b y Alex-

ander Chancellor, who was known t o have a soft spot for the diaspora o f old Sunday Times hands created out o f a shared aversion to Rupert

Murdoch and Andrew Neil. Indeed, one of Chancellor’s favourite writers was the legendary Murray Sayle whom I had worked with, as a

Sunday Times colleague, in Vietnam and the Middle East. A brief call t o Chancellor’s office established that I could cover the war on the magazine’s behalf. I had the necessary backing. N o more excuses, I had t o go. Charlie and I met in Damascus and made it across the border into northern Iraq with comparatively little difficulty. A t the first town we came to, Dihok, it was fairly obvious which side had the whip hand. We saw about a hundred cowering Iraqi soldiers w h o had been taken pris-

oner b y the Kurds. They did not give the appearance o f m e n expecting a full range o f P O W privileges. W e thought they could well b e for the

chop, but decided not to hang around as witnesses o f their fate. Kirkuk had t o b e our prime objective. 311

We did make a detour along the way, but only t o look around a hospital that had previously been occupied b y the Iraqis. Its patients

included a number of wounded Peshmerga fighters. One ward was full of children, some of them bearing wounds caused by barrel bombs dropped from Iraqi helicopters. It was the most pitiful kind of collateral damage. T h e sight o f those burned and injured children reminded m e

of

how relieved I had been t o retire from war in the first place. It appeared that the Americans had successfully imposed a ban o n Saddam’s use o f

fixed-wing aircraft, but there had been nothing t o impede his lethal deployment of helicopters. Our arrival in Kirkuk was almost perfectly timed. It was the morning of the day the Kurds took the city. I was able t o photograph an amazing

battle at the railway station, and there were images t o be taken of the debris left behindby the fleeingIraqi soldiers—broken vehicles, crumpled weapons and equipment and even, bizarrely, discarded uniforms. And, of course, there were many graphic scenes of exultant Kurds, wild with jubilation. We heard one o f the fighters say: “We will spill our blood for oil, because it’s our oil.They truly felt that they had it made, that Kurdish

independence was finally on the verge of being achieved. That evening, Charlie and I stood high up on a hotel balcony taking in the miracle o f a Kurdish-held Kirkuk. Then the gunfire started. Thousands o f tracer bullets came streaming i n . These great armadas o f deadly incoming lighted steel were the clearest possible announcement that the Iraqi army had not gone very far. Charlie turned t o m e and

said, Time t o go. As we drove north that night, towards Erbil, we realised that the Iragis were not only bombarding Kirkuk, but also trying t o execute a pincer movement in an effort to cut off the main road out o f the city. We presumed that this was with the intention o f halting people who might—like us—take flight. We narrowly avoided the closing o f the pincer and reached the comparative security o f Erbil.

O n the next day, the Iraqi army retook Kirkuk. Its ‘liberation’ by the Peshmerga had lasted a fraction over twenty-four hours. We learned later that three young correspondents we had befriended in Kirkuk had been taken prisoner b y the Iraqi soldiers. One was shot 312

on the spot; the other t w o were driven blindfolded t o Baghdad, and beaten u p before they were allowed to go. With a battle still raging around the pincered section o f the Kirkuk— Erbil highway, I joined u p with a group o f about thirty Kurdish fighters in a tank bunker which had originally belonged to the Iraqi army, who

had vacated i t . When the firing died down, I wandered a couple of hundred yards down the road t o talk with another fighter. As w e were chatting, a direct hit landed o n the bunker, killing four of its occupants

outright. It was becoming clear that Charlie and I now had an entirely different story t o document, with the repression starting t o gather moment u m almost as rapidly as the uprising had done. With the Shiite rebellion

in the south of the country almost quelled, Saddam was able to commit many more troops t o the north. And while his army might have been n o match for the American military, it was eminently capable o f killing a lot of Kurds. In the meantime, President Bush, who had originally beaten the drum for the uprising, was showing no inclination to assist with its continuation. The Kurds were on their own again. Confident that the West would not intervene, the Iraqi troops took back most of the Kurdish territorial gains in double-quick time. In this new situation Charlie and I made several forays out of Erbil t o villages and small towns still held by the Kurds, but we were acutely conscious of things fast deteriorating all around us. We heard in Erbil that a squad of Iraqi soldiers had taken the hospital we had visited earlier, and had celebrated this achievement by marching all the wounded Peshmerga fighters up t o the roof before hurling them onto the asphalt below.You really did not want to get caught by an Iraqi army, especially one bent on revenge. Ironically, given where our sympathies lay, our closest brush with death came from a Kurdish direction. O n the outskirts o f the small town o f Karahanjir, Charlie and I , accompanied by Kassem Dergham, a Lebanese sound engineer, were going about our business in a reasonably confident fashion when we were stopped, roughed u p and effectively arrested by a gang o f armed Kurds. It appeared that they had mistaken us for Iranian members o f the Mujahideen-e-Khalq, an opposition group that had lost out in the Iranian 313

revolution and then set u p in Iraq, under Saddam’s protection. It also

appeared that irregulars from this particular group had, out of loyalty t o Saddam, shot up the town centre only a few hours earlier. The local Kurds who detained us were looking for payback opportunities. A t one point it did look as if we were going to be summarily executed. But a small crowd gathered around us and one o f the onlookers came forward t o say that h e had seen Charlie at the battle o f Kirkuk a few days earlier, and that he was

what he said was—a journalist just

doing his job. This intervention saved our bacon, and a frightening incident dissolved into handshakes all round. As the Iraqi soldiers advanced, it became obvious that a large part

of the population was o n the move, heading for points north and over the Turkish border. They came streaming past us o n our way back to

Erbil. ‘Things are not looking good,’ said Charlie. ‘Even the Peshmerga commanders are doing a runner. Look. You can see them stuffing their maps into the backs of their cars.’ W e d e c i d e d i t was t i m e t o join the exodus, avoiding as far as possible the main roads which, like much else, were coming under heavy barrel-bomb attack from Saddam’s fleet o f helicopters. The last stage o f our journey into Turkey was made o n foot through the mountains with m y camera bags clunking against the sides o f a wonderfully patient mule.

On our return t o England, the Independent magazine did us proud with six pages of my pictures and Charlie’s words, topped with the headline: “The Great Betrayal’. Charlie wrote: “They [the Kurds] welcomed us as n o foreigner had been welcomed before, seeing in us the Western support they believed their struggle was enjoying. When we left . . . they cursed us, seeing in us the final betrayal of an outside world that has broken every promise to them it has ever made.’ The seriously good news when I got back home was that Roger Cooper, m y wonderfully entertaining companion o n assignments in

Afghanistan and Iran, had just been released after spending five years, three months and twenty-five days in Iran’s fearsome Evin jail. Long after his absurd espionage trial by the Khomeini regime, Roger had

been told that his sentence was ‘Death plus ten years’. Asking “Which comes first?’ he was informed that he would be held for ten years, then 314

hanged. He replied, “Thank you, but please, don’t make it the other way around.’ Although ill-treated at the outset, Roger became something o f a

Evin jail, popular with the guards and fellow prisoners alike, before leaving with his sense of fun still amazingly intact. ‘Anyone who has been t o a British boarding school,’ he said, ‘is well able t o handle an star at

Iranian prison.’ H e would later write a witty memoir called, naturally, Death Plus Ten Years.

216

42. FLYING HIGH AND LOW

As I emerged from my hermit phase, I felt the inclination t o trade in my old Rover and replace it with an almost equally clapped-out Jaguar XJ, one o f the slinky, low-slung varieties. I was parking this fresh acquisition

outside my house in Batcombe, when a neighbour came by: Camilla Carter, a very dignified and refined lady who also happened t o be a magistrate. ‘Hello, Donald,’ she said with her best cut-glass intonation, ‘ I see you've got your bird-puller then, that car’ I never saw her in action in a courtroom, but I figured she must

have been a pretty good judge. It was entirely true that I was beginning to acquire a renewed appetite for some fun and frivolity in m y life. Romance even, but nothing too serious. I wasn’t looking for a replacement for Laraine who, since leaving me, had moved in with Terry O’Neill, yet another photographer, whom she later married. I had got t o be rather fond of living on my own, and the thought of another fullon partnership did not appeal. In fact, it filled me with alarm. For a good while my friendship with Loretta Scott suited me perfectly. Loretta lived in Bloomsbury, worked as a model for Laraine’s agency, was wonderful company, and almost exactly half my age. With her sultry good looks and raven-black hair extending down below her waist, she was an undoubted head-turner. We would meet when I came up t o London on advertising assignments, one o f the most lucrative o f which was for the Metropolitan Police. And she would often come down to stay with me in Somerset at weekends. We didn’t do anything much o f a spectacular nature but we had many pleasant small-scale adventures, sometimes with Claude who we'd pick u p at Laraine’s new address. H e would be handed over and received back by the nanny; Laraine never came to the front door. Basically, Loretta and I just hung out, doing mundane everyday things,

though w e did make one trip together t o India, the country I most loved t o photograph. 316

I think I reached my highest point in Loretta’s estimation on a drive with her around the West End one evening. I happened t o find myself proceeding the wrong way down a one-way street, and a policeman

flagged us down. I had ignored a ‘No Entry’ sign, he said. He was going t o give m e a ticket. I pleaded for mercy. None granted. ‘Bit ironic,’ I said, ‘you giving m e a ticket, when I ’ m doing the ads for the Metropolitan

Police.

Suddenly interested, the policeman said, ‘Did you do that one about racial prejudice? You know, the one where a white copper seems to be chasing a black guy

who, it turns out, is also a copper, but in

plain clothes. So it wasn’t racial at all—just t w o coppers involved i n

a chase together. That was a good one.’ I confessed that it was indeed my handiwork. The policeman then proceeded t o fold his notebook and dismiss us, unticketed, with a kindly ‘Go on. Get yourselves out of here, the pair of you. Despite this high moment, things drew to a close. Relationships need t o progress, while ours bumbled along at much the same level, always pleasantly but without any great purpose. The parting was amicable, with Loretta seeking out company perhaps more suited t o her age, and me easing my way back into the middle-aged emotional marketplace. I'm probably more grateful to Loretta for our romantic interlude n o w than I was back then, because then I had n o inkling o f the ordeal that was t o come. The town ofArles in the south of France stages a photography festival every year that is always popular with both amateur and professional photographers around the world. In 1992, I was invited to put in an appearance. A major feature of the festival that year was a retrospective of my work, mainly of the war variety. As the exhibition opened, and people came flooding i n , I happened to notice a tall, beautiful blonde lady with an imperious look about her. A little later, m y agent, Mark George, came over t o m e and said, ‘That beautiful woman over there. She’s American, and I heard her say,“I’ve got t o meet the man who took these photographs.” AndI said, rather chauvinistically, “Well, if she’s the one I think you mean, she’s in luck.’ We did meet u p and it turned out that this woman, whose name was Marilyn Bridges, n o t only was stunning t o look at, but also had 317

a list of accomplishments as long as my arm—as a professional photographer. After she graduated in photography and archaeology at the Rochester Institute ofTechnology in New York, the Guggenheim Foundation financed her first field trip t o the Mayan temples in the

jungles of Yucatan. She then went on t o become one of America’s leading aerial photographers of archaeological sites, achieving her images by dangling out of low-flying aircraft, one of which was her own. The sacred and secular sites over which she flew, at frighteningly close to

‘stall speed’, came under the protection of many countries, each of which had t o grant permission for her work. These included Peru, Mexico, France, Greece, Turkey, Australia, and Namibia. Examples of her photography had been exhibited in more than two hundred museums and galleries. A review o f one o f her exhibitions said that

her work ‘testified t o a combination of artistry, technical competence, and gung-ho tenacity’. A more exhaustive CV would have t o include that she had been a Bunny Girl in her youth, and maintained her shape in later life by running six miles every morning. So she was beautiful, tough, brave, competent, widely travelled, and as obsessed with photography as I was. What more could a man want? We were in mutual-admiration territory almost immediately. A whirlwind romance ensued. In next t o no time, w e were flying over the Okavango in Botswana with Marilyn hanging out o f the door

of the Cessna 172, training her lens on the herds of elephants below. We were flying high. And higher than ever when, a few months later, I was awarded a CBE in the 1993 Honours List, which, I was informed, was the most exalted honour ever accorded to a British photo-journalist. Still, there was a stage at which we had to assess whether we were just having a great, ego-massaging fling o r embarking o n a more enduring relationship. This was about the time I arranged to meet Marilyn in Seville where she was then working o n an aerial project. A funny thing happened to m e o n m y way there.

I was driving out of Batcombe, en route t o Heathrow, when I saw a woman lying in the road, clearly distressed, clinging on to the reins

of t w o horses. She had brokena leg after being thrown while taking 318

both horses out for exercise. I got her t o the side of the road, made her as comfortable as I could, and explained that I was in a rush to

catch a plane, but that I would get assistance t o her as soon as possible. [ knocked on a neighbour’s door t o ask for help. The m a n agreed t o call a n ambulance and urged me t o get off quickly and catch my plane. I caught the plane, met Marilyn in Seville and we got o n well. It did look as if our relationship had some staying power. O n m y return t o Batcombe, I found a letter from the lady w h o had been unhorsed.

It said: “You were such a gentleman that day, l ’ I l never be able t o repay y o u . . . I wrote back and said: ‘If I had been a proper gentleman, I would have stayed by the roadside with you and not rushed off t o catch a plane.’ In the years that followed, I often thought that if I had been lucky enough t o have missed that plane it might have derailed the romance with Marilyn and saved us both a whole load of grief. I really should have been ‘a proper gentleman’. Marilyn and I got married in Batcombe o n 14 October 1995.

M y best man was Mark Shand who had become a much closer friend after our adventures with Indonesia’s most primitive tribes back in the 1980s, which Mark had subsequently written u p in an engagingly

eccentric travel book called Skulduggery. Since those days, of course, he had become rather better known as the brother of Camilla Parker Bowles, the then girlfriend and now wife of Prince Charles. It was Marilyn’s third marriage and, if I count my common-law arrangement with Laraine, Marilyn was m y third wife. She was fortyfour, and I had just edged past sixty. So w e were both old enough t o have

known better. The big unresolved problem between us was identifying where we could exist as a couple. Marilyn lived in upstate N e w York in a little town o f the style immortalised in Norman Rockwell’s paintings—just the one high street,

little white church, tidy little houses with American flags protruding, picket fences, neat gardens. Nice enough in its way, but not really m y scene. It also emerged, after a while, that Batcombe was not really Marilyn’s. M y proposal o f marriage was designed to give us the incentive to do something that would free us from the tyranny o f forever commuting across the Atlantic to have any time together. In reality, it made matters worse. 319

Essentially, Marilyn thought that our optimum route t o togetherness would be for me t o sell up in Batcombe and go and live in America. I had n o wish t o uproot from Somerset, and still less any desire to put another 3,000 miles between me and my children. I naturally, therefore, favoured her moving in my direction, rather than vice-versa. The only times when this issue was in abeyance was when Marilyn and I were actually travelling the world together. And w e did travel a lot of the time, t o Botswana, Bali, India and Cambodia. Not all these trips could be classed as romantic interludes. In Cambodia, for example,

I was able t o slip away o n a photographic tour of Security Prison 21

(S-21), a converted school premises i n Phnom Penh that had been the Khmer Rouge’s most infamous torture and murder house. There can be no doubt that these expeditions had the effect of easing the central pressure o n our relationship. However, it was a highly

expensive form of relief, and more importantly, when combined with all the transatlantic commuting, ultimately very fatiguing even for t w o seasoned travellers. Travel deferred the problem, but could never solve it. Two strong-minded, physically tired people grappling with an

intractable mutual problem are rarely at their best, and w e were about t o prove it. With the cohabitation issue seemingly incapable of resolution, the arguments between us became more and more ratty and badtempered. It could be said that I did not miss war zones in this period mainly because I had a perfectly adequate one in m y own home. The

situation had its comic aspects, but these could be more easily appreciated in retrospect than at the time. One o f our major bust-ups escalated into a smashathon o f the stuff in my living room—lamps, antique plates, anything breakable that came t o hand. The episode climaxed with m y tossing all Marilyn’s cameras out

o f an upstairs window. It seemed like a good idea at the time, though it wound u p costing m e £5,000 to replace them. Our times together at Marilyn’s home in upstate New York tended t o b e less openly combative, but were often not m u c h better i n terms o f

mood. When things got too chilly and unfriendly in Norman Rockwell

country, I would make a premature exit by jumping on a Greyhound bus and heading for N e w York City and the warmer comforts o f the Gramercy Park Hotel. 320

Our farcical attempt at a marriage lasted less than three years, though it took several more years to secure a divorce. By the beginning

of the new millennium, I was back t o complete hermit status again and mightily relieved t o have rediscovered it. In terms of work, I didn’t achieve anything worthwhile during the

Marilyn period. M y photography went nowhere. I

was too drained o f

energy to summon u p the attention required for any original work. I

managed t o get out a book, Sleeping with Ghosts, which I followed up a few years later with an exhibition, with the same title, at the Barbican Galleries in London. But both o f these efforts featured work I had done years previously. There was nothing original in their content.

I kept the advertising work going—indeed I had to in order t o pay for all those air miles—but I never counted that activity as having

any importance. It was all just for the money. And I could have raked in much more o f the stuff if I had not imposed a strict rule o n myself against promoting anything that smacked o f militarism o r warfare. So when the Pentagon waved a six-figure sum before m y eyes to take the photographs for a recruitment campaign for the American army, I had to decline its most kind offer. It has to be said that Marilyn’s creative work output held u p much

better than mine. One ofher great achievements while we were together was to conduct an aerial survey o f the Egyptian Pyramids. This was at a time when the Egyptian authorities were totally paranoid about intru-

sions into their air space, always afraid that any unknown objects in

the sky could be manifestations of Israeli espionage. But Marilyn, with her combination of chutzpah and charm, blitzed her way through the Egyptian bureaucracy to get the requisite permissions and, ultimately,

the raw material for an excellent book, Egypt: Antiquitiesfrom Above. 1 don’t think anyone else could have done it. In what was left o f the twentieth century I contentedly combed m y

archive on my o w n for my best prints and negatives of India, which I continued to regard as the most visually exciting country in the world

after visiting it many times, first with Eric Newby and latterly, of course, with Marilyn. These were assembled in a book, entitled India.

321

43. AIDS IN AFRICA

The millennium had a special significance for me, mainly because it was the year in which I started to draw my old-age pension. As it looked as if my impending divorce from Marilyn was likely t o prove expensive, it was very much a case o f every little helping. The important aspect o f the settlement for m e was that I retained full ownership o f m y beloved Somerset long house and its surround-

ing twenty-five acres. I might have become cash-skint, but I was as comfortably placed as I had been before. N o domestic upheaval was required, just some modestly profitable occupation or assignments that would enable m e to maintain m y property in a manner to which it had become accustomed. I could still plunder m y archives for more travel and war books but I felt a need to do something that would get m e out and about. The last thing I wanted to do was vegetate in old age. War was out o f the question. It’s true that I had felt a couple o f

twitches in the Nineties, thinking that I really should have got involved in Bosnia and Chechnya. But these feelings had subsided, andI still took some pride in my claim ofbeing a cured war junkie. So what was I to do? [ spent some time brooding o n this matter without getting anywhere.

But all speculation ceased early in 2001 when I got a surprise call from Christian Aid with an even more surprising request—would I help out with the organisation’s Aids campaign? They had in mind a two-month-long assignment taking in three o f

the worst afflicted countries in Africa—Zambia, Botswana and South Africa. I accepted like a shot. Like most people, I was concerned about the Aids epidemic, but I have to admit it was the anti-vegetating potential o f the job that made it very appealing to me. I also had a notion that this was an area in which m y photographs might have a positively beneficial effect, by raising consciousness and awareness. This was not something that could be said about m y war pictures, which demonstrably had not impaired the popularity o f warfare. 322

A sixteen-year-old boy whose father has just died of Aids, Zambia, 2004

323

At that time almost twenty-two million people had died from Aids since the epidemic started, the vast majority from theThirdWorld, with Africa suffering the most. O f the thirty-six million adults and children

with HIV/Aids, twenty-five million were African. Inertia in the face o f such devastating numbers amounted almost t o a kind o f genocide. And in Christian Aid’s opinion the response o f the West to this crisis

was nowhere near adequate. It was a grim

job. Photographing people at death’s door i n the last

stages of cruel illness could not be otherwise, although I was constantly touched by the reception I received even in the poorest homes, which were often no more than shacks. Sometimes I thought the poverty I encountered was as great an affliction as the disease itself. The stench o f poverty was present even in the once-prosperous copper town o f Ndola in Zambia. After the collapse in global demand

for its metal, thousands of workers had been laid off. Government attempts t o persuade migrant workers t o go back t o their villages had, to a large extent, failed. In Ndola’s teeming Nkwazi township, where

most of the migrants lived, a third of the population was said to be HIVpositive. Visiting there tested the limits of my self-control, even with the support of local volunteers and Christian Aid’s Judith Melby, who had been assigned to write u p our journey. I met one young mother, so

‘slimmed’ by Aids that her hip bones stuck out almost at right angles. I could have photographed her alone but I did a portrait of her with her t w o young children. I wanted t o show that Aids was not just a personal tragedy, but a blight on the whole family. Many, perhaps most, people did not bother t o get tested for HIV. The powerful stigma attached t o the condition was part of the reason. But there also seemed t o be an attitude o f why bother when there was little o r n o medicine o r care o n offer. A similar fatalistic attitude extended to having unprotected sex. Another Ndola woman with Aids

told me, in a resigned way, that she believed her husband had infected her because he always ‘moved around’—Ilocal code for infidelity. In fact, few women had any choice in the matter.The main worry for most

of them was how t o buy enough food for their children today, not the more distant possible consequence o f unprotected sex in the future. Thus poverty and the disease gathered strength together as natural allies. 324

Regardless of the fact that my mission was clearly designed to assist Aids victims, support from the authorities could not always be guaranteed. After I had been taking photographs in the hospital of another of the Copperbelt towns, I was visited at m y hotel b y the health minister. Unbeknown t o me, it appeared that a senior figure in the Zambian

government had a nephew being treated for Aids in the hospital, and wanted it kept quiet. Politely, but insistently, the health minister said that my photography had been unauthorised, and that I had t o turn over all my film t o him immediately. Luckily, I did not have the film on me as our meeting had been set

up in Judith Melby’s room at the hotel. But I told the minister that I would nip u p to m y own room and bring it back for him. So I went to

my room and located twenty rolls ofunexposed film, pulled the ends out to make it seem as if the film had been exposed, and hid the genuinely

exposed film behind the curtains. I then returned t o the minister and presented him with the twenty rolls of slightly defaced unexposed film, while feigning great distress at the need for such a cruel handover. He thanked me and left, but suggested that Judith and I should go across the street t o the local nightclub and have some fun. I knew the deception had worked fairly well, because Judith commiserated with me after the minister had gone, saying how sorry she was that I had lost the fruits of all my hard work. I told her not t o worry. It was a ruse I had previously pulled off in war zones, but I was

acutely aware that there could still be a reckoning when I tried t o leave the country. And, sure enough, they really went t o town on me and my luggage at Lusaka airport looking for the offending film. They didn’t find anything, because I had already airmailed all the exposed rolls t o a friend i n London with a n instruction t o keep them safe for m e and

Christian Aid o n m y return. After m y Zambian experience, I expected even bigger problems in

South Africa. For one thing, I did not know my way around. I had never visited the country before. This was not for want of trying, especially during the apartheid years, but the authorities never saw fit to issue m e with a visa. Another problem was suggested by the attitude o f the South African president, Thabo Mbeki, whose public statements about

the Aids epidemic seemed t o fluctuate between outright denial and 325

affirming that it was all some kind of conspiracy against his country got up by the West. I was therefore agreeably surprised t o find South Africa very accessible, and I experienced no shortage of help or of cooperation, especially i n the townships.

Looking back on the whole tour, I had only one serious regret. This was at a little town outside Lusaka where I came across a desperately ill woman being tended by her younger sister in the most deplorable

conditions. I knew there was room in the local hospice, which I had

just visited, so I suggested taking the sick w o m a n there. They had n o money for the fare, they said. managed t o persuade the driver of one of the little 4 X 4 community buses t o pull up outside their home. And I turned round t o see, advancing towards me, the young woman carrying her dying sister o n her back, carrying her as a Smithfield porter in the old days would carry a hunk o f livestock. It was an absolutely stupendous picture, a truly iconic image. It would have been one of the

greatest pictures I had ever taken. But I had just put my cameras down t o sort out the money for the driver, and I missed it. Originally, I thought that Christian Aid could have done more with the pictures I did get back. They were well exhibited, first at the Whitechapel Gallery, and subsequently at many other galleries. But I was never convinced that traditional art galleries were the right sort o f place for campaigning. The kinds o f pictures I had taken were not

supposed to be viewed as art; they were designed to have immediate communication and impact. I wanted them to be an assault o n people’s consciences.

To m y mind it would have been much better to have set u p a gigan-

tic, custom-built exhibit at Victoria or Waterloo Station, which would have been impossible to ignore b y tens o f thousands o f commuters every day. But to Christian Aid’s great credit, it did hang in determinedly with its campaign. And two years later they sent m e back t o the same three African countries t o provide photographic evidence o f what progress had been made.

Not a lot, I found. This was, of course, before the antiretroviral drugs could be deployed on any scale. O n the other hand, there was

ample evidence o f Christian Aid’s campaign being taken more seriously at a n international level. The first showing o f m y 2004 Aids photographs 326

would not be in some tucked-away East London art gallery, but in the lobby of the United Nations building in New York, one of the world's most coveted display areas with some 60,000 people going through it every month. I remember the opening ceremony well and for a special reason. While I was waiting for it to kick off, a short, very pleasant-

looking man came up t o me and said: ‘Come o n then, Donald, take my hand.’ This is how I came to mount a speaking platform hand-in-hand

with Kofi Annan, the Secretary-General of the United Nations. I am perhaps getting a bit ahead of myself here. Between my t w o Aids-related trips to southern Africa rather a lot happened in my life. In brief, I got married again, became a father again, and broke all my solemn vows of not going to war again. Vegetating in old age was, I ' m happy t o say, no longer anywhere near the top of my list of concerns. I m e t the woman who became my wife at Charlie Glass’s fiftieth birthday party where she was introduced t o me by Mark Shand. So I knew from the outset that we had something in common in terms o f

friendships. Her name was Catherine Fairweather and she was, at that time, travel editor of Harper's Bazaar, the fashion magazine. We talked mainly about her business, and about whether I would be prepared t o take photographs for her magazine. However, on a non-business level, I could not help noticing that she was an exceptionally attractive woman. I also noticed, as she walked away from me, that she was wearing fishnet stockings, which I really hate. Happily, I was able t o overcome that aversion. Our courtship, which included classical music concerts in the West End, was a bit on the refined side, but rapid in its progress. I would learn that Catherine came from a very distinguished family; and that

her father, Sir Patrick Fairweather, recently retired from the Foreign Office, had been the British Ambassador in Rome, which explained why Catherine’s journalistic CV featured a long stint working for Vatican Radio. Catherine’s mother, Maria, who was o f Russian and Greek descent, was a superb multilinguist who had worked in Brussels where she was a capable interpreter in seven different languages. Catherine

herself was fluent in both French and Italian. Although I had long since shed the Finsbury Park—induced inferiority complex that had blighted much of my youth, I was nervously 327

conscious of moving into a world where people quite simply knew more than I did, and indeed—given that I was still some way short of fluency i n just the one language—more than I was ever likely t o know.

I soon felt sure about my feelings for Catherine, but I was deeply uncertain about how her parents might view our association. After all, at some point Catherine would have t o go t o them and say: ‘I've m e t this man, and by the way, Dad, he’s older than you are. However, when she did announce the fact of there being a twenty-eight-year gap in our ages, there was no explosion of parental outrage. I can’t honestly say that Patrick was thrilled t o have a prospective son-in-law one year older than himself, but he was very gracious about it, which suggested t o me that he must have been an outstanding diplomat. Travel was clearly an interest that we had in common. I did Morocco

with Catherine and we all—{father, mother, Catherine and —toured the religious sites in northern Ethiopia, taking in the giant obelisks at Axum, and Lalibela’s incredible monolithic churches hewn out of volcanic rock. This was a successful enterprise in togetherness, but I could not get the others t o share my eagerness t o go south and spend time in the Omo River Basin, the habitat of some of world’s most primitive tribes. To realise my ambition in that respect, I had t o put family unity on hold for a while, and return t o Ethiopia on my own. Photographically, it was among the best moves I ever made. M y trip through southern Ethiopia was in some ways reminis-

cent of my earlier journeys with Mark Shand around Irian Jaya and the Mentawai Islands in Indonesia. But, if anything, it was even more exotic and unnerving. The main characteristic o f the tribes in Ethiopia was that they, like those in Asia, wore very little or frequently nothing, save for an exotic patterning o f white body paint. The key difference was that African tribes like the Mursi and the Surma were a lot better armed, quite often with Kalashnikovs. Murders were a n almost daily occurrence. Alongside the modern weaponry, many old traditions survived relatively intact, among them stick-fighting—sometimes t o the death— between young males, drinking blood and, of course, female circumci-

sion. The circumcisions were done with razor blades wielded b y the women elders, w h o gave every appearance o f doing respected and 328

responsible work. I saw a couple of them walking importantly around after one ceremony with metallic silver Eveready torches dangling from their waists rather like badges of office. Married women were accorded the right to wear clay plates in their

mouths. Some tribal traditions dictated that these had to be removed in the event o f a spouse’s death, and

only reinserted o n remarriage.

However, I did detect, among some of the younger women, a distinct lack of enthusiasm for the whole plate-wearing custom. I don’t think they would have at all minded its dying out. The economies o f all the tribes were almost entirely based o n

cattle. People imbibed the blood with their morning milk. Cattle rustling between tribes was endemic, which probably explained the high level of armament. Where there were fields t o be tilled, the women did the work, while the men strutted around or worked assiduously on freshening up their body paint. Both sexes relaxed by smoking herbs in large gourd pipes.

They made the m o s t wonderful pictures, of course, especially against a backdrop of what must be the most glorious landscape in eastern Africa. I n the

journal I

kept at

that time, I

can see

the note: ‘ I

have shot fifty-six rolls of film some of which exposed properly should be some of my best work, but of course I shall have t o hold my breath until I get back t o Batcombe and develop them.’ The one thing my photographs failed t o depict with any accuracy was the flies, huge, invasive biters which would come at you in droves. It’s true they eased off in the evenings, but then the mosquitoes would show up promptly for the night shift. I restricted my first visit t o the O m o valley to three weeks, partly because o f the flies, but mainly to get back to Catherine and tend m y romance. Even so, I would return

later and develop enough extra material for a book, which Jonathan Cape published in 2005 as Don McCullin in Africa. I was proud to marry a heavily pregnant Catherine at Bath Registry

Office on 7 December 2002. Mark Shand, who had been so instrumental in the matchmaking, was once again m y best man, albeit with the caution, ‘For the last time, hope’. O u r son M a x was born three weeks

later. Our joy at his arrival was matched, possibly even exceeded, by that of Catherine’s parents, who now had their first, much longed-for 329

grandchild from their eldest daughter. Charlie Glass accepted an invitation to become m y son’s godfather.

When Max was three months old, both his father and his godfather took off for a war zone. This perhaps requires some explanation, especially o n m y part after twelve years o f total abstinence from war since Iraq in 1991. I will try to provide it in the next chapter.

330

44. MY PHONEY WAR

Sitting in m y Somerset garden with a mind to enjoy the birdsong and

the soft rolling hills should, in theory, have provided the best of all antidotes t o any thoughts of war. But in the early weeks of 2003, almost the total opposite was the case.

M y village was directly under a military flight path and the songs

of the birds would be obliterated by the harsh engine noise of divebombing aircraft flown b y pilots readying themselves for a threatened

war in Iraq. A t other times there would be the eerily familiar flapping

sound of Chinook helicopters, taking m e straight back t o Vietnam. At any moment now, I'd think, the doors are going t o open and I ' l l have to

jump out and sprint across a paddy field. Even without this overhead prompting, I probably would have been

preoccupied with military matters. I had never got out o f the habit o f scanning the news for signs ofpotential conflict, and it did seem to me that the

Americans were winding themselves up for a really big one—something that might be construed as payback for the aerial demolition o f the Twin

Towers in New York (11 September 2001), which in the United States

ranked as a date of infamy o n a par with, o r even eclipsing, Pearl Harbor. While there was still a degree o f uncertainty about whether the

British prime minister Tony Blair intended to align himself with the American president George Bush in mobilising an assault o n Saddam Hussein's Iraq, the Guardian newspaper asked m e to write the commentary for a selection o f pictures taken by other photographers dur-

ing the 1991 GulfWar, many of which had not been published before. They were undeniably gruesome, with a heavy emphasis o n the

‘turkey shoot’ of fleeing Iraqi soldiers, but absolutely true t o the horror o f that war. I wrote about the pictures: ‘They are a huge indictment o f war’s ugliness. And they are crying out for us to put a stop t o i t . The Guardian ran the images across sixteen pages o f its G2 Section o n 14 February, the day before London was clogged with a million 331

protesters, my mother-in-law Maria Fairweather being one of them, all marching against any declaration of war on Iraq. I am not suggesting my commentary had much to do with it. I don’t think even the Guardian’s circulation department would fancy its chances of mobilising as many as 50,000 protesters, let alone a million. And, in

fact, most of the actual feedback from readers about the Guardian’s Gulf War images was negative. They thought the pictures were too graphic for a family newspaper, and that there was an element o f scaremongering about the display. Later on, after Blair threw in his lot with the Americans, it could be argued that they were nowhere near scary enough. Despite my keen interest in the approach to the war, I really did not expect to get involved in any way. With a new wife and young child to

look out for, it seemed that this would have t o be just another conflict that could only be followed imperfectly at a distance on a flickering television screen. The thing that altered my expectation was another of those Lucifer-like telephone calls from Charlie Glass. ‘We could make it to the war, Charlie said. There was even a way into it, he thought, through terrain that was familiar to us in Kurdistan,

which could give us a distinct edge over any opposition. I have t o admit, I was immediately excited. That part ofme that was addicted t o war was, I realised, as powerful as ever and Charlie was offering it a last chance

express itself. I was only a few months off my seventieth birthday, so the opportunity t o cover any future conflicts appeared t o be absurdly to

remote. It seemed b e n o w o r never; I decided o n now. [

flew t o Turkey and made my way t o the border with Iraq where a

mob of newsmen had assembled, all hoping to get into Iraq before any shots were fired. There were a few, like the BBC’s Jim Muir and John Simpson, who I knew reasonably well, but there were also representatives from a host o f different countries, most o f whom I'd never seen before. And some had disturbing stories to tell. It appeared that they had been refused entry into Iraq from Kuwait by the American army, and been redirected to the north. This was not a good sign, as it indicated that there would almost certainly be n o northern front t o the military operation. In fact, the Turkish government had already risked American displeasure b y denying use o f its territory to invade Iraq. And the Turks were none too friendly towards us, either. 332

They would bus us over the border down t o Erbil, the Kurdish capital, but indicated that we would not be welcome back.

When I m e t up with Charlie in Kurdistan, I found him chewing over another disappointment. The Kurds, apparently toeing an American-imposed policy line, were not disposed to be helpful. Our presence during their 1991 uprising was not cutting any ice at all. He did not think we could derive much advantage from our presumed strong Kurdish connection.

The only route into the possibility o f real action seemed to involve

buddying up with Ahmad Chalabi, a n exotic businessman who fancied himself as Iraq’s next leader after Saddam had received his comeuppance. In the months leading up t o the conflict, Chalabi was said t o have been prominent among those who persuaded George Bush’s administration that Saddam was hoarding a cache of weapons of mass destruction (WMDs), which we would all later find out was very much not the case. However, at that time Chalabi was seen as a significant figure, though some described him as ‘an American puppet’. H e also assumed importance in our eyes from being, as far as we could judge, the only

game in town. Charlie and I became regular callers on him and his support group.

Chalabi’s residence, on a hill overlooking Suleimaniya, was a large house that had once been a palace for Saddam’s cousin, Ali Hassan al-Majid, m o r e familiarly called ‘Chemical

Ali’

as

the m a n

w h o had

ordered the gas bombing of Halabja. Chalabi himself, however, spent most of his time in its garden. He would wander around the shrubbery

rather flamboyantly making his top-security calls t o Washington, giving an impression, which was actually entirely genuine, that the Pentagon o r the State Department o r even the CIA was o n the other end of the line. More concrete visible evidence of Chalabi’s clout was provided by seven hundred heavily armed followers of his cause, all allegedly kitted out b y the Pentagon, w h o were billeted nearby.

Following those supporters, w e figured, was bound t o lead us t o the action. We thought we could be o n to a winner. The only problem was that they did not seem t o be at all inclined to go anywhere. Weeks went by and the only action we saw was Chalabi making his increasingly

animated international phone calls. There was nothing much for me 333

to photograph. To while away the time, I took a nice picture of some Erbil children playing in the street, and a few of Peshmerga fighters o n

training exercises, plus some shots of Chalabi in oratorical mode. But it was really only practice. I also got invited to photograph the remains of a suicide bomber in the local morgue, but I passed on that opportunity. In desperation, Charlie came u p with the notion that we should

ditch the idea of following Chalabi’s men, hire a boat, and sail the eighty miles down t o Baghdad. He had an elegant name for this vessel, The

Queen of Tigris, but nothing serviceable t o attach it

t o . O n our first visit

t o the riverside w e were barred from renting a boat by the local Kurdish

officials. We had better luck on a second visit, but the boats available t o us all proved too small and nothing like stable enough for Charlie’s regular satellite transmission chinwags with ABC News in New York. So it was back t o watching and waiting, In the meantime, my money ran out. Charlie generously bailed me out, and got clearance to elevate me to the rank of ABC temporary staff in the field. Even so, I was deeply

conscious of already overrunning my expected leave of absence from Catherine and Max, and still in the process of getting nowhere fast. There was some excitement among the pressmen when it was

rumoured that the Peshmerga were preparing a n e w assault on Kirkuk, as part of the overall war plan. This was not exactly what w e had come for, but it was at least some indication o f real action which Charlie and

I would be excellently placed t o cover, as w e were among the few who had reported on the 1991 uprising, Jim Muir’s BBC team also took the rumour seriously, with tragic consequences. As their car manoeuvred into position outside Kirkuk it detonated an old landmine, killing the

team’s Iranian cameraman and injuring a producer. But the rumoured assault on Kirkuk was never made. The Americans, it transpired, were firmly against it.

Although George H . W. Bush had been only too keen t o foment a Kurdish uprising, his son was decidedly not. All hostilities had t o be under allied control, and the Peshmerga were being instructed t o keep their heads down and their powder dry. It was presumed that the reward for Kurdish passivity would come later, after Saddam had been dislodged.

Then, suddenly, there was a hint of real action. The invasion in the south was already well under way, and the Americans were preparing t o 334

airlift what remained of the press motley in Kurdistan along with Chalabi

and his seven hundred armed retainers closer to Baghdad. However, as we clambered into the huge Galaxy planes assembled for this purpose, I

noticed that Chalabi’s m e n were being ordered t o leave all their weapons behind. It was clear that any dream they might have had about making a triumphant warlike entry into Baghdad was over. This evidently was not part o f the American military’s programme, and most likely never was.

As it turned out, the press contingent was also not part o f the programme. When the wheels o f the Galaxy transports touched down, we

may have been closer t o Baghdad, but it looked remarkably similar t o the middle o f nowhere. O u r destination proved to be one o f Saddam's

old airbases, devastated by the USAF in the 1991 Gulf War and left in its original state of blasted dereliction ever since. There we arrived, and there we stayed in the few buildings that remained upright. Even when it was a functioning entity, going by the name of the Tallil Air Defense Base, it cannot have caused much disturbance to anyone in the vicinity. The nearest village was said to be a thirty-mile walk away. Our American army hosts implied that we would

all be moved o n again, perhaps t o Baghdad, but that order never came. In essence, we were incarcerated in a wilderness with no entertainment aside from watching Chalabi striding around the cracked tarmac

and making his urgent calls t o what seemed t o be increasingly deaf powers that be in Washington. We also had daily briefings which, like those inVietnam, told us absolutely nothing other than what we already knew, which was that we were here while the action was elsewhere. One morning, while gazing forlornly out from the edge o f the base, I spotted what looked like an interesting structure in the mid-distance shimmering in the haze. It was rather like a pyramid with its top cut

off. So I asked one of the American soldiers, who I had befriended, if he knew what it was. H e said, ‘That’s Ur, Sir I knew there were several sites which were alleged to represent

what was left of the ancient U r civilisation that flourished some 5,000 years ago. But even if this one wasn’t genuine, I thought it was well worth taking a closer look. So I asked if I could I just slip out o f the camp, and take a few photographs. ‘Real sorry, Sir; said m y friend, ‘ U r

is out of bounds, Sir. 335

By now Charlie and I were coming to the realisation that the war itself was out of bounds, at least as far as genuinely independent journalists were concerned. The American military had efficiently devised a strategy that ensured that the only newsmen i n a position t o cover

the war would be those ‘embedded’ with the advancing troops, and therefore essentially under its control. We could also, with hindsight, appreciate that the whole Chalabi enterprise was never a route into the action but a useful decoy away from it, though I ' m not sure if Chalabi himself ever realised as much. In brief, we had been thoroughly outfoxed

and outmanoeuvred all down the line. I knew that some American generals had managed to convince themselves that the war in Vietnam had been lost b y the media. I just

hadn’t appreciated the extent t o which they had managed t o stifle the media in subsequent hostilities. It was a painful lesson. With Baghdad falling t o the invading American army and Charlie and m e still out in the wilderness, there was nothing much we could

do but try t o find a way home. We managed this by way of Kuwait, which did provide some light relief. At least I learned there was a limit to Charlie’s generosity towards me. The hotel we checked into for one night in Kuwait could only offer its presidential suite. Charlie felt A B C

News was equal t o the cost. So we were shown around the suite, and highlighted reference was made t o the magnificent bed, all silky and padded with an ornate gold leaf inlay surround. ‘ I ' l l have that, said Charlie, turning t o our hotel guide, ‘and would you please send up a cot for m y friend?’

That aside, there were no high points. The whole enterprise was a disaster for me. I never got a good picture out o f i t . N o t a single one. And I had tested the tolerance o f m y new family about as far as it could possibly go, and maybe beyond. I had predicted that I might be away for two or three weeks, but it was t w o months before I got back home again. Catherine was under-

standing in the circumstances, but it was not an episode I was ever allowed to forget. Any cross words between us in the ensuing years would almost invariably contain her reference back to the second Gulf

War and ‘the time you abandoned me and Max’,

336

45. NEW FRONTIERS

M y renewed vows of never going t o war again were a lot more heartfelt this time. I was finished with i t , but still to some degree captive to its memory.This probably explains why my first extended holiday with my son Claude, then just turned seventeen, was to Vietnam. H e wanted to

see the places where I had been, and so did I. Saigon was a disappointment t o both of us, a clean city with scrupulously well-maintained boulevards and rows of swanky designer shops. It seemed as if all trace of the old Saigon had been erased—the good along with bad. The teeming, aromatic open-air markets, the exotic street life and the sense o f existence being lived at an urgent pace were

now all conspicuous by their absence. I had always recommended Graham Greene’s The Quiet American t o people who wanted t o savour the genuine flavour of Saigon. That would have t o stop, I realised. The new Saigon was respectable enough, but deadly dull. Hue was more rewarding. ‘Look, Dad,” Claude would say excitedly, ‘there are some bullet holes in the wall over here.’ There was also

evidence of some sensitive reconstruction, which I welcomed because Hue had originally been a uniquely beautiful city. But when w e crossed the Perfume River t o retrace where I had been with the Marines on their assault o f the Citadel back i n 1968, I got thoroughly lost. I just could not figure out where those eleven fearful days of battle had taken place. I found this disturbing, but not as troubling as when I did actually manage t o locate one o f the key combat sites, which had been transformed into

a vegetable garden. I was prepared t o be a bit weepy, but I just felt flat. I think I must have used up all the raw emotion I could feel about Hue years earlier and there was nothing, not even a single tear, left in me. Claude told m e that he enjoyed our time in Vietnam together, but

I emerged with a strong feeling that you should never go back. I felt much better about another enterprise that disappeared without trace, at around the same time. There had been rumours in the 337

press o f a feature

film being made about m e , one of the projects o f a

motion picture outfit called the Natural Nylon Film Company. Had it been made, of course, that would have clamped the tin hat on my image for all eternity regardless of whatever else I might do. But production difficulties were reported, and the project mercifully collapsed. The great advantage of having my deck so thoroughly cleared of war was that I could get down t o the business of proving that I had some competence as an all-round photographer. In a sense, I had already made a start in that direction. Aside from Open Skies, m y landscape and

still-life book, Christian Aid had produced t w o slim volumes featuring my Aids photography, entitled Cold Heaven and Life Interrupted. In 2005 Jonathan Cape had published Don McCullin i n Africa, which displayed my anthropological studies in Ethiopia. I was resolved to seek more work in this vein; work that would make it impossible to categorise m e as

just a war photographer. There is some evidence to indicate that even m y wife entertained doubts about m y resolution in this matter. She would later write for Harper's Bazaar:

I married a war photographer. One who prefers to be recognised more for his landscapes and still lifes these days, but an old warhorse nonetheless. This is the man who made papier maché models of Afghanistan for his five year old [Max] and spent long hours pushing toy soldiers around that battlefield with the same son.

We still have a brilliant replica of a bombed-out building that he made out of a carton ofWalkers crisps and ‘decorated’ with bullet holes . . . Other than that, he is a fairly balanced, normal, peaceable man.

I hold m y hands u p t o the charge o f telling M a x war-related bedtime stories, but I did stay true to m y pacific intentions in the day job,

with a little help from the National Portrait Gallery (NPG). The NPG would come up with t w o jobs for me, both essentially London-based, which made them doubly desirable. At that time, Catherine and I were maintaining yet another version o f the two-home

marriage. She kept her flat in Notting Hill Gate for ready access to her 338

work at Harper's Bazaar. We all spent the weekends together in Somerset, with Catherine and M a x returning o n Mondays to London where M a x had a nanny and doting grandparent-assisted upbringing. I would

go up to London as often as my work allowed on weekdays to assist the nanny and fine-tune Max's military education. Sounds complicated, I know. But compared to trying to maintain a marriage with homes in

New York and Somerset, it was almost a doddle. Still, it did give me an extra fondness for workdays in London. The first job the N P G came u p with could hardly have been more central. The Gallery asked m e to assist in compiling a photographic

record of Trafalgar Square t o be published as Trafalgar Square: Through the Camera. Most of the donkey work of research was done by my collaborator, Roger Hargreaves, the Gallery’s Education Officer for Photography, but I was able t o dig out some studies from the long-departed days when tourists were actually encouraged t o feed the pigeons, and get their pictures taken exhibiting huge pride in the deed. The most photogenic o f the pigeon-friendly masses was the movie star Elizabeth Taylor. T h e project also provided a n opportunity t o celebrate Trafalgar

Square’s relevance t o the great political struggles of the day, ranging from the Cuban Missile Crisis t o the decade-long, dogged protest against apartheid that took place outside South Africa House, one of the square’s flanking buildings. I also managed to locate an old 1962 picture o f a demonstration

by Colin Jordan’s National Socialist Party which was m e t with an impromptu counter-Fascist demo composed of regular stout-hearted, freedom-loving Trafalgar Square regulars. I remembered it well. In trying to get top value for m y paper, then the Observer, unwiselypositioned myself alongside the National Socialist leaders to achieve good close-ups o f the advancing anti-Fascists—and got myself comprehensively spat at

by the Observer's heroes o f that day. The Gallery then set m e u p with an even more intriguing commission, asking m e to do portraits o f ten British religious leaders, at times and places o f their choosing. I had considered myself a confirmed

atheist from the age of fourteen when my father died, which was something I did not think any compassionate deity could possibly allow.

Since then, of course, I had enjoyed many opportunities t o observe 339

atrocities committed in the name of God and religion, especially in the

Middle East. This tended t o confirm my boyhood judgment in theological matters. So I did not start out with active sympathy for my chosen subjects. O n the other hand, I was not disposed t o be aggressively hostile. I did the obvious ones, including the Anglican Archbishop of Canterbury, the Catholic Archbishop ofWestminster, the Chief Rabbi and a former Secretary General of the Muslim Council of Britain; and a few less obvious, like a Sikh religious dignitary in west London and a woman priest in an impoverished South London parish.

The stand-out character was the Anglican Archbishop, RowanWilliams, who had a fascinating face, or as much as could be seen of it through the thicket of eyebrows and whiskers, and a really sharp roving intellect. After our photo shoot in his London home at Lambeth Palace, he invited Catherine and me t o dinner, which naturally edged him further up in my estimation as, until this point, practically all our high-toned dinner engagements had stemmed from Catherine’s vast personal network of upper-crust friends and travel business acquaintances. Dinner at Lambeth Palace was followed by an invitation into its library where our attention was drawn to a glass case containing a large

dove-grey glove, with a few glittery bits o n the back. This, the Archbishop informed us, was the very glove which Charles I had discarded on his way up t o the scaffold. The Archbishop then quizzed me about the panelled room in the

palace in which I had chosen t o take his portrait. What was it that drew m e to that particular room? I said that I really couldn’t think o f

just something about its atmosphere. ‘Ah, atmosphere,’ said the Archbishop, evidently delighted, ‘ I think you have anything specific, there was

it there.” H e went o n to tell us that it was where Sir Thomas More was interrogated in 1534 after his refusal to sign Henry VIII's Oath o f Supremacy, an act o f defiance that resulted in his execution a year later, and in his ultimate canonisation as a Catholic martyr in 1935, which, n o doubt entirely coincidentally, was the year I was born. Thinking back, I reckon I could have done a bit better with the religious leaders. I was probably a bit too conscious o f being an emis-

sary of the National Portrait Gallery, an institution almost as dignified 340

in its way as the Anglican Church, and therefore too much on my best behaviour. They all seemed like thoughtful and sympathetic people to m e but I never did get around t o discussing my own atheism, and the odd discrepancies that went with it. For example, why was it, when at risk on a battlefield, I could find myself calling on the God I didn’t believe in to do me a favour, and not let me die? And why was it that when Max asked me where people went after they died, I made the hypocritical reply— ‘Heaven of course’? Catherine and I enjoyed the social whirl which resulted from

my

success: the exhibition-opening parties, the prizes, awards and honor-

ary degrees. It was fun t o breathe this rarefied air occasionally but, even if I had long grown out of my inferiority complex, I had never forgotten where I come from. Sometimes, when not on assignment, I would join the annual get-together o f the ‘gang’, the group o f the old Finsbury Park boys, who would meet up, incongruously enough, at the Conservative Club. I can’t honestly say that the passage of time had rendered them more peaceable in their attitudes. I never really

expected that it would. But the general assumption that I shared their outlook did tend t o get m e down. This was particularly the case after Abu Hamza began to make a name for himself as the imam o f the Finsbury Park Mosque. “You know, Donald,’ said an old boyhood mate, ‘ i f we'd had that

mosque when we were around, we would have torched the place and that would have been it, end of story. Around this time I also managed to deflect m y regular publisher,

Jonathan Cape, from its preoccupation with war books by persuading its staff to showcase other more peaceful aspects o f m y work. In England, published b y Cape in 2007, presented m y somewhat idiosyncratic version o f English cultural life between 1958 and 2007. The geographical range was wide—Consett, Liverpool, Bradford, Sussex, Somerset, Wiltshire, Essex and London, especially Whitechapel, which, for me, conjured up the essence o f William Hogarth. But the human range was perhaps wider—from Ascot race-goers, Glyndebourne opera buffs and Henley Regatta hoorays right across the social spectrum t o a rich assortment o f tramps, beggars and meths drinkers. M y landscapes and still-lifes also got a good look-in. 341

342

Catherine Fairweather by Terry O’Neill, 1991

It was a very personal book, criticised by some for its failure to portray Middle England, an area I've never been very drawn t o photographically. In any event, I ' m not at all sure that Middle England

would have welcomed my attention. But overall the book was very well received, and I was delighted when it went o n to become one o f m y most popular efforts, even outselling many o f m y war books.

I was less thrilled by Jonathan Cape’s proposal that I should go on mining the English lode by producing A Day in the Life of the Beatles. This was a fairly simple exercise which involved sorting through my photographs of the Fab Four taken way back in 1968. However, I wasn’t particularly happy with the picture quality, although the collection did contain one item of retrospectively ghoulish interest—an image of John Lennon playing dead in a London street, with the other Beatles gathered around feigning concern. M y long run o f non-war books and assignments was interrupted

towards the end of the decade, but not through any initiative of mine. The Imperial War Museum decided to mount a big retrospective exhibition devoted t o my war years with the title ‘Shaped by War’. [ was by now a bit blase about exhibitions of my war work, having already supplied prints for exhibitions in Paris, Sydney, Canada, Italy, Spain, Holland, Germany, Hungary, Czechoslovakia and probably a few m o r e . But the Imperial W a r Museum was rather special, not

only because it had tried to help me get to the Falklands war but also because its staff had assisted m e when I was trying to find an explanation for why I had been prevented from going by the Ministry o f

Defence. We never came up with a precise answer, but they couldn’t have been more willing. So when the museum asked m e t o fashion a publication with the same title t o accompany and promote the launch

of the n e w exhibition, I said I would. It would have been churlish t o refuse. [ felt

under a similar

obligation when Charlie Glass asked m e t o

provide the images for a book he was working on, though his request had the added attraction of allowing m e t o process photographs from our Phoney War period in the Gulf, which I had thought would never see the light o f day. Charlie felt that our dismal experiences back in 2003 warranted writing up, and his The Northern Front: AWartime Diary, with 343

my pictures, was the result. And I was pleased t o be associated with it. Phillip Knightley, author of The First Casualty, the standard history on war reporting, described it as being ‘in the finest tradition of radical reporting—anti-war, sympathetic, compassionate and enlightening’.

John Simpson called it

‘Essential reading:

The idea for m y next, and I think best, book was entirely m y own, which may explain why it took thirty years to incubate. The seed was

planted by my friend Bruce Chatwin way back in the 1970s when, o n Sunday Times duty, we went t o Marseille t o take a close look at the local hoodlums machine-gunning the unfortunate immigrants from Algeria. Bruce was a sensitive soul, and I could tell the assignment was not entirely t o his liking, Aside from being a journalist, he was also a n art historian of some distinction. We therefore completed our business with the Marseille hoodlums as fast as w e could and took off on a ferry across the Mediterranean t o Algeria. Bruce said he wanted t o show me something more uplifting, which proved to be a collection o f Roman ruins shimmering in the Algerian

hinterland. And the image of those ruins stayed with me long after Bruce's early and untimely death. Moving on twenty years, I caught another intriguing glimpse of Roman influence on the Mediterranean world when I m e t up with Charlie Glass in Damascus. In Damascus itself the entrance t o the old souk featured genuine Roman Corinthian columns, propping up the corrugated-iron roof, which had been customised t o some degree. When the French left Syria, they had machine-gunned the souk roof as a parting gesture. Looking u p at the roof in the darkness, I could see

the bullet holes, but they looked exactly like twinkling stars. Magical really. But perhaps not quite as authentic as Palmyra, Syria’s great ruined Roman city out in the desert, which Charlie and I saw in the distance while driving out to the Kurdish uprising in Iraq. I put these slim first impressions o f Roman influence together with some basic research and realised there was a treasure trove o f potential photographic material.TheRomans hadn’t simply influenced the Mediterranean. They had dominated most o f it for long periods. In

Syria alone they had ruled for seven centuries, and evidence of their authority, albeit in ruins, was still accessible to me. 344

I put it to Jonathan Cape that there was a photographic book in this material. I can’t say that the idea was met with great enthusiasm.

But they did agree t o pay me an advance, which was comfortably the smallest I had ever been offered. I didn’t mind. The commission was enough. I felt as if I had just pulled a rabbit out of a hat, and what’s more it turned out to be a golden

rabbit. I worked on the project for three years, which were among the most enjoyable years of my working life. Catherine, with her unique travel expertise, planned my journeys, managing t o get the best discount deals, which helped t o offset the infinitesimal nature of my publisher’s advance. She travelled with me on some of my trips, as did my son Claude. M y mother-in-law, Maria, who had visited some o f the sites

years before, was our cheerleader throughout. So there was a strong family aspect t o the enterprise. Friends helped too. Brigit Keenan, with whom I worked on both the Observer and the Sunday Times, and who later became a near-neighbour o f mine in Somerset, introduced m e to the man who became m y inspirational guide and amusing travelling companion through the southern frontiers o f the Roman empire. H e

was Barnaby Rogerson, a publisher with a clutch of scholarly books about North Africa t o his credit. And Barnaby would later write the introduction to mine.

I made six expeditions t o the different sites, taking in the North African countries, Morocco, Algeria, Tunis and Libya, where I photographed the awesome ruins o f Leptis Magna; and the Levant for the

ruins of Baalbeck (Lebanon), Jirash (Jordan) and, of course, Palmyra in

Syria. Access to the sites was not always easy. They were often prowled by ‘cultural police’ who seemed to get paid for being as obstructive as possible. In Morocco a guard rushed u p to stop m e at work because I had ‘a professional camera’. W h e n I arrived in Algeria m y cameras were

promptly confiscated by a suspicious border guard; it took four days t o get them delivered back t o me. Part o f the problem was m y working day. In the Middle East and North Africa with the sun bouncing off crystal and stone surfaces, the light is too hot t o handle for many o f the daylight hours. I would do m y

work before the sun was up at around half past eight. Then I would rest until around three o’clock before heading back t o the site for another 345

session. Then when the sun was going down at around four or five in the afternoon and the light was just right again, I'd be told ‘No’, as the ‘cultural police’ began officiously shooing visitors out of the area. However, it’s only fair t o record that the most serious disruption t o my work was wholly self-inflicted. While photographing the Roman ruins in the Great Sanctuary of Bel in Palmyra, I lost m y footing and had

a bad fall. I woke up in hospital the next morning with a broken rib, a collapsed lung, and four burly Syrian policemen at the foot of my bed, flanked by the rather comely interpreter from my hotel. As Syria was then a renowned police state, I feared the worse. But

the interpreter hastened t o reassure me. She told me not t o be alarmed; the police had my interests at heart. They hadn’t come to arrest me; they just wanted t o k n o w if my injuries were the result o f a n assault. Did I fall, or was I pushed, in other words? I confessed to a fall, which

seemed t o disappoint the policemen, who were perhaps looking forward t o having a few fresh suspects t o knock about that day. M y injuries healed fairly quickly, although I did reflect that I had managed t o traverse quite a few war zones with far less damaging consequences. The thought that nowhere is entirely safe naturally crossed my mind. It’s possible t o live dangerously, but living safely never seems t o b e really o n .

Another thought that never left m e was that the magnificence and splendour I was photographing were all built on a solid underpinning o f slavery, starvation and brutality. As you take in the sheer mass o f the stones, you realise people were crushed with this weight in the normal course of construction. The slaves, it appears, were chained together in the quarries, which were the worst places to be. Life in them was

guaranteed t o be nasty, brutish and short. As I was working I really felt as if I could hear echoes of the anguished cries of the people who had

built these incredible structures so many centuries ago. I was conscious o f being influenced b y m y august nineteenthcentury predecessors like the Scottish artist David Roberts and the photographer Francis Frith, with their representations o f the far corners o f the Roman world. But I felt a need t o bring something o f m y o w n style and way o f looking at things as

well. I n

particular, I was

resolved that my photography should convey not just the might and 346

majesty o f Rome, but also its dreadful darkness. A n d I was pleased t o

have achieved this at least t o Barnaby Rogerson’s fastidious satisfaction. In his introduction t o Southern Frontiers:A Journey Across the Roman

Empire, Barnaby wrote: If you are looking for a full summary of the glory of Roman art and architecture, for coloured photographs of gorgeous mosaic floors surrounded by spring flowers, for chiselled columns set against brilliantly lit frescoes, for deities at dusk viewed through olive groves, go elsewhere and go quickly.

This collection of photographs remembers the hobnailedboot, the public execution of prisoners in the bowls of amphitheatres, slave-built victory monuments, altars dripping with gore, temple courtyards filled with the acid smoke of grilled meat being offered u p t o unseen gods.

O f the twenty-six photographic books I have authored in my career, Southern Frontiers was far and away my favourite. It gave m e knowledge, it gave me the will to learn, which I don’t think I ever truly had before, and, above all, it gave m e the purest photographic pleasure without m y

having t o be a direct eyewitness of other people’s suffering. I read on the Internet somewhere that the book was something of a disappointment t o what was described as ‘McCullin’s usual fan base’, but I know, for a fact, that Bruce Chatwin would have just loved it. I was o n a bit of an old-timer’s high after Southern Frontiers was published in March 2010. The folk at Jonathan Cape, swallowing their original doubts, had produced a handsome volume. And while it did not set the Thames ablaze, everybody made a tidy bit o f money out o f

the enterprise. M y family was happy. I was happy which, I ' m bound t o say, should have been a warning sign. If I've learned anything over the years, it is that being too happy is the thing that courts disaster.

One afternoon, still in the flush of success, Catherine, Max and I boarded the train at Paddington to go back to Somerset. As the train

pulled out of the station, I said, ‘Ooh, my mouth,’ and, a bit later, ‘Ooh, m y hand.’ “You're all right,’ said Catherine, with wifely insight a n d a hint of impatience. “You're just tired. Now read your paper. But this time 347

the standard marital joshing response didn’t work. I wasn’t nursing a hangover, I really was having a stroke, and that was just for starters. Once in Somerset, I was bounced around the National Health Service, finally winding up at a big hospital inTaunton where they stuck a rod u p m y groin which practically sent m e spiralling over the ozone layer. From this, and various other excruciating procedures, they came back with the diagnosis: ‘All your arteries are blocked.’ And the remedy:

‘Go home, and take these pills,” which I translated, I think accurately, as: Shove off and die. Fortunately, Catherine was having none of it.

348

46. THE ROAD TO ALEPPO

I had nothing that a quadruple heart bypass operation couldn’t fix. Armed with this knowledge, Catherine, who had a BUPA arrangement and knew her way around the medical establishment, explored all the resources of private medicine for the best place t o get the operation done. This proved to be the Wellington Hospital in St John’s Wood, n o

more than a hard ball’s throw from Lord’s Cricket Ground. I was told it was a serious, possibly life-threatening, operation, but I cannot say that I was too alarmed by its prospect. If I didn’t have i t , | knew I was a goner; and if it killed m e , I wouldn’t k n o w about it

anyway. | was more apprehensive at the possibility of waking up while the operation was still in progress. The likelihood of this happening, I was assured, was almost infinitesimal; I was wrong t o worry myself on that score. It was my assumption that my condition had been caused by the stresses of my war-going life. I was convinced that I was finally getting my just deserts for too much unreasonable behaviour, and probably not before time. W r o n g again, apparently. T h e more likely culprit had

been my lifelong inability t o walk past a cake shop. I used t o be known as the cream-bun kid. I n the run-up t o the operation, I did not encourage hospital visits

from outside m y immediate family, but Charlie Glass and Mark Shand

could not be prevented from dropping by. Charlie, I must say, exhibited an immaculate bedside manner. H e even refrained from inviting m e to accompany him to a war zone, a sure indication o f massive restraint o n his part. I cannot speak quite so highly o f Mark Shand, though he did

make a strong impression. Mark came in soon after I had experienced m y first full-body shave, a procedure which I knew would intrigue him with his insatiable appetite for human oddities. So I gave him the full scrape-by-scrape up, down and under details, but all he could say in response was ‘What 349

did you do with the clippings? Where are they?’ So I had t o say I really didn’t know and anyway why should anybody remotely care? ‘ I care, said Mark, in a mock-distraught tone o f voice, indicating his small bald

patch which could have been repopulated with my hair clippings, had I not so tragically, and thoughtlessly, let them go.

It was my last belly laugh before the operation, but there was no shortage of happy feelings after that event as the morphine seeped into my system. Later on, as the tables and chairs began t o bounce up and down and dance around the room, and the C C T V cameras transformed

themselves into glowering night owls, I realised I was probably ingesting too much of a good thing.

The business of recuperating from the operation was a slow, but by no means dispiriting, process. For the most part, I could feel myself getting a bit stronger every day. I always had a sense of progress. There were no significant work pressures, though I had to exercise some degree of alertness for a documentary film that was being made about me by Jacqui and David Morris, with the backing of Thomson-Reuters. It was mostly familiar material about my days on the Observer and the Sunday Times, so very little research was required, at least by me. Harry Evans, my favourite editor, provided the linking commentary. The documentary had its first screening, with the title McCullin, in the spring o f 2012 at the Thomson-Reuters building in Canary

Wharf, where I was agreeably engulfed by a mob of old mates from both newspapers. The film later went on release and picked up t w o Bafta nominations, which was entirely down t o the skill of Jacqui and David Morris. I was just one of many talking heads. By now I was feeling physically ready for a real challenge, without being quite sure what it should be. There seemed t o be n o point in

having a life-saving operation without doing something worthwhile with the actual life extension. Life seemed ever more precious especially as, that summer, spending a lot o f time with m y brother-in-law Richard Beeston, foreign editor o f The Times, I could see it dwindling slowly out o f him. Rick was an amazing human being, a gentle man in

every sense, yet determined and strong as an ox, and w e spent hours enjoyably exchanging tales o f our wars gone

by. But Rick was

also a

very sick man with a body ravaged by cancer, often unable to go into 350

the office because of his condition. He and I would amble around my garden together, and sometimes a bit beyond, like a couple o f wobbly

old codgers. The tragic irony being that I was getting gradually better, while he, much the younger man, was getting progressively weaker. Although Richard was very highly educated, a great linguist like the rest of the family, with a wide range of interests, his t w o great passions were fishing and the Middle East. As these areas featured high on my own roster of enthusiasms, I like t o think w e got on well. One day, as we were talking about the Arab Spring, of which I had only an imperfect understanding, having been ill or in hospital through its most

dramatic phases, Richard asked if I ever felt the urge t o go out and cover the Middle East again. I said I quite often did and that, on reflection, I thought I

probably still could. H e asked if I

was being serious and I

found myself saying: ‘Yes, I would like t o have one last crack at it. The next thing I knew was that Richard had contacted his editor, James Harding, with a view to exploring the idea further. I was then summoned u p to London for a mega-lunch at a fish restaurant in St

James’s where Harding and other senior Times staff members outlined the conditions that could persuade them t o let a seventy-seven-yearold photographer represent their newspaper’s interest in war-torn foreign parts.

It would have to be a short assignment, say n o more than six days; I would have to accept training in how to tie a tourniquet (a skill that somehow eluded m e up to that point); I would have to wear a reinforced

flak jacket i n

any potential combat situations

(which I

had not

done since Vietnam); and I should accept the guidance ofAnthony Loyd, the newspaper’s chief foreign correspondent. I had n o great problem

with any of these conditions. Although I did not know Anthony Loyd personally, I had the greatest respect for his writing not only in The

Times but also in his book My War Gone By,I Miss i t So, which related his

experiences as a correspondent in Bosnia and Chechnya,both wars that I had personally missed out on. By December, with m y emergency tourniquet training behind me, w e were all set t o go. Catherine thought I was stark raving m a d . But I

think she was mildly reassured by the fact that The Times was protectively involved and by the prediction that it should all be over within a week. 351

We decided to go to Aleppo in northern Syria, where its Arab Spring had effectively escalated into a civil war. Aleppo was the scene

of some of the fiercest fighting between the rebels and President Assad’s army. Anthony had been there before o n several occasions and had

already established connections that could prove useful. As it happened, I had been there too but in more peaceful times. I had spent a few days in Aleppo back in October 2006 while roaming Syria o n m y quest for Roman remains. I noted i n

my journal, soon after arriving there:

I think I am going to like Aleppo. It has lots of energy but along with it comes the noise. The streets are packed with mostly males, hundreds of soldiers looking quite tough and well turned out in

their smart and tidy uniforms. I have encountered absolutely no bother at all from anyone.

As we arrived in Aleppo this time, by way of the Turkish border which was becoming m y natural route into and out ofhostilities, we could hear

no end of bother being caused by the ‘boom, boom, boom’ of heavy artillery. It was probably the point at which I should have said t o myself, A r e y o u wise t o b e doing this? But, i n reality, | was just excited; elated to have made it into what was obviously a real war zone. The adrenalin

rush was already kicking in. We drove t o what the rebels called their press centre, and it was a mess. It had clearly once been quite an elegant, modernist-type building. Inside the entrance there was a fine marble floor and a broad staircase, but there was water cascading Niagara-like down the stairs. An incoming shell had just taken out the water tank o n the roof. So, i n the absence o f a plumber, the water was still being fed u p to the roof and making its o w n uninhibited way down. The press officer said there were some vacant rooms in the building,

and we should go upstairs and find somewhere t o stay. We waded up through the Niagara and came across a small apartment equipped with a brimming toilet and some blankets which a dozen or more people must have slept under in the recent past. It had a couple o f rooms and a pokey little kitchen. Anthony opted for one of the rooms, which

suited me just fine. To my mind, the kitchen, which had n o windows, 352

had t o be the most shell-proof part of the building. So I bedded down that night o n the kitchen floor, hauled o n one of the noxious blankets, and quickly dozed off t o the sound of more shell fire. Anthony had told me that the next day we would meet his friend Hakim Anza, one of the rebel leaders, known as ‘The Commander’. Apparently, Hakim had been an accountant before Aleppo became a battlefield. But he was a very determined, even ruthless, fighter. To illustrate his ruthlessness, Anthony told me a story about the time Hakim had disciplined someone who had upset him, by giving him a good beating. He was then alleged t o have said t o his victim, ‘That's

i t . I'm sparing your life. Just get in that car over there, and get out o f

here.The man did as he was told and Hakim, using a code on his mobile phone, detonated the car as it was pulling away. It was an intriguing story. But I couldn’t help thinking that with friends like Hakim, we might not need too many enemies.

Next morning w e went t o a part of town that seemed t o be completely devastated; i t looked as Warsaw must have looked after the

Germans had finished with i t . But there were still a few apartment blocks standing and, though badly pockmarked and damaged, t o some extent still habitable. Hakim and his men were in one o f them. Hakim himself looked like a Hollywood matinee idol, very handsome and very smooth and, from our point o f view, very helpful. H e agreed to fix it

for us t o visit the front the next day. The front turned out t o be a military base with the Syrian army still quartered inside. The rebels were sniping at them through holes in the perimeter walls. And there were all kinds of people involved, people from different tribes and with different affiliations. One group was entirely Kurdish. It was all very gung-ho—then there was the sound o f a j e t fighter overhead and y o u could see the fear kick i n almost instantly.

Most o f the rebels ran off and we beat a hasty retreat o f our o w n to go

and check out the hospitals. Outside one hospital, a car came screaming u p and we saw people

dragging dead bodies out of i t . One seemed to be a young boy, so I ran u p close to take a picture. Then a truck roared in bearing an even bigger load o f misery. It was really strange. There was a man sitting in the back, a really big guy, with black curly hair, blazing eyes, and an 353

overcoat on because it was freezing, and he was sitting surrounded by

dead people. AndI said, “Why don’t you help t o get these people oft instead o f just sitting there? What is the matter with you?’ A n d I got a

bit closer, and realised that he was also dead, apparently killed by a shell that had landed outside the front of our press centre. Later we discovered that the hospital had refused t o take the bodies, ordering them t o be trucked back t o where they came from. The hospital said that it needed every inch of the space it had for people who were still alive. It crossed my mind that I could be filling one of the hospital’s spare inches myself when I took a quick picture of a big, bearded Isis-type character in the street. H e went raving mad, threatening me with all sorts, until our press officer, who, fortunately, carried

a gun, persuaded him t o go elsewhere. One day Anthony introduced m e t o the man who was said t o be Aleppo’s oldest fighter. H e was seventy, and he took to me in a slightly

embarrassing way. ‘Like m e , he said, ‘you are an old man; I ' m very pleased you have risked your life t o see our problem and our cause.’ He then invited me t o the front. It was a bit like an invitation t o dinner, certainly not polite to refuse. The front, in this instance, was inside the town and hard to locate,

indeed I ’ m not sure if we ever did. In Aleppo fighters tend not t o run down streets making themselves an easy target for the camera. Generally, they prefer t o punch holes in the walls of houses and fight from the inside, bashing out more holes t o fire their weapons through as and when required. However, near what was deemed t o be the front, some of the streets were rigged with hessian, designed to impede the view o f any

snipers overhead. At one point, with bullets whistling above us, we had to cross a road where there was n o hessian cover. As we surged across, Anthony gave m e a comradely shove to speed m e o n m y way. I very nearly sprawled o n all fours. N o serious damage was done, but

I realised that w e needed t o work harder on synchronising our battle choreography.

O n another day, w e checked out what was called the bread distribution centre. There was a huge queue stretching down the street and around the block. This was efficiently jumped by Hakim’s m e n who 354

arrived fully armed and went straight to the front of the queue. They were away with their sackful o f bread before any formal distribution to

the less well-armed, hungry inhabitants of Aleppo could take place. I got o n top o f the roof o f the bakery with the aim o f getting a

long shot, a kind of aerial shot, of the lines of people down below.Then I realised I had company. A gunman appeared o n the roof beside m e wanting to know what I was doing. It was not a friendly enquiry. You can’t operate in the Middle East without suspecting you might at any time be kidnapped by a stranger with a gun. And in this instance the

alarm bells started t o clang vigorously, especially when my gunman was joined by other gunmen, muttering about ‘spies’. Then, t o my relief, even more gunmen arrived, Hakim’s men this time, who negotiated my prompt release. So I had this rather ambivalent relationship with Hakim and his men. They had been genuinely helpful o n occasions, but I couldn’t feel comfortable in their presence. While we were with them, one o f their

pet schemes was setting a honeytrap for a rival rebel leader, who Hakim felt had crossed him. However, in this instance the intended victim sussed that the assignation was phoney, and Hakim’s planned ambush had t o be cancelled. In fact, the level of trust between all the rebel groups did not appear to be o f a very high order. Some clearly went more in fear o f each other than they did o f Assad’s army. Knowing who to trust was an abiding problem. Someone told m e that the number o f newsmen killed in Syria was well o n the way to outstripping the numbers killed in Vietnam. I can’t say I was surprised.

Aleppo made the Wild West seem like a holiday theme park. There was, as far as I could determine, nowhere you could feel truly safe. And nobody really knew what was going on. You had to go and find your own war—which always carries a risk. O n an international danger scale, I would rate Aleppo as being behind Phnom Penh in the murderous

heyday of the Khmer Rouge, but not by very much. I was reasonably content with m y photography, though it was undoubtedly below m y vintage best. It was too short an assignment t o get the most out o f either Anthony o r m e but, o f course, our chances o f survival might not have been great had we stayed much longer. In 355

fact, my best picture was taken not in Aleppo but in a refugee camp

just short of the Turkish border, where we stayed briefly before leaving Syria. In the early-morning light I saw about forty m e n with black bands round their heads on the crest of a ridge looking down on the camp below. Ominous was the only word for it. I watched them winding their way down towards the camp, clicking away as unobtrusively as I could, using my regular camera. Then one of them came up t o me. ‘Show m e your photograph,’ he said. I would like t o claim some credit for cunning at this point. B u t I just had a stroke of pure luck. I showed him my digital camera, which I had only used occasionally, and the image on the screen happened to be an innocuous portrait of an old man I had taken in Aleppo but almost forgotten about.

‘No problem,’ said the man with the black headband before moving on. I got home relatively intact, aside from a torn ligament in my right leg. So what, if anything, had I got out of it? It had not been the world’s greatest newspaper assignment, but I wanted t o go because I felt that the public were not sufficiently engaged with the conflict in

Syria, preferring t o look the other way. As for myself, I experienced one last time that amazing sustained burst of adrenalin at the beginning, followed later by the tremendous whoosh of relief that comes with the completion of any dangerous undertaking. In short, I felt very much more alive than I had done before. Sadly, Richard Beeston, the lovely m a n who reignited the joie de vivre in me and who had made this journey possible, died a few months later. H e was just fifty years o l d . His courage and stoicism were inspir-

ing t o us all.

356

47. AWALK AROUND THE VOLCANO

M y elation at getting back from Aleppo in one piece did not blind me to the fact that it was probably a bit rash o f me to have gone there in the first place. M y feet were too slow; my hands, already beginning t o curl with arthritis, were too clumsy; and the twenty-pound reinforced flak jacket that I was required t o wear had weighed on me like a ton. I got away with it, but I also had t o acknowledge that the body I was living in was no longer truly fit for front-line purpose. However, I was fit enough t o enjoy the flowering o f spring i n Som-

erset and t o resume light duties pottering about my dark room and among my archives with plans for future publications. When the Sony Corporation got in touch with m e and proposed that I should accept

their ‘lifetime achievement award’, I rather huffily turned down their

well-meaning offer, on the grounds that I hadn’t had a lifetime as yet. But I did say that they could come back t o me when I had actually given up on trying t o achieve, though I couldn’t foresee when that would be. As a general rule, I did accept awards, but mainly out of politeness and because they say, in a way, that I am worthwhile person. But they

didn’t go t o my head. And I a m not inclined t o treasure them, albeit with three exceptions—my first, the 1964 World Press Photo Award, which did open new doors for me, the Cornell Capa Award—a great honour from the man I admired who had created the International Center o f

Photograhy (ICP) in New York—and my CBE, which would have made my father proud. Most of the others wind up in my garden shed. Another area of initiative, well within my physical capacity, was seeing more o f m y o w n family, which had conveniently lost some o f its

centrifugal tendency. M y brother Michael had finally returned home t o England after serving out his thirty years in the French Foreign Legion, and m y eldest son, Paul, who worked as a draughtsman, had also returned after two long stays in Australia, in Perth and Byron Bay. It was great to have Paul and his family settled in the pretty town o f 357

Budleigh Salterton, at the mouth of the River Otter on the coast of east Devon, with his sister Jessica and her architect husband as next-door neighbours. Paul’s t w o daughters would add lustre t o the family name by becoming the first McCullins t o gain admission t o university. M y second son, Alexander, after an early career in modelling, had moved out t o Deal in Kent with his growing family, my adored little blonde granddaughters Lila and Kitty. Often, though, he was in London keeping an eye on his budding property empire, which included a studio in Dalston called ‘The Roost’, which he rented out for fashion shoots. Claude, my son by Laraine, was also London-based when his duties in the Territorial Army Marines did not take him t o other places, one o f them being Helmand Province in Afghanistan. Meanwhile, Max, recently launched at a prep school near Batcombe, was showing signs

of precocity by taking more than the occasional game of chess off his grandfather. M y sister Marie lived not far away in Bristol. So we were not in each other’s pockets, but fairly easily in touch

with one another. When Claude put his name down for the Territorials, I called my brother, who was living near Hull, and asked him whether we should perhaps try to discourage the boy's interest in military matters, out o f concern for his safety. And I remember Michael pointing

that, given the life choices Claude’s father and uncle had made in their own youth, we were perhaps among the last people able t o give him persuasive advice on that score. out

It did occur to me sometimes that I was perhaps o n better terms

with my children than I deserved t o be. All of their childhoods had been t o some extent blighted by their father’s long absences. M y photography had almost invariably come first. But the paradox is that without photography I would have been a lost soul. I would have been a total write-off and probably hopeless as a father o r husband, because I couldn’t have taken any pride in myself. It was the photography that

gave me recognition as a human being and with it the ability to relate,

however imperfectly, t o my extended family. Meanwhile, Catherine’s multi-talented, multilingual side o f the family was being cruelly reduced b y illness, losing both her beloved mother, Maria, dying from leukaemia at just sixty-seven, and her brother-in-law in a matter o f months. Patrick, n o w o n his own, came 358

to live with us for a few years after selling the family home. Richard’s widow, Natasha, would become my literary agent. Both sisters determinedly worked their way through their bereavement, and Catherine

would later move on t o a n even more demanding job asTravel Director of Porter, the global lifestyle glossy. One of the things we all had t o be grateful for was the fact that we lived five hundred feet above sea level. When my adopted home county became national headline news with the torrential winter

rainstorms o f 2014 flooding the Somerset Levels, the residents o f

Batcombe were never threatened with having t o join the refugee-like scramble from waterlogged homes. I was very well acquainted with the nearby Levels. It was where I had photographed many of my best studies o f menacing Wagnerian skies b u t , thanks t o our elevation,

we only experienced the worst moments of the floods through our television sets. M y one direct contribution t o disaster relief was finding, stuck in the mud, a drenched kestrel which I carefully cleaned and dried off in the warmth of my car before releasing it for another day’s flying. That felt good. As a young man I'd had to get used to the idea o f friends dying in battle. Even so, I found it was poor training for dealing with the death

of friends in old age. I like t o think I ’ m unsentimental about death, but I was knocked sideways by that of Mark Shand in April 2014 which,

like much of his life, was fraught with incongruity. O n the day after he had raised 1.7 million dollars in New York for the Elephant Family, his favourite conservation charity, he nipped outside for a cigarette, fell oft the pavement and died i n a Manhattan hospital a day later. H e was just sixty-two, and I had always thought he would be delivering the speech at m y memorial service. Instead o f which I found

myself delivering

the speech at his, which was naturally graced by his sister Camilla and

Prince Charles along with a cast of many hundreds. “The thing about Mark Shand,’ I began, ‘was that he never had any manners, and, from the roar I got back from the congregation, it

appeared that everybody knew exactly what I meant. I now have a more continuous remembrance of Mark, as I trudge around and photograph my landscapes in his old wellington boots, clutching his Scottish walking stick, which his sister so generously passed o n to me. 359

WhenI first m e t Mark, thirty-odd years back, I thought he was a rather loud Sloaney type of character, but he turned out t o be a brilliant travelling companion; determined, bullish and humorous. He became one of my very best friends: always generous and loyal despite the fact he would often drop out of your life for months. I wouldn’t say that I ' m normally given to buddy-type relationships, but it was what I had, and

most appreciated, with Mark. M y wife would often say we were like an old married couple; that w e were good apart, but better together. He also represented the last living link with my non-war travels t o strange places and t o living with strange peoples, Eric Newby and Norman Lewis having died previously, both relatively full of years. So, in a way, I was the last man in the dinghy. I had always looked on my times o f travelling with them as being among m y happiest. Indeed, if I

had been granted the ability t o live my life again, I would have cut out the wars completely and devoted myself exclusively to anthropological

photography. Unfortunately, there wouldn’t be much point in having such an

aspiration today. With the way things are going, even the remotest tribes on the planet will be discovered kitted out with lurid T-shirts and baseball caps, worn fashionably back t o front. Less than a month after Mark’s death, I found myself grappling with information about another distressing event. In the fifteen months since Anthony Loyd and I had been to Aleppo, Anthony had gone back

on several occasions, usually touching base with the charismatic rebel leader, Hakim Anza, who had made a slightly disturbing impression o n m e during our visit together. In May, Anthony, accompanied by the

photographer Jack Hill, visited Hakim again. Part of the reason for his stopping b y was to congratulate Hakim o n the recent birth o f his daughter.

Shortly after leaving Hakim’s residence, the t w o newsmen along with Hamza, their fixer, were ambushed, blindfolded, handcuffed and bundled into the boot o f a car. There could be n o doubt that they were being kidnapped, presumably with the intention o f being sold o n to

Isis; the only question was by whom? Anthony, however, already had an excellent clue. He recognised one of his abductors as the m a n who had politely served his breakfast in Hakim’s home only a few hours earlier. 360

When the car stopped and remained stationary for a while, Hill and Hamza managed t o force the boot open, and Anthony made a run for it. Still impeded by the handcuffs, he was eventually chased down and subjected to a severe beating. Looking up, he saw Hakim, obviously in charge, arriving on the scene. ‘ I thought you were my friend, said Anthony. ‘No friends,’ replied Hakim, who drew his pistol and proceeded t o p u m p t w o bullets into Anthony’s ankle.

Luckily, the commotion caused by Anthony’s attempted escape led t o prompt intervention by the Islamic Front, the umbrella organisation for many of the rebel groups. Hakim was told t o back off, and his three hostages, all requiring medical attention, were allowed to proceed over the border into Turkey. Aside from my immediate concern for Anthony, I couldn’t help seeing this episode as yet another of my lucky escapes. I mean, why should Anthony have taken Hakim’s bullets and not me? Why, as so often in the past, did I emerge virtually unscathed while others close to me

were getting badly injured or even killed? Although such occasions, stretching back over half a century of going t o the wars, were close t o being beyond counting, they always had an unnerving effect, often even more in reflection than at the time. I suppose one o f the good things about old age is that you do have more time for reflection. But the problem, Ive found, is that you don’t

seem t o have much of a choice about what t o reflect on. So the lucky escapes and the cruel encounters and the ghastly injuries I've seen keep coming back to me unbidden, sharp and clear as in a photograph. And there’s another thing that really is puzzling me.

Lately, I've been going t o bed at night thinking about the Holocaust. leaves me. I put myself in the death camps, and hopelessly try never It t o devise methods o f survival and escape. It’s as if m y o w n direct expe-

riences o f danger are inadequate and m y imagination feels compelled t o come u p with even more dreadful situations. I can’t think

why. It’s

not a deliberate choice. M y preference would b e for reverie o f a more

tranquil nature. It’s probably one of life’s inexplicable contradictions. Another contradiction, o f a much less harrowing nature, relates t o my wife’s work. In the normal course of her duties as a leading 361

travel writer, Catherine gets invited t o stay at some fabulous places. And occasionally I a m included in the free promotional package. This has taken me t o some amazing establishments. In one hotel the ceiling was so high I thought I'd woken up in the Royal Albert Hall. In another, in India, we had our own private swimming pool as part of the suite. These are the kind of places where a paying customer can expect t o fork out £5,000 and more for one night. But am I grateful? Sadly, I ' m not. I lie in these temples o f high consumption, thinking h o w much I would prefer to be back home tucked u p in my own bed. So after almost

a lifetime of complaining about the grinding poverty of my childhood, I find myself grumbling on in old age about the oppression of the luxury I

have t o put up with. Small wonder that Catherine sometimes thinks I ' m hard t o please, though on most other levels our mutual understanding could hardly be bettered. As a journalist herself, she certainly understands my need t o feel in touch with the outside world, though she sometimes asks m e to tone

down what she calls my ‘morning rant’ at John Humphrys and company on the Today programme. She also understands my ambition, even if she’s not always inclined t o share it. The remarkable fact is that, even in m y eightieth year, I am not

without a measure of peer-group pressure, particularly from the brilliant crowd of Sunday Times journalists who came up with me through the Sixties, many of whom are still resolute achievers. Harry Evans, with his sprightliness enhanced by two knee replacements, is still mak-

ing journalistic waves in New York; James Fox is back in the big time as the wordsmith of Life, the best-selling memoir o f Keith Richards,

the Rolling Stone guitarist; Phil Jacobson is still churning out his highquality magazine articles, while Willie Shawcross, would you believe, is chairman o f the Charities Commission. Three o f the leading characters in the Sunday Times magazine art department which handled all m y pictures are also still at i t : Mike Rand exhibits his visual wit and wisdom o n the ‘Professional Photographer’ website; David King n o w displays his unique collection o f Soviet poster art o n the walls o fTate Modern, while Roger Law is currently capping

his career as the co-creator (with Peter Fluck) of the Spitting Image TV 362

satire series by designing and decorating some of the biggest porcelain pots England has ever seen. There’s not much evidence of actual retirement going on. I could, of course, produce a longer and more sombre list of those who have passed away, but even most o f them died with a work in progress. I

sometimes feel, as an unlikely survivor, that I should be carrying some of their collective quality forward for the benefit of future generations. Unfortunately, old age, or at least my old age, does not seem t o work that way. I a m no smarter for knowing other super-intelligent Sunday Times contemporaries such as Murray Sayle, David Leith and Hugo Young, all now sadly among the deceased. The best I can do is miss them. I don’t have much wisdom to pass on, even about photography. The plain fact is that you can possess the best camera that ever came out

of Japan and still only produce photographs that are no better than

a succession o f eyesores. Yet a Box Brownie, in the right hands, is still

capable of yielding an image that would have made Henri CartierBresson proud. Equipment is fun t o play with but it’s the eye that counts. I ' m not saying that the eye for a picture cannot ever b e taught,

but the only sure route to it is through a lot o f personal trial and error.

I do, however, have one tip that should be useful for would-be itinerant photo-journalists. Always make your o w n b e d before leaving

a hotel room, never leave it to the maid. The logic o f this is that you

can lay out all your bits and pieces of gear on a properly made bed, and check it over before bunging it into the travel bag. I’ve seen many an assignment ruined by photographers departing in haste and leaving their light meters, and sometimes even their passports, behind nestled in the crumpled sheets.

still

One o f the things that does disturb m e is that some documentary photography is n o w being presented as art. Although I am hugely hon-

oured t o have been one of the first photographers t o have their work bought and exhibited by the Tate gallery, I feel ambiguous about my photographs being treated as art. I really can’t talk o f the people in

my w a r photographs as the subjects of art. They are real. They are not arranging themselves for the purposes of display.They are people whose suffering I have inhaled and that I've felt bound to record. But it’s the record o f the witness that is important, not the artistic impression. I 363

have been greatly influenced by art, that is true, but I don’t see this kind of photography itself as being art. In this digital age, of course, everybody can be a photographer, and that’s not a bad thing. However, there are some areas of professional photography that are not having such a good time. It is, for example, much tougher for press photographers now than it was in m y days as a staff photographer o n the Sunday Times. Still reeling from the impact of the Internet, newspapers are cutting back in all directions, and the budget for photography has been one o f the major

casualties. There are far fewer staff positions and most of the jobs are done by freelances, often with little or no back-up. When I was in Idi Amin’s jail in Uganda I saw a newspaper report

in which I was incorrectly described as a ‘freelance photographer’, and I remember being almost paralysed with apprehension as it suggested

my jailers that I might be much more casually disposed of than a m a n from the Sunday Times. There are many freelance photographers to

operating right now in the worst danger spots o f the Middle East but,

as the casualty figures show, at far greater risk t o themselves than was previously the case. I am pleased to say that the Frontline Club in Paddington, of which I'm an honorary member, has launched a Frontline Freelance Register with the aim of assisting those working in war zones with issues like employer responsibility, welfare,

digital security and

insurance. I t has not come a moment too soon.

M y main hope in old age is t o live long enough t o see Max, a bright light in my life, through his school years at Marlborough College, though I realise that I ' m not likely t o be able t o do that by passively watching

and waiting, I ' m already walking around the crater’s edge of the volcano due to be transformed into ash at less than amoment’s notice, but that’s hardly within m y control. It’s the keeping o n ‘keeping o n going’ that’s becoming the issue. M y feet, even encased in Mark Shand’s sturdy wellies, are beginning to protest, to the extent that I may soon have to abandon m y landscape photography. M y reduced tolerance for the chemicals in m y dark room means that [ have to limit the time spent in what was once m y happiest work environment. And war, I think I can now say with reasonable

confidence, is out o f the question. 364

M a x , 2006

365

Still, there is more work to do. I am putting together several new volumes of my photographs, planning new exhibitions in America and closer to home, and I ' m arranging a trip t o Nagaland, in India, in honour of Mark Shand. Waking up today t o a morning of birdsong, and stepping out of my back door, I spot the antlers of a deer emerging from the mist in my orchard. The light breaks through the cloud, striking the Iron Age hill fort like the fingers of God. And I find myself saying: ‘Thank you. . . whoever you are.

366

368

The Somerset Levels, 2014

369

INDEX

D M indicates D o n McCullin. Entries i n italics indicate photographs.

A Day in the Life of the Beatles (McCullin) 343

Aserati, Bert 4 0

ABC News 310, 334, 335-6 Aché Indians 204-5, 207 Achebe, Chinua 137 Adams, Eddie 109

Ashton, Laraine 262-3, 275, 283, 285, 288, 293, 295, 299, 300, 302-3, 307, 310,

Aden: DM’s national service in 37

advertising (commercial) photography 208, 294, 298, 310, 316-18, 321 Afghanistan 3, 251, 253-9, 256-7, 260, 314, 338, 358 Aids, African epidemic 322-7, 323, 338 Aleppo, Syria 352-6, 357, 360 Alexander, Andrew 91, 92 Alexandria, Egypt 105, 285 Algeria 147, 209, 344, 345 Amazon rain forest 168, 169-70

Amin, Idi 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 190, 191,

316, 319, 358 Assad, President Bashar al- 352, 355 Associated Television 242 Astles, Bob 189-94 Astor, David 45 Astoria Cinema, Finsbury Park 21, 22, 43 Asuncion, Paraguay 210, 211, 212 Attallah, Naim 234 Ayios Sozomenos, Cyprus 58, 61-2 Bailey, David 262 Batcombe, Somerset: DM’s house in 285, 290, 293, 294, 303, 307, 309, 310, 316, 318, 319, 320, 322, 329, 331,

194, 364 Amman, Jordan 160-5, 235-6 Ammar, Abu see Arafat, Yasser

339, 341, 345, 357, 358, 359, 362 BBC television 44, 100, 164, 198, 239, 332,

A n L o c , Vietnam 1 9 8 - 9

Beatles, the 96, 343 Bedouin 160, 237

Anstey, John 9 1

Antonioni, Michelangelo 95 Anza, Hakim 353, 355, 360, 361 Aoun, General 286, 292 Arab-Israeli conflict see Six Day War Arab Spring, 2010-11, 351-2 Arafat, Yasser 229, 235-7, 239, 251, 281, 282 Arbenz, President 171 Ark (boat) 280 Armstrong-Jones, Anthony (later Lord Snowdon) 96, 157 Arthur, King 9 0 Asanti, Congo 7 9

334; Panorama 1 6 4

Beeston, Richard 350-1, 356, 359

Beirut, Lebanon 143; Christians/ Christian Falange in, 1976 220-3, 224, 225-30, 232-3, 260; D M visits with David Cornwell (John le Carre) 245; Israeli

bombing of, 1982 280-3, 284, 285-6; Palestinians in 221, 222, 225, 229,

230-1, 232-3, 235-7; Syrian forces in 238

Beka’a valley, Lebanon 230 Berets Rouges 144-5, 162

Berlin, Germany 49, 50, 56-7 Bhagalpur Blindings, India 261 371

Biafra, conflict in, 1967-70 3, 96, 122-37,

camels 143, 255, 310

133,136, 149, 168, 187, 188, 239,

Camera magazine 50

267, 308; starving children in 122-37

Canal Zone 30, 34, 98

Bihar, India 88, 261 Bioko, Macias Nguena 287 Bishop's Stortford, Hertfordshire: DM’s farmhouse in 194, 241, 302-3, 307

cannibalism 73, 142 Capa, Cornell 3, 103, 357 Capa, Robert 3, 22, 103 Carlsson (missionary) 78

Black September extremists 235 Blair, Tony 331, 332 Bloody Sunday, Derry, 1972 180 Blow Up (film) 95 Blundy, David 275, 285, 308 Boas brothers 169-70 Bogside, Derry 161-5, 175, 177, 178-80

Caron, Gilles 124-6, 127, 128, 149, 155, 308

Borchgrave, Arnaud de 162, 163 Bradford 241, 341 Brandt, Bill 37

Chad, war in 3, 143-8 Chalabi, Ahmad 333, 334, 335, 336 Chancellor, Alexander 311

Brassai 37

Chapman, Jessie 19 Chatwin, Bruce 209, 344, 347

Brazil 168-9 Bridges, Marilyn 317-21, 322 Britain: and Biafra 123; and Falklands war 276-9, 343; and Iran 247; and IsraeliPalestinian conflict 237-8; and Vietnam 197-8; see also England British Virgin Islands 91-2 Brodie, Steve 204 Brown, Jane 45 Buford, Bill 289 Bukavu, Congo 81 Bunk, The (Wadcote Street) 13, 17, 24, 27, 43 Burntollet Bridge ambush,Northern Ireland 178 Burrows, Larry 3 , 9 0

Bush, President George W. 331, 333 Bush Sr, President George 311, 313, 334 Caazapa, Paraguay 211 Cagnoni, Romano 2 0 4

Cairo, Egypt 98 Calavera, Maria (Mary Skull) 212

Carter, Camilla 316 Carter, President Jimmy 249

Castro, Fidel 93, 96, 97, 264 ‘Catastrophe, The’ 238 Cavala, George de 122 Cecilio Baez camp, Paraguay 2 1 0 - 1 3

Chicago 93, 94 Chichicastenango, Guatemala 170 China 195-7 Chou En-lai 195, 196, 197 Christians/ Christian Falange, Lebanese 222-3,

224, 225-31, 232-3, 235, 280, 285-6 Christian Aid 322-6, 338 Churchill, Sir Winston 106, 107 CIA: in Congo 74-5, 81; in Guatemala 171; in [ran 247; Iraq War and 333; in SouthEast Asia 149

Clifton, Tony 140, 141, 142, 280—1 Cold Heaven (McCullin) 338 Colorado Valley 213—14 Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Conference, London 65-6 Congo 3, 71-81, 72, 82, 91, 119, 188 Conrad, Joseph xiii, 71, 244 Consett, Durham 209, 341 Cooper, M r (schoolteacher) 24

Calcutta, India 173—4, 175

Cooper, Roger 246—52, 253—9, 314

Cambodia 3, 149-59, 156, 159, 160, 162, 202-3, 216-19, 217, 279, 320; see also Khmer Rouge Cambodian army 150-1, 153, 154, 155, 157 Cambridge University: Granta 289-90

Cornell Capa Award 357 Cornwell, David see le Carré, John Coronel Oviedo, Paraguay 212 C-rats (Vietnam) 114 Crookston, Peter 96

372

CS gas 175

English, David 219

Cuba 96-7, 264, 339 Cyprus; civil war 53-64, 60, 61, 62-3, 75, 82; DM's family holiday in 172; DM’s

Equatorial Guinea, Republic of 287-8 Erbil, Iraq 312-14, 333, 334

national service in 36—7 Czechoslovakia 161, 343 D a Nang, Vietnam 8 6 , 111, 120, 121

Daily Express 105 Daily Mail 219 Daily Mirror 53, 183, 218 Daily Telegraph 90-1, 128, 187, 189, 193 Damascus, Syria 231, 281, 311, 344 Damour, Lebanon 238 Dartmoor Prison, Devon 8 9 Davies, Hunter 209

Dawson’s Field, Jordan 160, 161-2

Deir Yassin massacre, 1948 238 Dergham, Kassem 313 Derry, Northern Ireland: Bloody Sunday, 1972 180; Bogside 161-5, 175, 176, 177, 178-80; Creggan estate 179 Desert life 139, 141 Destruction Business, The (McCullin) 172 Devi, Phulan 261 Dien Bien Phu, Vietnam 81, 87, 109, 111 Dimbleby, Jonathan 234, 235-9; The

Palestinians 234-9, 251

Don McCullin i n Africa (McCullin) 329, 338

Douad, Abu 237, 238 Druze, the 285 Dubéek, Alexander 161 Duma, the 141-2 Duncan, David Douglas 111 Dunn, Peter 92—3

Eagle Operation, Vietnam 85—6 Egypt: war with Israel, 1967 204, 205; see also Alamein, El; Cairo El Alamein 104, 105-6, 107 El Salvador 3, 264-71, 275, 273, 286 Emery, Fred 120, 278 England: DM’s wartime evacuation in north of 10-11; Homecoming and 242; see also Britain

Eoka terrorists 3 6

Eritrea 143, 310

Ethiopia; famine in 289, 292; primitive tribes in 328-9, 338 Evans, Harry 95, 123, 204, 2 0 8 - 9 , 218, 260,

288, 350, 362 Fairhall, John 187, 188, 189, 193 Fairweather, Catherine (DM’s wife) i x , 327, 328, 329-30, 332, 334, 336, 338, 339-40, 341, 342, 345, 347, 348, 349, 351, 358, 359, 361-2 Fairweather, Maria 327, 332, 339, 345, 358 Fairweather, Natasha 359 Fairweather, Sir Patrick 327, 339, 358 Falkender, Marcia 65—6 Falklands war, 1982 275-9, 285, 343 fashion photography 90, 208, 262, 276, 327, 342, 358 Fatah, El 236, 237 Fay, Stephen 276 Faya-Largeau, Chad 144, 145 fedayeen guerrillas, Jordan 160, 163 Fernando Po 287, 288

Finsbury Park, London 6, 8, 9, 10, 13, 15, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 29, 32, 35, 37, 38, 41, 42,47, 52, 64, 66, 68, 89,97, 148, 220, 327, 341; Blackstock Road cafe

40, 42; The Bunk (Wadcote Street) 17, 24, 27, 43; Fonthill Road 8, 9, 15, 17, 23, 32, 38, 41, 44, 47; Finsbury Park Mosque 341

Fleet Street, London 43, 45, 50, 65, 96, 105, 260, 292 Flynn, Sean 84 Fort-Lamy, Chad 143—5 Fowles, John 310 Fox, James 143, 197, 198, 220, 288, 362 French Foreign Legion 3, 68, 143, 357 Frith, Francis 346 Frontline Club, Paddington, London 364 Frontline Freelance Register 364

373

Gaddafi, Colonel 144

Hearts ofDarkness (McCullin) 243, 244

Gale, John 47, 80 Gall, Sandy 193

Hecht, Ben 237

Gaza, Palestinians in 234 George, Mark 317 Giap, General 87, 111 Giles, Frank 98, 195, 260, 277, 287 Glass, Charles 143, 310-14, 327, 330, 332, 333, 334, 336, 343, 344, 349; The Northern Front: AWartime Diary 343

Glastonbury, Somerset 90

Golan Heights 103, 204—7 Gowon, General 123 Granta magazine 289, 290

Graves, Robert 116, 246 Gray’s Dancing Academy, Finsbury Park 40-1, 44, 49

Helvin, Marie 262 Henley, Paul 213—14 Heren, Louis 195

Hermann, Frank 204, 205

Herr, Michael: Dispatches 84 Hewa, the 141 Highway 13, Vietnam 198, 199 Hill, Jack 360 Hitler, Adolf6, 10, 11, 154, 237, 239 Hoagland, John 265, 268—71 Hoare, ‘Mad’ Mike 73, 77—8, 79 Holden, David 186, 308 Holocaust 238, 361

Holy Joe’s, Highgate 26

Greene, Graham: The Quiet American 84, 337 Griffiths, Philip Jones 47, 52

Homecoming (McCullin) 242, 262-3; television version 292 Hopkinson, Cliff 42 Horst (German reporter) 87

Guardian 187, 290, 331—2

Hue, Vietnam 87, 109-17, 110, 118-21,

Green Berets 162

Guatemala 142, 170-1, 172

137, 337

Gulf War, 1991 331, 332

Hughes, Dick 244

Guv’nors, The (gang) 27, 28, 29, 38, 39, 39,

Hussein, King of Jordan 160, 163, 164, 235, 236

40, 41, 42

Hackett, Denis 49 Hadrian’s Wall 209 Hagen, Mount 141

Hamid, Dina Abdul 236, 237, 245 Hamilton, Denis 104, 108, 195

Hussein, Saddam 310-11, 312, 313, 314, 331, 333, 334, 335 Ibo tribe 122-3, 137 Ihrt, Fred 207 Illustrated London News:

DM’s Vietnam

assignment for 83, 84—6

Hammersmith School of Arts and Crafts and Building, London 24, 25, 26

Imperial War Museum, London 278-9, 343

Hamza, Abu 341

Independent 3 1 1 - 1 4

Hannibal (Biafran colonel) 125, 126, 127, 128

India 88, 138-9, 172, 173, 251, 261, 316, 320, 321, 362, 366 India (McCullin) 321 Indo-Pakistan war, 1965 172 In England (McCullin) 341 International Center of Photography (ICP), New York 357 IRA, Provisional 178-9 Iran 243, 246-52, 253, 311, 313, 314 Iraq 252; Gulf War, 1991 and 310-14, 330;

Harding, James 351 Hargreaves, Roger 339 Harper's Bazaar 327, 338—9 Harrington, Myron 1 1 6 , 1 2 0

Harris, Kenneth 65—6

Hart, Alan 198 Hasanabad, India 173 Hastings, M a x 279

Hausa, the 122 Havana, Cuba 97 374

invasion of, Allied, 2003 331-6, 344

Irgun 102, 237-8

Kirkuk, Iraq 311, 312, 313, 314, 334

Isington Mill, Hampshire 107

Knightley, Phillip 9 8 , 2 7 6 - 7 , 344

Isis 354, 360

Ku Klux Klan 93

Islamic Front 361 Ismailia: DM’s national service 34—5

Kurdistan 332-5 Kurds 248-9, 250, 310-14, 332-5, 344,

Israel 237; Beirut bombing, 1982 280-5, 284; Six Day War, 1967 98-103, 104, 107, 115, 161, 204, 207, 234; Yom

353 Ky, Marshal 154

Kippur War, 1973 3, 204—7

Larkins, W.M. (animation studio) 26, 38, 42, 44, 45

Jack, lan 261

Law, Roger 9 2 , 362

Jackson, Peter 276 Jacobson, Philip 207, 265, 267, 271, 288,

Lebanon: Christians/ Christian Falange 222,

362 Japan 22, 209, 363 Jerome's, Holloway Road 27 Jerusalem 3, 99-103, 111, 115, 161 Jeunesse see Simbas Jihad, Abu 237 Johnson, President Lyndon 86 Jonathan Cape 310, 329, 338, 341, 343, 345, 347 Jordan 3, 101, 102, 160-3, 221, 235, 236, 245, 339, 345; Palestinians in 160, 234-7 Julio (Paraguayan teacher) 211

Kadiweus, the 168 Kamairos, the 1 7 0

Kampala, Uganda 183—4, 195 Kan Tow, Vietnam 85—6 Kano, Nigeria 122, 123

Kashmir 139 Keenan, Brigit 345

Kennedy, Father 131 Kenya: DM's national service i n 34—5

Khartoum: DM’s national service in 37 Khashoggi, Adnan 220 Khashoggi, Soraya 220 Khe Sanh, Vietnam 87, 109, 111, 119 Khmer Rouge 149-58, 202, 203, 216, 218, 320, 355 Khomeini, Ayatollah 246, 249, 251, 314 King, David 92, 96, 288, 362 Kinshasa (Leopoldville) 71

224, 223-31, 232-3, 235, 280, 285-6; Palestinians in 221-2, 225, 229, 230, 232-3, 234, 2 3 5 - 9 , 280-5; see also Beirut

le Carré, John (David Cornwell) 49, 236, 244-5; The Honourable Schoolboy 244; The Little Drummer Girl 236, 245

Leese, General Sir Oliver 105, 106 Lennon, John 96, 343 Leopoldville, Congo 7 1 , 7 3 , 7 6

le Reynier, Jacques 238 Leroy, Catherine 120 Lewis, Norman 166-71, 167, 172, 210-15, 246, 285, 360 Libbert, Neil 99 Life magazine 44, 84, 103 Life Interrupted (McCullin) 338 Limassol, Cyprus 36, 54, 55 Linklater, Magnus 209 Liverpool police 261 LMS dining cars 25 Loc Ninh, Vietham 162 Lon Nol, General 149 Low, Alex 92 Loyd, Anthony 351, 352, 353, 354, 355, 360 Lucan, M r (pawnbroker) 19 Lumumba, President Patrice 71, 79 McCartney, Paul 9 6

McCooey, Meriel 96 McCullin (documentary) 350 McCullin, Alexander (son) 299, 300, 301, 307, 358 375

McCullin, Christine (first wife) 48, 60, 61,107, 244, 248, 279; Biafran war

and 135; DM first meets and starts

General Montgomery 106-7; India

relationship with 40—1, 44; fears D M killed in Uganda 183, 194; illness and death 298, 299-303, 307, 310; marital

travels with Newbys 138-9; camels and 143; malaria 129, 131; and exotic food

difficulties 262, 263, 275, 283, 285; marriage t o D M 44-5; Paris and 47 McCullin, Claude (son) 293, 295, 307, 316, 337, 345, 358 McCullin, Don 33, 46, 51, 52, 296-7; reflections in old age ix, 361, 364; post-traumatic stress, response to questions concerning i x ; o n the meaning o f experiences o f war 3 - 5 ;

childhood 6-25, 7, 9, 14, 15, 16, 23; wartime evacuation 10, 1 1 - 1 2 , 13;

dyslexia 13, 244; wins scholarship to Hammersmith School of Arts and Crafts and Building 24, 25, 26; father’s death and 24-5; railway job 25, 26;

job at cartoon animation studio, W.M. Larkins, Mayfair 26-7, 29, 38, 42, 44, 45; Guv'nors gang and 27-9, 28, 38, 39, 40, 41-3, 44; national service 2 9 , 30-7, 3 1 , 3 2 , 38, 5 3 ;

cameras 37, 38, 43, 45, 47, 50, 65, 82, 138, 152, 356, 363; meets first wife 40-1; first Observer pictures 42-3, 44; becomes freelance photographer 45, 47, 49-50; marriage, first 45 see also McCullin, Christine; Berlin pictures win British Press Award and lead t o regular contract with Observer 47, 50, 56-7; children see under individual child name; Observer assignments see

Observer; Quick magazine assignment t o Congo 7 1 - 8 1 ; o n photography

under fire 82, 85; World Press Photo Award, 1964 82, 357; awards, attitude towards 82, 357; Illustrated London News Vietnam assignment 8 3 , 84—7; Quick magazine Vietnam assignment

86; leaves Observer 90; projects for Sunday Telegraph 90-2; joins Sunday 376

Times 9 2 ; Sunday Times assignments see Sunday Times; visits t o home o f

124-5, 139, 141; injured in Cambodia 155-9; The Destruction Business 172; first family holiday, Cyprus 172; in Ugandan prison 183-94, 364; Bishop's Stortford farmhouse 194, 241, 302, 303; The Palestinians (Dimbleby and McCullin) 238, 251; Nazis, encounters old 239-40; Homecoming 242, 262-3, 292; Victoria and Albert Museum retrospective exhibition 243; Hearts of Darkness 244; Press Council reprimand

261-2; affair with Laraine Ashton 262-3, 275, 283, 288, 293, 295, 299, 300, 302-3, 307, 310, 316, 319, 358; breaks ribs in El Salvador 270-1, 275; Batcombe, Somerset house 283, 290, 293, 294, 303-4, 307, 310, 316, 318, 319-20, 322, 329, 331, 339, 345, 357, 358; cerebral malaria 288; leaves Sunday Times 287-91; advertising work 208, 292, 294, 310, 316-17, 321; TV version o f Homecoming and 292; first

wife’s illness and death and 299—303, 307-8, 310; trip t o Sumatra with son Alexander 299—301; discomfort with label of ‘war photographer’ 308; still-life photography 308, 338, 341; landscape photography 308, 309, 338, 341, 359, 3 6 3 4 ; ‘hermit’ phase 307, 310, 316, 321; Open Skies 310, 338;

autobiography, writing of original version, (published 1991) 310; Kurdish uprising against Saddam, Iraq, 1991, covers for the Independent 311—14, 332, 335; second marriage 317—21, 322; CBE 318, 357; ‘Sleeping with Ghosts’ 321; ‘Sleeping with Ghosts’ Exhibition, Barbican Galleries 321; India 321; Aids in Africa, photographs for Christian Aid of 322-7, 323;

exhibition of Aids in Africa photographs in U N building, New York 327; third marriage 327-8; Ethiopian tribes of Omo valley, photographs 328-9; Don McCullin in Africa 329, 338; Allied

Makarios, Archbishop 53 Makindye jail, Uganda 183, 185, 187-94, 364

invasion o f Iraq, 2003, attempts to

Markpress (PR firm) 128, 134 Marseille, France 209, 344

cover 331-6; holiday to Vietnam with son Claude 337; Cold Heaven 338;

Life Interrupted 338; National Portrait

Marines, American: in Vietnam 4 , 86—7,

111—13, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120

Marwood, Ronald 41—2, 44 Mashhad, Iran 248

Gallery, work for 3 3 8 4 0 ; Trafalgar

Mau Mau, the 34, 35

Square: Through the Camera 339—40;

Mayfair, London 26—7, 29, 38

portraits of ten British religious leaders

Mbeki, Thabo 325

3 4 0 - 1 ; In England 323; A Day i n the

Médecins sans Frontières 132

Life of the Beatles 341; ‘Shaped by War’

Mekong Delta 85

retrospective exhibition, Imperial War

Mekong River 154—5 Melby, Judith 324, 325

Museum 343; The Northern Front:A

Wartime Diary (Glass/McCullin) 3 4 3 4 ;

Mentawei Islands 296—7, 300, 328

Southern Frontiers:A Journey Across the

mercenaries 3, 146—7, 176, 270; in Biafra

Roman Empire

344—7; fall, broken

rib and collapsed lung in Syria 346; stroke 348; quadruple heart bypass 349-51; McCullin documentary and 350; Arab Spring assignment for The Times 351-6; success of peer group (mainly from Sunday Times) in later life

362-3; tip for photo-journalists 363; documentary photography presented as a r t , concerns over 363-4; o n state o f

press photography 364 McCullin, Frederick (father) 6, 8, 10, 13, 19, 20-1, 22, 24, 25, 26, 58 McCullin, Jessica (daughter) 298, 307, 358 McCullin, Jessie (mother) 6 , &, 10, 11, 12,

19-20, 21, 22, 25, 37, 38, 41, 43, 44, 45

McCullin, Kitty (granddaughter) 358

McCullin, Lila (granddaughter) 358 McCullin, Marie (sister) 16, 9, 10, 358 McCullin, Max (son) 329, 330, 334, 336, 338, 339, 341, 347, 358, 365, 384 McCullin, Michael (brother) 3, 6, 10, 14, 19, 20, 22, 24, 26, 45, 66, 67, 68, 143-8, 299, 302--3, 350, 357, 358 McCullin, Paul (son) 50, 120, 302—3, 303,

357-8

127; i n Congo 7 1 - 8 1

Meredith, Martin 228, 229, 230 Miami, Cuban exiles in 93 Ministry of Defence 211, 277, 279, 343 Mississippi River 9 3

Mitchell, Alex 209, 288 Mobutu, Joseph Désiré 71, 73, 74, 80 Monaghyr, India 88 Mongo, Chad 144 Montgomery, Bernard Law, Viscount Montgomery of Alamein 104—8 Moore, Commander Jeremy 278 Morris, Jacqui and David 350 Morocco 328, 345

Mossadeq (Iranian ruler) 247 Moussa, Abu 237 Moynahan, Brian 165 Muir, Jim 332, 334 mujaheddin, Afghan 253-9, 256-7 Munich massacre, 1972 235 Murdoch, Rupert 260, 276, 287, 288, 311 Murphy, Alan 73—4, 75, 78, 80 Mursi tribe 328 Muswell Hill, London 40 Naipaul,V. S. 4 4

Nairobi, Kenya 34-5 377

Nasser, President Gamal Abdul 105-6

45, 47, 49; DM’s freelance work for

National Geographic Magazine 2 4

other publications whilst contracted

National Portrait Gallery (NPG) 338-9 national service 29, 30-7, 41, 42, 43, 104

reaction t o DM's Wilson photographs

National Socialist Party

t o 89; DM's regular contract with 50;

Nazis, old 23940

within 65—6 Octavie, Monsieur (hotel owner) 84 O’Donovan, Patrick 49

N’Djamena (Fort-Lamy), Chad 144-5 Ndola, Zambia 324

Ojukwu, Lt-Col Odumegwu 122, 123, 137 Okpala front, Biafra 129-30

Necker, British Virgin Islands 91-2

Ono, Yoko 96 Open Skies (McCullin) 310, 338 Orangemen 175 Orgosola, Sardinia 138 Osadebe, Captain Steven 129, 130-1

339

Natural Nylon Film Company 338

Nehru, Jawaharlal 138 Neil, Andrew 287, 288, 289, 290, 311 N e w Guinea 140, 1 4 1 - 2 , 280

New Orleans 93 New Tribes Mission (NTM) 210, 213-14 NewYork Herald Tribune 237

Newby, Eric 138-9, 321, 360; Slowly Down

Paigah, Nawab of (‘Owly’) 139 Pakistan: Civil War, 1971 172-5

Palestinians; in Jordan 160, 234-6, 236-7; in

the Ganges 138

Newby, Wanda 138-9

Lebanon 221-3, 229, 230, 232-3, 234, 235-9, 280-3

News Chronicle 44, 45

Newsweek 162, 265, 280, 281 Nicholson, Michael 197, 200, 219, 279

Palestinians, The (Dimbleby and McCullin)

Nicosia, Cyprus 36, 5 3 , 58

Palmyra, Syria 344, 345, 346

Niger 139, 144

Pan-American Highway 266 Panare Indians 166, 213-15

Nigeria: and Biafra 122-37 Nikon cameras 82, 152 Nixon, President Richard 149, 195, 197, 199 The Northern Front:

AWartime Diary

(Glass/

McCullin) 343 Northern Ireland 175—9, 177, 221 Norton St Philip, Somerset 10 nudist camp, nr Sunningdale 89—90 Nyerere, President Julius 186

234-9, 251

Papua N e w Guinea 141 Paraguay 210-12

Paris, France 4 7 , 141, 143, 223, 262, 343 Paris-Match 4 7

Paul’s Park Primary School 10, 17 Paulus, Congo 81 Peking 195-6 Pentax camera 4 7 , 5 0 , 139

Pentagon 321, 333 Peron, General Juan 2 1 2

Obank, Ken 66 Obote, Milton 186 O’Brien, Edna 97 O’Neill, Terry 316, 342 Observer 68, 73, 77, 80, 90, 92, 96, 143, 339; colour magazine 90; D M leaves 90; DM's assignments for 53-64, 65—6, 89—90; DM's first pictures for 42—3, 44; DM's freelance work for 44,

378

Peshmerga 311, 312, 313, 314, 334

Philby, Kim 220 Photography magazine 4 4

Phnom Penh, Cambodia 149, 150, 154, 156, 156,157,159, 159, 202, 203, 216,

2 1 7 , 2 1 7218, , 320, 355 Pilger, John 218 Pol Pot 216, 218 Porgaiga, the 1 4 1 - 2

Port Harcourt 122, 123

Schramme, Colonel Jean ‘Black Jack’ 81

Prague, Spring of 1968 161 Press Council 261-2 Prey Veng, Cambodia 150-1, 152-3

Shand, Mark 293, 296, 319, 327, 328, 329,

Provos see IRA, Provisional Puerto Barrios 171

Pyramids, the 30

Qom, Iran 247 Q u a n gTri, Vietnam 1 9 7 - 9 , 200, 200, 219

Quarantina, Beirut 225-30, 234, 238, 280 Quartet Books 234 Quick magazine: D M ’ s Congo assignment

for 71-80; DM’s Vietnam assignment for 87

Scott, Loretta 316, 317

349, 359, 360, 364, 366 Shattila (Palestinian camp) 281 Shawcross, William 197, 362 Shirley, John 279 Sigal, Clancy 42 Sihanouk, Prince Norodom 149 Simbas (Jeunesse) 73, 76, 77, 78, 79 Simpson, Colin 99—103 Simpson, John 332, 344 Six Day War, 1967 99—103, 104, 107, 115, 161, 204, 207, 234 Sleeping with Ghosts (McCullin) 321 Smith, Colin 143

Ramlan massacre 238 Rand, Michael 92, 96, 104, 105, 173, 275, 276, 277, 291, 362 Reagan, President Ronald 264

Smith, Godfrey 96, 209 Snowdon, Lord see Armstrong-Jones, Anthony Soames, Sally 204

Red Cross, International 81, 216, 238, 282

Somerset: DM’s evacuation to during Second World War 10, 20; DM’s house in 285,

Roberts, David 346 Rogerson, Barnaby 345, 347

Rolleicord camera 37, 47, 50 Rolleiflex camera 45 Roman influence in Mediterranean 344—7

Royal Air Force: DM's national service in 30-7, 31, 32 Royal Anglian regiment 178 Royal Ulster Constabulary 176 Russian occupation of Afghanistan, 1979-89 253—9, 256—7 Sabra (Palestinian camp) 281—3, 284 Sachs, Peter 26 Sahara desert 1 4 3 4 , 145 Saigon, Vietnam 8 3 , 8 4 , 109, 121, 149, 150,

218, 337 St Jorré, John 81 San Salvador 264, 268, 271 Sardinia 138 Savak (Iranian secret police) 247, 249 Sayle, Murray 99, 160—5, 236, 288, 311, 363

290, 293, 294, 303, 307, 292, 316, 320, 322, 329, 331, 339, 341, 345, 347, 348; DM's landscape photography and 308, 309, 310, 337; flooding of Somerset Levels, 2014 359 Sony Corporation 357

South Africa 247, 289, 322, 325—6 Southern Frontiers:ÀJourney Across the Roman

Empire (McCullin) 343-7 Soviet occupation of Afghanistan, 1979-89 253-9, 256-7 Sri Lanka 261 Stanleyville, Congo 71, 72, 73-5, 79-80 Stein, Abner 243 Stern gang 237 Stern magazine 205, 207

Stewart, Michael 157 Stroessner, General Alfredo 210 Suez Canal see Canal Zone Sun, the 89, 260 Sunday Graphic 4 4

Sunday Telegraph: DM’s projects for 90-2

379

Sunday Times 90, 92, 324, 325, 341; Andrew

Times) in later life 362-3; Swinging

287-91, 292, 311; assignments, DM’s 3, 143-6 (Chad), 92-3, 94, 95 (US), 93,

Sixties and 95—6; under Thomson family

96—7 (Cuba), 96 (Beatles), 96, 122-37, 133, 136 (Biafra), 104—8 (Six Day War),

195-6, 242, 260;Vietnam War and 113, 204, 205 Sunningdale nudist camp 89-90

104—8 (Montgomery), 109-21, 1 9 7 -

Surma tribe 328

202, 200, 201, 218-19 (Vietnam), 138 (Sardinia), 140, 141-2 (New Guinea), 143 (Eritrea), 149-59, 156, 159, 202— 3, 216-19, 217 (Cambodia), 160-5 (Amman, Jordan), 166, 213—14 (Panare Indians in Venezuela), 166—70 (Brazilian

Syria/Syrians 231; Arab Spring/ civil war, 2011 350-6, 357, 360-1; and Israel 205-7; in Lebanon 238; Roman influence in 344, 345, 346-7

tribes), 171 (Guatemala), 173-5 (Pakistan Civil War, 1971), 175-80, 175 (Northern Ireland), 183-94 (Uganda), 195-7 (LordThomson in China), 204—7 (Yom Kippur War), 209 (Hadrian's Wall), 209 (Consett), 209 (Japan), 209, 344 (racist hoodlums in Marseille), 210-13 (Ache Indians disappearance in Paraguay), 220-41, 224, 232-3,

280-6 (Lebanon), 246-52 (Iran), 253-9, 256-7, 260 (Afghanistan), 261 (Rhodesia), 261 (Tamils in Sri Lanka), 261 (Bhagalpur Blindings, India), 261 (Liverpool police stop-and-search), 262 (Paris fashion shows), 264—71, 275-8 (El Salvador), 277-9, 280 (refused permission t o cover Falklands War); Biafra, reaction t o within 122, 135, 139; closure, 1978 2 4 2 - 3 ; colour magazine

90, 96; contract with D M 208; ‘Diary of a North Viethamese Soldier’ 202; D M

edits o w n pictures at 9 6 ; D M

joins 9 2 ;

Swain, Jon 154, 157, 216

Tabas, Iran 247, 248 Tabriz, Iran 248-51 Tal Al Zaater fortress 238 Tamari, Salah 236-8, 245 Tamils 245 Tate gallery 363 Taylor, Elizabeth 339 Tchikaos, the 169 Tehran 246, 247, 248, 249, 250-1 Tekal, Guatemala 171 Tel Aviv, Israel 99, 103, 207 Teresa, Mother 175 Terry, Antony 135, 239-40

Tet offensive, Vietnam, 1968 109, 109, 111-12, 204 Thieu, President 199 Thomas, Joan 290 Thomson, Kenneth 195, 242, 260 Thomson, Roy, LordThomson of Fleet 195—7, 242, 260 Thomson-Reuters 350 Time magazine 201, 271

DM's earnings at 293; DM's extensive

Time-Life 122

travel during years at 138; Falklands War

Times, The 120, 172, 195, 243, 260, 278-9,

and 276-9; foreign budget 253; Harry

350-6

Evans editorship of 95, 123, 204, 207,

Times Newspapers 105, 208

208, 218, 260; magazine 92, 104, 123,

Tiro Loco 215

135, 137, 168, 173,197, 208, 209, 241, 261, 262, 276, 273, 287, 291; Murdoch

and 260, 287, 288, 311; impact of Nick Tomalin’s death upon 206—7, 208—9; Six Day War and 98, 99, 100, 101; success 380

of DM’s peer group (mainly from Sunday

Neil’s editorship and DM’s departure

Today programme 362

Tollington Park Secondary School 18, 21, 24 Tomalin, Nick 204-6, 208-9, 308 Tombalbaye, President 144

Town magazine 45

Trafalgar Square, London 14, 339 Trafalgar Square: Through the Camera

(McCullin) 339 Tshombe, President 73, 80—1 Tuareg, the 141 Twin Towers, New York, attack upon, 2001 331

109-17, 110, 118-21, 147, 150, 162, 164, 197-202, 200, 201, 204, 216, 218-19, 261, 269, 278, 285, 293, 311, 331, 335, 336, 337, 351, 355 Vietnamese Ranger troops 8 5 - 6

Wadcote Street, London see Bunk, The war photography see McCullin, D o n

Uganda 183-94, 195, 244, 267, 364

West, Richard 135, 149

Umuiaghu mission, Biafra 131, 132, 134-5 United Fruit Company 171

Westmoreland, General 108

United Nations: exhibition of DM’s Aids in Africa photographs in U N building, New York 326-7 United States: DM’s Sunday Times assignment

Williams, Archbishop Rowan 340 Wilson, Harold 65-6, 135 Winchester, Simon 261, 287, 288 Wisbech, Cambridgeshire 45, 66 Wise, Donald 53, 183, 186, 193

in 92-3, 94, 95; in Cambodia 149, 202; and China 195; in El Salvador 264; and Iran 247, 249; and Israel 204; see also Vietnam War Upper Volta 139

Wharton, Bryan 2 0 4

Woollacott, Martin 218 World Press Photo Award, 1964 82, 357 Wyndham, Francis 96, 123, 135, 288

Usulutan, El Salvador 268, 270, 271

Xingu, Brazil 169-70

Venezuela 166, 213-14, 285 Victoria and Albert Museum, London 243

Yates, Ivan 53 Yeomans, lan 104, 105

Viet Cong (VC) 85-6, 87, 109, 111, 112,

113, 114, 120, 150, 1 5 2 4 , 160, 162, 198 Vietnam: DM’s holiday with son Claude in 337; War, 1954-75 3, 4, 82-8, 91, 97,

Zambia 322, 323, 323, 324-5 Zimbabwe 261 Zion, Mount: Dormition Monastery 100 Zionists 2 3 7

381

382

Somerset, 2014

383

“ M c C u l l i n handles much o f t h e material c u l l e d from h i s war experiences l i k e a seasoned thriller writer. H i s d i a l o g u e i s convincing a n d sharp.” —0BSERVER ( U K ) r o m t h e c o n s t r u c t i o n o f t h e B e r l i n Wall t h r o u g h every m a j o r conflict o f his adult l i f e t i m e u p t o t h e Syrian Civil War, p h o t o g r a p h e r D o n E McCullin h a s left a trail o f iconic images. Revised a n d u p d a t e d a f t e r t w e n t y - f i v e years, Unreasonable Behavior traces t h e life a n d career o f o n e o f t h e t o p photojournalists o f t h e t w e n t i e t h c e n t u r y a n d beyond. B o r n i n L o n d o n i n1935, McCullin w o r k e d as a p h o t o g r a p h e r ’ s assistant i n t h e Royal A i r Force d u r i n g t h e Suez Crisis. His early association w i t h a N o r t h L o n d o n g a n g l e d t o t h e first p u b l i c a t i o n o f his pictures. A s a n overseas c o r r e s p o n d e n t f o r t h e Sunday Times m a g a z i n e b e g i n n i n g i n 1966, McCullin s o o n b e c a m e a n e w k i n d o f hero, t a k i n g a g e n e r a t i o n o f readers b e y o n d t h e insularity o f p o s t - w a r domestic life t h r o u g h t h e lens o f h i s N i k o n camera. H e c a p t u r e d t h e realities o f w a r i n Biafra, t h e Congo, V i e t n a m , Cambodia, a n d elsewhere, a n d t h e h u m a n t r a g e d y o f f a m i n e a n d cholera o n t h e B a n g l a d e s h b o r d e r a n d later, t h e AIDS epidemic i n Sub-Saharan Africa. McCullin n o w s p e n d s h i s days q u i e t l y i n a Somerset village, w h e r e h e photograpñs t h e l a n d s c a p e a n d arranges still lifes—a far c r y from t h e world’s c o n f l i c t z o n e s a n d t h e w a r - s c a r r e d n o r t h L o n d o n w h e r e his career b e g a n . H a r r o w i n g a n d p o i g n a n t , Unreasonable Behavior is a n extraordinary a c c o u n t o f a w i t n e s s w h o s u r v i v e d t o tell his t a l e a n d triumphed over t h e memories t h a t c o u l d h a v e destroyed h i m . “ M c C u l l i n i s required reading if y o u want t o k n o w what real j o u r n a l i s m i s a l l about.”—TIMES ( U K )

“ A genuinely affecting memoir that reckons the cost and loss involved t.” i n makin g one’s w a y o n the cuttin g edge o f conflic —KIRKUS R E V I E W S

S I R D O N M c C U L L I N grew u p i n n o r t h L o n d o n . H e worked f o r t h e Sunday Times f o r e i g h t e e n years a n d has covered every m a j o r conflict i n his adult lifetime. T h e finest British photojournalist o f his g e n e r a t i o n , h e has received m a n y h o n o r s a n d awards i n c l u d i n g t h e CBE. H e received a k n i g h t h o o d i n t h e 2017 N e w Year honors list. H e lives i n Somerset. DONMCCULLIN.COM

MEMOIR

$20.00

ISBN 978-0-8021-2b9k-2