zondag, maart 23, 2003
Photographer Luc Delahaye is safe after coming under Iraqi gunfire yesterday. Delahaye hid for several hours after his Mitsubishi Pajero was attacked. Later he was picked up by US military and returned safely.
Luc and I had been hiding out in the desert frontier. We had crossed the border on our own. Now here we were with a group of Marines. As “unilaterals,” journalists who are not embedded with U.S. forces, we were not all that welcome. We drove down a road with mines on either side. At night, the Marines told us that we had to go back south. Despite the dangers, we chose not to follow their orders. After a night sleeping in our cars, we decided we would cut west into the desert to the town of An Nasiriya, west of Basra, and meet up with the Army’s Third Infantry Division, which we knew was going north to Baghdad. We headed across the desert, off-road, at about 7:30 in the morning on Saturday. Following tracks in the sand, we used walkie-talkies and GPS devices that gave us our longitude and latitude.
It was a nerve-racking drive. There were no landmarks, just long convoys, snakelike things that shimmered across the desert. Sometimes, in the distance, we saw shepherds. Sometimes, a massive bombing campaign. There were mines and lots of unexploded ordnance, so we had to stay in the tracks others had made. We ran into a lot of U.S. military. Some were hostile about our not being embedded: unilaterals are a distraction and a potential problem. But none of the troops knew what was going on—they’re all self-contained, moving around with directions given by commanders in helicopters—and they begged us for the latest news of the war.
Finally, we made it to a main road, a six-lane highway, outside An Nasiriya. There were hundreds of coalition tanks, Humvees—massive convoys of U.S. military equipment, all lining up to cross a bridge that had come under Iraqi fire. Cutting in and out of the convoy, we raced to the head. When we crossed the bridge, the terrain changed from flat and inhospitable into fertile farmland. There was evidence of bombing in some villages, and smoldering trucks. Luc and I got to the head of the convoy and accelerated past. I saw a post with a soldier standing on an island in the middle of the road. I saw he had a gun—but I thought he was American.
I was wrong. As I passed, I realized he was Iraqi. I looked to my right; there were more than a half-dozen men with guns racing toward my car. Just then Luc came on the walkie-talkie and said in French, “Weapons! Weapons!” At that moment I heard the Iraqis pepper my car with bullets, hitting it all over. I had no idea where Luc was. He had blown through the checkpoint. (I later learned he was rescued by the Americans).
Scott Johnson/NEWSWEEK
Luc and I had been hiding out in the desert frontier. We had crossed the border on our own. Now here we were with a group of Marines. As “unilaterals,” journalists who are not embedded with U.S. forces, we were not all that welcome. We drove down a road with mines on either side. At night, the Marines told us that we had to go back south. Despite the dangers, we chose not to follow their orders. After a night sleeping in our cars, we decided we would cut west into the desert to the town of An Nasiriya, west of Basra, and meet up with the Army’s Third Infantry Division, which we knew was going north to Baghdad. We headed across the desert, off-road, at about 7:30 in the morning on Saturday. Following tracks in the sand, we used walkie-talkies and GPS devices that gave us our longitude and latitude.
It was a nerve-racking drive. There were no landmarks, just long convoys, snakelike things that shimmered across the desert. Sometimes, in the distance, we saw shepherds. Sometimes, a massive bombing campaign. There were mines and lots of unexploded ordnance, so we had to stay in the tracks others had made. We ran into a lot of U.S. military. Some were hostile about our not being embedded: unilaterals are a distraction and a potential problem. But none of the troops knew what was going on—they’re all self-contained, moving around with directions given by commanders in helicopters—and they begged us for the latest news of the war.
Finally, we made it to a main road, a six-lane highway, outside An Nasiriya. There were hundreds of coalition tanks, Humvees—massive convoys of U.S. military equipment, all lining up to cross a bridge that had come under Iraqi fire. Cutting in and out of the convoy, we raced to the head. When we crossed the bridge, the terrain changed from flat and inhospitable into fertile farmland. There was evidence of bombing in some villages, and smoldering trucks. Luc and I got to the head of the convoy and accelerated past. I saw a post with a soldier standing on an island in the middle of the road. I saw he had a gun—but I thought he was American.
I was wrong. As I passed, I realized he was Iraqi. I looked to my right; there were more than a half-dozen men with guns racing toward my car. Just then Luc came on the walkie-talkie and said in French, “Weapons! Weapons!” At that moment I heard the Iraqis pepper my car with bullets, hitting it all over. I had no idea where Luc was. He had blown through the checkpoint. (I later learned he was rescued by the Americans).
Scott Johnson/NEWSWEEK
# posted by Jan-Edward : 12:12
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