A Day Like Today

The country I had flown out to on 1 December 1971 was East Pakistan. When I flew home three weeks later East Pakistan no longer existed. The war lasted only thirteen days, one of the shortest wars in history, and Pakistan signed the instrument of surrender on 16 December. The new country of Bangladesh was born. The Bengali people, who had suffered terribly under what they regarded as the Pakistani occupation, went wild. It was the first (and last) time I had ever been carried shoulder-high through the streets of a city by a massive, cheering mob who regarded the BBC as heroes. Tragically, the Pakistan military had taken a different view. When we arrived in Dhaka we had recruited a local Bengali to work with us as guide and interpreter. One night he disappeared. We found him the next day in a ditch with his stomach slit open. Would he have been a target had he not been working for the BBC? It is impossible to know, but equally impossible not to feel guilt.

Everyone was at risk in that war-torn city and the Red Cross declared our hotel a protected zone. They draped a huge Red Cross flag over the roof and we foreign journalists who were staying in the hotel were asked to act as wardens. Our job was to stand guard at the hotel entrance and check all those who wanted to stay. There is something deeply unpleasant about having to search through the luggage of strangers just in case they happened to be terrorists with a bomb. Much more unpleasant when the war ended was watching how the Bengalis dealt with some of the defeated enemy. Vast numbers became prisoners of war, but some of the Pakistani forces’ most notorious leaders were dealt summary justice in public. We decided we would not film some of the most gruesome punishments. Our judgement was questioned later by some colleagues and bosses, but my cameraman had no doubts. There are some things, he said, that nobody should see and he would not film them even if I ordered him to. He was right.

We were, by now, desperate to get home for Christmas and we went out to the airport to try to get a flight. We knew there wasn’t much chance. The problem was that the crater we had sheltered in a few days earlier, plus several more, meant no commercial airlines had a hope of operating. We were told it might help if we lent a hand to some of the workers trying to fill in the holes so that at least some light aircraft might be able to operate. Parked at the edge of the runway was a small, ancient single-engine plane which might, just about, have been the very last remnants of the old East Pakistan air force. The passenger door had been removed and a large machine gun bolted to the floor. There was a young man standing next to it. We asked him if he was the pilot and when he said he was we asked him if he would fly us out – ideally across the border to Calcutta a couple of hundred miles away. He looked a bit dubious but he thought there was probably enough space between potholes to take off. We settled on a price, squeezed in around the machine gun and set off. We did a little praying, held our breath, wobbled a bit … and we were airborne.

The pilot seemed mightily relieved but still tense. He had no maps and nor, as far as I could see, much in the way of working instruments but after what seemed like a very long time he pointed out of the window: ‘Look! Calcutta!’

Now it was just a matter of landing. Obviously there was no question of trying the international airport (they’d have probably thought we were the Pakistani enemy launching an attack) but our pilot said he knew there was a grass air strip somewhere – and so there was. The landing was, second only to being rocketed by the Indian air force, the most frightening moment of my life. It wasn’t so much a landing as a series of crash landings, each slightly less shattering than the last. When we skidded to a halt on the grass strip I swear the pilot offered thanks to whichever god he worshipped. I said something like: ‘Err … well done! Looked a bit difficult …?’

‘Yes indeed,’ he said, ‘it was my first time!’ It turned out that he had been a co-pilot and his instructor had yet to prepare him for a solo landing.

In September 1973 I was despatched to Chile to report on the bloody military coup that had just been staged. It was a big story. Democracy was a fragile flower in Latin America and the democratic government of Chile had been threatened for some time by those who opposed the policies of the socialist president Salvador Allende. Leading them was the man who was to become one of the world’s most ruthless dictators: General Augusto Pinochet.

I happened to be in New York at the time and London ordered me to get to Chile post-haste. It was difficult. All the Chilean airports had been closed and no international flights were being allowed in. So I decided to get as close as possible and, with my film crew, caught the next plane to Buenos Aires – more than 5,000 miles south. Maybe we could drive across the Andes and into Chile by road. I was disabused of that idea very swiftly: far too dangerous and, anyway, it would take for ever. So maybe we could charter a light aircraft from Argentina. No chance. Again, too dangerous. The Andes are very big and very high.

There was only one way to get in – assuming the Chilean army would let us. I decided we should charter a jet and tell them we were on our way. That wasn’t easy either. The only one on offer was from the Argentine state airline and it was a jumbo jet. I suspected my masters in London, desperate though they were to get footage out of Chile, would quibble at the cost. And the airline wanted the money up front. But there were many other foreign correspondents from news organisations around the world in BA also trying to get into Chile so we all met in my hotel room, agreed to split the cost, handed over our credit cards and I scuttled off with them to the airline’s office. They made it clear that once the deal had been done we’d have to pay whether our plane was allowed to land or not. We were over a barrel so I paid up and a few hours later we all pitched up at the airport and prayed.

Late in the evening the word came through from Santiago: permission granted. At any other time the prospect of flying over one of the world’s great mountain ranges in your very own jumbo jet would have been the stuff of dreams. But not in the middle of the night and not when you’re worried sick about trying to catch up on a story that had broken days before. The champagne in the first-class cabin went undrunk. When we finally arrived in Chile we were greeted by the military – ‘greeted’ meaning that we were herded into the back of an open-topped troop carrier and driven into a subdued and fearful city. The fighting was over. The government had been crushed and the dictatorship led by Pinochet was in total control of the country.

We were allowed into the city’s football stadium, now converted into a vast prison for Allende supporters. I wondered as we filmed them how many would still be alive the next day. We also filmed at the presidential palace, which had been stormed by Pinochet’s soldiers. Allende’s body had been removed long since. We all assumed he had been killed by the military. Years later his body was exhumed and it was established that he had killed himself with an AK-47 given to him by Fidel Castro of Cuba. It bore a gold plate with the subscription: ‘To my good friend Salvador from your friend Fidel who, by different means, tried to achieve the same goals.’ His daughter eventually told the BBC that Allende chose suicide rather than face being humiliated and used by Pinochet to further his own goals.

So I had my story. Now I had to get it back to London. The good news was that the airports had been opened. The bad news was that when I arrived with my ‘onion bag’ (the name we gave to the sacks in which we carried the cans of film) they would not let me on the plane. I tried everything – including begging and bribery – but the airport officials, closely watched by military minders, were adamant: they would not let me board the plane unless I handed the film over to be put in the hold. I had no choice. I reckoned that the chances of it getting through security, making it into the hold and reappearing at Heathrow airport were no better than fifty-fifty. At best. So I spent the next fourteen hours en route to London calculating how much money I had laid out in the past five days for a story that might never appear on the air. It was several times my annual salary. I waited at the conveyor belt in Heathrow. And waited. My own suitcase arrived and so did everyone else’s. No onion bag. And then an angel appeared. She did not have a halo and she was wearing a British Airways uniform but I knew she was an angel because she did have the onion bag. She seemed a little surprised to be hugged by a tearful young man who hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep for a week.

Those, as I said, were the dark ages for television news. If, God forbid, there were to be another military coup in Chile tomorrow the pictures would start appearing on our television screens within minutes.

In fact, things had already begun to change when I was based in Washington in the mid-1970s. The first electronic news-gathering (ENG) cameras were appearing. They were great clunky things but they had one massive advantage over the cameras we’d been using since the first motion pictures were invented in the 1880s. No film. They transformed the way we covered stories. A roll of film on our news cameras lasted for just over ten minutes, so you had to be very careful when you switched on and when you switched off. And Sod’s Law dictated that the moment you switched off was when the bomb blew up or the Queen slipped on the banana skin.

But you spent your life terrified that you would miss the one moment that mattered. You would also get a bollocking from the boss if you used too much film – partly because it all had to be developed, which took time back at base, but mostly because it was very expensive. And there was the other fear. The hair in the gate. No matter how careful the cameraman was when he loaded a new roll (always a ‘he’ incidentally: I never once worked with a camerawoman) he could never be a hundred per cent certain that a little hair had not managed to find its way into the gap between the film and the lens. You could tell when it happened if you were passing the edit suite just after the film had come back from the lab. The cry from an anguished reporter of ‘Oh fuck! There’s a fucking hair in the gate!’ It made the film unusable.

No such problem with ENG cameras. No film: no hairs in gates. And, pretty soon, with the blessing of satellite transmission, no need to find helpful passengers in foreign airports willing to courier your film back to London so that it could be processed and edited. Why use passengers? Because by the time you got to the airport it was usually too late to send it by freight, and anyway passengers were much more reliable.

By the early 1970s geostationary satellites were in use and in May 1974 the world’s first direct broadcasting satellite (DBS) was launched. So now we had pictures that needed no processing and a way of getting them back to London instantaneously – albeit very expensively in those early days. A ten-minute sat-feed from Washington cost $10,000. All that was overtaken with the birth of the digital age. Instead of lugging great onion bags bulging with cans of film and endlessly worrying about running out, you had a few tiny disks and virtually unlimited airtime in your pocket. One of the unintended consequences of that is the temptation when you’re on an assignment to film pretty much everything that moves. So you end up back at base with endless hours of material all of which has to be viewed – and what no one has yet invented is the computer program in the editing suite that will eliminate all the boring stuff instantly and keep the good stuff. It’s probably on its way.

The biggest problem facing the editor back home now is not how to get a story covered and the footage safely back to base, but how to distinguish between the mass of material that appears almost instantly on social media in one form or another. If it’s a natural disaster – an earthquake or a tsunami – it’s pretty straightforward. But if it is, say, a terrorist attack you have to know who was filming. The role of us broadcasting hacks has changed beyond recognition too – and I’m not talking just about the way reporters are used in television news.

In those days, as a foreign correspondent, I could put a report on a homeward-bound plane and wait for the call from the foreign desk, secure in the knowledge that several days might pass before I might be disturbed again. This meant the pace of news was entirely different from today. A film needed to be processed in a chemical bath for the print to be developed. Then the film had to be edited in the old-fashioned way: it was broken up into its constituent shots, and the strips of film hung up in the editing suite. The picture editor would edit the selected shots together on a Steenbeck – a reel-to-reel viewing machine. All this took time.

Today we all have telephones so packed with technology they can not only do the job of the camera but also replace the need for a satellite station. And along with the advent of digital technology came computerised editing, so it no longer takes ‘real time’ to do an edit. A thirty-second ENG clip would take thirty seconds to lay down for the edit. On a computer, it can be done in the blink of an eye.

All of this would have been the stuff of fairy tales in my early reporting years. Occasionally you will hear old hacks reminiscing about the good old days of black and white film and how vastly superior the pictures were when shot on a proper cine camera by a highly trained cameraman rather than by any ten-year-old with a shaky mobile, but the truth is we’d have given our eye teeth for it. Very little happens in one part of the world today without the rest of the world being able to see it minutes later. But I am not suggesting that this is an unalloyed blessing. Technology has solved many problems but it has raised many questions too about the role of international news organisations.

The BBC in particular has had to face the challenge of new technology by asking what it means for the way the organisation is structured and how best it can position itself to retain a big enough audience to justify the licence fee. It’s made many attempts to get its structure right but somehow it never quite seems to work. Perhaps there is no right answer.

When BBC Television News moved from its early home in Alexandra Palace to the new Television Centre in London in the early 1970s there were no television foreign correspondents based abroad. There was a network of radio correspondents, but no foreign television news bureaux. You might think that the simplest answer to that would have been to train radio correspondents in the ways of television. I have yet to meet a good radio reporter who is not also capable of delivering a good television report. Then again, I’m not a boss. Bosses think differently. Many of them see their purpose as either building their own empires or taking over someone else’s empire. That’s not necessarily an ignoble aspiration but the effect on BBC News was that we ended up with two distinct empires – radio and television – and, almost half a century later, I’m damned if I can see why.

What happened in the BBC in the early 1970s was that two separate cultures were encouraged to develop: radio and television. That meant two different satrapies, each with its own boss, management structure and team of journalists – and crucially, each with its own budget. Television, for entirely obvious reasons, had much more money than radio and, equally obviously, was seen as more glamorous. Television wanted to create its own stars.

So a corps of television foreign correspondents was formed. In the early 1970s four were appointed to cover the world: one based in the Far East, one in Europe, one in East Africa and one in the United States. I won Washington.

In 1987, John Birt became deputy director general of the BBC, in charge of news and current affairs, and he tried to change all that. He had quite a fight on his hands: forcing radical change on an organisation, many of whose bosses enjoyed living in the past. It was more comfortable there. But he did it. He established the specialist journalist posts on which BBC News is still founded and insisted that correspondents should work for both TV and radio – he called it ‘bi-medialism’. He also thought the BBC had ‘starved’ TV news of resources. He pushed news and current affairs together into one directorate. They did not go willingly.

There was ‘no single and coherent overview of the BBC’s journalism’, he wrote later. Many of the news staff, he said, had ‘long since ceased to think enquiringly’. It’s fair to say that many of the news staff did not warm to him. But Birt was a man with a plan, which was unusual for the BBC. In the 1970s, he had developed his journalistic philosophy – what became known as his ‘Mission to Explain’. He argued that there was a bias against understanding in television journalism. News and feature journalism, he wrote, both failed to put events in their proper context:

Our economic problems for instance, manifest themselves in a wide variety of symptoms – deteriorating balance of payments, a sinking pound, rising unemployment, accelerating inflation and so on.

The news, devoting two minutes on successive nights to the latest unemployment figures or the state of the stock market, with no time to put the story in context, gives the viewer no sense of how any of these problems relate to each other.

In 1989, as a sign of the new Birtist seriousness, Breakfast News replaced the Breakfast programme. The era of comfy sofas and chunky sweaters was over. Weekend television bulletins were put under the control of the editor of the flagship Nine O’Clock News, with its two presenters sharing the seven-day presentation duties, to try to invest the bulletins with greater authority.

Birt backed the launch of continuous news output and took money from traditional services to fund the twenty-four-hour news channel and BBC News Online. The BBC World news channel was launched, aimed at an international TV audience, originally under the name World Service Television and funded by advertising and subscription.

In some ways Birt’s greatest achievement was to recognise the significance of the nascent digital revolution that was to change all our lives. He saw that the era when the family all sat around together in the evenings watching whatever it was that the BBC and ITV bosses saw fit to show them was coming to an end. Soon we would not dance to the tune of the mighty channel controllers: we would create our own schedules. And if we wanted to watch news, we would watch it when we chose to, rather than when the schedule dictated. The verb ‘viewing’ would be replaced by ‘consuming’ and the implications of that were clear. Viewers watched what they were given; consumers picked and chose when and where.

Birt decided that the BBC should launch new channels and new platforms. At the 1996 Edinburgh Television Festival, he said that without the resources to prepare for the digital age, the BBC would be ‘history’. So whatever we may have thought about Birt at the time, he had a vision for our journalism and positioned the BBC for the technology of the future with uncanny accuracy. In 1997, when BBC Online was launched, there were fewer than 8 million people online in the UK as opposed to the tens of millions with a TV licence. The Times asked whether ‘dear old Auntie, always regarded as a little dotty’ had now gone ‘completely bats’. A few years later it, and many other newspapers, were fighting to halt the march of BBC Online across their own borders.

Birt’s impact on the BBC’s foreign reporting is being felt to this day too. There are correspondents reporting more and more easily from nearly every corner of the world on scores of different news channels that broadcast 24/7. They can email their videos or radio reports or broadcast direct from their mobile phones. Everywhere you look, you can find news: on your phone, your computer, your watch, on Twitter, on the screen at the rail station, on aeroplanes. Never in the history of the human race have we been able to communicate with each other so quickly.

And yet, at the risk of seeming to hark back to a golden era, I fear we have lost something in translation. Yes, we no longer have to worry about putting the film in the ‘soup’ and waiting anxiously for it to re-emerge. Yes, we can cover the ground more quickly. Yes, we can report from any corner of the world.

But ever more news reported ever more swiftly, if not instantaneously, is not necessarily better. We need to feel the quality as well as the depth and speed of delivery.

4

A gold-plated, diamond-encrusted tip-off

When the first four television foreign correspondents were appointed in the early 1970s I was sent to the United States. My patch stretched from the northern tip of Alaska to the southern tip of South America. Pity we didn’t have air miles in those days. Rather bizarrely, the BBC decided I should set up our news bureau in New York and not Washington. That didn’t last long. Within days of my setting foot on US soil the biggest American political story of the century was beginning to seep out. A group of shady characters hired by Republican Party sympathisers had been caught breaking into the offices of the Democratic Party. The offices were in a building called Watergate. I had been sent to the States for a three-month stint. I was to stay for nearly six years.

I suggested earlier the qualities that reporters need as a basic minimum to survive in the trade: a modicum of literary skill, a plausible manner, and rat-like cunning. All those might help, but every reporter knows that what really matters is the ability to be in the right place at the right time. It’s called luck. I’ve always had more than my share of it. You don’t get luckier than fetching up in the United States just as Watergate was about to blow a massive hole in the side of the White House and threaten to wreck the US constitution and everything the presidency stood for. If the head of state could survive even though he was proving to be a liar and a crook, what exactly was the point of the great American constitution? This was a watershed moment in the history of the United States.

Like all the other foreign correspondents in Washington, I followed the story’s every twist and turn with a mixture of disbelief and, in my case, fear. Disbelief that the most powerful man in the world could conceivably be brought down by such a third-rate bunch of bunglers, and fear that I simply did not have the experience, let alone the knowledge, of the American political scene to analyse every development and offer a remotely plausible prediction as to what might happen next. Pretty basic qualifications, you might think, for a correspondent reporting on the biggest story in the world for the most respected broadcasting organisation in the world. The fact is that I was, by any objective assessment, the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The right man was Charles Wheeler, perhaps the greatest foreign correspondent the BBC has ever had. When I was still in nappies, Charles was a captain in the Royal Marines, second in command of a secret naval intelligence unit that took part in the Normandy invasion of 1944. He went on to become the longest-serving foreign correspondent in the history of the BBC. He was, quite simply, brilliant. A small man with a commanding presence, he had steely grey hair, piercing blue eyes, a brain the size of a house and a natural authority born of decades of reporting on crises around the world. When Charles delivered a report the audience trusted him. And they were right to.

The first time I worked with him was at the Republican National Convention in Miami Beach in 1972 when Nixon was nominated to run for a second term as president. We knew there were going to be demonstrations. Nixon was a divisive figure at the best of times and protests over the Vietnam War were still tearing the country apart. We suspected that the protests in Florida would turn violent and my film crew and I had equipped ourselves with gas masks in case the police used tear gas. They did. I put mine on and strode confidently into the fray, gas swirling around us, breathing my own filtered air confidently. Except that it was not filtered. Within a minute I was in agony. I had never used a gas mask before and nobody had warned me that they’re not terribly effective unless you make certain that the bung is inserted at the point where the air gets in. Mine wasn’t and I had not checked. The result: I was breathing in undiluted tear gas. By the time I realised what was happening and ripped the mask off my face I was a blubbering mess. Somebody told me helpfully after I’d recovered that it’s possible to die if you do something that stupid. I never did it again. The other thing I learned from that convention was how to make the most powerful man in the world look an idiot – courtesy of Charles Wheeler.