TV, there was going to be one very pissed-off Frenchman.
A poster on a shell-blasted wall showed Gaddafi looking defiant but without a hat, and blood all over his head. Words like ‘Murderer’, ‘Terrorist’ and ‘Dictator’ were scrawled all over it. Another wall mural had the president’s face repainted with a big yellow smiley. I’d seen hundreds of those giving Saddam the same treatment just hours after the US tanks rolled into Baghdad.
As we moved through the blacked-out city, there were plenty of signs that Gaddafi
A storm was raging out there in the Mediterranean. I spotted several passenger ferries offshore, all lit up as they rode it out. They’d been waiting for days to come in and evacuate foreign nationals.
Another rumour was that because the Turks, NATO’s second biggest army, had provided a large naval contingent, the Brits had been forced at last to up their game. They were sending a frigate. It would park up in the port in the next couple of days and take off Brits and anyone else it had room for. Kandy laughed at that one. The Turks, Italians and Russians had already been and gone. Even the French were back home drinking coffee and watching the war on the news. But the
The vehicle slowed. Kandy turned in his seat. ‘Nick, here we are.’ A big friendly smile wreathed his face. ‘Nick?’
I was dozing.
‘The hospital — we’re here.’
I stretched in my Timberland-effect fleece that I’d bought at the border crossing. Even in war and desperation, there will always be a Del Trotter setting up his stall.
‘That’s brilliant, Kandy.’ I passed him the bundle of a thousand US dollars. ‘Thanks, mate.’ Two dollars a kilometre, as promised. He waved the cash before putting it into his pocket, uncounted. ‘This will buy us fuel to go back and make another run here the day after tomorrow. Thank you.’
I had no doubt that it would.
We got out of the wagon as the lads hooked up with the waiting militia. We all shook. ‘Good luck, Nick. I hope that you find her.’
I nodded. ‘And good luck to you, mate. Hope you get back in one piece, eh?’
From the outside, the main hospital, Al-Jalaa, looked like most of the rest of the city: concrete, rectangular, plain. The courtyard and car park were a blur of news crews, ambulances, 12.7-mounted technicals, and casualties from the fighting in the west.
A pair of fast jets screamed through the darkness somewhere overhead. Nobody looked up. They could only be French or British. Although someone had said that the Italians were about to join in too.
For the news agencies, war was business. They set up shop outside hospitals to be close to the action, but also for protection. Gaddafi wouldn’t hit a hospital, would he? Hmm. We’d see.
I hobbled up to the nearest crew. ‘You know where the foreigners are being looked after? I’m looking for a Russian reporter, Anna Ludmilova.’ I nodded at the three lads sitting on blue nylon folding chairs. ‘You know her at all, lads?’
Even in the middle of a war zone, the Germans were always immaculate. Even the military contractors protecting them were perfectly turned out, right down to their national flag on the front flap of their body armour. Me, I still hadn’t washed or shaved since landing in Mog. Frank’s clothes and trainers would probably start to dissolve quite soon.
One of the coffee drinkers pointed me towards the main doors. ‘They’ll know inside. There’s a couple of media who can’t be moved yet.’ He threw a bottle of water at me. ‘Good luck.’
3
The interior of the hospital was cleaner and brighter than a lot of the NHS ones I’d been in. It was also a whole bunch busier.
Medical teams in green aprons and masks rushed past with trolleys laden with militia, kids, old people blasted by Gaddafi’s artillery and mortar fire. I walked across the freshly polished floor. I almost felt embarrassed to wait in line for the receptionist behind a group of militia who’d run in with a badly injured comrade. She pointed in the direction of what I guessed was the emergency room, and then asked them something in Arabic. I guessed it was to unload their weapons, because they did.
The girl manning the desk was still in her teens. The phone rang. She answered it efficiently before nodding at me. This was the future of the Arab Spring. A head covered by a purple scarf, but face powdered, eyes made up, lips glossed. I didn’t think the jihadists were going to get much of a hold in this country.
‘Do you speak English?’
She smiled. ‘Of course. What do you need?’ She was surprisingly calm and pleasant. It made me feel even worse. ‘I’m looking for a Russian reporter, Anna Ludmilova. She was shot in Misrata a couple of days ago.’
‘OK. All the foreigners are on the second floor, Ward Seventeen. If you’re armed, please unload your weapon.’
‘I’m not armed.’
‘Can I see?’
I unzipped my fleece, lifted it up, and turned round so she could admire the crease in my jeans.
‘Thank you. I hope you find her.’
Two more militia came in. They’d linked arms to improvise a seat for a guy who couldn’t have been any older than the receptionist. His right leg had been blown away below the knee. His blood trailed all the way back to the main entrance.
4
The first-floor corridor was grey lino, clean and polished. I came to the main hub. Phones rang. Staff shouted for help. The wounded moaned. But at least they were in beds and the dressings were clean. The place functioned. There was an air of total efficiency.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to say or do when I saw her. When people I knew got shot, they were normally mates and I just took the piss. But this was different. She was more than a mate. She was the most important person in my life.
Yes, I was punching above my weight. Yes, she might well tire of me one day. But I knew I’d have the best time of my life while it lasted. I was even looking forward to taking care of her until she was fit enough to go back and play reporter and leave me watching her on TV at Gunslingers.
Ward 17 went on for ever, a classic Nightingale ward with fifteen or twenty beds each side. Some had screens. Some had solid partitions. I walked down the centre of it, checking the beds I could see. Most were occupied by militia. A couple of white guys lay with wound dressings. Maybe they were oil or military contractors, or media. I didn’t give a fuck. I just wanted to find Anna.
I kept walking. The last two beds at the end were partitioned off like little cubicles. Maybe that was where the women were.
The one to the right was open. An old woman lay with her family gathered round. She’d been hit in the stomach. Blood seeped through her dressing, and onto her sheets. Her face was pockmarked with red scabs. A mortar round had probably zapped her.
I went to the left-hand door and knocked gently. I didn’t wait for an answer.
She was sitting up, half asleep, supported by pillows. She was wearing a green surgical gown.
