‘No punishment could be worse than the one he experienced every day.’ He laughed.
‘So I let him go.’
There was none of the usual joking between the crew as we quietly packed up our camera gear, that horrible picture was too fresh in our memory.
We came out into the bright Austrian sunshine, the chilly dark horrors upstairs still in our minds.
It was time to go back to London and start another story.
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Sadat Assassination.
I had taken up a bunch of my expenses to the ABC bureau in London and after handing them in, I was chatting at the news desk with, Dave Thomas, the assignment editor, when word started coming in that the president of Egypt, Answar El Sadat , had been killed.
The man who’d won the Nobel Peace prize in 1978, for bringing peace between Egypt and Israel, had been shot down as he reviewed a military parade in Cairo.
For a moment there was shocked silence in the newsroom, even the hardened veterans of big stories seemed stunned, then all hell broke loose.
I said quickly to Dave.
‘I’ll go home and get my equipment ready.’ I was out of there.
London’s traffic wasn’t too bad that day but even though I’d raced back to my house in Wimbledon, the phone was ringing loudly as I pulled up in the driveway, it was Dave Thomas.
‘Go as soon as you can, Bob, we’ve got a rented jet at Heathrow waiting for the crews. There’s a taxi on it’s way to take you to the airport!’
The assignment editor hung up, there were dozens more people he needed to phone, time was important, a few minutes gained now would give us a beat on the other networks.
All ABC’s “troops” had to be quickly mobilized and sent on their way.
To see a massive US Network spring into action on a big story is a fascinating sight.
Five assistants on the news desk kept the ten phones humming for the next two hours.
Producers, Correspondents, cameramen, soundmen, technicians for satellite feeds, Tape Editors, Budget managers, all had to be given cash and airline tickets and sent on their way.
Dave also needed to call ABC’s “Fixers” in Cairo to arrange hotel rooms for everyone and hire the cars to meet the crews at the airport and book twenty drivers to ferry his people around during the next few weeks.
He needed to phone his local Egyptian customs experts who knew people at Cairo airport and make sure they could speed the mountains of ABC’s technical equipment that was on it’s way.
Hastily I threw a few clothes in a bag, made sure that my two passports, Canadian and British, were in my pocket and carried my 20
case camera gear downstairs.
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I scribbled a quick note for my wife as I heard the honk of the taxi arriving, Carolyn was out shopping with a girl friend and we were all supposed to be all going out to dinner that evening.
That was history now!
After we’d cleared customs at Cairo airport we went to the ABC
bureau to get our assignments, checking into our hotels was left till later.
I joined the other newly arrived crews. ABC had called in cameramen and soundmen from all their European bureau’s to help cover the story and we all stood watching the tape shot immediately after the assassination by ABC’s Cairo’s cameraman, Fabrice Moussus.
Fabrice had been taping the parade and filming a fly past of Egyptian jets when He heard the gunfire and had quickly panned his camera down to see what was going on.
He saw smoke and heard shooting and screams coming from inside the building where Sadat and his entourage had retired to, after taking the salute.
He’d grabbed his camera of the tripod, it was still running, his soundman grabbed the recorder and microphone and the two of them ran towards the building, only to be met by the commando assassins as they came out with guns blazing.
The killers turned as they saw the cameraman filming them and all he had time to do was to throw himself down behind a small wall as they started coming towards the ,ABC television crew with the obvious intention of killing them as well.
Fabrice and his soundman lay there waiting for the burst of automatic fire that would rip him and the soundman apart.
The time seemed eternal.
Each time they heard shooting they flinched, expecting bullets to tear into them.
there was silence for a few blissful moments and then the loud screaming filled the air, Fabrice got up cautiously and looked over the small wall. The assassins lay crumpled a few yards from the low wall he’d hidden behind.
Killed on their way to shoot him and his soundman. He looked down, his camera was still running and undamaged from where he’d thrown it.
He picked it up and went inside the building.
The scene there was one of horror and chaos.
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An army General sat there looking unbelievingly at what was left of his arm, his elbow ended in a mass of white bloodied tendrils as his blood spurted like a gusher, covering him and the bodies lying around him.
What modern, high impact bullets can do to human flesh was all too obvious.
Waiters and Generals were mixed together, laying there in the final democracy of Death, chairs, tables overturned, their contents spilled, mixing with the blood that was everywhere in sight.
President Sadat was nowhere to be seen, his body had been rushed out to an ambulance and rushed to a hospital.
We shuddered as the tape ended.
Fabrice won a Pulitzer prize for his footage and was later flown to New York by ABC to be congratulated on his daring by the network.
Rumors filled Cairo, there were reports that guns had been seen poking out from the top of a tall tower next to the reviewing stand, we did interviews with “on the spot” bystanders, filmed the tall ominous tower and did our standup in front of the reviewing stand.
I got sent out to film the national prayers at a large Cairo mosque.
My driver seemed unhappy and kept looking at the worshippers nervously.
‘You shouldn’t film here, Bob.’
A cameraman’s life is full of people telling him he shouldn’t or he is not allowed to film there, so I ignored him and went blithely ahead anyway I went to the front of the open air mosque so I could get the faces of the praying crowd. Did the shots of the whole congregation and then concentrated on interesting faces in close-up.
There was a lot of muttering among the crowd that didn’t seem very religious to me, getting louder by the minute and sounding very angry.
My driver was waving frantically to us to come back to the car, I’d got enough shots so I humored him, my soundmen and I went back and started to get in the car, we hadn’t even got the doors closed when he gunned the engine and raced down the street at top speed. Behind us an angry crowd was streaming out of the mosque shaking their fists at our fleeing car.
‘Phew!’ the driver mopped his brow.
‘When I saw you go round the front and start filming, Bob, I nearly had a heart attack!
He slowed the car down and went on.
‘There was a TV crew filming there a few months ago and the crowd suddenly turned on them, they got so badly beaten up and injured they were lucky to have escaped with their lives.’
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I said mildly,
‘You could have told us.’
The day of the President’s funeral dawned.
The scene around me was pandemonium. There was hundreds of journalists and camera crews, all trying to get through a small barrier manned by excited, screaming, overwhelmed Egyptian police.
I fought my way to the front, disconnecting my camera cable from my soundman’s recorder and got completely separated from him in the milling shoving crowd.
Finally I elbowed my way to the barrier by holding my heavy video camera in front of me like a spear, pushed my pass into a frantic policeman’s face and popped out on the other side like a cork out of a bottle.
Simon my soundman was nowhere in sight but I knew Simon was a pro and would get through somehow and join me later.
The crowd of us who had got through were firmly marshaled into a long line to be taken down to the end of the route.
This was no good for me!
The bureau had told me to set up my camera at the beginning of the funeral parade. Other ABC camera crews were to be dotted along the long length of the wide mall to cover the coffin going past.
Presidents, Prime ministers and dignitaries and Sadat’s coffin were to land by helicopters at the start of the parade. The president’s coffin to be put on a Cortarge and escorted by the world’s ‘greats’ past the hundreds of troops lining the funeral parade.
‘Excuse me, I have to be this end, we have other crews down there.’
The police took no notice of me and pushed me back into line and we started to walk away from where I was supposed to be.
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I took a chance, dropped down to tie an imaginary, undone shoelace and then quickly crossed the wide street and walked determinedly back towards the start.
One thing I’d learnt over the years, is that if you walked quickly enough, looking completely confident as if you were supposed to be there, most people wouldn’t think of stopping you.
Well, it was worth a try!
I seemed to be the center of every eye, several times an army officer beckoned to me to stop but I kept walking, he was then faced with the choice of following me and abandoning his parade position or leaving me to be stopped by another officer.
It was simpler to leave it to someone else.
I’d seen a high camera platform built on stilts at the beginning of the parade route and decided that was the spot for me to be.
I looked up at the tall thin rickety wooden ladder with distaste. I hate heights and the camera and tripod and heavy camera bag I was carrying only left me with one hand free as I started to climb it, The ladder swayed alarmingly as I got higher and higher.
Suddenly the platform at the top of the ladder was covered in Egyptian TV technicians all yelling at me at the top of their voices.
‘Not allowed!....Only for Egyptian TV! ...Get Down!...Get Down!
I was dammed if I was going to!
I needed a spot to film from and the platform was nearly empty apart from their studio camera.
I climbed up and shook my head firmly.
‘I have permission to come up here from General Ramanzella!’
It seemed as good a name as any.
They looked puzzled.
‘Who?’
‘General Ramanzella, he’s your assistant head of security, isn’t he?’
I paused.
‘Maybe that’s not the way to pronounce his name, how do you say it?’
I looked apologetic at my ignorance
They gave up and allowed me to stay, I’d obviously had the OK from someone high in their government and they weren’t going to argue.
I looked down the long avenue anxiously, wishing I was still working with film.
My soundman with the video recorder was nowhere in sight!
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My Ikigami video camera cost nearly seventy thousand dollars and made wonderful sharp pictures to send to tape but without the large professional Sony recorder attached to it, the pictures weren’t recorded.
The helicopters were due in 10 minutes and I’d almost given up when I caught sight of him. Simon had been made to walk the length of the Avenue and had spent the last forty minutes arguing with the authorities, before he and the ABC producers had finally convinced them, he should be allowed to go back to the beginning of the route to look for me.
The Egyptian studio technicians looked furious as Simon came up the ladder, then they gave up in disgust and went back to their large TV
camera.
The helicopters hummed in the air, landing, one after the other, disgorging their distinguished passengers.
Our camera kept running, filling tape after tape. I filmed the three US
presidents, Carter, Ford and Nixon, who’d come to pay homage to President Sadat.
They stood in a solemn group chatting with the French President, Prince Philip was there too, together with other Princes, Kings and heads of State from all around the world, all waiting for Sadat’s coffin to arrive.
Thousands of heads turned towards the sky as we heard the faint sound of a helicopter approaching, getting louder, it’s throbbing filling the silence as it touched down carrying the body of the slain President.
The coffin was gently unloaded and placed on the cortège to begin it’s last trip down the parade’s route and into history.
Presidents and kings quietly fell in behind it and the long funeral procession wound it’s way down the wide avenue to Anwar Sadat’s last resting place.
I’d been out one night filming the Cairo crowds in the streets when I got an urgent message on the car’s “walkie talkie”, from Barbara Walters, (famous US tv star) asking me to meet her at the Presidential Palace.
When I got to the palace, Barbara was waiting for me. Beside her in the hallway stood the grief stricken President’s wife.
Only the famous Barbara Walters could have got herself inside the palace and talked to Mrs. Sadat at a time like this.
‘See what you can grab.’ Barbara hissed.
Muslim tradition allows no pictures to be taken of the widow for several weeks after the death of a husband.
Video cameras are silent, I kept my camera under my arm, made sure the lens was set to wide angle, switched it on and casually turned in the direction of Mrs. Sadat.
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Without looking in the viewfinder, filming like this is a tricky business but shots of a grieving Mrs. Sadat and the inside of the palace would make any newscast.
I filmed for a while, wondering all the time what I was getting until Mrs. Sadat left
‘Hang on Bob, I need you to do an interview.’
Barbara was back a few minutes later, ushering in President’s, Carter, Nixon and Ford.
I winced, I didn’t have my full lighting kit with me, only a portable light that I could fit on the top of my camera which wouldn’t cover the three of them and the room was badly lit.
I spent the next few minutes shoving and pulling the three ex-Presidents of the United States back and forth till I’d made the best use of what light there was, trying to forget who I was pushing around.
The three US President’s took my shoving and pulling in good part and allowed me to move them time and time again without any protest.
finally I was ready and Barbara Walter was getting impatient.
OK, I’m rolling.’
Things were going well until an Egyptian cameraman came in with a big old fashioned light on the top of his camera, turned it on and started filming.
the lighting was hopeless, one President stood bleached out in a glare of flaming white light while the others were dim shapes in a murky gloom.
I put on my best smile.
I don’t think you need all that light chum, there’s just enough to do it in natural light.’ I said hopefully, trying to persuade him to switch off his dammed light.
He shook his head and pointed to his video camera.
My heart sank. It wasn’t like mine, the latest model, his was one of the earliest ones and needed every scrap of his powerful light to get an image.
I was forced to stop the interview and allow him to get all the shots he wanted before we could resume our taping.
We took forever, I sympathized with him, this was his big scoop, three American Presidents in front of his lens and the old Egyptian cameraman didn’t intend to be hurried in his own country by a bunch of us foreigners.
Finally the interview resumed and we managed to finished it.
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I shook hands with the three Presidents and gave the tape to Barbara Walters and went back outside to continue filming the crowds in the Cairo streets.
Things are like this as a news cameraman, you always seem to get great breaks when your not fully equipped, when you haven’t got all your equipment with you but you have to learn to make do and still get acceptable network quality pictures but I sweated till I saw the interview with the three presidents on the air that night.
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Eastenders
You’ve never seen Eastender’s?”
The news editor at NBC was amazed.
‘It’s the most popular TV show in England and we’re doing a special on it’ He looked at me closely.
‘Your not kidding, Bob, you’ve never seen it?’ He came back a few minutes later still shaking his head, clutching a handful of tapes.
‘ Here, you’d better watch a few episodes and see what it’s all about.
We want you to go and spend a day with the star, Leslie Grantham,’ he laughed, ‘he’s called Dirty Den in the show.’
I sat down with a bunch of tapes and watched the British soap opera, getting a feel of the characters but I had no idea of how popular it was until I got to the film studios where it was being filmed. I was supposed to go inside there and ask for Leslie Grantham but as our taxi pulled up there was a large group already gathered, surrounding a car. I recognized the
“Eastender’s “ star from the tapes as soon as I got close.
The soundman and I squeezed our way to the front of the good natured crowd and started filming. Leslie Grantham stopped signing autographs for a moment and looked up and grinned.
‘Are you from NBC?’ and pointed to his car.
‘Why don’t you get in with me and let your taxi follow us. I’ve got a school to open and we’re a little late.’ I spent a few more minutes from inside the car getting great close up shots of hands pushing autograph books through the open window towards us and then he waved good-bye to the crowd and we got on our way. It was amazing on our trip across London, every time we stopped for a light, motorists would idly look over and then take a second look as they recognized the star, ‘It’s Dirty Den!’
then they’d leave their car running in the Oxford Street busy traffic and run over.
We must have had to roll the window down at every light, people would just drop everything and just come out from the sidewalk to say hello. he was an interesting man. I asked him what he’d been in before he got the starring role that made him instantly recognizable.
‘Nothing really, a few small bit parts in films, the biggest was in the
“Jewel in the Crown” ‘ (A previous British TV show that was shot in location in India.)
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We got to the school and I went ahead with my soundman to film him arriving, leaving him in the car to wait a few minutes to give us time to get in position before he came in.
He was swamped immediately he arrived. Kids teachers and mothers all seemed to want to get close and touch the soap opera star. We stayed for an hour getting our shots but never got close to him again, there were just too many people around him.
We put down the camera, gave him a wave over the heads of the crowd and he gave us back a rueful grin and then surrendered himself to his fans. Later the newspapers dug out, years before all this fame came to
“Dirty Den” he’d been convicted of being involved in the murder of a German taxi driver but it didn’t seem to matter to all his fans who just kept on adoring him and watching every episode.
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Margaret Thatcher
The “Iron Lady” was having yet another confrontation with the old Labour minded part of her population. Tempers had flared, wiser counsels had not prevailed and England was once more in the grip of one of those no-win strikes of the 70’s. The miners had fought against the reforms Margaret Thatcher tried to bring in and finally gone out on strike. Every night’s TV news contained footage of battling miners and police. Hatred glared on the faces from both sides.
‘Would you like to cover the miner’s strike, Bob?’ I grimaced, it wasn’t my choice of how I wanted to spend the next couple of weeks but work was work. It’s a blissful thought that as a freelancer you can pick and choose the assignments one goes on but the reality is that you hardly ever turn one down, bills mount up and have to be paid unfortunately.
I drove North, my car packed to the roof with equipment and personal suitcases. This time I was working for the London bureau of Canadian television and their main preoccupation those days seemed to be cutting costs and making do with one car instead of two. The people who’d hired me were nice however and we pulled into the grimey Northern town thankfully and made for the hotel and a good nights sleep.
‘Do you mind working tonight, Bob?’
I groaned inwardly. I’d got up at 6am, picked up the crew and producer and correspondent and I’d been hoping for a good nights sleep after my 300 mile drive.
We went to the Miner’s Hall and set up the lights and started interviewing people. Wives and miners gave their opinions to the camera.
Like most people who worked underground , they were a happy bunch but now their normal cheerfulness was tinged by a strong bitterness against the Conservative government who seemed intent on closing down mines and taking their livelihood away.
‘Can you think of anything else, Bob.’ The pretty girl producer asked hopefully. It was 1:30am and we had a 5:30 am start tomorrow.
‘I wouldn’t mind going to bed if that’s all right, I’ve got to get up at 5am tomorrow.’
She seemed quite surprised!
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It’s a fact I’d learnt to accept that the cameraman was the one person in the crew that never stopped working.
The correspondent and producer could sit and chat with the guests, the soundman got his tape recorder ready and sat down and waited till you were ready but I had to set the lights, camera and plan the shots and then the other’s would get to their feet enthusiastically and expect me to spring into action.
I often wondered if any of them had ever seen a cameraman sitting down like they did?
‘Ooh! I guess so if you can’t think of anything else we need.’
She seemed extremely disappointed that I needed any sleep.
After my “refreshing” sleep of 3 hours we were back at work and went over to a striking miner’s house. We’d set the scene of our story and that was to contrast the opposing daily life of a striking miner and a “scab”
who’d continued to work against the will of the majority who were out on strike.
The “Scabs” were hated and feared by the strikers. Breaks like that in their union solidarity threatened them all and the “scabs” lived a line of utter hell!
Their wives, children all faced the contempt and hatred of the majority and suffered the most. Windows were broken at nights, stones were thrown at the Scab’s children and none of the other kids talked to them. It was a little hard to explain to a tearful 6 year old that his big beloved Dad was causing all this misery, all he wanted to do was play with his pals and he couldn’t understand why they were pushing him away and calling him names.
The cheap alarm jangled abruptly. Mick stirred pushed the covers off and sleepily put his legs on the floor. It was still dark and cold outside in the Northern town and our TV newslight blazed brightly into the sleepy eyes of his wife as he got up. There was no real work for him to do today, his mine, the center of his existence was closed and had been for weeks and might never re-open.
All he could do today was join the other striking miners, to line up and taunt the “Scabs” as their unresponsive, wire grilled, police protected buses drove by the lines of striking miners.
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On the other side of town our “Scab” pulled on his parka, went down the stairs as silently as he could, lately his wife had been sleeping badly and the slightest thing affected her jangled nerves. Harry was glad she was sleeping now. The constant taunts of the other miners wives when she’d gone shopping had affected her badly and her normal cheerful Northern face looked drawn and sick.
We were to spend next week with him filming the story from the other side but this morning he was alone.
He opened the door cautiously and looked around the dark street. At the beginning of the strike several “Scabs” had been waylaid and been beaten up but now the anger of the strikes had calmed and they contented themselves with shouts and making life unpleasant for the non-striking miners.
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