DIARY
On the night the war began I was in the Cape Town airport, waiting for my flight home to London. Our sortie was delayed, so we bivouacked near the gate. One of my three crew members suggested a game of bridge. Negative, I said. I broke formation and headed for the domestic terminal, known for its self-service res- taurant. Night visibility was low. On my approach I noticed a cluster of several dozen Muslim women: bogeys we call them. They were waiting for incoming aircraft. I swept past them towards the objective, and locked on my target: A Toasted Delight, without anchovies. `We're about to close,' said the woman manning the enemy Triple A. Flak. I made a grab for pre-packaged sandwiches, with an 80 per cent success rate. There was no loss of life. But I was not euphoric.
The first casualty of the war was language. The descriptions of events like the Tomahawk cruise missiles — have been judged successful when they land within 15 metres of their target. Some of the warspeak is official propaganda, such as the recurring phrase 'loss of life', which suggests one might find it again. As a rule the more precise the words sound (80 per cent success rate?) the less true they have been. Much of the language is not so much disingenuous as bizarre. The weirdest of the war words is 'treasure', as in `the cost of the war in terms of treasure'. I've heard it used in this way several times on the BBC, always by Americans. British spokesmen are better, but not by much. With dozens of perfectly adequate synonyms handy they have been unable to find a substitute for euphoria. The only speaker who has risen to the occasion is Saddam Hussein. Starting with his first words `the mother of battles has begun' the villain has had all the best lines. That is how Shakespeare scripted them, too.
Saddam would be euphoric if he could see the effects of his eloquent call for holy war. Sixty five per cent of the plane trips booked through my local (Hampstead) travel agent have been cancelled. Only a handful of battle-hardened British, includ- ing a woman who insists on flying to Tel Aviv for the weather, are sticking to travel plans. 'I don't mean this personally, dear,' said my agent, who phoned today to ask if I'd still be flying to Barbados this coming weekend. 'But you Americans are the worst.' What can I say except that she has a point. American companies have gone to almost absurd lengths to protect their employees, less out of love than fear of lawsuits. J.P. Morgan has removed its name from the front of its building, and MICHAEL LEWIS circulated a memo suggesting that em- ployees should pause before opening pack- ages that make ticking noises, or have little wires poking out from inside. The staff of Goldman Sachs have been sent personal security handbooks. It contains no more than a trace of the old City bravado: `When driving always fasten your seat-belts, so that in the case of emergency you can take evasive action by mounting the sidewalk or speeding over rough ground.' But in the main it suggests that the take-no-prisoners style of 1980s financial man is done for: 'If evasion in a kidnapping situation is not possible, surrender quickly, DO NOT BE A HERO.' And when staying in hotels: `Do not permit the chambermaid to clean the room while you are in it. They usually leave the door open.' Of course, anyone who has seen a James Bond film knows not to trust the chambermaid.
m keeping a list of items which have gone ignored because of war, beginning with the diary I intended to write. It includes the massive layoffs in the City, the unemployment statistics and the Super Bowl. First prize for bad timing goes to Mr Richard Branson, who chose the middle of January to fly his hot air balloon across the Pacific ocean. He landed on Saturday in northern Canada, and on Sunday in the very back pages of the Telegraph. He was lucky he wasn't spotted by Awacs and mistaken for a fleeing Iraqi pilot. What might have seemed heroic two weeks ago now appears merely frivolous.
If war is so terrible why does everyone on British television look like he is having fun? Even John Major, I think, thrills to the task. He's taken to walking away from television cameras with his hands clasped behind his back, quoting the body lan- guage of Churchill. Watching the war news reminds me of watching the Olympics in England, when one could see British pole vaulters finish eleventh without ever learn- ing who took the medals. John Major emerges from No 10 and is asked if it is true that a British plane has destroyed a mobile Scud missile launcher. Oh yes, he says, and not only that: A British recon- naissance plane was the first to spot the thing. End of news. It is hours before we learn how many Scud launchers were destroyed in total. Even more curious is the anxiety that Britain's role isn't appreci- ated by America. Trust me: you're loved.
The first clip showed an orange flash as an incoming Scud was destroyed by Amer- ican Patriot. The second clip showed the ruins of an Israeli house hit by an unde- tected Iraqi Scud. Did anyone else put the two together and ask why, before the missiles actually landed, America did not simply offer the Israelis a few Patriots? Did anyone else wonder why they were ponder- ing the matter? And did anyone in Israel ask why his country was so undefended? If you'd asked me last year for a list of subjects upon which I was unlikely ever to opine it would have included, along with gardening, car repair and cooking, mobile Scud missile launchers. There's something about this war that encourages audience participation. The viewer is working with about the same amount of information as the politicians. That's why David Dimb- leby and Peter Snow seem not so much to be reporting the war, as trying to solve it. It's the same up here in Hampstead. I keep a battle map in the kitchen, cut from one of the World Atlases we received for Christ- mas. On it are various mobile spices and cutlery. The vegetable oil is Kuwait. The butter knives mark Scuds. The silver forks are Tomahawk cruise missiles. The spoons are fighter bombers. Saddam Hussein is a hardboiled egg kept under the table. The cutlery is just waiting for him to wobble into view. It's only a matter of time.
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