In Extremis: The Life and Death of the War Correspondent Marie Colvin

by Lindsey Hilsum

They arrived at a muddy hole, the entrance to the storm drain through which the FSA brought out the wounded and took in food and other supplies, including weapons. A deep breath, and they were lowered into a dark, dank, claustrophobic tunnel. Filthy water sloshed over their shoes, and if they stood upright, they cracked their heads on the concrete. J-P said he couldn’t do it, but there was no way back now. Marie’s voice trembled as she tried to make light of their situation. “Don’t worry. I’ve got the fear, too,” Paul replied. They started to walk, bent over, muscles tightening, the way ahead lit by faint flashlights. Their breath came in short bursts as the oxygen thinned out and the atmosphere grew hotter. After a while they heard a giant rumble coming toward them, and the fetid air filled with fumes: a motorcycle was approaching. J-P had collapsed, gasping for breath. As the motorbike maneuvered round in a small space built into the tunnel, he tried to say that Marie should get on the back, but it was clear he needed the bike more, so he sped off. The others tramped on. It seemed to take forever. Eventually the air began to smell better, and they could hear the sound of raised voices. “That old saying about light at the end of the tunnel is nonsense,” Paul joked. “At the end of the tunnel there is a bunch of arguing Arabs.”