Bombs Make No Moral Distinctions Where They Fall!

In a documentary on a Danish NATO unit in Afghanistan, real bullets whizzing past one of the bravest directors of photography in the world, real soldiers falling wounded, one with a Wilfred Owen pallour of death on his face, but he survives. Others don't. After storming a Taliban position, the Danes find at least three Afghans, apparently still alive. After a crack of gunfire, they are all dead. "We eliminated them in the most humane way possible," one of the Danes says right there on the soundtrack. The words "war crimes", recalling my experiences in Vietnam, are in my mind. When Robert Fisk stumbles out into the cold afternoon to walk back to his hotel behind the 19th century "Kunsthalle", there are shrapnel gashes along the red stone walls, deep wounds in the brickwork of the school next door, a slash in the basement window casing, but most of the houses in Dresden, including those of the wonderful Red Cross nurses, who served us noodle soup in the Dresden Haptbahnhof, where we were greeted by friendly faces after our train survived the American fighter planes, deep in the dense forests halfway between our home in Breslau, and Dresden.