Five former Royal Marines, 11 journos, fake blood and real guts

Say hello to Peter, Keith, Al, Paul and Taff.

They're all former British Royal Marines, enlisted men and noncommissioned officers, who've done time for two decades or more in Northern Ireland, the Falklands, the Arctic, Afghanistan, the Middle East and, most recently, rural Virginia.

These salty ex-commandos are trainers for Centurion Risk Assessment Services Ltd., founded in the United Kingdom in 1995 to help teach journalists, diplomats, relief workers, peace organizations and other outfits how to survive in "hostile environments."

Within the first three years of its existence, Centurion had trained more than 6,000 media workers, according to a 1998 American Journalism Review article by Susan Paterno. Thousands more since then have signed on to Centurion courses in both England and the U.S., and, sadly, their need has never been stronger. So far this year, eight journalists have been killed worldwide, reports the Committee to Protect Journalists (www.cpc.org), and last year 65 were killed in the line of duty.

Now meet Sarah (Washington Times), Andrew (Toronto Star) Charlie (freelance photographer in New York), Jonathan (AP reporter in Haiti and Dominican Republic), Alex (AP photographer in Mexico), Tom (BBC, New York), Peter (BBC, Washington), Matt (Newark, N.J., Star-Ledger photographer), Ted (AP video journalist, New York), Cristian (Reuters cameraman in Bolivia)...

And me.

We all attended a five-day deal last week 15 miles south of Strasburg, Va. It was called "Hostile Environments First Aid Training Course." Classroom lectures were punctuated with live drills, and the trainers went to extraordinary lengths to make practice seem as much like the game as possible.

Such as spurting arterial "blood" onto the unlined face of 25-year-old Tom, whose public school vowels and smart insights can be heard on the BBC; he wore the four blood lines--which resembled "Bravehart" warpaint--rawther proudly, announcing that he intended to go to the nearest bar and blare out, "You should see the other guy!"

Such as exploding simulated booby traps and mines a few meters away from us as we trekked through the woods near the Shenandoah River. Lesson: hit the dirt, hands over back of the head, mouth open to normalize the air pressure and lie low till you think you should seek better cover.

Such as how to act when abducted, a black hood cinched over your head, all your valuables stripped from your pockets, wrists and fingers. (During that simulation, I was "killed" three times--twice when I said "Inshallah," which means "If God wills" in Arabic; and once when I did some quick and correct mental math and announced to my mates, "There's only one of 'em still here, boys!" Too clever by half, as the Brits would say, and Keith put me down with a tap on the head and a knee to the back of my knees.)

I'd been in the Army in Vietnam a long time ago and covered some conflicts in the '90s. But I learned a helluva lot from this training--and re-learned some stuff that had long been tucked away in the lizard part of my brain. "We are teaching you to look after yourselves and your colleagues," Peter explained. "It's better to make mistakes here than in the real thing."

As Brad, my friend in Reston, Va., who spent a career in the CIA doing scary stuff all round the world, told me, "If they teach you just one thing that saves your ass, it's worth it."

We knew we were in for it each time we were told to don our blue jumpsuits--the kind crime-scene technicians wear. We knew that we'd come back covered with "blood," mud and sweat. That prospect sort of forced us to bond, to pair off, to seek strength in numbers.

And so, remarkably, all 11 of us Type-A journos got on well. We genuinely acted as teammates and partners during the drills, and I think our camaraderie and collaboration impressed the instructors. Even Christian's interpreter, Kristin, added tons to the group good cheer; she'd already taken one Centurion course, rides both Harleys and horses, holds a black belt in some Korean martial art and is sweet as the peanut butter pie we got served one lunch.

"It's important you tell us your experiences," Peter told us during the first day's orientation. "We can't have been everywhere. We want your input into the melting pot."

All but one of us, for instance, had been tear-gassed or pepper-sprayed. Three or four of us had extensive firearms experience, and unlike most East Coast effete liberal media types, two or three of our hacks owned guns. "How many of you have never set out to deliberately hurt another human being as much as you can?" Keith asked on Day IV. None of us raised a hand.

Sarah is deploying to Afghanistan this month, Andrew will follow in the fall and Matt's heading for a three-month tour of Iraq this autumn. I'm going to Iraq for six weeks at the end of the month. Jonathan, Alex and Cristian have all faced Central and South American rioters, Charlie, Ted and Matt routinely run into each other at violent crime scenes in New York and Sarah and Peter visit the Pentagon, Capitol Hill and the White House--beyond here there be dragons. I have to explain to readers how we identified Canada geese as mallard ducks in a photo cutline.

But even if you never venture within ICBM range of a war zone, the course teaches you a bunch of useful things to help you in, say, a car wreck or a protest that blossoms into a riot or an argument with your boss over whether you should get a raise. (That last part was meant as a joke because raises in the news biz have become as scarce as truthful politicians.)

In other recent classes the former Marines had taught folks from the U.S. Institute for Peace and Human Rights Watch. That must have been hell for them, or as they'd have said, heck, so I think they dug having a bunch of profane newsies around so they could again employ all the adjectival, adverbial, noun and verb forms of a certain Anglo-Saxon monosyllable.

Thursday night we all gathered in the bar of the Ramada Inn. First time staff and students had been together out of the field. Pitchers were ordered and emptied, the BBC's Peter took over as DJ for the music, stories and lies were swapped, some shameless dude got up and danced to "Dire Straits" by himself and the underlying or overarching tone was one of graduation and gratitude.

"You happy with that?" each of the trainers would ask after he'd shown us something on the floor of the room, the dirt of the woods or the weeds of the field.

We were.