Larry Downing is a Reuters senior staff photographer assigned to the White House. He shares that duty with three other staff photographers. He has lived in Washington since 1977 and has been assigned to cover the White House, since 1978. President Barack Obama is the sixth president Larry has photographed.

“People sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”  George Orwell

Veteran’s Day is a time to remember “All gave some….Some gave all.”

Before reaching the new gravestones in Arlington National Cemetery’s ‘Section 60’ it’s easy to recognize why a simple, quilted, patch of green grass and white stones buried alongside the quiet banks of the Potomac River troubles the heart.

Names etched into fresh marble tell the sad tale of early death …Travis L. Youngblood…. Justin Ray Davis….Andy D. Anderson….Thomas J. Barbieri Jr….. Kenneth E. Zeigler II….James R. McIlvaine …. America’s varsity players benched early in the game.

‘Section 60’ is America’s promise to honor its warriors for first serving, and then dying, in the strange dusts on foreign soil.

Its 22211 zip code is the final address for roughly ten-percent of America’s dead from combat action in Iraq and Afghanistan. More than 570 service members from “Operation Enduring Freedom” and “Operation Iraqi Freedom,” are “interred, inurned or memorialized with honor inside the cemetery.”

Spend time in the section and you can’t help but breathe the restless cloud of uneasiness that hangs over the calm symmetry of the graves. Your eyes lie; you actually “see” the pieces of shattered hearts and lost ambitions scattered across the manicured grounds.

You “feel” why this is America’s field of broken dreams.

Fathers, mothers, widows and children are all lost as they chase the ghost of vanished love inside the shadows of a sinister fog.

Watch an abandoned friend or family member alone in anguish softly whispering to the dead and you’ll realize the devil deals mean cards.

Cards that have forced a grieving mother to stare at the letters of her baby’s name chiseled onto a gravestone not long after those same letters were neatly printed on a new birth certificate.

No woman deserves to lose her child in war and then tragically continue her life driving a car with the unwanted license plate reading “Gold Star Family.”

No wife should ask God “why” the only man who ever promised to protect her is gone.

And no child should ever cry out to mommy “where’s my daddy?”

An ‘Arlington’ funeral means a father will never experience the joy of giving his daughter’s hand away in marriage.

Television got it right when they called ‘Section 60’ “the saddest acre in America.”

Robert E. Drawl Jr…… Kevin D. Grieco…. Charles E. Wyckoff… Michael Ross Stahlman….

Death is the greatest equalizer; only after a funeral does the phrase: “…all men are created equal” written in the nation’s ‘Declaration of Independence’ take life.

Generals lie buried the same depth underground as the men and women they commanded in life.

Black, white, brown, or yellow skins are equal. There is no racial prejudice after death.

Republicans and Democrats agree…In silence.

Gays are finally treated with respect. No one asks…no one tells…

Passages recited from the Koran are as beautiful as those recited from the Bible.

The impact of two distant wars became personal once the “knocks on the door” delivered the horrifying news and haunted a house forever. Prayers that the Pentagon “got it wrong” vanished when asked if they wanted an ‘Arlington’ funeral.

‘Arlington’ is an idyllic hillside cemetery and is easily seen while driving on the Arlington Memorial Bridge towards Virginia. It’s the last stop straight ahead.

It’s also the last stop for those sons and daughters who were killed after announcing to their family they wanted to be “Army Strong” or part of “The Few…The Proud” and then fearlessly joined the deadliest profession.

They volunteered; even while never reading the frightening draft notice of their father’s generation. One sent on behalf of the President of the United States during the Vietnam War beginning with the terrifying, “Greeting….You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States….”

Both the draft and that war ended in the 1970’s.

The names of 58,261 brave Americans are etched into the “wall” inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial at the other end of that same bridge.

About the time energetic eighteen year-old college freshmen are searching for an “awesome” campus tailgate party, America’s young soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen are finishing their individual combat specialty schools and boarding the express bus to the front lines. Thoughts of joining sororities and fraternities are long gone. Learning the dangers of the “kill radius” of an Improvised Explosive Device (IED) and recognizing the “signs and symptoms of hypovolemic shock” are more important. A severed femoral artery is quick to kill in the field.

Today’s military volunteer swears to an oath to do “whatever it takes” to hold the protective umbrella over the nation during the storms in violent times.

Doubts of joining the military were erased after witnessing an attack on their nation September 11, 2001.

Things became clear for them in the dawn’s morning light.

‘Section 60’ is one of approximately 70 sections inside the 624 fenced acres of ‘Arlington’ where more than 320,000 heros are honored. The first military burial took place in 1864 during the American Civil War when the cemetery opened.

The U.S. Army’s 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment (The Old Guard) maintains a sentry inside the cemetery on duty every second of every day.

The ceremonial guards from each branch of service provide military honors during the somber burial of one of their own.

Temporary paper markers are placed in the dirt above the grave after a funeral while waiting for the permanent marble stones.

Ryan Patrick Baumann….Eric W. Hall….Colby J. Umbrell….James C. Edge….

A triangular folded American flag is all that remains to hold for the devastated family members during a funeral in ‘Section 60.’

“Gold Star” mother Lyvonne Lightfoot hugs the flag that draped her 20 year-old son’s casket on August 4, 2009. Anthony M. Lightfoot died in Afghanistan, July 2009, while supporting Operation Enduring Freedom.

Rebecca Baldeosingh holds the flag from her husband’s casket at his funeral on August 4, 2009, after he was killed last June in Iraq.

The Iraq war made Laura Youngblood an early widow in 2005 while pregnant with her second child. Husband Travis Youngblood was a U.S. Navy medic who died from wounds suffered from an IED during combat operations with the U.S. Marines in Hit, Iraq.

She visited her husband in May 2009 during the Memorial Day weekend.

After touching his gravestone, she stood up, gently kissed the top of the marble and said, “See you tomorrow, honey.” And then left….

“Gold Star” mother Paula Davis thought she was an “Army of One” when raising her only child, Justin, alone for eighteen years before turning him over to the U.S. Army. He had just graduated from high school weeks earlier and he had no fear of serving in wartime.

Justin was spirited and was strong. “A million dollar smile,” Mrs. Davis proudly boasts. Proof is seen in a large photograph moments after entering her home in Maryland. “He wanted to be in Kung Fu movies…the next Jet Li.”

And he loved the idea of joining the Army so much that the night before he reported for his first day of duty he made his mother stay up with him and watch two war movies, “Saving Private Ryan,” and “Black Hawk Down.”

Hours later they drove to the U.S. Army recruiting office. Mrs. Davis was now alone for the first time in nearly two decades. “I drove a few blocks down the street, stopped, and just cried….”

One year later she cried again…only harder. Justin was finally coming home from the war and “did she want him buried at Arlington?”

The entire time he was gone she thought “Afghanistan was a safer war,” she said.

For two months after his funeral Mrs. Davis slept inside his bed; “I still go and sit on his bed for comfort.”

Justin’s room is exactly as it was the day he joined the army in 2005. The four cardboard boxes containing his belongings from Afghanistan are still unopened on the floor of his room.

Justin’s first pair of baby’s shoes hangs from the door knob to the room.

Mrs. Davis drives to ‘Section 60’ after church every Sunday, “rain or shine,” to honor him. “If I don’t, who will?” “This is our Vietnam Memorial,” she said.

She then explained, “The burden of two wars falls on a select few….Most Americans are not asked to sacrifice. Our leaders should find every means possible to not go to war…”

Justin died shortly after turning 19 years-old. “He would have been a great father…..now I’ll miss that,” said Mrs. Davis.

Mrs. Davis and “Gold Star” mother Xiomara Mena (Anderson) are best friends now after meeting in ‘Section 60.’ Their boys are buried within steps of each other. Mrs. Anderson is also a “Blue Star” mother; she has two other children serving in combat overseas.

Mrs. Anderson patiently uses her household scissors to trim the grass around the gravestone of her son, Andy D. Anderson, who died in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom in June 2006. “Arlington takes good care of my son…” she said, “but I like to keep him neat.”

Mrs. Anderson’s motherly instinct is still alive after three years since Andy’s funeral. Watching her carefully clip the grass around her son’s grave seems as natural as watching a loving mother making up her son’s bed in the morning.

“Gold Star” mother Vicki Zeigler deserves her own medal for the unwavering devotion to her son, Kenneth E. Zeigler II; driving EVERY weekend to visit ‘Arlington’ from Dillsburg, Pennsylvania. Kenneth died while serving with the U.S. Army in Baghdad, Iraq, in May 2005.

Mrs. Zeigler arrives early and unfolds a beach chair before spending the entire day serenely staring at the name of her baby boy while recalling the day he was born after “6 hours of hard labor” in 1983.

Kenneth loved “God, mom, family, ‘Metallica’ and the New York Yankees…and in that order,” says Mrs. Zeigler.

“He was a momma’s boy until the end,” she proudly said. As he was lying on the ground and fighting for his life while wounded his sergeant leaned down and whispered “we’ll take care of mom,” she explained. Kenneth then relaxed and slipped away after knowing his mom was in strong hands.

Mrs. Zeigler drives in a car devoted to the memory of her hero.

All three women expressed concerns for American’s who have loved ones in harm’s way and may be forced in the future to sit in the “green chairs” for family members during an ‘Arlington’ funeral.

Theodore Uland Church….Garrett T. Lawton….Darryl Demetrial Booker…. Deforest Lee Talbert…

Photojournalists assigned to military funerals are tough and rarely flinch. Cameras make great walls to hide behind when emotions become powerful. Tears have always dripped down from behind mine during an “Arlington’ funeral.

Watching a sobbing widow hug a cold casket for the last time is unnerving.

Rebecca Baldeosingh and her daughters attended the funeral of her husband and their father, Juan C. Baldeosingh, who was killed last June in Iraq. He was buried in Section 60 with honor on August 4, 2009.

The most horrifying funeral I’ve attended was by accident at the end of the first Persian Gulf War in 1991 along the Iraq-Kuwait border. It still haunts me today.

Photojournalist Mike Nelson and I stumbled upon an eerie scene in the desert that belonged in “The Twilight Zone.”

Over 100 Iraqi soldiers were fleeing north from Kuwait at the end of the war when allied warplanes launched rockets stopping the head of the snaking convoy.

The attacking aircraft then dropped exploding gas bombs high over the remaining vehicles in the convoy. The explosion created huge clouds of fire above the troops and burned all the breathable oxygen without scorching anyone below.

In short, the explosion sucked the air out of the lungs of every man.

Each corpse looked alive as we approached and they were still holding their rifles while seated inside their vehicles.

The memory of that sharp, biting, warm stench of death remains with my lungs today.

The British army arrived and carved a mass grave using bulldozers. Soldiers respectfully dragged the scores of dead bodies across the warm sands to their final grave before prayers were offered over the fallen.

Nearly 19 years have passed since that day and Iraqi mothers are still wondering where their sons are buried.

The Americans stationed inside the secure air base in Da Nang during the Vietnam War were easy targets for the Viet Cong who were hiding in the surrounding mountains east of the base. The VC used seven-foot long, deadly 122mm Russian-made rockets launched inaccurately from bamboo bipods to terrorize the troops below.

Chalk was used to tally “the count” on a wall inside the perimeter and over 650 rockets were launched from those mountains between September 1972 and September 1973.

A lethal game of Russian roulette played against the grim reaper during the year of living dangerously.

“If you heard a rocket explode or heard the siren, you had one goal…grab your helmet, flak jacket and haul ass to the nearest sandbag bunker scattered around our compound,” said a friend of mine, a U.S. Air Force security policeman who survived that year.

During one night’s rocket attack that same airman raced into the thick, wet muck in the “binjo ditch” that was used to drain latrine water away from the barracks. Both of his feet slide in different directions when they hit the sewage and then stopped abruptly. His forward motion continued and both ankles were brutally twisted as he fell hard. The memories of the “pop and a blinding pain” around his ankles are linked with the intense fear of dying during that rocket attack.

The injuries were so severe that at “20 years old, I would never be able to run, jump or even walk normally for the rest of my life,” he writes in an email. “They would’ve healed if they both broke,” said the doctors.

September 1973 arrived and he hobbled aboard the “freedom bird” leaving Da Nang. Vietnam and the war were now in his rear view mirror…or so he thought.

In the years before he arrived “in country” the air base had supported “Operation Ranch Hand;” an Air Force program involving the spraying of millions of gallons of a harsh herbicide “Agent Orange” over the jungles of Southeast Asia. The deadly chemical was used to kill the thick vegetation hiding the enemy. “Agent Orange” was sprayed over the rivers, fields, and jungles of Vietnam altering the normal life cycle of all living plants, animals and humans on the ground.

Air Force Security Policemen patrolled the areas on the base where splashed “Agent Orange” had dripped onto the ground leaving a contaminated residue. My friend spent a year kicking up and inhaling that dust.

36 years have passed since he left Vietnam and he will never be able to enjoy the simple, pleasurable, act of walking a dog.

The permanent damage to his ankles combined with the exposure to “Agent Orange” leaves him 100% disabled.

His days begin, then end, sitting in a motorized wheelchair. It’s a painful “hell;” his crippling souvenir for bravely volunteering for a year in Vietnam.

“There were dark, dark periods of unmentionable anger, fear, even desperation a time or two,” he said. He admits he is now “a controlled drug addict” relying on powerful prescription drugs to ease the sharp pain he wakes up to each morning.

He was my hero when we were Air Force Security Policemen stationed together on an island in the Mediterranean and he is my super-hero today.  (I’ve omitted his name at his request).

Jeremy A. Chandler….Deveran L. Owen….Adam Leigh Cann…. Steven R. Koch….

Combat veterans find the search for “closure” a lonely battle after losing a friend in war.

Veterans’ motorcycle club “Patriots Pride” rode from Charleston, West Virginia, to visit the grave of soldier DeForest Lee Talbert who is buried at ‘Arlington.’ Each rider served in combat with Talbert before he died in July 2004.

Talbot’s son, Deontae James Hamlet, stands proudly with the men who knew his father.

Susan Blankenship traveled to ‘Arlington’ to “rub” the gravestone of Steven A. Davis for her son who served with Davis in Iraq. Mrs. Blankenship’s son could not make the trip to ‘Arlington’ but he wanted the rubbing for “closure.” Davis died in 2007.

“Gold Star” mother Carolann Barbieri sits alone as she writes a private letter to her son on July 4, 2009. Barbieri died in 2006 while in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom.

Visitors to ‘Section 60’ leave small stones or personalized mementos on top of a grave to honor those buried below. Some are unique but most follow the simple Jewish tradition of leaving a single pebble per visit on the gravestone of a loved one.

Veteran’s Day is celebrated on November 11th in the United States.

It’s a national day of honor recognizing veterans for “throwing their hat in the ring” to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

Look for a veteran in November and buy him a cup of coffee, or a sandwich, and give thanks for their service.

Travel to Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington D.C. and volunteer to help the “wounded warriors” who are fighting for their dignity with less than whole bodies.

U.S. Army Sgt. Joey Bozik (L) talks to Vietnam veteran Army Col. Oliver Mahatha Sr. (R) in the physical therapy room at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in 2005. Bozik lost two legs and one arm from an explosion in Iraq.

Wounded Army Sgt. John Daniel Shannon wears the Purple Heart with pride on his eye patch while testifying before Congress in 2007.

Or, walk the extra mile to ‘Section 60’ inside ‘Arlington’ and place a small pebble on the grave of an American hero….It’s their day.

U.S. Marine SSgt. William C. Rapier, of Quantico, Virginia, shows his son around Arlington National Cemetery in 2006.

Greg Lamonte Sutton…. Jamie D. Wilson…. Charles E. Wyckoff… Philip Andrew Johnson Jr…..

One of the unspoken duties concerning our blanket coverage of the President when he is in public is the “death watch”, which is, quite simply, being there “in case” something terrible should happen.  It is the reason the Associated Press photographs each and every take off and landing of Air Force One or Marine One, just “in case” a terrible mishap should occur during take-off or landing,  or somewhere in between. We don’t carry our blanket coverage to that extreme, but we certainly are with the “body” whenever he is in public.

Now here’s the thing. Our job is  really not unlike that of the Secret Service that protects “the body”. But, 99.99999 percent of the time nothing happens. So how do you stay constantly alert and at the ready in case something does happen. Well, the Secret Service certainly is. That is their sole purpose. But photographers? Well, we tend to walk about during a presidential event, looking for different angles, or simply taking a breather when we think we have exhausted the photo opportunities of the event. Often, we have our eyes deeply embedded in our laptops, filing photos as the President is still speaking. So, are we always as alert and fixed upon “the body” as the Secret Service is? Of course not.

So, imagine our surprise when a man hurls a pair of shoes at the President. I had taken a position side on, midway between the podiums and the back press riser. I had anticipated that would be a good position for the signing of documents that was due to occur immediately after the remarks from the podiums. The setting of the remarks was incredibly unremarkable for photo possibilities, so after shooting that, I had moved to prepare for the signing of documents hoping for better.

About 10-feet from me I heard a loud voice. Protester? Probably. Not unusual at a Presidential event. My camera was trained on the President. The voice caught my attention again, so after the President ducked from the first shoe, I immediately turned to see where it came from. By that time, the second shoe had been thrown and the culprit was already on the ground, smothered by Iraqi security and Secret Service agents who skirmished directly beneath me.

All I could see was backs and butts, but I held my camera aloft hoping to get something dramatic. I never saw the culprit’s face. There were so many agents on top of him; they dragged them off, again, backs toward me. I pondered following, but thought better of it, remembering my job is to stay with the President. To the sound of blood-curdling howls as the culprit was being taken away and beaten, I returned to the front of the room to document President Bush’s reaction.

Secret Service agents stood around a visibly shaken President. President Bush appealed for calm and for people to take their seats and resume the remarks. Using various quips, he tried to lower the tension, but it was quite apparent this incident would leave a deep impression on his mission here, replacing all the words of hope that had been spoken before the shoes began flying.

As the President and Iraqi Prime Minister returned to the podiums and finished off the remarks, President Bush looked down at me kneeling in the front row, and winked at me, his way of saying all is fine. I nodded back; my way of trying to reassure him all was okay. It was one of the few moments of interaction I have experienced with the man in eight years of coverage. At that moment, I felt pity, but also saw him as a man, a friend even, not just the President.

As we faced the challenges of trying to get our photos from the incident out as quickly as possible, stories flew about, and we gradually tried to piece together all that had happened. As time went by, it was clear that the video cameras in the back captured the whole incident with the best angle and that the papers would most likely use grabs of those images over our stills.

It was a difficult moment for still cameras to cover in full. Do you train the camera at the culprit or the President? Split second decisions had to be made by reflex, there was no time to think. The light at the front (where the President stood) was dim but sufficient. Light where the reporters and shoe-thrower sat was dim at best.  Technically, a photographic nightmare really. There was no flash was on my camera, and no time to properly change my settings. All I could do was reduce my shutter speed and hope for one or two decent frames.

I finally got to watch the video upon my return to the U.S. I realized that at the time I never even knew two shoes had been thrown. What I saw on TV amazed me. The President had amazingly fast reflexes!!  Humorous as it seemed, I could not forget how it ruined the President’s mission, nor could I forget the screams of pain as the shoe-thrower was taken away.

It is a White House photographer’s nightmare to think about something happening to the President and missing it completely. Each of the wire photographers on this trip managed to get a frame or two which helped tell the story, but there would be no “moment” image. I think all were glad that it was only shoes, and not something more lethal. The President tried to laugh off the event with some clever jokes, but we photographers were thinking “what if” and that was nothing to laugh about.

Recently I was one of a group of journalists who attended a four-day hostile environment training course in Bangkok. I was unsure just what to expect as I’d been told all sorts of tales - mostly scary - about what sort of things would happen to us.

The group numbered 14; all of us Reuters journalists, including text correspondents, video producers and photographers. There were five of us from Pictures - Seoul staffer Jo Yong-Hak, Chief Photographer Japan Mike Caronna, Amit Guptafrom Jammu in Indian-administered Kashmir, Pichi Chuang from Taipei and Victor Frailefrom Hong Kong. The level of experience in the group varied wildly, from highly experienced correspondents, producers and photographers, to neophytes like me. 

On the first day of the course, our instructors introduced themselves - they were both ex-Australian SAS personnel, with a wealth of experience of operating in dangerous places including East Timor, Iraq and Afghanistan.

One of the most valuable things I took away with me was the First aid. They promised us at the beginning that by the end we would remember every step. I’d learned first aid at school but had forgotten almost everything about it and never had reason to practice it. Before first aid instruction began, we were asked a blunt question, ”I can do something to save each of you, but what can you do to help me?”  It made me feel irresponsible forgetting how to provide help in a medical emergency. This was valuable stuff which everyone needs not just in the field but domestically with colleagues, friends and family.

Over the next few days it was information we would have to apply again and again as we tackled the many scenarios and sure enough, by the end, we were able to remember every step of the process irrespective of how complicated it had seemed on the first day. Practical training began with a demonstration on a dummy and over the next couple of days we practiced CPR techniques on each other.

There were numerous practical exercises. In one, we were herded into a hotel room, where the instructors pointed out security flaws and dangers. Some of us were selected at random and blindfolded, the rest of us watching to make sure they don’t injure themselves as they attempted to find the fire exits while not being able to see anything. It’s scary how few people “made it” - lesson learned: situational awareness, always know where you are, the surroundings and how to get out quickly if you need to.

In another, we walked around the sprawling hotel compound with GPS units, calling in our positions to two journalists regularly who plotted our positions on Google Earth. Lesson learned: communication, call out the numbers in single digits, else you might confuse the person at the other end and he or she may plot 50 instead of 15, and put you somewhere else - a serious error if your safety depends on the information getting out.

In yet another, we were exploring the grounds when we came upon a vehicle accident, injured people in the vehicle and others flung into the surrounding undergrowth.  Lesson learned: know your first aid procedures to keep people alive until help arrives - always make sure you’ve checked the area thoroughly lest you overlook someone injured in the bushes.

For our final and for me most frightening scenario, we were asked to assemble in the hotel lobby one evening. We were split into groups and we sat nervously in a lounge, waiting for a simulated phone call from an unreliable fixer who was going to take us to interview a reclusive southern Thai rebel leader. The phone call came and our group went downstairs to meet this “fixer”. We tried to follow everything we’d been told about letting people know of your movements and security precautions - but its surprising how much of that changes in the heat of the moment. Even though you know this is a simulated scenario, the adrenalin is pumping, things are moving very, very fast, and although you try to apply everything you’ve learned, some things change with the situation. The “fixer” drove us down a dark alley behind the hotel where we’re suddenly ambushed by masked people carrying what look like AK47 rifles, shouting at us and pounding the car with their rifles and fists. My heart was pounding and I began to panic. As our “fixer” disappears in the chaos and opens the doors, we’re dragged out of the vehicle, taken a few steps away and pushed to the ground - phones, gps units, wallets, passports, everything - taken off us. As we knelt in the dirt we learned that the rebel leader we were to have met had been injured in an explosion and we were expected to help - a gun-toting rebel told us, ”he die, you die.” Inside a disused building there are injured people covered in blood and moaning in pain lying on the ground,with  glass and shrapnel everywhere. Time to apply, as best you can, everything you’ve been taught. Lessons learned: Don’t ever talk back to your captors unless you want to be thwacked, follow instructions, don’t try to escape, and try not to freak out or look scared as you attempt to remember what you’re supposed to do in this situation. 

The lessons and scenarios taught us about correct bandaging techniques in case of snake bites, fractures, shrapnel and chest wounds; what to do in case of a vehicle accident - one of the most common ways in which journalists are injured. We were taught about correct procedures for travelling in a convoy, how to read and give GPS coordinates, how to select a hotel room least exposed to dangers such as explosions, flying shrapnel and stray bullets (it’s frightening to be told how far a bullet can silently travel - and how little armour will do for you), how to backtrack out of a minefield and even what you can do to ease your way if you are a journalist embedded with a military unit.

I learned about simple gadgets that can really improve security; for example, $20 door stops that emit a loud alarm if someone tries to break into you room. I learned how to put together a basic med kit; what to keep in a “go-bag” in case I need to move suddenly, and most importantly, how to assess every situation for potential safety threats, letting colleagues you trust know what you’re doing every step of the way.

Everything was backed up by long conversations with much more experienced colleagues, who shared stories from their years on the job. Amit, our photographer from Jammu, was able to tell us first hand about several life-threatening situations he had been in, and how he prepared himself for them and made sure he got out safely. Video producer Madhu Soman from Mumbai and Vietnam Bureau chief Grant McCool also brought with them a wealth of experience which they were able to share in their stories of covering conflict, bomb scares, floods and barely making it through hostile checkpoints.

From my more experienced colleagues, I learnt that situations out there in the real wild world will never be as controlled as the scenarios we were presented with in Bangkok - a really scary thought - but that what we’d been taught here would give us a reference point, something to being with and some basic steps to follow that would help us operate more safely under oppressive conditions. After our final scenario, I also hoped never to be exposed to a situation in which I’d be at the mercy of trigger-happy militants as we had been in the simulation - that it’s better to be safe and not get into something like that in the first place.

All of us learned to look for things we’d never have considered before going on the course, and while some of what was taught might have seemed common sense, the course helped place safety and security right at the front of our minds.

It brought home just how much difference preparation and training can make to anyone working in an unsafe environment. Getting the story and covering it effectively is one thing but we need to do that without jeopardising our safety or that of our colleagues, eliminate completely unnecessary risks always thinking ahead to the next step and the way out. 

The term ‘multimedia’ is used quite liberally these days, and means different things to different people. In reality it is an opportunity to be grasped, and will probably be what we choose to make it.

To mark the fifth anniversary of the start of the Iraq conflict Reuters has produced a multimedia piece. It pulls together the combined expertise of stills photographers, video camera operators , graphic artists, text journalists, and the multimedia producers. The various professionals are given freedom within their own discipline, and the different formats are brought together in a unified medium. The still image has not been devalued, but its role has been transformed. If this piece is an example of the multimedia project of the future, the still image is there too, as powerful as ever.