I first encountered war journalists en-masse in 1999 and I was not impressed. Along with Brendan Dlouhy, a photographer colleague from the Edmonton Sun, I'd just arrived in Macedonia, where Canadian troops were mustering as part of a NATO force planning to go into Kosovo. No sooner had we arrived at the Canadian base than we were told the move into Kosovo was happening next morning and we had turn around and return to Skopje to get some NATO press accreditation. We arrived at the hotel which served as the NATO media centre to find a long long line of mainly men waiting to be issued with NATO press IDs. Not only was the line-up mainly male but in my memory a lot of them seemed to wearing sleeveless multi-pocketed vests and the latest boutique suede Australian ankle boots. Looking back, I think my memory has exaggerated the uniformity of the costume. But what I'm certain of is that many of them seemed to know each other. And that was why the line was hardly advancing. Guys kept joining "friends" in amongst the gaggles of journalists lined up ahead of us. I was a newcomer and jet-lagged. What I really wanted to do was grab some of these ignorant bastards and get them to join the queue properly - at the back. But, I didn't. After a couple of hours Brendan and I had moved about seven feet forward in a line that stretched, seemingly, to the far horizon. Then a saviour appeared in British camouflage. A solidly built and moustached British Warrant Officer climbed onto a table. He announced in a thick Brummie accent that he would personally break the legs of the next person to cut into the line. After hours the apparently stagnant line finally began to move forward at a fair clip. Twenty minutes later we had our ID cards. All it took was one decent bloke, a British Sergeant Major.