Our reporters get a hostile lesson in covering war

They whip off the hood to reveal Suleiman al-Khalidi, a Palestinian-Jordanian reporter based in Amman, Jordan, with Reuters news agency. In real life, Mr. al-Khalidi was taken prisoner in Kuwait during the Gulf War and held for a month, most of it blindfolded. "I wasn't thinking clearly. I thought they weren't looking, so I tried to run away," al-Khalidi says a few days later, over a civilized dessert in the dining room. "Even though you know it is a game, there is a certain bullying factor that plays a role," he says. He was struck by the way we, as prisoners, all fell into line so complacently, limp and timid.

That, of course, was the point. As we discussed our behavior later in the classroom, the instructors told us that it is often the captive who resists most or stands out as the troublemaker who will be the first to "get it." "Be the gray man," they advised.

And an escapee might doom his colleagues who would have survived, if he had not left them. The theft of pictures of loved ones and jewelry was meant to teach us to leave valuables home. (The hostage-takers threatened to cut off Scott Peterson's finger if he didn't turn over his wedding band; family photos could be "weapons" against you in your "climb up the morale ladder.")

We dissected every angle, looking at the clues we picked up from the "terrorists." The fact that they hid their faces suggested that they didn't want us to be able to recognize them later.

"Ah, so there's going to be a 'later,' " cooed the instructor. Or so we all want to believe.

After almost a week of ambushes, we were getting good at hitting the deck.

We were in a leafy English forest, learning to identify war-time threats. Then the shots rang out – powerful blasts from an AK-47 assault rifle. Another assault rifle responded behind us. We were caught in a cross-fire.

"What are you doing, people?" shouted instructor Jan, as 10 dust-covered reporters remained belly-down on the trail, in full view of the attackers. Remembering a previous lesson, and using muscles untested since boyhood, I crawled off the trail and straight into a patch of stinging nettles, searching for lower ground.

Of course, we all knew this ambush was coming. That very morning, our instructors informed us, cheerfully: "We'll be shooting at you today." But still, the question had ricocheted around my head: What exactly was I doing in these woods, ducking imaginary bullets and mortar rounds? More important, why was I in this supposedly glamorous but suddenly dangerous business of journalism? The answers were as comforting as those stinging nettles.

It seemed oddly appropriate to be confronting our worst fears in a lush green rolling landscape straight out of the Teletubbies children's TV program.

It was here that our instructors threw (fake) grenades in our midst and taught us how to duck. (Quick lesson: Grenades explode up and outward in an inverted cone, with shrapnel traveling up to 40 yards. So instead of running, hit the ground with your feet pointing toward the grenade, legs crossed, and hands on your head.)

It was here that we learned how to search cars for makeshift bombs or booby traps. (Terrorists appear to have a fondness for Tupperware containers, in which they put simple timers, 9-volt batteries, and plastic explosives.)

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