"Good morning chaps, how's the war going?" our security consultant Mike Yells in a mock British accent as we approach Ajdabiya's West gate.

The ragged bunch of anti-government foot soldiers smile broadly and flick up the customary victory sign, waving us through in the direction of the frontline. 

The Eastern Libyans couldn't be more friendly. Petrol stations give us fuel for free, Benghazi's 'revolutionary laundry' refuses to take any money for washing our smalls and when we're pulled over on the road it's not for a passport check but to hand us bottles of water or juice and biscuits. Chocolate muffins are a bit of an odd handout on the frontline but this is an odd kind of war. 

After one push on Brega we found ourselves crouching on a small sandy hill with a good view of the battle about six kilometres away. A perfect opportunity to light up the mini stove for a cup of ready-made mochacino. Nobody does frontline catering like Al Jazeera. 

The road between Ajdabiya and Brega is littered with the iron carcasses of shelled tanks and pick-up trucks. Most have already been picked over by the locals for spare parts but we do manage to find a couple of wheel nuts for running repairs to our crew car. 

The air hung heavy at one bombed site – a missed body still in the wreckage perhaps. The charred remains of Gadaffi's tanks are a cause for local celebration but those inside had no chance of escape from NATO’s precision bombing, no chance to surrender.

Then there are the personal repairs – a rip in cameraman Justin's trousers is quickly sewn up in between rocket attacks – not the neatest backstitch I've ever done. 

Rumours spread like wildfire amongst journalists in warzones. We're like a bunch of washerwomen gossiping over the garden fence. The word came back that radio contact had been made between both sides and a locally agreed ceasefire was on the cards. 'Something's brewing' was the intel. It turned out that something was indeed brewing. Less than five minutes later a mortar attack landing just 200 metres away had us scattering for cover.

We were busy filming in the relative safety of Ajdabiya when my colleague Hoda Hamid rang to check we were still alive. She'd been told that a group of journalists fitting our description had been captured by Gadaffi soldiers who had then set their vehicle alight. Hoda's team couldn't reach us on the sat phone so they raced back from the frontline to find us pottering around town.  

Rumours of our demise had been greatly exaggerated.