Trusted Mole: A Soldier’s Journey into Bosnia’s Heart of Darkness

‘We could scarcely understand it ourselves at the time. It didn’t make any sense. They needed our aid but by fighting each other they were depriving themselves of that. We were naïve. But now I know why it happened. Two reasons. First, the Bosnian Croats wanted Hercegovina for themselves. They even called it Herceg-Bosna, claiming Mostar as their capital. This had all started long before I got there. In October 1992 they’d hoofed all the Muslims out of Prozor which is on the route to GV. They hadn’t just asked them to leave. They’d forced them out. It was a scary place to drive through – some homes intact, others bullet-ridden and burned out with Nazi swastikas and the Croatian Ustasa “U” daubed all over them. Secondly, I reckon they interpreted the VOPP as a green-for-go: “This’ll be a Croat canton. We don’t want the Muslims here, so, let’s fuck ’em off before we have to put pen to paper.” Well, that’s what it looked like at the time, on the ground at any rate.

‘I remember we were in the BBC house in Kiseljak once. We used to pop in there either for tea or supper, courtesy of the BBC, if we were passing through. We’d meet the lot of them that way. That’s where I’d first met Martin Bell. He’d just come out of Sarajevo where he’d finished making a Panorama documentary. He’d been badly wounded there in August 1992 but he’d gone back into that hellhole four months later. He’s the only one of them to have got under the skin of the bigger issues. The rest of them were quite content to hang onto the coat tails of the British Army. We were having supper there one night with some of the UK press when Cumming just ups and says, “Why don’t you get yourself down to Prozor where the Croats are pitchforking to death the Muslim farmers around the town whom they failed to cleanse out in October.”’

‘And did they?’

‘Don’t know. Doubt it though, because it’s not worth it for them. The editor in London would probably have said “Too difficult. Give me Serbs doing bad things. We can’t sell this mess to the public, they’ll never understand.” So the Croats crack on wielding their pitchforks and no one knows.’

‘And you were in the middle of all this?’

‘The UN was but I wasn’t personally. For some of it I was in Split with Brigadier Cumming. I went where he went. But others were and paid dearly … two days after it blew we got our first casualty. Not a helicopter but a real live human being. The 13

of January – even the date makes my skin crawl. We’re in Split and we start to get this sitrep through – a Brit casualty in GV, no more than that. That’s the way initial sitreps are, and usually wildly inaccurate. We didn’t know who it was, what’s gone on or where. We’re all in the Ops Room listening to the reports as they come in. Cumming is extremely anxious. They’re his boys you know, and he cared for them because they were his responsibility. And, as these reports come in he looks more and more shaken. He’s close to tears. We’re all close to tears. And then it’s confirmed …

‘… Dead, Nix. Corporal Wayne Edwards. Shot in the head and killed … and do you know what he was doing? … he was driving his Warrior through GV escorting an ambulance full of wounded civilians. He was doing his humanitarian duty and some bastard shot him. When it was confirmed the whole Ops Room went silent. It’s bad enough in Northern Ireland where there’s a real threat, but not on a peacekeeping operation where you’re trying to help people and save lives … the only thing worse than being shot at by the enemy is being shot at by people you’re trying to help. I loathe the lot of them – Serbs, Croats, Muslims. Taking our aid and goodwill wasn’t enough for them. Wayne Edwards, Warburton, all the others. They had to have our lives as well.’

Niki is looking at me in horror.

‘I remember seeing his coffin in a hearse outside the Officers’ Mess block. It had a Union Flag draped over it and I remember thinking, “What on earth do you tell his parents?” The strangest thing about his murder was the reaction back home.’

‘I think I remember it.’

‘No! Not the public – the politicians. They sweat buckets over casualties. We get this daft question from JHQ to answer, “Why was Corporal Edwards killed when he was in a Warrior?” Shall I tell you where that one came from? It came from the very top, from the Secretary of State for Defence who ups and asks someone on the 6

floor of the MoD just that. You can see it now, “You’ve told me Warriors are impregnable to small arms fire. So, why was someone killed in a Warrior?” I mean for God’s sake! Anyway, this question bounces all the way down the chain of command and instead of someone in Wilton fielding it, it’s passed out to us and lands on some watchkeeper’s desk.’

‘But why was he killed?’ Sometimes I think Nix spent the whole of her Army career skiing.

‘Simple, Nix, the driver’s the most vulnerable person. The commander and gunner can get their heads down and see everything through sights and periscopes. Blokes in the back are safe unless they toss a rocket up your arse. But the driver has to see where he’s going, so he’s got a bit of his head up, that’s all. Someone was a good shot equals deliberate shot equals murder in my book.’

‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh on people? In a way, if you don’t know what you know it’s not that unreasonable a question.’

‘Maybe,’ I mumble. ‘But there were other stupid questions: “How many tonnes of aid were moved today?” would land on the watchkeeper’s desk at 3 a.m., just so that some Minister could be told at his or her morning briefing. But who is the poor old watchkeeper going to ring at 4 a.m. local? Everyone in UNHCR is asleep because they’re human beings who need their sleep … it’s not doing me any good all this, Nix. I mean, talking just makes me furious. It doesn’t help.’ I am furious. I’ve half forgotten these snippets, but somehow, starting at the beginning, it all floods back.

‘I suppose the fighting put a stop to your touring then?’

‘Did it hell. We were up country and back down again like a bloody yo-yo. If it wasn’t visiting the troops or BHC then it was always because we had a visitor on our hands. They flocked out from the UK, and they weren’t small fry either – three-star and upward. Two-star downwards? Forget it – too junior, wait your turn. The other UN contingents thought we were crazy. The Spanish battalion in Mostar was just sent out for a year and told to get on with it. No one came from Spain to visit them. Visiting is very much a British pastime. We were the most visited people in the Balkans.’

‘Like who?’

‘Like everyone. PM came out at Christmas clutching a little plastic carrier bag of CDs to give to the troops. Then we had Chief of Defence Staff, Field Marshall Inge, who I remember was accosted on Route Triangle by a chainsaw-wielding Sapper who came staggering out of the woods like something out of the Bosnia Chainsaw Massacre all wild-eyed, buzzing and billowing plumes of blue smoke. To the inevitable question he’d said, “Enjoying myself, sir? This is fookin’ great – in Germany you can’t snap a twig without getting bollocked, I’ve just chopped down twenty-five trees this morning!” And with another “fookin’ great” off he charged back into the forest trailing smoke. Next in the queue was CinC UKLF, a mere four-star, General “Muddy” Waters. That one was a horror story. It nearly went horribly wrong.’

‘How?’

‘First of all, he’s a man with a fearsome reputation. Bob Edge was his house sergeant for years and told me one horror story after another. They didn’t care in the least what the situation was like on the ground. They were coming out regardless. General Waters was due to fly into Sarajevo on the airlift on 17 January and would be met there by Peter Jones whose four-man team of “loggies” was in the city assisting UNHCR. BRITDET Sarajevo was the jewel in the crown of the whole operation. You’ve got this “Reputation” flying in and Peter has to meet and entertain him until Brigadiers Cumming and Cordy-Simpson, and Victor Andreyev, the BHC head of UN Civil Affairs for B-H, can get in from Kiseljak to pick him up. The plan then is to whip him around Sarajevo, out to BHC and thence to Vitez to overnight with the Cheshires. It nearly didn’t happen.

‘We’re in the foyer of this monstrously overcrowded and over-multinationalised hotel-cum-UN HQ. The three of them are about to hop into an armoured Land Rover and disappear off to Sarajevo. But, there’s a flap on from hell. Waters is about to land at Sarajevo but the mad women of Hadzici don’t care. They’ve decided that the 17

is the day they want to do their sit-down protest.’

‘Who? Mad women of where? Why?’ I’ve thrown her.

‘Look. Let me explain. You’ve got to understand the geography. This beer mat is Sarajevo and the lighter is BHC in Kiseljak. Right?’ She nods. I dip my finger in my drink, join them with a wiggly line and slash it in two places, one near the lighter and one even nearer to the mat. ‘In between is Serb-held territory. The mat is Muslim-defended Sarajevo and the lighter is the Croat-held Kiseljak pocket. Well, this is how it goes …’ my finger starts moving from the lighter, ‘… this is the only way into Sarajevo by road for UN vehicles, convoys and the like. It’s only twenty-one kilometres but it’s a fearsome drive. First few kilometres east out of Kiseljak are okay. Then after some tight, uphill S-bends you hit an HVO checkpoint, Kilo 1, “K” for Croat, logical eh? Usually no problem there and you sail through into a very quiet no-man’s-land. Simple. Then round a sharp left-hander you arrive at Hell, Kobiljaca, the first Serb checkpoint, Sierra 1. The most obnoxious, obstreperous and difficult people. They haul over convoys, rip through possessions, confiscate “illegal items” just like that. They hold up convoys of food or wood for weeks. Nightmarish. That’s S-1. It’s a bit like Dungeons & Dragons. Then, if you’re lucky, you proceed down the road for about ten kilometres to a Y-junction at Hadzici – Sierra 2 – sometimes activated sometimes not, depending on whether they want to trap convoys between S-1 and S-2. Get through that and a bit further on you’re into this vile hornets’ nest of a place called Ilidza, a Serb-held suburb of Sarajevo full of people who hate everyone, including all the other Serbs on account of them being virtually isolated. Once you’ve braved the insults, abuse, stones and gob it’s right and down a horribly bumpy and long alley to Sierra 4 …’

‘Where’s three?’

‘Funny, but I can’t really recall there being an S-3. Must be in Ilidza somewhere … anyway, S-4 is the last and it’s about half way down this alley. Once through and to the end and you hit a T-junction. Right takes you to the airport. Left takes you through a really dangerous no-man’s-land with a destroyed T55 tank and recovery vehicle. Before that there’s a French UN checkpoint, an APC blocking the road. It drives back two metres, lets you pass, and then forward two metres blocking the road again. Most interesting job in the world, eh? And then you drive as fast as you can along this totally exposed road with trashed houses, I mean completely levelled, on either side. After about 700 metres you hit BiH lines, scoot down a tight right-hander which loops you around a tiny cemetery to the first BiH checkpoint under Stup flyover. And then you’re in. That’s what it’s like normally.’

‘And what about abnormally? Sounds bad enough as it is.’

‘Abnormally, anything can happen – hi-jackings, severe fighting and mad women! As it was that day. The mad women of Hadzici decide it’s Protest Day and they all sit in the road at S-2 with their kids and babies and won’t budge until their demands are met. Nothing goes in and out of Sarajevo all day long. Convoys are stuck on both sides of these women. It’s the most effective way of blocking a road. Soldiers are no good for such a showdown because you can always shoot them or, as Brigadier Cordy-Simpson did once, when one of these oiks pointed his weapon at him, fly into a rage, grab ’em by the scruff of the neck and shake them to bits. But with women and kids you can’t do that, certainly no one from the UN is going to run them down, particularly as they’ll always have their own press there to record the event.’

‘Why were they doing it?’

‘We didn’t know. But there’s a huge flap on; nothing’s moved in or out of the city because of these women, and we’re staring at the prospect of Waters being stuck on one side and us on the other. The fastest way of screwing up your career is to stuff up a visit programme for one of the Brass. He won’t blame the women; he’ll blame you. Cordy-Simpson turns to me and says, “You’d better come along and earn your pay today.” I was supposed to be left at BHC – too junior. So, I’m sitting in this closed-up vehicle and wondering just what I’m supposed to do about all these women. Eventually, the vehicle stops and we all hop out and there they all are – all these women dressed in black and sitting in the middle of the road screaming that they won’t budge until they get word that their husbands and sons, who are POWs in a Muslim prison in Tarcin, are alive.’

‘What did you do?’

‘It ended up with me and Victor in a tiny room with their representatives. We made a deal: only our vehicles in and out in return for Victor promising to get the International Committee of the Red Cross to look into the matter immediately. Sounds easy, but it required a load of play-acting, sympathetic nodding, and, basically, grovelling. But we did it and got to the airport to find Peter chatting to the “Reputation”. Did he look relieved! There were no more flights out and he’d have had to look after an irate four-star all night in the PTT building’s more than squalid accommodation.

‘We jumped into the vehicles and zipped him around Sarajevo. I remember that tour because I saw nothing, being in the back of an armoured Land Rover. We were told not to stick our heads up through the hatch because somebody would shoot them off. But, we did stop at this cemetery by Kosevo hospital, called the Lion Cemetery. It’s a regular feature on the Balkan tourist route, a staggering place brimming with graves. There are Muslim head and foot stones, but they’re not stones, they’re coffin-shaped wooden boards. And just as many Christian crosses. But the spookiest thing is that all the graves are freshly turned, hundreds, thousands, and they’ve even started in the corner of a football pitch below. That place leaves you with a huge lump in your throat. You only have to see it once and you’ll never forget it.

‘The rest of the visit was pretty straightforward. We overnighted in Vitez and the next day tried to get Waters through GV by Warrior, but the fighting was too severe. It was good for him to see that plans do go wrong simply because the locals couldn’t give a damn about your visit programme. We took him the long way to TSG instead, via Kresevo, Jablanica, and Route Square. We slept at TSG and the next day two 845 NAS Sea Kings picked us up and tried to fly us into the warehouse at Metkovic. They damn near succeeded as thick fog forced them to fly along the Neretva river, but even then it was no good as the fog was sitting on the water. So we aborted and flew up the coast past those whale-shaped islands to Split where he eventually met as many members of the Gloucesters as they could find. You know, Nix, the funny thing was that throughout the trip Waters never said a single word to me. Never once even acknowledged my presence. But, just as he was stepping into a car to be driven to Split airport he turned to me, and do you know what he said?’

Niki shrugs.

‘He just ups and says, “Thanks for getting me through that checkpoint. Don’t go native out here. We don’t want to lose you.” His very words. He completely floored me. Wise old bird. He knew. He knew what might happen and was the only one to see that danger.’

‘And did you go native? Is this what this is all about?’ She’s looking at me anxiously.

‘I hate that expression “going native”. It’s dirty. It belongs to the last century, to the Raj. Going native – what does it really mean? You tell me.’

‘Well, I suppose it means …’

‘I’ll tell you what it means. To my enemies, to my detractors, to most people who don’t know me, including these Keystone Cops, it means “siding with the Serbs”. That’s what they’ll tell you because it’s a natural conclusion, a racist one, to jump to. Being partisan. That was and is their spin. But!’

‘Milos! Keep your voice down.’

I hardly hear her. ‘But to me it means something else. Sure I did go native, I admit it, native as they come. But it’s not entirely my fault and it’s not what people think. I went native all right, but in a weird way. You won’t ever understand. You’re English. You can’t understand … it’s all to do with parcels and history …’

‘Parcels? History?’ She’s lost again.

‘Look, the parcels came first and our family history fed the process of “going native”.’ Niki is just staring at me. She probably thinks I’ve finally flipped.

‘You can listen to this, but you’ll never ever understand what I’m going to tell you – simply because you’re English. You come from a country that was last invaded in 1066. No invader has ever set foot in Britain since. Sure, the Spanish and Germans have tried in the past. It’s madness to try and invade this island – first you’ve got to brave hideous seas, then you’ve got to overcome treacherous rocks and cliffs, and, if you manage all that, you’ve then got to deal with 60 million people with “bad attitude”. So, none of you know what it’s like and your family has always lived in England.’

‘So what?’ Now she’s getting angry.

‘So a lot. You’ve had your last civil war nearly four hundred years ago. You’ve got the oldest and most respected democracy in the world. It’s a democracy which has come about naturally through evolution and not revolution. You people don’t even know what you’ve got here! You take it all for granted. But, remember, no other country in Europe has got what you’ve got …’