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

‘Dunno. Must’ve already buggered off to Zvornik,’ someone guessed.

The Sea King pivoted smartly through 90° and sank to the ground. Behind us the other two aircraft followed suit, all three lining up facing the vehicles across the pan.

‘What now? Close down?’

‘Hang on! I’ll find out.’ I ripped off the headset, leapt out of the Sea King and raced across the pan. No Nick. Lots of French and 9/12 Lancers. I spotted Alan Abraham talking to Commander John Rooke, the boss of CHOSC, Commando Helicopter Operations and Support Cell, and George Wallace’s superior officer.

‘Stanley!’ Alan Abraham pounced on me, ‘What’re you doing here?’ Didn’t he know?

‘I was told to accompany 845 to Zvornik, do the inspection and then continue to Srebrenica … in case there’s any interpreting to be done … with the casualties …’

‘Too late for that. Costello’s already over there in Zvornik. We sent him in with the French, who are, as we speak, being ripped to pieces by the Serbs … so, you can just stay here in case we need to make any phone calls.’

‘But–’

‘No! You’re staying here.’ He turned away.

All change! One minute this, the next that. Worse still, I could just picture the chaos at Zvornik. Four Pumas being strip-searched, Serbs going through everything, tempers fraying and poor Nick rushing around like a blue-arsed fly. Dejectedly I made my way back to the Sea King to retrieve my daysack. John Rooke was briefing George Wallace.

I grabbed the daysack. ‘Sorry. They want me to stay here and make phone calls.’ I shrugged my shoulders and ambled back to the vehicles. Alan Abraham had disappeared. A French Foreign Legion major was issuing orders and his radio operator, who had the name Fraser on his tag, was barking into his radio in pure Glaswegian. Didn’t they have any Frenchmen in the Legion? I slung my helmet and daysack on the grass and squinted over at the press. There they were. Kate Adie, Sasha, Anamarija, who else? Brigadier Cumming! He was chatting and joking with Anamarija. What was he doing up here? Was there anybody who hadn’t come to the party?

The beat of the Sea Kings’ rotors changed and in a flurry of wind and blown kerosene they lifted, hovered off down the pan and, in line astern, rose gracefully into the air, headed for Vis and Zvornik beyond. I watched them become tiny specks, then disappear behind Vis. I smoked as I wondered what to do. Five minutes later a single Puma appeared from the direction of Vis and disgorged a section of Legionnaries.

‘Where are the evacuees?’ I asked the French major.

‘Srebrenica,’ he replied matter-of-factly.

‘But, what about that?’ I cocked a thumb at the Puma, which was taking off again.

The major rolled his eyes, ‘The Serbs. Big problems at Zvornik. We’re having to shuttle back a platoon they wouldn’t allow to go to Srebrenica.’

I was on my feet, ‘Y’mean … that one’s off to Zvornik … now?’ The major nodded.

‘Look. I’m supposed to be there … as an interpreter … but I was sort of left behind. Can you get me on that one?’ The Puma had all but disappeared.

‘No problem,’ said the major casually as he turned to Fraser, who in turn spoke into his mouthpiece. I was on my feet and sprinting down the pan clutching helmet and daysack. After all, I was Cumming’s ‘asset’ and he must have had a hand in dragging me out of Vitez and into this mad operation. Zvornik was where I was supposed to be and that’s where I was going. Ahead of me the Puma turned and like a giant vulture swooped back down onto the pan. Crewmen hauled me into the hovering aircraft, threw me onto the floor and slid the door shut. The helicopter lifted into the air and made for Zvornik.

Once we’d gained height and levelled out I scrambled onto a seat and buckled up. Below us I could see the Vis feature sliding past. The forward slope, facing the airfield, was devoid of any movement. Behind the crest, it was a different story. It was crawling with troops and equipment; D30 field artillery pieces, M84 main battle tanks, modern ones and not the old T55s one usually saw. These boys meant business. Suddenly I was chilled by the prospect of what we’d set out to do. Beyond Vis was a range of hills, which dropped abruptly into the Drina river valley. On this side Bosnia. On the other side Serbia.

Perched precariously on the Bosnian side clung a town of jagged and jumbled apartment blocks looking like a mouthful of dirty, broken and rotten teeth – Zvornik. On the other side of the broad, glassy river was its smaller sister town, Mali Zvornik. Unlike Zvornik, somewhat incongruously its mosque was still intact.

As Zvornik grew in size it was difficult to see where a helicopter could be landed amid the clutter of Titoist architectural junk. Where was the football pitch? We hopped over one tatty block, looped around another, and there below us appeared a small sunken football stadium. Like a Greek amphitheatre, the top of the terraces was level with a road, which ran between the stadium and the river. Along one side of the pitch were the three Sea Kings, closed down and surrounded by gaggles of soldiers. In an opposite corner, huddled around a satellite dish, French soldiers were waiting to be ferried back to Tuzla. As we sank into the pit below the level of the road we could see that the stadium was surrounded on four sides by a militant mob of several thousand. This was worse than I’d imagined.

The Puma settled in front of the French troops. I hopped out and searched frantically for Nick. Above the hissing of the Puma’s turbine and its buzzing rotor I was aware of chanting. Soldiers were grouped around the first Sea King. The crewmen looked harassed and stressed-out. A Serb was crawling around inside the helicopter, looking under the seats, pulling open medical packs, opening the GPMG’s ammo boxes. I suddenly saw Nick, sweat pouring off his face, dashing from one inspector to another vainly attempting to translate.

‘Nick!’ I grabbed him. He stopped short and spun round. His dark eyes were wild, his flak jacket stained dark brown in places. Blood from Konjevic Polje.

‘Mike! Thank God you’re here. It’s chaos … they’re ripping everything apart … tore the French to pieces!’ He was breathless and sweating heavily.

‘Yeah, well, nearly didn’t make it here … anyway, what’s the problem?’

‘UN’s fucked up again. Not kept to the agreement.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘… deal was …’ he continued quickly, ‘… empty helis into Srebrenica. Wounded out … simple. But no! First thing the Serbs found was four Pumas stuffed full of troops with a satellite dish all bound for Srebrenica … went fucking insane and now they’re ripping the Brits to pieces.’

The Puma lifted off. Its buzzing receded. The chanting from the crowd rose in volume. MORION LAZE!… MORION LAZE! … MORION LAZE! – MORILLON LIES! … MORILLON LIES! … MORILLON LIES! Stones were lobbed into the stadium. One bounced off a rotor blade.

‘… rent-a-crowd isn’t helping matters, and if that’s not bad enough then those two are the icing on the cake!’ Which two? What was Nick on about?

‘Which two? What, Nick?’

‘The press. Those two!’ He pointed up the steps leading to the clubhouse where two rather subdued civilians, a man and a woman, were standing quietly next to the entrance. ‘… BBC cameraman, Brian Hulls, and she’s Maggie O’Kane from the Guardian …’

‘How did they get here? Thought no press on this one!’

‘Yeah, well, that was the deal, but they jumped onto the helicopters at Tuzla. Someone must’ve let them on. He filmed all those Serb positions on the Vis feature. They’ve found that on the film, so he’s been arrested for spying, and when we got here she just ran around the HLS like a mad thing interviewing everyone. Serbs went mad and told me to stop her, but every time I turned my back she was off again. So, they’ve arrested her as well.’

At the far end of the stadium, daubed in black paint across a wall, was a huge skull and crossbones, the old Chetnik symbol, with Sloboda ili Smrt – Freedom or Death – scrawled in uneven foot-high Cyrillic letters. It loomed over us adding a depth of menace to the monotonous chanting, the stone-throwing and the exertions of the prying inspectors. This was rapidly turning into a five-star fuck-up. The only consolation was that three of the French Pumas had made it to Srebrenica.

‘And what are these?’ One of the inspectors held up a pair of PNGs.

‘Night flying goggles,’ answered Nick.

‘Night flying goggles, eh? What do you need those for if you’re flying by day? No! You’re supplying these to the Muslims in Srebrenica. Smuggling!’

‘Look! Grenades! They’re smuggling grenades to the Muslims as well!’ another inspector roared triumphantly as he brandished a green cylindrical canister. PNGs were momentarily forgotten … MORION LAZE! … MORION LAZE! … MORION LAZE! … bayed the crowd, tossing even more stones at the aircraft and us.

‘It’s marker smoke for marking HLSs,’ protested a crewman to Nick. GRENADES! … GRENADES!… MORILLON LIES! … howled the mob. More stones rattled off the aircraft.

‘It’s marker smoke, coloured marker smoke … not grenades,’ stammered Nick.

‘Prove it then. Let’s see that it’s smoke!’ ordered the inspector. Nick grabbed the canister, yanked out the pin and hurled the grenade away from the helicopters. It popped dully in mid flight, the lever pinged off and the canister landed fizzing and spluttering. Then it belched out an acrid cloud of green smoke. GRENADE! screamed the crowd.

‘Look! Green smoke! Muslim colour! It’s Muslim smoke! It should be red smoke – Serbian colour … proves you’re pro-Muslim!’ roared the inspectors, laughing their heads off and winking at Nick. They were enjoying themselves immensely.

‘Mike, for fuck’s sake! Get them to stop throwing stones … pitch is covered in FOD. It’ll be thrown up when we take off !’ George was hugely under-impressed with the proceedings. I grabbed one of the inspectors and urged him to tell the crowd to stop throwing stones. He shrugged his shoulders, ambled off half-heartedly and said something to the crowd, which responded with more hissing, booing and cries of MORION LAZE! It was hopeless. One thing was clear: Zvornik was the dead weight which would sink the day. I forgot about going to Srebrenica and resolved to stay with Nick in the hope of sweet-talking the Serbs before the Pumas reappeared. There was also the problem of Brian Hulls and Maggie O’Kane to resolve. As they hadn’t been carted off perhaps there was still a chance that we might slip them onto the Tuzla-bound Puma. There was just a small group of French soldiers left, one more lift with room for two journalists.

‘Nick! Who’s the boss here? Who is actually in charge?’

Nick was holding his own and they were half way through finishing with the third Sea King. ‘Colonel Pandjic. An air force colonel from Han Pijesak. He’s in one of the offices in the clubhouse. I think he’s had enough of the chaos out here!’

I climbed the steps to the journalists. ‘You two all right?’ I asked.

‘Not really …’ mumbled Hulls, ‘… they’ve arrested us.’

‘I’m aware of that. I’m going to try and have a chat with their boss. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.’ The pair of them were pretty uncommunicative.