Читать книгу Trusted Mole: A Soldier’s Journey into Bosnia’s Heart of Darkness - Martin Bell - Страница 18

Tuesday 23 March 1993 – BH Command, Kiseljak

The plight of the Muslims in Srebrenica had finally and unexpectedly come to a head. Somehow, General Morillon had managed to cut a deal with the Serbs to evacuate Srebrenica’s wounded by helicopter in exchange for the authorities in Tuzla allowing 240 Serbs to leave the town and move across to the Serb side. The Serbs themselves had agreed to silence their guns and co-operate.

The plan was relatively simple. Four Super Pumas from the French DETALAT, already in position at Tuzla airfield, would lead in the first wave, land at Zvornik and submit to an inspection by the Serbs, who were paranoid that the UN would use the opportunity to smuggle in arms and ammunition. Concurrently, three of 845’s Sea Kings, commanded by George Wallace, would transit to Tuzla and make for Zvornik once the French had departed the town for Srebrenica, from where the wounded would be flown direct to Tuzla. The Brits would then do the same and the staggered, triangular routing, including the Zvornik inspection, would be repeated until all the wounded had been transferred to Tuzla. The first wave would also take in Lieutenant Colonel Jean Richard, DETALAT’s CO, along with 845’s Royal Navy MAOT, Lieutenant Tim Kelly. They would remain on the ground on the football pitch at Srebrenica, which was the designated and only HLS in this steep-sided valley town. They would maintain a constant radio link with inbound aircraft and with ‘Magic’, the AWAC aircraft over the Adriatic. At the same time they would run the HLS and organise the wounded into groups for extraction.

The evacuation completed, Alan Abraham’s B Squadron would escort the 240 Serbs from Tuzla over the front line at Kalesija and hand them over to the Bosnian Serb authorities. The operation would last a day and we’d be back in Kiseljak by the evening. It all seemed pretty straightforward particularly as the French had successfully conducted a number of proving flights up to Tuzla airfield over the past few days. Serb artillery had remained silent and bombardment of the airfield had ceased. In general, confidence was high and it appeared that the operation would go ahead. The world’s oldest, boldest and smelliest names in international journalism had flocked to Tuzla, commandeered the hotel and were waiting with bated breath and whirring cameras at the airfield. What could possibly go wrong?

Unbeknown to us in Kiseljak, the authorities in Tuzla had already announced that they’d only be releasing forty-six Serbs. General Morillon felt let down. Worse still, although the Bosnian Serb political and military leaders had given their blessing to the operation, no word had come back from their staff HQ with details as to how the operation would be conducted. There was, therefore, some niggling doubt as to whether Dr Karadzic and General Mladic would be able to exercise control over the local Serbs besieging Srebrenica. Despite this lack of firm commitment and guarantee of control, a view prevailed that the plight of the wounded civilians was such that the operation could wait no longer.

George Wallace, the Squadron boss, didn’t share in the general euphoria. His mood was sombre and serious. The consummate professional, he was not prepared to hype up feelings. The small briefing room in the bowels of the hotel was packed with aircraft commanders, pilots and crewmen, about twenty in all including the standby crews. They’d spent the past hour hunched over their notebooks intently scribbling down details of the operation. Wallace let it be known that he considered it an extremely high-risk operation. There would be two Air Commanders, himself and his French counterpart. If either commander felt it necessary to abort the mission, the other followed.

The O Group broke up and crews shuffled quietly out clutching sleeping bags, looking for a space in which to sleep for the night. I asked George exactly what he wanted me to do. He nodded at the two loudhailers I had managed to prise from the Danish stores: ‘You come in my aircraft and sweet-talk the Serbs at Zvornik. As for Srebrenica … God knows what we’ll find on the ground, but if we’re swamped by a rabble desperate to escape from the enclave, then you just bellow at them through those things …’ He added with a smile, ‘… not that it will help much.’ He lit a cigarette, picked up his papers and wandered out of the room in search of a bed.

0945 hrs, Wednesday 24 March 1993 – Dubrave Airfield, Tuzla, Northern Bosnia

It couldn’t have been a more perfect day for it: warm, a cloudless sky, crystal clear visibility. As the airfield broadened to fill the view from the cockpit, I strained to look over George’s shoulder and could make out the Vis feature, barely ten kilometres away. Atop it sat Serb forward observers watching our every move, the same who had relentlessly brought down artillery fire onto the airfield. Vis was what the military call Vital Ground – you couldn’t take a piss in the trees without the Serbs knowing about it.

‘Will you look at that!’ The intercom between pilot and commander hissed softly.

‘Every man and his bloody dog! Look at them!’

The helicopter was close to the ground now, heading into a concrete dogleg, a dispersal pan, at 90° to and halfway down the main runway. Measuring some 100 metres wide and 400 metres long, it was surrounded on three sides by thick walls of towering silver birches. To our left were UN vehicles, a couple of Warriors, a Spartan command vehicle and an assortment of jeeps, French-type, bristling with antennae and surrounded by groups of UN troops. I strained to see if Nick was amongst them, but they were too far off. Members of the press were at the far end and beyond them a fleet of ambulances, parked off to one side, waited to whisk the first evacuees off to hospital. This was a big scene. Judging by the size of the press corps, it was also the only show in town.

‘And where are the bloody Pumas?’ crackled the headset which was clamped over my ears.

‘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.

‘No, they’re spies!’ Pandjic was adamant.

‘They’re not spies, Colonel. They’re journalists. They’re just doing their jobs.’

‘No! They’re spies. We’ve inspected the film and he was filming our positions.’ There wasn’t much I could say to that. That bit of it was true. But it wasn’t spying.

‘Look, Colonel, it was a mistake. They shouldn’t have been here. We can just throw them onto the French helicopter and fly them back to Tuzla. You can keep the film.’ It didn’t sound very convincing.

The Colonel sighed heavily. ‘It’s out of my hands. Pale has ordered me to hold them for questioning. They’ve got no press accreditation here and so an investigation has to be conducted. Sorry.’ I sensed that he’d have loved to be rid of them. He was as much a victim of old-style Communist bureaucracy, secrecy and paranoia as the two journalists. ‘They won’t come to any harm. If they’re innocent they’ll be released. But an investigation must take place.’