Trusted Mole: A Soldier’s Journey into Bosnia’s Heart of Darkness
Trusted Mole: A Soldier’s Journey into Bosnia’s Heart of Darkness
Martin Bell
Milos Stankovic
A high-octane account by a decorated major in the British Army of his high-level dealings with the Bosnian Serb leadership, of his running a ‘Schindler’s List’ operation in Sarajevo, and of his extraordinary subsequent arrest by Ministry of Defence police on suspicion of betraying secrets to the Serbs.Trusted Mole is the powerful and disturbing first-hand account of a British soldier of part Yugoslav origin painfully caught up in the savage maelstrom of the Bosnian war. Armed only with the pseudonym ‘Mike Stanley’ and an antiquated Serbo-Croat vocabulary, Milos Stankovic – an officer in the Parachute Regiment – worked as interpreter and go-between for two British brigadiers and two British UN generals, Mike Rose and Rupert Smith.His experiences plunged him deeper and deeper into Bosnia’s heart of darkness, where all human life was lived in extremis. His own Balkan heritage likewise drew him in: his Scottish grandmother had been a nurse on the Salonika front in the First World War; his father was a former Royalist Yugoslav who had fought in the Second World War; and his mother in 1945 had driven one of the first UN ambulances around Bosnia and Montenegro.In helping to negotiate ceasefires between rival warlords, securing the release of UN hostages and organising the escape from Sarajevo of stricken families, Milos Stankovic was propelled from one nerve-wracking crisis to another. Throughout he was engaged in the highly dangerous game of bridging the gap between alien Balkan and Western mentalities. His was a role for which there was no military rule-book, and in the general climate of suspicion and paranoia his close contacts with the Bosnian Serb leadership of Dr Karadzic and General Ratko Mladic caused him to be branded by the Americans and the Bosnian Muslims as a Serb spy in the UN and later as a British spy – General Rose’s ‘trusted mole’.In a final, horrific twist, the author was arrested by the British authorities on suspicion of being a Serb spy. At journey’s end, Milos Stankovic was now confronted with the awful and inescapable truth of ‘Mike Stanley’.
Copyright (#ulink_3a132c08-4b8d-5fb5-b689-77c5fcde8dc9)
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk. (http://www.fireandwater.com)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2000
Copyright © Milos Stankovic 2000
Maps by Jillian Luff
Milos Stankovic, Foreword by Martin Bell, M.P. asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780006530909
Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2014 ISBN: 9780007441457
Version: 2015-01-06
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Praise (#ulink_820d8e4c-cd0f-552f-ab05-310b0ac74b6a)
Further reviews for Trusted Mole:
‘By far the best book to have come out of the Balkan wars, not because it explains the conflict simply, but because Stankovic demonstrates with wit and eloquence that simplicity was never part of the equation … This is not, however, a bleak book. Far from it. There is humour, lots of it, often (inevitably) black, but also reflecting the accidental idiocies and genuinely comic scenes that occurred in the midst of organised chaos.’
PETER MILLAR, Sunday Times
‘Stankovic’s book is far more than the outcry of an innocent man foully accused. He has a wonderful eye for detail and a natural storyteller’s gift, and passion, to get across the bizarre and terrible cruelty of what the people of Bosnia went through. At times, I laughed out loud; at times, horrible moments of my spells there came swimming back, brilliantly evoked in Stankovic’s fresh prose … Trusted Mole is rich in comic scenes … But the comedy switchbacks with the tragedy … this man was a hero, caught in the middle and discarded by a military bureaucracy that should be shot at dawn for its betrayal.’
JOHN SWEENEY, Observer
‘Now exculpated from all charges, Stankovic has written a remarkably frank account of his time in Bosnia … What Trusted Mole makes sickeningly clear is not just the absurdity of sending in peacekeepers with no peace to keep (and neither the weaponry nor the political backing to impose it), but also the corrupting effects of war and humanitarian aid on almost everybody involved.’
MARK ALMOND, Literary Review
‘This is a powerful book … the inside story, not only of the UN’s war in Bosnia … but also, of what happens to someone who spends too long in a place populated by the dead and those whose hope has died.’
CHARLOTTE EAGER, Sunday Telegraph
‘Well-written, gripping and highly informative … It is evident that he was disgracefully let down by a system which he trusted … and he is to be congratulated for writing a fascinating account of an experience that would leave most people shattered.’
ADRIAN WEALE, Daily Mail
‘Fascinating and truly exciting … As a window into that hidden period, his account is a revelation, Uttered with insights into the ordinary human chaos which lay behind the apparently calm and collected statements of the politicians and the military top brass.’
JAMES RUDDY, Eastern Daily Press
Dedication (#ulink_6559127b-071b-5044-b254-ee5796732e81)
This book is dedicated to the memory of two people. First, it is for my father, who led a full, varied and productive life. Second, it is for Dobrila Kalaba and countless others like her who were denied the realisation of those basic aspirations by the horror that was Bosnia.
Contents
Cover (#u063d2683-bb94-5dc2-bed2-809e9cf95ba7)
Title Page (#ubd99a8d4-5e0c-5b9b-8a76-4c6a63c955c6)
Copyright (#ulink_9d9f64de-9a63-5d9c-861f-89b5a31645b3)
Praise (#ulink_5c3798b8-9468-540e-b664-67780a510c8e)
Dedication (#ulink_82afbdb8-ab02-5873-a2c8-8ace4b801171)
Foreword by Martin Bell OBE, MP (#ulink_ac2f7d80-263c-5691-9194-c159ae827719)
‘Mother Bosnia’ (#ulink_f28f3242-5128-50a0-80c8-5c58073ff54a)
PART ONE 1992–1993 (#ulink_b8e0783e-e536-5f30-bf42-fcb8b1ce56c9)
Baby Blue (#ulink_b8e0783e-e536-5f30-bf42-fcb8b1ce56c9)
ONE (#ulink_8d0a10f3-483e-5e4b-9bf1-c6ddb6f2cffa)
TWO (#ulink_010b0c22-8997-5534-aa95-bcef289af9c5)
THREE (#ulink_cb4375d9-d02d-5837-9bab-fbf171255f9d)
FOUR (#ulink_26829f5d-fd2f-56dd-8e33-9920db88581b)
FIVE (#ulink_88b7164a-46ac-5b11-9cc4-d2306fcf0034)
SIX (#ulink_c2fc7b4b-915a-51e0-b2a8-a5e96cbbcbab)
SEVEN (#ulink_d6d7a71f-793e-5a5a-89b0-fd26906bf793)
EIGHT (#ulink_28f64579-d495-5600-8fda-5d6293ca61c0)
NINE (#ulink_c0a7f0c0-aa7e-50c0-a806-6b3dd505aa6f)
TEN (#ulink_6fac3b65-4302-59fb-ad81-d505b9530692)
ELEVEN (#ulink_2b10ca51-a8ab-591c-ad8e-849a5051e311)
TWELVE (#ulink_0255c8c7-a382-5e08-b493-88027be0f7ca)
THIRTEEN (#ulink_3437826a-2dfc-5dee-984a-a21cbe9a0be7)
FOURTEEN (#ulink_1c8b1a86-a3d1-5dfb-bd0f-a4f8f5c9c146)
PART TWO 1994–1995 (#ulink_fb0c8c25-b970-53ed-9695-38b0d3205d24)
The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party (#ulink_fb0c8c25-b970-53ed-9695-38b0d3205d24)
FIFTEEN (#ulink_29800764-3f51-5d92-a2a5-f3a14c9471d7)
SIXTEEN (#ulink_40fbeac1-bcc0-5872-82e5-101330ee0ac6)
SEVENTEEN (#ulink_da7edc9c-0019-5758-9b9e-e02e48834a8d)
EIGHTEEN (#ulink_bd38983d-68bb-58f6-82c4-c43b3feb25d6)
NINETEEN (#ulink_6613d529-fb01-5105-968a-ed2fd8f19cff)
TWENTY (#ulink_0d190b9a-8da4-5408-9adc-f56f7e35d99a)
TWENTY-ONE (#ulink_3150176b-6cd6-5219-89e2-19215a52398e)
TWENTY-TWO (#ulink_82d96e8e-8d19-53ec-9524-3f89bd678f88)
TWENTY-THREE (#ulink_4b8e2e4e-3eef-537e-95e3-fa1cd55e745b)
TWENTY-FOUR (#ulink_2086688e-cadd-5ce6-a597-30cd411dfcca)
TWENTY-FIVE (#ulink_337830ca-33de-5026-939c-f55358730fe5)
PART THREE
Reflections
CHARTER FOR PEACE (#ulink_6bef9aae-2bac-5c9c-bfbe-aa71776e6251)
AMERICAN FOOTBALL (#ulink_2d715c76-99f8-54b5-817e-2565afc161f7)
Glossary (#ulink_9acc8890-ef0f-5503-9f1a-84479c63900d)
Index (#ulink_da2b6c93-908d-5461-b89b-d6b2c4fbcca2)
Author’s Note (#ulink_54f36351-b8fc-5204-8e40-079c5d78c656)
About the Author (#ulink_8897141a-bb44-5aa4-9b5d-ef331f8f164b)
About the Publisher (#ulink_c7ba1023-560f-5be6-a8c1-06f00f6caddd)
Foreword (#ulink_83f54a3b-cd80-56e0-b8d0-4bfa3d409b6d)
BY MARTIN BELL OBE, MP
In January 1993 in Central Bosnia I met a British officer who was introduced to me as Captain Mike Stanley of the Parachute Regiment. There was something quietly out of the ordinary about him. He was not in the usual Sandhurst mould. He was reserved, self-contained, intense and fiercely loyal to the cause he was serving, which was to save as many lives as possible under the inadequate mandate of the UN peacekeeping force. He was at that time the interpreter and adviser to Brigadier Andrew Cumming, the first commander of British Forces in Bosnia. He went on to work for Lieutenant Colonel Bob Stewart of the Cheshire Regiment, Brigadier Robin Searby and Generals Rose and Smith, the British commanders of UNPROFOR in Sarajevo. He served longer in the Bosnian war than any other British soldier.
His real name was Milos Stankovic. His father was a Serb and his mother was partly Serb and partly Scottish. Both had served the Allied cause in Yugoslavia in the Second World War, and had been lucky to escape to England with their lives. Their son, a British citizen, chose a military career. He was accepted by the Parachute Regiment, and served in Northern Ireland, Mozambique and the Gulf. When the Bosnian war broke out he was one of only three soldiers in the British Army who spoke the language fluently. It seemed an advantage at the time – or at least an advantage to everyone but himself.
His value to successive British commanders was that he could translate the people as well as the language. Tito’s illusion of ‘Brotherhood and Unity’ fractured into barbarism, and competing warlords dragged their peoples into an abyss of psychotic savagery and primeval horror. These leaders were as indifferent to suffering on their own side as on the others’. Betrayal, mendacity and manipulation were their common currency. At prisoner exchanges they traded in bodies both dead and alive – and the dead, it seemed, mattered more to them than the living. Stankovic called this necrowar. He did not share their values but he understood their mentality. The Balkan warlords on one side and the International Community on the other glared at each other with incomprehension across a great divide. The captain from the Parachute Regiment could make sense of each to the other across that barrier.
He also saved lives. He rescued a wounded Muslim woman under fire in Vitez. With another British officer of similar background, known to us as Captain Nick Costello, and with the approval of the UN Commander, he smuggled scores of people out of the besieged city of Sarajevo – Muslims, Croats and Serbs alike – to join their families abroad. He helped to unblock UN convoys and to negotiate cease-fires. His mission was to win the trust of the Serbs, and he did so. They knew of his origins, but they also knew that he was not ‘one of them’. ‘Captain Stanley is a nice enough guy,’ the Bosnian Serb Vice-President Nikola Koljevic was quoted as saying to a colleague, ‘but you must always remember that his loyalty is to his Queen and his Commanders.’
He served with honour and distinction and received the MBE from the hand of the Queen. He was the outstanding liaison officer of his time. He did for Britain in the 1990s what Fitzroy MacLean had done in the 1940s, and in the same turbulent corner of Europe. Whenever Milos Stankovic crossed over into Bosnian Serb territory he described it as going to the ‘Dark Side’.
In April 1995, after serving in Bosnia for the greater part of two years, he returned from that theatre of operations and resumed his military career. By this stage he had been promoted to major while in Bosnia. He served as a company commander with the 1
Battalion of the Parachute Regiment and was accepted into the Joint Services Staff College at Bracknell.
It was there on 16 October 1997, two and a half years after leaving Bosnia, that he was arrested by the Ministry of Defence Police under the Official Secrets Act, on suspicion of having spied for the Bosnian Serbs. Neither the origin nor the precise nature of the allegations was ever made clear.
By that time I had embarked on a new career as a Member of Parliament. He would not have been allowed to speak to me had I still been a journalist, but as an MP I could contact him. I offered to help because I knew the man and was convinced of his innocence. I also knew he was totally alone. There is no lonelier soul on the planet than a British soldier arrested under the Official Secrets Act. The Army at that stage had not even provided a ‘soldier’s friend’, the basic right of any soldier facing a serious charge.
His treatment at the hands of the MoD Police is a story in its own right. He was extraordinarily well served both by his lawyer, Steve Barker, and by his ‘soldier’s friend’, Brigadier Andrew Cumming, who was eventually appointed, as Milos Stankovic’s choice, into that role. All I will say at this point is that the conduct of the inquiry was hostile and prejudicial, and should be used in our police academies for years to come as the textbook case of how not to conduct an investigation.
One of the many injustices of the police inquiry, in which an innocent man’s rights were flagrantly violated, was the sheer inordinate length of it. Stankovic was thirty-four when it started, and thirty-six when the papers were finally passed to the Crown Prosecution Service. One advantage of this, however, was that it gave him the time to reflect on his years as a soldier of peace in Bosnia and to set down his account of them.
That account is what follows. It is the best book yet written on the Bosnian war, certainly including my own. It is more than that. It is the most extraordinary soldier’s story that I have ever read.
Mother Bosnia (#ulink_58230aac-0de8-5901-b141-2e8b81427809)
Independence, the dream of man.
Independence, the goal of nations.
Why for Bosnia is this a contradiction?
Mother to three major creeds,
Whose devotees fight for spoils
In each other’s gardens.
Horrified is the gaze of the world
While Mother Bosnia tears herself apart.
Offspring, brothers and sisters
Are set along the route to destruction
Deaf to Reason, blind to facts.
Mother Bosnia – a cradle of riches
Now becomes the spring of discord,
History repeating itself
Maiming, killing, displacing,
Robbing of land, the rule of the gun.
Seeds of a future conflict are sown,
Mother Bosnia is torn apart
The atomic age is with us,
But Bosnia is just another name for Lepanto:
Creeds disunited and waging war.
I often wonder how God must feel
When three sons with different flags
Crave for his attention:
‘In your name I kill,
Thy will be done.’
How? By killing the other son?
Mother Bosnia is bleeding
No quarter is given.
Hate is a chameleon of chauvinistic meanings,
And the World at large watches on TV
With an attitude of:
Provided it is you and not me
You can have my sympathy.
And so, Bosnians are
The perpetrators and the victims.
While the World watches on
Mother Bosnia is torn apart.
Bernardo Stella, London 1994
PART ONE (#ulink_d9ffb7f5-d7bf-5f8f-b7bf-080791e9175b)
1992–1993 (#ulink_d9ffb7f5-d7bf-5f8f-b7bf-080791e9175b)
Baby Blue (#ulink_d9ffb7f5-d7bf-5f8f-b7bf-080791e9175b)
You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun
Crying like a fire in the sun
Look out, baby, the saints are comin’ through
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.
‘It’s All Over Now Baby Blue’, Bob Dylan, 1966.
ONE Operation Bretton (#ulink_3ec5174a-9221-59de-ac7c-a96e18c5141b)
Thursday 16 October 1997 – Joint Services Command and Staff College, Bracknell, UK
‘Are you Major Stankovic?’ I catch the flash of a silver warrant badge encased in black leather and glimpse a pair of shiny handcuffs in one of the open brief-cases on the table. I nod – what the hell’s going on here?
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector —, Ministry of Defence Police. I have a warrant for your arrest under Section 2.2b of the 1989 Official Secrets Act …’ he’s reading from the warrant, ‘… on suspicion of maintaining contact with the Bosnian Serb leadership, of passing information which might endanger the lives of British soldiers in Bosnia, of embarrassing the British government and the United Nations …’
My stomach lurches. Instinctively I cross my arms.
‘… You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say can and will be used in evidence against you. Do you understand?’
My mind is racing – say nothing. ‘Mmm’ is my only response.
The day had started normally enough. I’d spent the previous night at home in Farnham reading up on various articles and reports in preparation for the following morning’s syndicate room discussion on getting women into front-line units. Normal Staff College stuff.
The alarm wakes me at seven – quick shave, throw on the leathers, twenty minutes threading my way through solid early morning traffic on the M3. My thoughts are given up to taking a radical line – get ’em into the Paras and Marines first. I leave the Suzuki in the car park, dump the leathers in my room, climb into Barrack Dress – brown shoes, green plastic trousers, shirt, green woollen jersey – don’t forget the wretched name-tag, they’re so anal about them here. I wander over to the syndicate room and leave my bag. Still ten minutes to go. Time for a quick coffee and a smoke.
It’s 0820. I’m standing outside the Purple Hall smoking a cigarette and chatting to James Stewart – something about women sticking bayonets into people and could they do it. Brigadier Reddy Watt walks past. He catches my eye and gives me a funny look. I carry on chatting to James for another couple of minutes. The Brigadier is back again.
‘Milos, could I have a quiet word with you?’ Nothing unusual in that. Probably something to do with last Friday’s syndicate room discussion which he’d sat in on.
‘Sure, Brigadier.’ I put out my cigarette and follow him in silence. It’s slightly uncomfortable and I’m wondering why he’s saying nothing. We round the corner of one of the large unused prefabricated lecture halls. He opens the door and motions me inside. The lights are on. The place is almost empty, but not quite – two men in dark suits on the left, brief-cases open on a desk. At the far end of the hall two more men in dark suits, also with open brief-cases on a desk. They’re chatting quietly. I take a couple of paces forward and turn to the Brigadier to say, ‘We can’t talk in here. There are people here.’ But I don’t – his right hand is stretched out, palm open. There’s a strange expression in his eyes, almost apologetic.
I walk towards the two at the far end. They’re watching me now. The one on the left is short and tubby with a pot belly hanging over his belt. The one on the right is slightly taller but not much. He is also slightly portly but not as flabby. Both men are wearing cheap, dark blue off-the-peg C&A-type suits. There’s a puffed up, officious air about the pair of them. As I approach the one on the right produces a warrant badge. Pot Belly does the same. The first one then starts reading from a piece of paper. Time stops dead.
The Taller One produces a warrant for the search of my house with authorisation to seize just about anything they want. It’s signed off at Bow Street Magistrate’s Court. I’m forced to hand over my house keys, car keys and motorbike keys. I sign some bit of paper to that effect.
‘You’ll now be taken to your room where you’ll be able to change. We want to minimise any embarrassment.’ That’s kind of you! I’m not really interested in them. Spying for the Bosnian Serbs! Where has this come from? I feel faint.
I change quickly – trousers, shoes, shirt, tie and blazer, all a bit grubby but so what. Pot Belly and The Taller One are in there with me. I’m told not to touch anything. They’re talking into their Cell phones,‘… is the car ready yet? … no! … ten minutes! … yes, that’s right, side entrance …’
There’s time to kill. They’re not ready for whatever’s coming next. I sit on the bed and smoke a couple of cigarettes.
The Taller One turns to Pot Belly. ‘What did the suspect say when he was arrested?’
Pot Belly checks his notes. ‘He said quote “Mm” unquote.’
‘Is that with two Ms or three?’ his companion asks.
Pot Belly looks confused.
I rescue them. ‘It’s three “Ms”.’ Jesus! These boys really are Keystone Cops. And they’re flapping too, nervous almost. Curious.
Eventually they’re ready. I’m bundled into the back of an unmarked car along with The Taller One. There’s a woman driving. Pot Belly follows in another car. Apparently we’re off to Guildford Police Station – quite what for I still don’t know.
The Taller One asks what my neighbours are like and whether they’re likely to cause trouble. I tell him that they’ll all be at work. He continues asking questions about the house almost bashfully.
‘Is there anything we need to know about your house before we enter?’
‘Like what? What do you mean?’ Now he’s got me baffled.
He says almost shyly, ‘Well you know … some people leave things in their homes, when they’re out …’
‘What sort of things?’ Now I’m interested.
‘Well … unexpected things …’
‘Unexpected things?’
‘You know … booby traps and things like that,’ he says quickly. Booby traps! Does he really think I’ve dug a bear pit in my mid-terrace two-up two-down?
‘No, no, don’t worry. Just turn the key. You’ll be fine,’ I reassure him.
With nothing else to talk about he tries to engage me in idle conversation, ‘So, you’re a biker then. What type do you ride?’
‘Suzuki … eleven hundred,’ I reply automatically.
‘Eleven hundred, eh. What’s the servicing interval then?’ I’m stunned. I can’t believe this is happening. Motorbikes! Servicing intervals … who givesa shit! Here am I arrested for spying and this clown wants to know about servicing intervals.
I make a huge effort, ‘… er … every six thousand miles …’ He nods knowledgeably and the stupid conversation continues. He’s got an accent, West Country or something. I ask him.
‘Devon actually.’
‘Oh, right.’ What next?
‘Have you come far?’ Now I’m doing it, asking stupid questions, ‘Do you come here often?’
‘From Braintree, in Essex. Early start this morning. We were up at five.’ Poor thing! Must have been terrible for you. It’s the early copper who catches a spy. Braintree? Essex? What the hell happens there? And, anyway, who are these people? The only MoD Police I’ve ever seen are those rude, unfriendly uniformed knobs who lurk at the main gates of MoD establishments. Those buggers at Shrivenham are particularly odious – gits without a civil word in their heads.
On the outskirts of Guildford the inane conversation stops. The Taller One’s voice changes, goes up by perhaps half an octave, quicker too. ‘Right, when we get to the police station this is what will happen …’ He quickly outlines a sequence of events adding almost breathlessly,‘… I don’t want to make a mistake at this stage!’ I don’t want to make a mistake at this stage!? You’re flapping. For the first time I realise he’s nervous. You’ve just made your first mistake … never reveal a weakness.
The car swings right through a rear entrance followed by Pot Belly. We’re out of the cars. Flanked by both suits I’m marched into a dark entrance leading to a custody suite with a long, raised counter. There’s an unshaven scruffy drunk slumped against one end of the counter. There’s a large desk sergeant and a young PC behind the counter. The Taller One approaches the PC who is partially hidden behind a computer screen. He produces him his warrant card and explains who he is. The PC looks a bit bewildered. The civilian police don’t know anything about this. They’re not expecting us.
The Taller One starts to read out the arrest warrant. The PC taps furiously on his keyboard – ‘Hold on. Slow down. I’ve got to type all this in.’ He slows down … Official Secrets Act … Bosnian Serbs … passing information … endangering lives … blah, blah, blah … The PC glances at me. His eyes are popping out of his head. Even the drunk perks up.
I’m told to empty my pockets of everything. Wallet is emptied, coins, an old train ticket, Zippo lighter, twenty B&H – ten left. Everything is itemised and recorded in triplicate by the sergeant. My meagre bits and pieces are stuffed into plastic bags.
‘Please remove your belt and tie.’ I do as I’m asked. I can’t believe this is happening!
‘Do you want my watch?’
‘No. You can keep that and your cigarettes. Not the lighter. You’ll have to buzz if you want a light.’ What the hell do they think I’m going to do? Set fire to myself with a Zippo!
‘Have you ever been arrested before?’ asks the PC, eyes still popping. What do you think?
‘No. Never.’
‘Didn’t think so somehow.’ He casts an eye over my blazer with its brass buttons of the Parachute Regiment.
All puffed up, The Taller One pipes up, ‘We don’t want him to make any phone calls at this stage … because of the seriousness of the arrest … not until we’ve searched his house …’ What! What does this asshole think I’m going to do? Pick up the phone to some fictitious contact and say ‘The violets are red’! They really do think I’m a spy.
The PC looks uneasy. ‘No phone call?’
The Taller One nods, ‘… because of the serious nature of the arrest …’ Oh, you’re so bloody sure of yourself aren’t you!
The PC looks troubled and turns to me. ‘Who would you call?’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘Dunno.’
‘Well, don’t you want to phone a lawyer?’
‘A lawyer? I don’t know any lawyers. What do I need a lawyer for?’
‘Is there anyone you want to call?’
I think – Mum? ‘Hi Mum, I’ve just been arrested by MoD Plod for being a spy … how’s the weather in Cornwall?’ Sister? She’d freak out.
I shake my head, ‘No. No one.’
The PC frowns again and hands me a booklet. ‘You might want to read this in the cell … your rights.’ He stresses the word, glancing at The Taller One. Something clicks – you’ve just made your second mistake, you plonker – two in less than half an hour!
The Taller One and Pot Belly go one way, back out, and I go the other. I’m led down a linoleum-floored passage, the left-hand side punctuated by grey steel doors. The sergeant stops at the last, selects a key from the long chain on his belt, turns it in the lock and heaves open the solid door. I step into the cell.
‘Want anything just press this button – coffee or a light, just buzz for it.’
The door slams heavily shut. The key turns in the lock. Silence. For the first time in my life I find myself on the wrong side of the law and the wrong side of a cell door. I feel weak and sick. My knees tremble. I’m sweating slightly. Delayed shock starts to creep over me.
The cell stinks. Shit, piss, puke, stale smoke, disinfectant. I stare in shock at my bleak surroundings. The cell measures maybe twelve by twelve feet, painted a faded, chipped blue-grey. There are two fixed wooden benches; on top of each of them a blue plastic mattress is propped against the wall. To the left is a small alcove with a toilet – chipped and dirty porcelain, no seat, no chain.
I sit down heavily on the right-hand bench. It’s cold and hard. Dumbly, I stare down at my leather brogues – so out of place – and then fish around in my pockets for a light. I need a cigarette. Shit. No light.
I press the buzzer. Nothing happens. I wait a minute and buzz again. Still nothing. I’m about to try again when a little metal grate, half way up the door, scrapes open. A bored voice says, ‘Yeah. Whaddaya want?’ Whaddaya want!!! … YOU … somehow, my criminalisation is now complete.
‘… Er … do you have a light, please?’ I’m trying to be polite here.
‘… Yeah …’
As if by magic a cheap red lighter appears between fat fingers. For a second there I think it’s Pot Belly’s hand, but he’s busy ransacking my house. A dirty thumb strikes a flame. Gratefully I bend and suck in my first lungful of smoke.
‘Thanks very mu—’ The grate slams shut. Silence again. I exhale noisily and sit back down. My mind is now going bananas. What? Why? Who? When? How?
The tip of the cigarette glows angrily. I’m smoking hard. I light another one from it. What to do with the stub? I hold it in my hand and search for an ashtray. There isn’t one. Above the other bench there’s a barred, thick, frosted glass window. On its ledge there are five or six Styrofoam cups lined up like soldiers. I grab one. It’s brimming with cigarette butts. So’s the next, only these are smeared with garish red lipstick – I wonder who you were?
I sit and chainsmoke five cigarettes. Blue smoke hangs in the cell. The nervous, sinking feeling in my stomach gets worse. My bowels are churning furiously. My head is bursting. Pain straight up my neck, around my brain and down into my teeth. How did this happen?
One minute you’re a student half way through a two-year Staff Course, one of the so-called ‘elite’ top five per cent; doing well, head above water, bright future. And the next, here you are, career blown to smithereens by an arrest warrant for espionage – for spying!? … espionage? … a traitor? Howthe fuck did this happen? How? How? How?
Despite the pain, ache and worry I’m thinking furiously. How? Connections, seemingly unrelated snippets from the past year and a half.
I’m trying to connect. Random telephone calls. A mysterious major from MoD security. Taped conversations. Jamie’s telling me that people don’t trust me. I voice my concerns. Nothing happens. No one gets back to me.
And then there are the watchers, followers. Horrible, uncomfortable feeling that I’m being watched, followed … for a long time. Eighteen months perhaps. I’ve seen them occasionally – just faces, out of place, people doing nothing, with no reason to be there. Who were they? Croats? Bosnians? Serbs? Someone is watching me. Paranoia? I know I’m being watched. Who’s doing it? Why?
The cell door crashes open, severing my train of thought. I leap to my feet not quite knowing what to expect. It’s the young PC. He’s looking at me, uncertainly, almost sympathetically.
‘We’re not happy about this. I’ve been upstairs to see the Inspector. He agrees with me. We think your civil rights have been abused. You’re entitled to make a phone call. It was obvious to me that you had no one in mind when I asked you who you’d like to call, so, who do you want to call?’
I’m stunned. I can’t believe it. Good on him for doing his job properly.
‘Dunno. Don’t know anyone,’ I stammer.
He’s adamant. ‘Look, it’s only advice, but you do need a lawyer. Really you do.’
‘But I don’t know any lawy—’
He cuts me short. ‘We’ll call you a duty lawyer if you like.’ I nod. He disappears and the door clangs shut. I glance at my watch. Over two hours since I was booked in. Bloody heavy-handed MoD Plod – GUILTY, now let’s prove the case!
Ten minutes later the PC is back. ‘We’ve got you a lawyer. She’s on the phone right now … come on!’ I’m led from the cell and shown to a phone hanging off a wall. The handset’s almost touching the floor. I pick it up and put it to my ear.
‘Hello, I’m Issy White from Tanner and Taylor in Farnborough. I understand you need help …’ Help. What can you do for me?
‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
‘What can you tell me?’ What can I tell you? What should I tell her? How much? All of it? Some of it? Which bits to leave out?
‘Er … well … it’s all very sensitive … I can’t … well, not on the phone …’
‘I’ll be round shortly.’ She’s curt.
I’m pathetically grateful that someone, anyone, has shown interest. Face to face she’s as brusque as she was on the phone. In three hours she has my story, all but the really sensitive stuff. She doesn’t need to know about that at the moment. I tell her about my time out there, about the List, the gong, the phone calls, about everything that matters. She scribbles furiously throughout.
‘Does all this sound unbelievable to you, Issy?’
She looks up and quite matter of factly says, ‘No. It all sounds true. I can spot a liar a mile off.’ She’s very serious.
‘No. I don’t really mean “unbelievable”, I suppose I mean “weird”.’
‘Weird? …’ She pauses, ‘… I’ve never heard anything like it.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s all true, every word of it …’ I feel tired ‘… It’s all true. It happened.’
Issy promises to get me some more cigarettes. She thinks they’ll be finished with my house by two o’clock. She leaves and tells me she’ll be back for ‘question time’.
Back in the cell I’ve got nothing to do except mull over the same old thoughts. Two o’clock comes and goes. Nothing. Three o’clock. Still nothing. I’m dog tired but still thinking, sick and churning but still thinking. What should I tell them? All of it? That would implicate Rose and Smith. Keep it from them. Tell them the minimum. I know what this is about. It’s about phone calls. It’s about a lot more than that. But for now, it’s about phone calls. I’m not about to bubble away Rose, Smith and the others. Not yet anyway. Keep the List out of it.
I’m sitting there staring at my shoes again, my elbows on my knees, head in my hands. I’ve smoked my last cigarette. There’s nothing else to think about. There’s nothing left anymore. Staff College and all that’s happened in the last two and a half years – a dream, a lifetime ago. And now they’re utterly irrelevant to me. Reality is where the illusion is strongest. This is where it’s strongest. Reality is this cell. Nothing else exists and I’m so tired, so, so tired. I have to sleep. Get some strength. Must sleep.
I take off my blazer and lie down on the bench. I can’t be bothered with the mattress. I cover my head with the blazer. It’s all so cold and dark, just like it was then, a thousand years ago – cold, dark, unknown and terrifying. I close my eyes. The tape starts playing and I’m back there. Reality. I can hear the shouts and screams, feel the cold, the panic and the terror. I’m there again.
TWO Operation Grapple – Bosnia (#ulink_33c0abf5-6cae-54a7-9a22-76da49749162)
8 January 1993 – British National Support Element Base, Tomislavgrad
The Americans were about to bomb the Iraqis again. On the hour, every hour, the television fixed high in a corner of the dusty warehouse spewed out the impassioned, near hysterical commentaries of the drama unfolding in the Middle East. Iraqi non-compliance with some UN Security Council Resolution seemed to be the issue; cruise missiles were poised to fly, midnight the deadline. In another place at another time we’d all have been glued to the box as we had been in 1991, eagerly anticipating the voyeuristic thrill of technowar. But not this time, not here and not tonight. The crisis in the Persian Gulf seemed so remote, so distant, so unreal. Shattered and numbed by the day’s events, nearly all the soldiers had shuffled off to their makeshift bunk beds, stacked four high around the warehouse.
Being less tired and having nothing more appealing than a sleeping bag on a cold concrete floor to look forward to, I’d delayed getting my head down. I was alone at a small wooden table, determined to finish recording the day’s hectic events in an airmail ‘bluey’ to a stewardess friend at British Airways. I glanced at my bedspace and marvelled that Seb had somehow managed to stuff his massive frame into his doss bag. Even more astonishingly, he’d managed to doze off despite the freezing concrete.
2225. The time flashed on the TV screen as the latest news from the Gulf came in from CNN. I turned back to the letter. Over the page and I’d be done, ‘… so, once the Boss realised what was going on, the three of us spent most of the day driving like madmen to get down here, but it was all over when we arr—.’
Ink splattered across the page. The pen sprang from my fingers as I leapt out of my skin knocking over the table. The newsreader had disappeared from the TV screen, obliterated. My ears were ringing, my mind stunned as a deep WOOOMF slammed into the warehouse, rattled the filthy windows and rolled over and around us. The air was filled with a fluttering, ripping sound and then another shockingly loud detonation somewhere beyond the wall. I was rooted to the spot. My legs started trembling. Adrenalin gushed through my veins.
‘Fuck! Shit! Oh, Christ, not again!’ Expletives echoed around the warehouse.
Pandemonium. All around me soldiers cursing, grunting, wild-eyed, tumbled from their bunks clutching helmets, flak jackets, stuffing feet into boots, laces flying, others scampering off with boots in hand, determinedly dragging their sleeping bags behind them into the darkness of the back of the warehouse.
Seb was on his feet in the same state of stunned confusion as I was. Within seconds the warehouse had emptied. The soldiers seemed to know precisely what to do. Why didn’t we? The greater terror of being left behind seemed to unfreeze me. A corporal raced past. I grabbed at him.
‘Hey! Where do we go? We’ve just arrived.’ Panic in my voice.
He wasn’t going to be stopped. ‘Just follow me, sir!’ he yelled over his shoulder as he disappeared into the gloom. We bolted after him. Ironic that he should be our saviour at that moment; officers were supposed to lead the men. Ridiculous really, but I didn’t care, just so long as he took us to wherever it was everyone else was going.
Cramming ourselves through a small door at the back of the hall, we emerged onto a raised walkway of a loading bay. Turning left we hurried after fleeting, bobbing dark shapes. I hadn’t a clue where we were going and blundered on regardless, driven by panic. We raced through a cavernous, dank boiler room. Another salvo of shells screamed in. Through a door at the far end we were hit by a wall of freezing air. It had been below minus twenty during the day. Now it was even colder.
We were now slipping and stumbling over uneven and frozen gravel. Ahead, stooped and crab-like, dragging doss bags, the black shapes of soldiers darted and weaved – like ghosts caught in the chilling glow of a half moon. Another whirring and ripping of disturbed air. We flung ourselves down grazing palms and knees, cheeks were driven into rough and frozen stones. I clung to the earth as an oily, slithery serpent in my stomach uncurled itself. The night was split for an instant, spiteful red and white followed by a deafening, high-pitched cracking, ringing shockingly loud. Then a deeper note, a rolling wave through the ground beneath, the air swept with an electric, burning hiss.
The desire to remain welded to the earth, panting and cowering, was overwhelming. Although the brain screamed ‘no!’, no sooner had the pulse washed over us than we were up, stumbling across the gravel. With horror I realised we were running towards the impacts. It made no sense. Surely we should be legging it in the opposite direction?
Far in the distance, beyond the broad, flat and featureless plain, now cloaked in darkness, behind a distant, rocky escarpment, two soundless halos of dull yellow flickered briefly. Moments passed and then two flat reports.
‘Incoming!’ screamed a breathless, hysterical voice somewhere ahead.
For seconds, hours, nothing … nothing … then a fluttering warning which sent us diving headlong into the gravel again. More cringing and tensing, detonations, ringing – closer this time. What the fuck are we doing running towards it?
We moved forward, staggering and diving in short bounds for what seemed like an eternity, keeping the edge of the warehouse to our left. In the darkness it was difficult to tell how far we’d gone – time and distance distorted by panic and fear. We rounded the far corner. Beyond a concrete V-shaped ditch was a row of maybe five or six armoured personnel carriers, APCs, neatly parked, squat and black.
I still had the corporal firmly in my sights. In a single bound he vaulted the ditch, raced up to the rear of the left-hand APC, yanked open the rear door and hurled himself inside. Others flung themselves in after him. Another flash on the horizon. Shit!
I was the last into the vehicle and feverishly pulled the door to before the shell landed. It wouldn’t shut. Too many people and too many sleeping bags. It was the bags or me.
‘We don’t need this sodding thing,’ I hissed in desperation, hurling one out into the night. I wrestled the door shut and hauled down on the locking lever just as the shell exploded somewhere to our front.
Inside the APC it was pitch black. Nobody said a word. Nothing could be heard save ragged, terror-edged panting as each man fought to recover his breath. Someone in the front flicked on a torch with a red filter. What little light managed to seep into the back cast eerie patches of dull red across strained, pallid faces. There were far too many of us crammed into the vehicle – knees and elbows everywhere. On my left was a slight youth clad in a boiler suit, who didn’t look like a soldier at all. Opposite me I recognised one of the batch of colloquial interpreters, a staff sergeant in the REME,
evidently posted up to Tomislavgrad, TSG, and now stuck in this APC. He looked terrified. It was his sleeping bag I’d slung out. Two down from me and next to the youth was Seb, still panting furiously. There were others too. Seb’s driver, Marine Dawson, had somehow ended up in the commander’s seat, and somewhere up there was the Sapper corporal, whom we’d blindly followed. There must have been about eight or nine of us stuffed into the small APC.
Our private thoughts were interrupted by a wild banging on the door and muffled shouting. Reluctantly, I eased up the lever and opened the door an inch.
‘Fuck’s sake! Lemme in. Lemme in!’ A helmeted shadow was trying to rip open the door. I held on grimly, not wishing to expose us any more to the outside world.
‘Sorry mate. No room in here … try the one next door …’ I barked through the gap. The shadow swore savagely and disappeared into the night. I slammed the door shut just as another shell screamed in, shattering the night.
‘Oi! You! Get the fucking periscope up!’ It was the corporal, up front somewhere. What was he on about now? Deathly silence. Nothing happened.
‘You in the commander’s seat! Get the periscope up and let’s get a fix on those flashes … work out where the bastards are firing at us from …’ Hasbe gone mad?
The unfortunate Dawson, who clearly had never been in an APC in his life, frantically started to tug at the various levers and knobs around him. He had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. I’d have been just as clueless. Another shell screamed in.
‘Fuck’s sake, fuck’s sake … get out, get fucking out!’ The corporal had finally lost his rag. A scuffle broke out up front as the shell exploded. In the darkness all you could hear above the high-pitched ringing in your ears were thuds, grunts and the occasional blow as Dawson and the corporal struggled with each other. Somebody whimpered, the APC rocked softly on its suspension, a few more grunts and blows and the unfortunate Marine was ejected from his seat.
Settled in the seat the corporal expertly flipped up the periscope and glued his forehead to the eyepiece. ‘Compass … somebody gimme a compass!’ he yelled without removing his eyes from the optic. His voice rose a note, ‘Shit! ’nother two flashes on the horizon … two rounds incoming!!’
I stared down at the luminous second hand of my watch … five seconds … it swept past ten seconds. Someone started to whimper, another’s breathing rose in volume, great gasping pants … thirteen seconds … my watch started to tremble. I was mesmerised by it … fourteen … fifteen – the air was ripped; two double concussions which rolled into each other. A collective sigh of relief swept through the APC.
‘Where’s that fucking compass?’ The corporal was at it again. Either he was barking mad or had simply been born without fear. He was still determined to get a fix on the guns. I dug out a Silva compass from my smock pocket and passed it up the APC.
‘Time of flight’s about fifteen seconds,’ I shouted up at him.
‘Good. Fifteen seconds, yeah?’ He seemed pleased. What difference did it make? Flashes, bearings, time of flight? The facts couldn’t be altered. We were stuck in this APC. Shells were landing somewhere to our front. A direct hit would destroy the vehicle. A very near miss would destroy it as well, and, with it, us. But I had a sneaking admiration for that unknown corporal. He was one of Kipling’s men, keeping his head and his cool while all around him were losing theirs. At least he was doing something, keeping his mind busy, warding off the intrusion of fear and panic – pure professionalism. I felt useless, unable to contribute in any way, jammed as I was in the rear and prey to my fears and imagination.
What were we doing sitting in an aluminium bucket between the building and the incoming rounds? Surely we’d be safer in the lee of the building, behind it? Another dreadful thought came to mind: the CVR(T) series of vehicles, of which this Spartan was one, were the last of the British Army’s combat vehicles which still ran on petrol. All the others – tanks, armoured infantry fighting vehicles, lorries, Land Rover and plant – ran on diesel. We were sitting on top of hundreds of litres of petrol ‘protected’ only by an aluminium skin. We’d sought refuge inside a petrol bomb. My mind imagined a near miss – red hot steel fragments slicing through aluminium, piercing the fuel tank, which we were sitting on, and wooooossssh ... frying tonight! Fuck this! This was not the place to take cover.
‘Hey! Why don’t we just drive out of here, round the back of the building where it’s safer?’ I shouted at the corporal and anyone else who might care to listen.
‘No driver in the front,’ he shouted back, seemingly unconcerned. I don’t suppose the fuel thing had occurred to him.
‘We had this for four hours this afternoon … just sat here, froze and waited … shit myself,’ mumbled the staff sergeant opposite and then he added savagely, ‘I’ve fucking had enough of this shite!’
‘Another flash!’ screamed the corporal. Bugger him! Why did he have to be so efficient? I didn’t want to know that another shell was arcing towards us. This is the one that’s going to fry us!… three seconds … the panting started … five seconds … where were Corporal Fox and Brigadier Cumming? Where had they taken cover? … seven seconds ... How had we got ourselves into this? How eager and consumed with childish enthusiasm we’d been, desperate not to miss out! How we’d raced down to TSG – and for what? … nine seconds. ... Idiots! The lot of us.
We’d been in Vitez that morning. In fact we’d just left the Cheshire Regiment’s camp at Stara Bila when it happened. We’d driven there from Brigadier Cumming’s tactical headquarters in the hotel in Fojnica. He’d been incensed by an article in the Daily Mail, written by Anna Pukas, which had glorified the British contribution to the UN and had damned, by omission, everyone else’s. We’d dropped by the Public Information house in Vitez late the previous night after a gruelling eleven-hour trip up into the Tesanj salient. Cumming had returned to the Land Rover Discovery clutching a fax of the article. He’d been livid but it had been too late to do anything about it at that hour so we’d returned to Fojnica. The following day we shot back to Vitez where Cumming had words with the Cheshires’ Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Bob Stewart, who had been quoted in the article.
We were heading back to Fojnica and had been on the road some ten minutes. The Brigadier was silent. Corporal Fox was concentrating on keeping the vehicle on the icy road and the accompanying UKLO team – an RAF flight lieutenant called Seb, his driver, Marine Dawson, and their wretched satellite dish in the back of their RB44 truck – in his rear-view mirror. Next to his pistol on the dash the handset of our HF radio spluttered and hissed into life. It was always making strange noises and ‘dropping’ so I never paid much attention to it. Corporal Fox grabbed it and stuck it to his ear.
‘Sir, I’m not sure, but it sounds like something’s going on in TSG … signal’s breaking up and I can’t work out their call sign … sounds like they’re being shelled or are under attack.’ Corporal Simon Fox was a pretty cool character, never flustered, always the laconic Lancastrian. I couldn’t make much sense with the radio either. Static and atmospherics were bad. All we could hear was a booming noise in the background. We decided to head back to Vitez.
The Operations Room at Vitez was packed. We entered to a deathly, expectant hush as everyone strained to hear the transmissions from TSG.
‘… that’s forty-seven and they’re still landing … forty-nine, fifty … still incoming …’ There was no mistaking it: TSG was definitely being shelled and some brave soul was still manning a radio, probably cowering under a desk, and was giving a live commentary as each shell landed.
‘How long’s this been going on for?’ snapped Cumming, now hugely concerned that his logistics and engineer bases were being attacked.
‘About twenty minutes.’
‘Any casualties?’ His tone was unmistakable.
‘None as yet. Too early to tell. Everyone’s under cover except …’ except the loony under the table.
‘Right, I’m off to TSG. Get hold of the Chief of Staff in Split. Tell him what we’re up to.’ And with that we swept out of the Ops Room. The Brigadier was right of course. He could hardly sit around in Vitez or, worse still, retire to Fojnica, while his troops were under fire. I told Corporal Fox and Seb what was happening. They’d had the presence of mind to get the vehicles fuelled up.
Ahead of us stretched a long journey: Route Diamond to Gornji Vakuf, around the lake at Prozor and then the long climb up over the ‘mountain’ on Route Triangle. This was the worse of the two main supply routes into Central Bosnia, a hell of frozen ruts, tortuous bends, precipitous slopes and broken-down and stranded vehicles. It would take us hours.
I doubt there was a man among us who didn’t feel a buzz of anticipation.The military is a peculiar profession. It’s crammed full of frustrated people – highly trained, frustrated professionals. Unlike any other profession we rarely actually put into practice what we train for ad nauseam. In a sense, we’re untried, untested, and always there’s that little nagging doubt, that little question – how would I cope? Would I do the right thing? Would I freeze? Panic?
Sometimes there are incidents and soldiers are shot at, attacked, bombed, and they are tested. But it doesn’t happen to everyone. Most of the time nothing happens. I’ve done three tours in Northern Ireland, one in the bandit country of South Armagh, and I’ve never been shot at, heard a shot fired in anger or heard a bomb go off. There are the occasional blips – the Falklands and Gulf Wars, where people really are tested and really do ‘see an elephant’ as the Americans refer to combat: ‘Few people have actually seen an elephant, most have only had one described to them.’
It’s an odd arrogance that underpins opinion on being in combat. The US Army is almost obsessive in this respect. As a visual manifestation of this, soldiers who have ‘seen their elephant’ wear on the right sleeve of their fatigues the patch or emblem of the unit or division with which they served on operations – ‘look-at-me-I’ve-been-there’ symbolism. Those unlucky enough not to have been on operations can only wear on their left sleeve the patch of the division with which they are currently serving; their right sleeves remain bare. Fortunately, we have no such rites of passage badges in the British Army, just medals which we’re required to wear so infrequently that most people can’t remember where they’ve put theirs.
As a very young soldier I remember well one night in McDonald’s in Aldershot. It was June 1982 and 2 and 3 PARA had just returned from the Falklands War. The place started to fill up with a gang of Toms from 2 PARA, all wearing ‘Darwin and Goose Green’ sweatshirts. All were drunk.
‘An’ where were you fookin’ craphats while we were scrapping wi’ the Argies?’ snarled one of them aggressively (some of us had missed out). And then they all rounded on us.
‘Watch who you’re calling a craphat, boyo. I’m 1 PARA,’ spat back Taff Barnes, our corporal, who was from 1 PARA mortar platoon. He was a hulking great bloke – crazy to pick a fight with him.
‘You 1 PARA? Oh, well, that’s okay then.’ Instantly they were mollified and we were all suddenly the best of friends.
‘So, what was it like then?’ I asked our original assailant. I was curious to know.
He looked at me. The drunkenness in his eyes seemed to evaporate. They became focused and intense. ‘It was shit,’ he said evenly. ‘It was pure shit … you’re lucky you weren’t there.’ And then he was gone, staggering off to order his ‘fookin” Big Mac and mega large chips.
His answer had floored me. What had he seen and done that had been so terrible as to humble him in that way, to knock the bravado out of him so completely? I remember feeling pure jealousy at that moment, jealousy born out of a weird frustration that we now had nothing in common. He’d seen his elephant up close.
The majority of people in the Army have never seen an elephant. There are senior officers, even generals, who haven’t got a single campaign service or operation medal. Some only have a Queen’s Jubilee Medal. It’s not really their fault. Put it down to fate or luck. It doesn’t make them any less professional or useful to the system. But it is a source of personal frustration. So much training, so many years learning your profession and yet never been tested. So, it’s not at all surprising that we were all gripped by a horrid fascination to get down to TSG as quickly as possible, in case we missed seeing the elephant.
By the time we’d passed through Gornji Vakuf, skirted Lake Prozor, crawled up the ‘mountain’ beyond, shaken ourselves to bits on the winding and hellish Route Triangle, darkness had fallen. At a UN checkpoint, the last British outpost along the route before TSG, a burly Sapper corporal waved us down outside a small cluster of Portakabins in a bleak, rocky and windswept landscape.
Cumming stuck his head out into the freezing night air.
‘Sir, you can’t go any further. There’s heavy shelling in TSG,’ the corporal informed us gravely.
‘I know,’ answered Cumming without a hint of frustration in his voice, ‘that’s why we’re here.’
‘Sorry, sir, I’ve got my orders. No soft-skinned vehicles beyond this point.’
‘But I’m the Commander. No soft-skinned vehicles? Not even me?’ I could tell Cumming was highly amused by the proceedings. The corporal was adamant.
We were saved by the shrill ringing of the car phone.
Evidently, from the conversation which followed, it was someone on the phone from TSG. An arrangement was made to proceed as far as the Croat checkpoint at Lipa in the Duvno valley. There we’d cross-load into an APC for the final couple of miles to the NSE (National Support Element) logistics base.
At Lipa the Brigadier and I donned helmets and leapt into one of two 432 APCs. Corporal Fox would wait at Lipa and only proceed to the base once summoned on the radio. As we clattered along in the APC I felt faintly ridiculous, surrounded by all this armour. Ten minutes later we rocked to a halt in 35 Engineer Regiment’s part of the NSE to be met by the Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel John Field. It rapidly transpired that the shelling had ceased some time ago.
We could see little in the darkness but were given a quick guided tour of the warehouse and the offices where some of the windows had been blown in. Colonel Field described the events of the day. The Serbs had ‘walked’ their artillery fire around the town and it was believed that they had been targeting a Croat gun line which had been set up behind the UN base. A total of one hundred and forty-eight 152mm shells had been counted. A number of buildings in the town had been hit, some of the NSE’s ‘B’ vehicles – soft-skinned trucks and Land Rovers – had been damaged, but no one in the base had been injured. Very lucky. Well-rehearsed drills in the event of such an attack had paid off. The ‘loggies’ next door had had the luxury of taking cover in a huge bunker, while the Sappers had had to seek protection inside their armoured vehicles.
I spotted Corporal Fox emerging from the shadow. ‘How the hell did you get here?’
‘Oh, I came in with you … followed your APC in. I wasn’t going to miss this sitting at that checkpoint!’
‘Nothing here to miss. It ended hours ago.’ I think we both felt a bit deflated. Worse still we were now ‘war tourists’, hanging on every word of those who had undoubtedly seen their elephants that afternoon.
As there wasn’t much else to do, Seb and I found a patch of concrete to kip down on in the TV room. I bought a box of Rowntree’s Fruit Pastilles in the canteen for the journey back the next day and then wandered off to the TV room where CNN was reporting another crisis in Iraq.
The sweep of the second hand jolted me back to the present … twelve seconds … frantic heavy breathing in my ears. It was infectious, unnerving. Others’ terror compounded your own … thirteen seconds … it was hopeless. We were helpless. Unable to do anything to influence fate, to save ourselves. We were completely at the mercy of the Serbian gunners and their thunderbolts, which hammered the earth around us … fourteen seconds ... shit! I felt myself slipping into unchecked panic, muscles taut and trembling … fifteen …
The shell hissed in and missed. We were still alive and not burning to death. Intense relief.
The corporal was still doing his thing up front. ‘Think I got a fix on ’em that time,’ he shouted. ‘Be able to confirm it next time.’
Next time! He was barking mad. But he was keeping himself together by occupying his mind. I doubted I could stomach much more of this. I had to do something quickly. Anything. The fruit pastilles! I clawed at the crushed box in my pocket.
‘Anyone want a sweetie?’ I produced the box in the red half-light expecting to be told to sod off. Absurd really. The reaction was quite the opposite. Hands appeared from nowhere. Passed down the APC – even the corporal got one – the pastilles were feverishly devoured. The chewing seemed to help and at least brought some saliva back to dry mouths. It was a short-lived respite.
‘Here we go again! ’nother one incoming. Should get a fix this time.’
Another fifteen seconds of clock-watching, bowel-churning gripped us. I was raging. We had nothing to fire back at them with. Where was DENY FLIGHT? Where were the jets that were supposed to be somewhere up there? Why couldn’t a couple of Sea Harriers whip off Ark Royal in the Adriatic, zip over here and drop a couple of cluster bombs on the bastards?
It then occurred to me that this was only my tenth day in theatre. Snuffed out on day ten by the Serbs of all people. My parents would love that one! Day bloody ten. This hadn’t been part of the plan at all. Mentally, I cursed my youth, my wretched impetuosity, and my pig-headed unwillingness to listen to my father, whose dire words of warning were spinning around in my head – ‘Son, listen to your father. You don’t know what you’re getting into. You don’t know the mentality of the people there … all of them, they’re rotten, rotten, rotten … dangerous people and they’ll get you, they’ll kill you in the end just for what you are.’
I hadn’t listened to him. And now that arrogance had led me up this blind alley and there was no way out.
I felt myself slipping off the edge of sanity. Again the earth rocked. Another miss. Someone grunted in relief, another whimpered. Perhaps me.
‘They’ll send a runner round soon.’ The staff sergeant sounded as though he was being strangled.
‘A what?’ A runner! He must have cracked. A runner, round all the vehicles? During the shelling?
He nodded. ‘They did it this afternoon … to find out who was in each vehicle in case one of them got hit.’ It sounded mad but also made sense.
‘Right, I want everyone’s ID card now. Pass them down.’ I got out my notebook, stuck a Maglite torch in my mouth and started scribbling down numbers, ranks and names. At last I was doing something positive. It was a great tonic and, I’m convinced, stopped me from losing it. As I scrawled my mind retreated a step or two back from the edge of panic. There was one card missing.
‘He hasn’t got one. The boilerman’s a local.’ The staff sergeant nodded towards the youth next to me.
‘Kako se zoves? What’s your name?’ The boy was trembling. He half whispered something, Darko, Dario, Mario or something. I couldn’t quite get it so simply wrote down boilerman – local.
The shelling continued sporadically, the gaps between the salvos increasing. Five minutes passed. Nothing. Another couple of minutes. Still nothing. For the first time I noticed it was freezing in the vehicle. Suddenly the door lever sprang upwards. A helmeted soldier poked his head in.
‘Who’s in this one?’
‘Here you go. It’s all there, if you can read it.’ He grabbed the slip and tore off into the night.
We sat there in silence waiting for the corporal’s words to throw us into terror. They never came. Eventually, the door was opened. It was the runner again.
‘All clear,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘It’s all clear. You can come out now.’
I was stunned. All clear? Just like that! ‘I suppose someone’s rung up the Serbs and asked them if they’ve finished for the night!’ I quipped, more out of relief than sarcasm. But he’d already disappeared.
Stiffly we eased ourselves out of the Spartan. I expected devastation. There was nothing. The sky was cloudless and the moon had risen higher, casting its chilling rays, illuminating soldiers who were clambering out of other vehicles and walking slowly back to the warehouse clutching their sleeping bags.
‘Well, I don’t know about you, but if they do it again I’m not taking cover in that fucking thing – it’s full of petrol.’ I was shocked at what we’d done. The staff sergeant mumbled his agreement. There was more to it than just the petrol and the exposed position of the vehicle. The worst of it had been the claustrophobic and narcotic effect of being in close proximity to other people’s terror. We’d all set each other off.
Next to the boiler room door stood a large square chimney running up the outside of the building but offset from the wall by about two and a half feet. Where it disappeared into the ground, between wall and chimney, was a concrete-lined well about four feet deep. Perfect for two people. That’s where we’d be going next time.
Together we found a couple of hefty slabs of concrete, a manhole cover and some sandbags, enough to create some form of overhead cover against splinters. Twenty minutes of grunting and heaving warmed us up considerably. I was pleased. The chances of a shell actually landing on us were slim. Satisfied that we knew where we’d be going next time, we retraced our steps into the warehouse and parted company.
In the warehouse I spotted Brigadier Cumming, Colonel Field and his RSM, Graeme Furguson. They were chatting and laughing, an encouraging sign. Someone had produced an urn of sweet tea. There was plenty of nervous chatter and laughter, a strange but perfectly normal reaction to stress. I asked the Brigadier where he’d got to.
‘Oh, I had a marvellous time. I was in the command APC. They even made me a cup of tea!’ He seemed quite relaxed about things. I recalled the 432s clustered somewhere round the back of the building. At least he would have been spared the running commentary and the clock-watching.
The CO and RSM were doing their leadership bit, moving among the soldiers and chatting. It all helped. It was time to try and get some kip so I wandered back to my sleeping bag only to be confronted by a disturbing sight.
Standing in the half-shadow, just beyond our bergens and sleeping bags, were three soldiers. With them was a young Sapper lieutenant supported by two others. He seemed to be trying to get away from them. But, they weren’t so much trying to restrain him as calm him. One was holding his left arm and patting his shoulder while the other was attempting to soothe him. He seemed oblivious to them both. His eyes, unfocused, wild and staring, said it all. His lips trembled slightly. Occasionally he’d gulp hard and nod his head, but his eyes just kept staring. He’d had it. Genuinely shell-shocked.
‘He all right?’ I asked, approaching.
The one on the left shot me a glance. ‘He had a bad time of it this afternoon. This last lot …’ He didn’t bother finishing the sentence.
‘He’ll be fine,’ chimed in the second, which really meant ‘leave us alone’. I was only too glad to. It was unnerving seeing someone’s soul stripped bare, so starkly reminding me of my own terror.
I thought the Serbs were bound to shell us again so I didn’t bother taking anything off. Somehow I managed to cram myself into the sleeping bag still wearing the flak jacket, but I couldn’t zip the bag up over the bulk. It was a wretched night and I suppose I was still edgy. I dozed fitfully on the cold concrete while freezing air seeped into the bag. They had the last laugh: there was no more shelling that night.
Breakfast was a subdued affair. I found a place opposite Seb at one of the wooden trestle tables in the makeshift canteen in one of the halls. He was talking about the shelling, banging on as if none of us had been there. I suppose it was just a delayed reaction or just his way of getting it out of his system but it was irritating and he was making me distinctly nervous. I didn’t need an action replay over breakfast.
‘Seb, it’s over, it’s passed. Just drop it.’ It was precisely the wrong thing to say. He rounded on me angrily.
‘Yeah, that’s right, rufty tufty Para. Easy for you to play it cool, especially if you’ve been through it loads of times. For some of us it was our first time.’
I was stunned by his presumption. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like breakfast, got up and walked off. In the following six months Seb and I could barely stand to be in the same room as each other. The atmosphere would always be tense and uncomfortable. Was it because he thought I’d seen him lose it that night? Who knows. It’s strange and sad what these things do to people.
Before we left Brigadier Cumming inspected the night’s damage. In the compound where we’d taken cover in the Spartans stood a row of four-tonne trucks some thirty metres forward of the APCs. Nearly all were shrapnel-damaged and sagging forlornly on punctured tyres. The walls of the warehouse were deeply scarred. To one side of the warehouse two Land Rovers had been completely destroyed. A shell had landed fifteen metres on the other side of the compound fence and shrapnel had ripped through their soft aluminium sides, turning them into sieves. It was a sobering sight.
Not one shell had landed within the compound. Further analysis revealed that the shells had landed some 100 metres forward of the camp with the nearest landing about seventy metres away. How could the Serbs have managed to converge all their guns on one spot and yet drop all the rounds short? Maybe it had been deliberate, a warning – stop allowing the Croats to fire their guns from behind UN buildings. Another suggestion was that they’d intended to hit the warehouse but had been working from old and inaccurate maps. I doubted it; they’d recorded that particular DF during the day and would have known to ‘add one hundred’.
In all some thirty-three 152mm shells had been fired that night. Astonishingly, no one had been hit. Two things had saved us. The first was the row of four-tonne trucks which had absorbed some of the shrapnel, the second that the Serbs had been using old stocks of shells which had burst into large lumps of jagged metal. Although these looked menacing, they travelled less far and quickly lost their energy. Modern artillery rounds fragment into splinters one third of the size and travel three times further. We’d been lucky. The TSG incident so disturbed the politicians back home that a Naval Task Force, including a regiment of 105mm light guns, was quickly dispatched to the Adriatic.
We departed TSG at 0900 hours. Brigadier Cumming was keen to get back to Tac in Fojnica as quickly as possible. Another crisis was brewing. While we’d been racing down to TSG, a French APC transporting the Bosnian Deputy Prime Minister, Hakija Turajlic, to the airport in Sarajevo had been stopped by Chetniks, Serb irregulars. After a stand-off, they’d gained access to the APC through the rear door, machine-gunned the interior and murdered the Deputy. The UN’s future in Bosnia looked short-lived.
We crossed the almost featureless Duvno plain before picking up the road which ran along the plain’s eastern edge. At the Lipa checkpoint the Brigadier decided that we’d reach Fojnica quicker if we took Route Square along the Dugo Polje valley and thence drop down off the ‘mountain’ to Jablanica. It was a favourite route and spectacularly beautiful. We drove for half an hour in silence. Eventually Corporal Fox broke it.
‘Well, I don’t know about you … ,’ he drawled, addressing no one in particular,‘… in a way I’m glad we went there, but I wouldn’t ever want to go through that again.’ We said nothing. There was nothing to say. He’d spoken for us all.
We’d begun the descent into a breathtakingly steep valley – a wild, almost prehistoric place of towering black mountains, jagged rocks and shimmering ice, both bleak and forbidding. Some of the previous night’s terror entered my thoughts. How on earth had I got myself into this mess? Almost a year earlier, amid the arid wastes of Iraq and Kuwait, I’d been desperate to get to Yugoslavia. Now I wasn’t quite so sure I hadn’t made a terrible mistake – one all of my own making.
THREE Operation Bretton (#ulink_240db86d-39fc-5519-bddc-420cc2d0d01f)
October 1997 – Ian, UK
I’m sitting down, leaning forward, my stomach a fire of anger and fear. Legs crossed, one foot kicking uncontrollably.
I’m fiddling like mad with my watch strap. I can feel the fire welling up about to engulf me. I’m struggling to suppress tears of rage and frustration. I’m trying to explain but I’m just burbling incoherently. The man opposite me is a saint. I’ve met him before – in a past life. I mean, he’s seen me before, after the first time. He’s a lieutenant colonel, also a psychiatrist, the only one worth seeing. His name is Ian. He’s got a clipboard and a pen, but he’s not writing. He’s just looking at me, listening to me ranting.
‘I should have come to see you a long time ago, but I couldn’t. You just can’t … I mean, you try and get on with your life, put the past in a box and sit on the lid by busying yourself … of course, they’ll always tell you that the support is there – all you have to do is ask. But it’s not really there at all … let me tell you, your sort of help is virtually inaccessible.’
‘How do you mean, Milos?’ He’s frowning.
‘It’s the culture … it’s a cultural thing.’
‘Culture?’
‘Culture, macho Army culture. Can you understand what I’m saying? Y’know, you’re a major in the Parachute Regiment or whatever. In that culture you can’t show weakness or flaws. No one can. You’re supposed to be strong. So you wander around keeping it all inside, pretending everything’s okay … you bluff those around you, you bluff yourself …’ I’m close to tears now, ‘… but deep down you know you’re not well. You’re ill and need help but you can’t ask for it because you’re trapped in a straitjacket which is put on you by your peers, by the culture, by yourself … because you are the culture …’
‘So, why are you here now, Milos?’ his voice is soft and gentle, probing. ‘Why did you ask to see me?’
I stare out of the window at the sea. Why indeed? It’s choppy and green-grey. The waves are flecked with white horses. Why? The nightmare of the last five days flashes through my mind. It had been an unimaginable nightmare – it still is – and had it not been for Niki, my girlfriend, I’m not sure I’d be sitting here with Ian.
I’d held myself together long enough to answer their questions. They hadn’t finished with my house until past six in the evening. The questioning – in an interview room, all taped – had started at six thirty. Fortunately Issy, my solicitor, and I had been able to see the questions beforehand. It was all about phone numbers, phone calls to the former Yugoslavia, just as I’d expected. Most were instantly explicable and innocuous. It boiled down to three which weren’t. I told them the truth, but not all of it. I couldn’t bring myself to start talking about the List and about Rose and Smith. They’d have to find that out for themselves. The interview had lasted for no more than about twenty minutes, after which one of the policemen unexpectedly announced that I was on police bail. Just like that.
Curiously, he’d looked at his watch. ‘We’ll get this thing wrapped up by Christmas, so, let’s say bailed until eleven o’clock on 11 December – back here at Guildford police station.’ I was stunned. Oh, you’re confident of yourself, mate. Think you’ll get this cracked in a couple of months? You’re about to open up a real can of Balkan worms.
Before Issy left and I was handed back to the Army, she let slip two snippets of information – something about the Bosnian ambassador making a complaint and that the police had mentioned that they’d seized my diary from Bosnia, which apparently contained ‘evidence of disaffection with the West’s policies’.
After the questioning, I was led to another room where two colonels from Bracknell were waiting. One was in a suit and the other, a very tall, thin Guards officer, was in uniform. The Guards officer simply read out a typewritten statement from Bracknell to the effect that, due to the serious nature of my arrest, my vetting had been revoked and I therefore could not continue on the course. Forthwith I’d be posted to the Parachute Regiment’s headquarters in Aldershot. With that he dropped the paper into his brief-case, snapped it shut and brushed past me without so much as glancing in my direction. I felt like dirt, a leper standing there with no tie or belt.
The other colonel, Dennis Hall, was kinder. He explained that he’d been tasked to look after me. He asked me not to discuss the case with him and, with that, his driver drove us the ten miles to Farnham. It was dark and raining heavily.
My house had been taken apart. They’d removed just about anything they could lay their hands on. On the table lay a number of blue seizure of property forms. The words ‘OPERATION BRETTON’ were printed across the top of each. They had mounted an operation against me.
I’d quickly scanned the house. None of it really made sense. Why had they left that? That would have been useful to them. Why had they taken a whole pile of novels and Latin textbooks, and a sheaf of sandpaper? What possible purpose could they serve? Why had they taken that picture but left that one? Then I spotted it.
They left a Coke can in the kitchen. I don’t drink Coke at home – ever. They were drinking and eating while ransacking my house and then left their rubbish behind. A specialist search team? Nothing but a bunch of incompetents. They’re not professionals, they’re just Plod from the MoD.
I’d found a bottle of red wine in the fridge. At least they hadn’t touched that. Having opened it I then rang my mother. I had to. She was alone in Cornwall.
‘What!! Milos, I don’t believe it! After all you’ve done for them …’ Her voice was cracking and breaking over the connection. Then she got angry, ‘It’s the Muslims, Milos, the Muslims and the Americans!’
Things happen either by cock-up or by conspiracy. In my experience, usually the former. In any event the phone was probably tapped so I asked her not to jump to any conclusions and told her that a mistake had probably been made. I didn’t believe a word of it and neither did she. We agreed not to tell my sister.
Half an hour later L-P, a friend from the Army, called from a bar in London. He’d been interviewed by the MoD Police while I’d been in my cell. ‘Milos, don’t worry. I’m behind you all the way. One hundred per cent.’ He couldn’t discuss anything, certainly not over the phone. I didn’t want to know anyway. All he had to do was tell the truth. I trust him with my life. His call perked me up slightly.
As I polished off the wine I stared at what was left of my house. It wasn’t mine anymore. It was theirs now – they’d taken my life, my mementoes, dismantled my museum and carted off a large part of me. I was a squatter in my own home. I felt hollow and sick – this is what it must feel like to be violated!.
I awoke the next morning curled up in a little sweating ball. I’d had another of those vivid dreams from over there. Everything was an effort; dragging myself out of bed, shaving – I’m staring at myself in the mirror, mindlessly pulling the razor across my face. I’m staring into my eyes. I can still look at myself in the mirror, because I know the truth. But I feel like shit. I’ve got this horrible squirming, sinking feeling in my stomach. I feel weak, sweaty and queasy. I stare at myself, razor frozen in mid stroke – Traitor? No.
I smoked a couple of cigarettes. At nine-thirty Colonel Hall arrived to take me to Bracknell to clear out my room. Before we reached the car he stopped, looked around and said in a low voice, ‘Look, I’m breaking the rules by saying this … don’t feel as though you’re on your own in this. You’re not. A lot of people are backing you on this but they can’t tell you. People like Rose and Smith cast long shadows.’ It was something to cling to.
When we arrived at Bracknell the students were in a lecture. Just as well because I didn’t want to see any of them. Plod had gutted my room – laptop, printer, keyboard, monitor, books, books, books – all issued – gone. Gone also one copy of Playboy, my Service Dress jacket and my medals. They’d even unpicked my miniatures from my Mess Dress jacket.
It took me less than half an hour to pack up my room. We then drove back to Farnham in convoy. I dumped my stuff without bothering to unpack it and jumped in with Colonel Dennis. Next stop Regimental Headquarters, The Parachute Regiment in Aldershot to see my new Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Joe Poraj-Wilczynski, the Regimental Colonel. We’re old friends. He was shocked, didn’t really know what it was all about. All he’d heard was that I’d been arrested, kicked out of Staff College and that I was to be under him for welfare matters. Joe gave me a cup of coffee and Colonel Dennis returned to Bracknell saying he’d send his driver back for me. I still had to collect the motorbike.
Joe and I chatted for about an hour. He explained that, as my CO, he couldn’t be privy to any details about the case and that we’d have to confine our conversations to other matters. This was a blow. I was rapidly running out of people to talk to.
The driver took me back to Bracknell. When we arrived I discovered that I had to go and see my Divisional Colonel, Colonel Hamish Fletcher, also a Para and an old acquaintance. As I walked into his office he stood up and just stared at me. It looked as though he’d been crying, but he hadn’t – bad flu. Concern and worry were etched across his face.
‘Has someone stitched you up, Milos?’
‘Don’t know, Colonel.’ Really I didn’t.
He continued, ‘I’m not supposed to say this to you or talk to you about it but, when you were arrested we had a meeting with them and I told him in no uncertain terms. I told the spook that …’
‘Spook? Y’sure, Colonel? It was MoD Police who arrested me.’
‘No, this guy was definitely a spook and I told him, “You better make sure you’ve got this right. He’s thirty-four, last chance at Staff College, and you’ve just blown his career apart. If you’ve got this wrong he could just turn round, resign and sue the MoD!”’
I blanched. Thanks for the support, but I wish you hadn’t said that. Now they’ll be under added pressure to prove a case, to fabricate something.
‘Your posting order’s being sorted out now. I’m popping over to Aldershot this afternoon with it. Where will you be?’ I told him I’d wait in Joe’s office and with that I went, collected the bike and sped off to Aldershot.
Colonel Joe had some more unpleasant news for me. He produced a long secret signal which he’d received from someone in the MoD. It was a set of Draconian instructions detailing what I could and couldn’t do. I was forbidden from having any contact with anyone in the Services and discussing the case. If I did they’d be obliged instantly to record the details of the conversation and report them to the MoD Plod. But I was free to organise my own defence!
Colonel Hamish arrived at five with the paperwork. He told me that General Rupert Smith had phoned him from Northern Ireland and that his first question had been, ‘Has he been spying for the Serbs?’ Colonel Hamish had told him ‘no’.
‘Well, you told him right, Colonel. I haven’t been spying for the Serbs!’
Before I left for Farnham, Joe asked me if there was anything he could do for me on the welfare front. I’d thought about it long and hard in the cell and throughout the day.
‘There’s only one thing I want right now, Colonel. I want to see a doctor, and not just any doctor.’ I told him about Ian. Joe wanted to see me on Monday. Till then I was free to do my own thing.
I arrived home at five-thirty with a splitting headache. I hadn’t eaten for forty-eight hours but I wasn’t in the least bit hungry. I tried to turn the key but the front door was already unlocked. Niki was lying on the sofa with Frankie, her dog. She’d come down from London for the night. She had a christening in Camberley the next day and we’d made the arrangement the previous weekend. She smiled brightly at me. ‘I’m bored with this revision. How’s your day been?’ She had an Open University exam to sit on the following Wednesday.
I sat down heavily in the armchair, loosened my tie and just stared at her. She frowned.
‘Notice anything different about the house, Niki?’
Her frown deepened. ‘No, not really. Well, sort of cleaner, less junk. Come to think of it, have you had a clearout?’
‘Sort of …’ I closed my eyes and took a deep breath – here goes! – ‘Nix, I was arrested for espionage on Thursday … I’m on police bail …’
She stared back at me uncomprehendingly. The next four days were a nightmare, so bad that I can’t recall them.
And now I’m sitting in front of this bloke Ian, who’s asking me why I’m here. I’m staring out of the window wondering why there are no yachts out there on the sea. Must be at least a force six – perfect perfect day for a sail … Why am I here?
‘Why am I here, Ian? … I’ll tell you why. I’m here because I’ve got nothing left, nothing. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘That’s right, nothing!’ I struggle to control my voice. ‘Look! The Army’s a great life-support machine. It provides you with all sorts of crutches … well, life-jackets really. They keep you afloat and everything looks fine to the casual observer …’
‘Life-jackets?’
‘Precisely that. The uniform is a life-jacket, so is the job. They prop you up and keep you going … you know, you stick on the uniform and the beret and bingo! You’re a company commander. But when you take off the uniform, when you get home in the evenings or at the weekend and you step through the front door – alone – you step back into the museum and the pause button on the machine in your head gets pressed. The tape starts running again, and you’re back there. You’re somebody else and you’re back there. Everything else is irrelevant because being back there is more real.’
‘Where’s there, Milos?’
‘The Dark Side, Ian. You’re back on the Dark Side. That’s what we called Serb-held territory. That’s it then, by day or during the week you’re a major, Parachute Regiment, MBE, company commander or student. But at night or during the weekends you’re somebody else, you’re Stanley again … Mike Stanley, fixer, useful tool. You won’t believe this, Ian, but people still ring me up and call me “Mike”. Geordie does all the time. And I still get letters dropping onto the carpet addressed to this person called Mike Stanley … there are still people out there who don’t know me as anything other than Mike Stanley!’
‘And now? Who are you now?’ he asks gently.
I think hard. I’m not sure of the answer. ‘I’m both, Ian. Or maybe I’m nothing … a hybrid, a monster.’
I lapse into silence. I’m fiddling with the bezel of my watch – round and round and round, click, click, click, click, click, click. Ian’s waiting for me to say something. A thought enters my head and makes me instantly furious. I look directly at Ian.
‘I still can’t believe it, really, I can’t … I mean, you can’t dream up a more tragic joke. It’s a sick joke!’
‘What is?’
‘Names, Ian. Our names! I mean, I can’t believe it. We’ve got thirty years experience in Northern Ireland, thirty years of living with the terrorist threat, thirty years of developing systems and procedures for personal security, of protecting people’s identities … and what do we do with all that experience? Do we transfer it to the Balkans … ?’ I’m gulping for air. I didn’t wait for him to answer,‘… do we hell!! D’you know what names they gave the three of us? The first two they called Abbott and Costello. Can you believe it? And then I flew out as Laurel and then they changed my name to Stanley … Abbott, Costello, Laurel and Stanley. Big joke, Ian. Very funny if it wasn’t so serious. It’s our lives they’re playing with!’ I’m breathless, furious, almost shouting.
And then quietly, ‘Ian, Abbott was blown after only three months there. The Croats found out who he was, threatened to kill him, just because he was a Serb. He was removed from theatre within twenty-four hours. He never came back.’ I lapse back into silence. Staring at my boots. Big joke.
‘Has it always been like this, Milos?’
‘Like what?’
‘This double life of yours. Has it got progressively worse or has it stayed the same? You’ve been back two-and-a-half years now …’
I’m not sure what to say. I think hard for a moment, ‘...’ 95 was quite bad, the last half of ‘95. I had a naff job with the Territorial Army up north, did a parachute refresher course, my Company Commanders Course. It sort of kept me busy, but I was back there when I wasn’t busy. 1996 was so busy, that’s when I was Company Commanding in 1 PARA – twice in the States, once in Northern Ireland, once in France, in between exercises. Just didn’t stop, I wasn’t on the Dark Side much. Thought I’d cracked it. Put all my demons in the box and locked the lid.’
‘And?’
‘And then, Ian, I went to Shrivenham. Nightmare. Suddenly you’re a student along with ninety-nine others, all on an equal footing. No responsibility, except for yourself; no soldiers to look after; no careers to manage. This year has been a nightmare. It’s just got worse and worse. More and more polarised. It’s the routine.’
‘Routine?’
‘Predictable, bloody routine. Monday morning to Friday afternoon you’re a student. Live in a room there. Work hard. Drink Diet Coke only, watch the diet and become an obsessive fitness fanatic.’
‘And then?’
‘And then, get home Friday evening. Walk through the door of the museum. Tape starts playing and I’m there again on the Dark Side. Sink a bottle of red wine, stagger up to the pub, few pints of Guinness …’
‘How many?’
‘Five or six maybe. Sometimes I get a kebab, sometimes I forget to eat all weekend. Saturday’s the same. So’s Sunday. I’m there on the Dark Side with all my friends, dead and alive. And then Monday morning I drive to Shriven ham where I’m a student again, for another four and a half days. And that was my life. You keep it all inside you.’
There’s a long silence. ‘That’s why I’m here, Ian. I’m here because when something like this happens, something big that explodes your fragile world, something that removes all your crutches and life-jackets …’ I can feel tears welling, that’s when you realise that all those things were nothing, that you’re still where you’ve always been – on the Dark Side … ’
‘Is that where you are now?’
I shrug, not trusting myself to speak. Not really knowing the answer.
Another long silence. Ian very quietly, ‘Do you want to come back?’
I can’t speak. I nod my head and then shake it. I really don’t know.
Ian’s scribbling something. I try to get a grip of myself.
‘How do you see the future?’ he asks quietly.
‘Sorry?’ He’s suddenly changed tack and caught me by surprise.
‘Do you see a future for yourself? I mean how do you see your future?’
‘I don’t. There isn’t one. There is no future on the Dark Side. I suppose I’ve been drifting ever since I got back. I’m still there, but I’m back. Does that make sense?’
Ian nods. We’ve been at it over an hour. Me burbling, him listening and making the occasional note.
I’m staring out at the sea again. It’s getting dark there. Winter’s definitely on its way. It’s dark, cold and lonely out there. Ian’s asking me a whole load of practical questions: sleep patterns, dreams, panic attacks? Alcohol intake, diet? How’s your libido? Sex life? Steady relationship? I answer him as best I can, but I don’t take my eyes off the sea. My answers are automatic. I know myself so well by now, I don’t even have to think about the answers.
‘If we’re to do any meaningful work we need some sort of structure to work from. When did you last see me?’ He sounds quite businesslike now.
I’m still looking at the sea. ‘November ’93 after my first year there.’
‘That’s right. I’ve got the notes somewhere, but I think it would help if you took me through it … from the beginning …’
‘The beginning?’ The beginning? When was that? Where did it begin? This century? Last century? When I was born? The recruiting office in Plymouth? It began all over the place. Where to start? Kuwait in the desert, that’s as good a place as any.
‘Milos?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did it start? What was it like?’ What was it like?
I tear my eyes from the sea and stare at Ian. I don’t really see him. What was it like?
I’m speaking slowly now, more measured. ‘It started in Kuwait and turned into a living nightmare. It was a completely upside down world – Alice-Through-the-Looking-Glass – warped, weird, back-to-front. I can’t begin to explain what it was like.’
‘Well, why don’t you just tell me about the job? Start there.’
‘Job? Interpreter?’ I pause for a moment. Was that it? Just that? ‘Only for a short while, Ian, just at the beginning.’ I’d hated interpreting. It had given me hideous headaches and in any case I just didn’t have that computer-like brain that the job requires.
‘Well, what was your job then?’ What was it? How do you describe it? It doesn’t exist in any job description that the Army has ever heard of. What was it … in a nutshell? I’m thinking hard now and it comes, absurd though it sounds.
‘Ian, I was a fixer.’
‘A fixer?’
‘Yeah, that’s right – a fixer, a sort of go-between … for the UN, for Rose and Smith … you know “go-and-wave-your-magic-wand” stuff.’
‘That’s the job they gave you?’ He sounds incredulous.
‘No, not really. It sort of just happened by accident. It evolved I guess … by accident.’
‘Okay then, but what exactly did it involve?’ I can see he’s not getting it.
‘Involve? Just about everything. As I’ve just said: “go and wave your magic wand at the Serbs … fix this … sort that problem out … get ’em to see it this way … get the hostages released …” on and on and on. There was no job description, just sort of made it up as I went along.’
‘How?’
‘History, that’s how. By prostituting myself, not my body … but my history, my family history … I was a sort of historical prostitute. I prostituted my background and my soul to get close to those people.’
‘Which people?’
‘The Serbs. Just them. Hid it from the others, the Muslims and Croats. They’d have killed me had they found out. They tried to kill Nick Abbott. This is serious shit, Ian. You don’t fuck around with these people.’
‘Did it work? I mean, this prostitution.’
‘Did it work? Did it! Why do you think I spent two years out there? It worked all right … worked a treat. It was a sort of Barclaycard, y’know, gets you in anywhere. Gets you into their mentality and into their minds. Problem is, once you’re in you end up playing mind games with them.’
‘Mind games?’
‘That’s right. Three-D mental chess. Trouble is, once you’re in their minds, they’re in yours too … they’re still there, that lot … and you engage in this bizarre struggle of wills. Did it work? Too bloody well. It worked too well and that’s the problem. It just never ends.’
‘How do you mean too well?’
‘Too well means that you become a sort of useful tool and everyone wants a bit of you. As I said, it’s never over. It never ends.’
‘But you’ve been back a while now, Milos. Surely it’s over.’
‘It’s never over. You know, you come back. No one bothers to debrief you. No one grabs you and tells you it’s over. So, you drift along never really sure whether you’re going back or not. No one tells you a thing. You just don’t know.’
‘But surely you’d started a new job, done your courses. Surely that’s enough?’ This is getting exasperating. He’s just not getting it.
‘No it isn’t. Listen,’ I can feel the anger rising again, ‘I come back and guess what? Two months later I’m at this wedding. Mark Etherington’s marrying Chelsea Renton, the MP’s daughter. I’m at this wedding, this is mid-June 1995, and General Mike Jackson comes up to me, he’s the bloke I delivered all those parcels for, on behalf of his au pair …’
‘What parcels?’
‘I was Postman Pat out there, but I’ll tell you about that later. I even fixed up a meeting for him with Mladic once, but anyway, so he comes up to me at the wedding and slaps me on the back and says, “Ah, Milos, well done, good to see you back ... done more than anyone could have asked of you … no need for you to go back … got a good career to crack on with … get yourself to Staff College etc etc etc …” and then what?’
‘Go on.’
‘Six and a half months later, on 2 January 1996, on the day that I’ve taken over command of A Company 1 PARA in Aldershot, I get this phone call. It’s Will Buckley, the Regimental Adjutant, and he says to me, “General Jackson’s been pinged to be the IFOR Commander Multinational Division South West in Bosnia and has asked for you to go out with him.” Can you believe it? One minute it’s one thing and the next it’s quite another. So, you see, it’s never really over. You just don’t know … ’
‘Why didn’t you go back out?’
‘Simple. The Muslims would have killed me. Jackson’s not the only one. Three months after that we get a new second-in-command in 1 PARA – Paul, who has just come from a staff job in the MoD and he tells me that, at the same time Jackson was asking for me, his boss, who is also pinged to deploy his HQ into Sarajevo also asks for me – “let’s get Stanley out. He’ll give us the inside track on the Serbs.” See what I mean …’ I’m shouting at him again, ‘… which is it? I mean, what do these people want? One minute they give you an MBE for your work out there. The next they arrest you as a spy! Who’s mad here? Me or them?’ I lapse into silence, exhausted.
We stare at each other. ‘No, Ian – that’s the way we did that. Historical prostitute … funny if it wasn’t so tragic, being a prostitute.’
Ian’s picked up his board again. He doesn’t bother writing while I’m raving at him. He’s talking softly now, ‘Let’s forget about Bosnia for a moment. Why don’t you tell me about your family? Let’s start with that, shall we. That seems to be the root of all this.’ His voice is very soothing, compelling, almost narcotic.
‘My family! Have you got all night? There’s more history here than anyone can cope with. Sure you’re up to it?’
‘Only if you are.’
‘We’ve been at it for most of the century. All over the place. Even the Army can’t figure out what I’m supposed to be. On my PAMPUS computer record they’ve got me down as “BRIT NAT/FOREIGN” for my nationality at birth and current nationality. What’s that supposed to mean? “FOREIGN”?’
Ian just shrugs. There’s no answer to that sort of question.
‘I suppose it’s their way of labelling someone if they can’t work out where they’re really from. You’ve got to sympathise with them to a certain extent. It’s a nightmare trying to work out what’s what in our family this century.’
‘So, tell me about it.’
‘Okay. Best place to start is with my maternal grandmother, Jessie Constance Millar Rowan. A Scot. I suppose that’s what the Army means by “FOREIGN”. She was from a wealthy Ayrshire family who were shipping-line owners in the last century. Of course, she had the best schooling – Paris and Cheltenham Ladies – and pretty much did nothing other than look after a menagerie at home and drive around Scotland. She was somewhat eccentric, though. She had no brothers, so in a peculiar sort of way became the son her father never had. She’d sit there with him after dinner, at the age of fifteen, smoking cigars and drinking port. She also wore a monocle for some reason. When the Great War broke out she nursed with the VADs in France and then in Malta during the Gallipoli campaign. After that she had a brief but disastrous driving job in London with the War Office from which she was sacked for being rude to an American general whom she’d accused of coming into the war three years too late. That wasn’t the end of her driving career, though. She ended up as a Scottish Women’s Hospital ambulance driver on the Salonika front in the Balkans where the British, French and Serbs were holding the line in the Macedonian mountains. There she met her future husband, a Serbian officer called Vladimir Ilija Dusmanic.
‘He was from a grand Belgrade family. His father had been Minister for Education in Nikola Pasic’s government in Serbia. Both Vladimir and his younger brother, Branko, were educated at the Pazhovski Institute in Russia. He went on to study law in Moscow but was recalled to Serbia in 1911 when the Balkan war against the Turks broke out. Branko never returned from Russia. He was at one of the Tzar’s cadet academies and disappeared in the Revolution, no doubt eliminated by the Bolsheviks. My grandmother met Vladimir Dusmanic on the Salonika front. He was close friends with Prince Alexander, who later became King of Yugoslavia. He was in uniform for the best part of eight years, by the end of which he’d been decorated with the Milos Obilic Gold medal for Valour, the VC equivalent. Nice, but his education had been blown to bits by all these wars.
‘He and my grandmother lost touch at the end of the war. She went back to her pets in Scotland and he was sent to Paris to finish off his law studies. After that he joined the diplomatic service and was posted to London where he was the Third Secretary at the Serbian Legation. From there he tracked down Constance, pursued her to Scotland and they were married in Ayr in 1920. That was just the beginning of it.
‘He left the diplomatic service because the thought of rushing around Europe with my grandmother’s pets was too much for him. He went back to law in Belgrade where they built a home in Dedinje, just opposite what is now Milosevic’s palace, and settled down. They had four children – three daughters, of which my mother was the second, and a son. Most were actually born in Scotland.’
‘How come?’
‘Oh, don’t think they lived in penury in Belgrade. They had an extraordinary life. At least once a year they’d jump into the Bentley and drive from Belgrade to Ayr. It only took four days. On one occasion my grandmother was escort for ten days to the Duchess of York, when she and the future King George VI were visiting Belgrade in the early 1920s. So, all in all, they were pretty well-connected at court. The children received English and then Swiss finishing school educations, though they were removed from Switzerland as Nazism took hold of Germany and it looked as though Europe was heading towards another war. At the end of March 1941 they had to escape from Yugoslavia.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s obvious. Germany was about to attack in the Balkans. My grandfather was back in uniform as a lieutenant colonel and was the Royal Yugoslav Army’s liaison officer in the British Embassy in Belgrade. A few days prior to the German bombing of Belgrade and the invasion of Yugoslavia the Brits warned my grandfather and told him to get his family out of the country. Any family with connections at court was earmarked for liquidation by the Nazis. So he rang my grandmother, told her to get the children packed – one suitcase each – and to leave that very day. And that’s exactly what happened. They grabbed what they could and fled south by train that same night. My grandmother never saw her husband again after that call from the British Embassy. He stayed on to fight the Germans and died in 1943.’
‘What happened to your grandmother?’
‘She and the four children escaped by train, south to Istanbul initially and then over the Bosphorus into Asia Minor and down to the port of Mersin in southern Turkey. They stayed in Mersin for nearly a week hoping to catch a refugee ship across the Med to Palestine. Half of middle Europe was mooching about in Mersin having fled from the Germans. Eventually, they got passage on the Warshawa, a chartered refugee ship that was crammed with all sorts of aristocracy on the move out of Europe. Four days later they landed in Haifa, Palestine, where the British gave them refugee status and provided them with accommodation.’
‘And that’s where they sat out the war?’
‘Sat out? Hardly. All four children joined up with British Forces Middle East. Yvan, the youngest, lied about his age and got into the Royal Signals. The youngest daughter, Tatjana, joined the Royal Navy as a Wren, while my mother and her elder sister both joined the ATS and were posted to Cairo. My mother became a driver, initially moving tanks about large depots, then graduating to motorcycle dispatch rider and finally ending up driving ambulances during the battle of El Alamein. Her sister worked in SOE Cairo, on account of her Serbo-Croat, where she married a British officer called Rocky. He was an SOE agent and member of Force 133 which fought for Tito against the Germans in the Adriatic. Even got an uncle who fought there in the last war.’
‘So, your aunt was the only one involved on the Yugoslav side of things?’
‘Initially yes, but eventually my mother was roped into it too, again because she could speak the language. She was posted to a large refugee camp in the Sinai desert which was packed with Croat refugees. From there she was moved into Dr McPhail’s “Save the Children” Unit. By the end of 1944 they were in southern Italy preparing to go back to Yugoslavia with their ambulances as part of UNRRA, the United Nations Refugee Rehabilitation Administration. The first ever UN mission. Ironic that my mother should have been sent to Yugoslavia. In March 1945 she landed in Dubrovnik with her ambulance and spent the remainder of that year driving around Bosnia, Hercegovina and Montenegro dispensing aid to orphans. At one stage she managed to get up to Belgrade to check on the house. There was nothing left of it. German nurses had used it during the war but when the Russians arrived in Belgrade they’d used it as accommodation for a platoon. The Russians had stolen everything and defecated in every conceivable corner of the house.
‘She was eventually demobbed and returned to England to join her mother, sisters and brother, who were also now “out”. They lived for a while in Godmanchester in Cambridgeshire. Mum did Russian at the School of Eastern European and Slavonic Languages and even got a job as an interpreter in the 1948 London Olympics. Grandmother’s health wasn’t good, though. It was a combination of ill-health and poor English weather which forced them to emigrate to Rhodesia. They bought ten acres just north of Salisbury, built a house and settled down to grow flowers. My grandmother died in 1957, well before I was born. I never knew her, nor my grandfather who was left behind in Yugoslavia and died before the end of the war. In fact I never knew any of my grandparents, not even on my father’s side – all because of the last war really.’
‘And you end up in Bosnia fifty years later with the UN.’
‘Correct. Three generations, all fiddling around in the Balkans during three different wars. A novelist couldn’t have written that one.’
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that your father was in the UN as well.’ Ian’s laughing.
‘No. That side of the story’s quite different. There are parallels with my mother’s side of the family, but nothing as grand and aristocratic. His father also fought on the Salonika front in the First World War, but as a warrant officer in the artillery. But that’s not to say he was a peasant or anything like that. In fact he was an agricultural specialist who’d been university trained in Prague before the War. They came from a small village in Sumadija called Mrcajevci, in Central Serbia. No great connections at court. My father was born in Kraljevo in 1920. His mother died when he was very young and he was brought up by his two older sisters, the eldest of whom was killed during an Allied bombing raid in 1943. He was educated in Skopje in Macedonia where he was studying law when the Germans invaded. He’d been politically active throughout the 1930s and had been a staunch anti-Communist and supporter of the King.
‘When the Germans invaded King Peter fled to London in April 1941 and set up a government in exile. The likes of my father stayed on to fight. You could write a book about what went on in Yugoslavia during the war and still not understand it. Although the Germans occupied the Balkans and fostered Fascism in Croatia, which included in those days all of Bosnia and Hercegovina, they were quite happy to allow the locals to fight it out amongst themselves in a bloody civil war. My father joined the Serbian Volunteer Corps, a Royalist outfit fighting Tito’s Communists. He was one of the original volunteers. By the end of the war he was a company commander in an infantry regiment. The commanding officer of his battalion, Ratko Obradovic, eventually became my godfather but was assassinated in an underground car park in Munich in 1968 by Tito’s UDBA assassins.’
‘Assassinated!’
‘That’s right. Tito couldn’t tolerate anti-Communist opposition from the émigré community, so he had them murdered. The Royalists and Chetniks, under Draza Mihajlovic, were forced to fight a rearguard action withdrawing from Yugoslavia. Some went north to Austria, others, like my father’s battalion, went west into Italy. In fact, his war ended on 5 May 1945 when he conducted the last bridge demolition guard of the war. They were holding the bridge over the river Soca, which marked the border between Slovenia and Italy. The bridge had been prepared for demolition and my father’s company was on the Slovenian side holding that end of the bridge in order to allow as many refugees as possible to get across into Italy. Russian tanks eventually appeared and they were forced to leg it over into Italy and blow the bridge. End of his war.
‘The next day they handed over their weapons to the British in Palmanova and were then carted off to a concentration camp at Eboli, south of Naples. No one really knew what to do with these people so they stayed in that camp for the best part of two years before being moved to other camps in Europe. My father was moved to one near Munich where, in 1947, he was selected by the British as suitable for labour in Britain. The Belgians had already rejected him. At the end of 1947 he stepped off a refugee ship at Southampton docks. No socks, no money and not a word of English. Each person was given a pound as they stepped off the gangplank; my father remembered his first purchase, a pair of socks, and his first meal, fish and chips, wrapped up in newspaper. I remember him laughing about this, how shocked and horrified that such a cultured people could eat their food with fingers from newspaper.
‘The deal for all these displaced people from Eastern Europe was simple. Three years labour in exchange for the right of abode but not citizenship. For three years my father, ex-law student, ex-officer, was a hod carrier at the London Brick Company factory in Bedfordshire. That did his back in. Still couldn’t speak a word of English and by the time he’d worked off his obligation to the British government he still wasn’t integrated into society in any way. To put that right he lived with an English family in Ealing and gradually learned the language. He also put himself through night school and taught himself electronics. By day he swept the floors of the Rank Bush Murphy television and radio factory at Chiswick. By night he studied for his degree. By the end of the 1950s he’d qualified as an electrical engineer and was employed by Rank as a TV design engineer.’
Ian’s puzzled by something. ‘But I thought your mother’s lot were in Rhodesia by this stage. How did your parents meet?’
‘In 1960 Rank sent him out to Southern Rhodesia to help set up the black and white TV system there. He and my mother met in Salisbury and they married in the Greek Orthodox church. I was born in 1962, my sister fifteen months later. Then, in 1965, Ian Smith declared UDI. My father sniffed another war and wanted no part of it whatsoever. You could hardly blame him. Branko, my maternal grandfather’s younger brother, was lost in Russia during the civil war. My mother’s father died in 1943 in Yugoslavia. My father never saw his father again after 1945 – he died in 1957 in Serbia. That’s why they decided to leave Rhodesia before things got worse.
‘We returned to London but most of my cousins stayed on in Rhodesia and fought their Communists in that war. In fact, we’ve still got the property in Harare. Mum’s eldest sister, the one who worked in SOE Cairo, lives there, has a beautiful house.
‘My father continued working for Rank in Chiswick. I received a pretty bog standard education. They pumped every penny they could into it; prep school in Leicestershire, minor public school in the West Country where I was head boy and head of the Combined Cadet Force. Father, of course, wanted me to be what he never was – a lawyer. I had other ideas. The day after my last A level – I did Latin, Greek and Ancient History – I walked into the Army recruiting office on Mayflower Street in Plymouth and enlisted in the Parachute Regiment. My father hit the bloody roof. Real drama.’
‘Drama?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe. But you’ve got to see it from his point of view. So many upheavals, so much misfortune in both families for so long, it’s hardly surprising that the one thing he wanted for me was security. But you’re wilful at that age. At eighteen you know best and he just had to live with it.’
Ian has been listening patiently, only asking one or two questions.
‘Why didn’t your father return to Yugoslavia after the war?’
‘Oh, that’s because of the code.’
‘What code?’
‘There was an unwritten code, a rule, among the émigrés. There was to be no returning to Yugoslavia while Tito and the Communists were in power, not for any reason whatsoever. Some weakened towards the end of their lives and went back. He never did. A die-hard to the day he died. I suppose it was because of the assassination of my godfather. He didn’t even go back when his own father died. None of us did, except my mother who’d trip out there every couple of years to look after Dad’s sole surviving sister, Bisenija. She’d been declared “mad” and an “enemy of the state” by the Yugoslav authorities; she had no state pension, so we had to keep her alive from the UK.’
‘That determination never to go back to Yugoslavia is a hard attitude to take, Milos.’
‘Hard, but understandable too. It’s all a product of history and personal experience.’
‘That’s a lot of history you’re carrying around on your back.’
I’m silent for a moment. ‘It’s like a sodding monkey hanging off you. Can’t complain, though. It’s beyond my control. I suppose Trotsky was right in the end.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, he said that anyone who wanted a quiet life should not have been born in the twentieth century.’
‘Do you think he was right?’
‘Looks that way now, doesn’t it?’
Ian doesn’t reply to that one. He’s turned the page on his note pad. The pen’s poised again.
‘Let’s get back to Bosnia, to the present. Pick it up from the start.’
‘Even that’s all over the place. I could pick any bloody starting point and it still wouldn’t make any sense. I mean, I could start in Iraq and Kuwait if you wanted me to, because that’s where this mess really began.’
‘All right then. Let’s start with something concrete.’
‘Like what?’
‘A date. When exactly did you go out to the Balkans?’
‘That’s easy! 29 December 1992. How about that, then? There’s a date for you.’
‘Okay then. Tell me about that and Kuwait if it’s relevant.’
‘It’s all relevant, in its own way.’
I take a deep breath, pause, and then begin.
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Martin Bell
Milos Stankovic
A high-octane account by a decorated major in the British Army of his high-level dealings with the Bosnian Serb leadership, of his running a ‘Schindler’s List’ operation in Sarajevo, and of his extraordinary subsequent arrest by Ministry of Defence police on suspicion of betraying secrets to the Serbs.Trusted Mole is the powerful and disturbing first-hand account of a British soldier of part Yugoslav origin painfully caught up in the savage maelstrom of the Bosnian war. Armed only with the pseudonym ‘Mike Stanley’ and an antiquated Serbo-Croat vocabulary, Milos Stankovic – an officer in the Parachute Regiment – worked as interpreter and go-between for two British brigadiers and two British UN generals, Mike Rose and Rupert Smith.His experiences plunged him deeper and deeper into Bosnia’s heart of darkness, where all human life was lived in extremis. His own Balkan heritage likewise drew him in: his Scottish grandmother had been a nurse on the Salonika front in the First World War; his father was a former Royalist Yugoslav who had fought in the Second World War; and his mother in 1945 had driven one of the first UN ambulances around Bosnia and Montenegro.In helping to negotiate ceasefires between rival warlords, securing the release of UN hostages and organising the escape from Sarajevo of stricken families, Milos Stankovic was propelled from one nerve-wracking crisis to another. Throughout he was engaged in the highly dangerous game of bridging the gap between alien Balkan and Western mentalities. His was a role for which there was no military rule-book, and in the general climate of suspicion and paranoia his close contacts with the Bosnian Serb leadership of Dr Karadzic and General Ratko Mladic caused him to be branded by the Americans and the Bosnian Muslims as a Serb spy in the UN and later as a British spy – General Rose’s ‘trusted mole’.In a final, horrific twist, the author was arrested by the British authorities on suspicion of being a Serb spy. At journey’s end, Milos Stankovic was now confronted with the awful and inescapable truth of ‘Mike Stanley’.
Copyright (#ulink_3a132c08-4b8d-5fb5-b689-77c5fcde8dc9)
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk. (http://www.fireandwater.com)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2000
Copyright © Milos Stankovic 2000
Maps by Jillian Luff
Milos Stankovic, Foreword by Martin Bell, M.P. asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or here in after invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Source ISBN: 9780006530909
Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2014 ISBN: 9780007441457
Version: 2015-01-06
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Praise (#ulink_820d8e4c-cd0f-552f-ab05-310b0ac74b6a)
Further reviews for Trusted Mole:
‘By far the best book to have come out of the Balkan wars, not because it explains the conflict simply, but because Stankovic demonstrates with wit and eloquence that simplicity was never part of the equation … This is not, however, a bleak book. Far from it. There is humour, lots of it, often (inevitably) black, but also reflecting the accidental idiocies and genuinely comic scenes that occurred in the midst of organised chaos.’
PETER MILLAR, Sunday Times
‘Stankovic’s book is far more than the outcry of an innocent man foully accused. He has a wonderful eye for detail and a natural storyteller’s gift, and passion, to get across the bizarre and terrible cruelty of what the people of Bosnia went through. At times, I laughed out loud; at times, horrible moments of my spells there came swimming back, brilliantly evoked in Stankovic’s fresh prose … Trusted Mole is rich in comic scenes … But the comedy switchbacks with the tragedy … this man was a hero, caught in the middle and discarded by a military bureaucracy that should be shot at dawn for its betrayal.’
JOHN SWEENEY, Observer
‘Now exculpated from all charges, Stankovic has written a remarkably frank account of his time in Bosnia … What Trusted Mole makes sickeningly clear is not just the absurdity of sending in peacekeepers with no peace to keep (and neither the weaponry nor the political backing to impose it), but also the corrupting effects of war and humanitarian aid on almost everybody involved.’
MARK ALMOND, Literary Review
‘This is a powerful book … the inside story, not only of the UN’s war in Bosnia … but also, of what happens to someone who spends too long in a place populated by the dead and those whose hope has died.’
CHARLOTTE EAGER, Sunday Telegraph
‘Well-written, gripping and highly informative … It is evident that he was disgracefully let down by a system which he trusted … and he is to be congratulated for writing a fascinating account of an experience that would leave most people shattered.’
ADRIAN WEALE, Daily Mail
‘Fascinating and truly exciting … As a window into that hidden period, his account is a revelation, Uttered with insights into the ordinary human chaos which lay behind the apparently calm and collected statements of the politicians and the military top brass.’
JAMES RUDDY, Eastern Daily Press
Dedication (#ulink_6559127b-071b-5044-b254-ee5796732e81)
This book is dedicated to the memory of two people. First, it is for my father, who led a full, varied and productive life. Second, it is for Dobrila Kalaba and countless others like her who were denied the realisation of those basic aspirations by the horror that was Bosnia.
Contents
Cover (#u063d2683-bb94-5dc2-bed2-809e9cf95ba7)
Title Page (#ubd99a8d4-5e0c-5b9b-8a76-4c6a63c955c6)
Copyright (#ulink_9d9f64de-9a63-5d9c-861f-89b5a31645b3)
Praise (#ulink_5c3798b8-9468-540e-b664-67780a510c8e)
Dedication (#ulink_82afbdb8-ab02-5873-a2c8-8ace4b801171)
Foreword by Martin Bell OBE, MP (#ulink_ac2f7d80-263c-5691-9194-c159ae827719)
‘Mother Bosnia’ (#ulink_f28f3242-5128-50a0-80c8-5c58073ff54a)
PART ONE 1992–1993 (#ulink_b8e0783e-e536-5f30-bf42-fcb8b1ce56c9)
Baby Blue (#ulink_b8e0783e-e536-5f30-bf42-fcb8b1ce56c9)
ONE (#ulink_8d0a10f3-483e-5e4b-9bf1-c6ddb6f2cffa)
TWO (#ulink_010b0c22-8997-5534-aa95-bcef289af9c5)
THREE (#ulink_cb4375d9-d02d-5837-9bab-fbf171255f9d)
FOUR (#ulink_26829f5d-fd2f-56dd-8e33-9920db88581b)
FIVE (#ulink_88b7164a-46ac-5b11-9cc4-d2306fcf0034)
SIX (#ulink_c2fc7b4b-915a-51e0-b2a8-a5e96cbbcbab)
SEVEN (#ulink_d6d7a71f-793e-5a5a-89b0-fd26906bf793)
EIGHT (#ulink_28f64579-d495-5600-8fda-5d6293ca61c0)
NINE (#ulink_c0a7f0c0-aa7e-50c0-a806-6b3dd505aa6f)
TEN (#ulink_6fac3b65-4302-59fb-ad81-d505b9530692)
ELEVEN (#ulink_2b10ca51-a8ab-591c-ad8e-849a5051e311)
TWELVE (#ulink_0255c8c7-a382-5e08-b493-88027be0f7ca)
THIRTEEN (#ulink_3437826a-2dfc-5dee-984a-a21cbe9a0be7)
FOURTEEN (#ulink_1c8b1a86-a3d1-5dfb-bd0f-a4f8f5c9c146)
PART TWO 1994–1995 (#ulink_fb0c8c25-b970-53ed-9695-38b0d3205d24)
The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party (#ulink_fb0c8c25-b970-53ed-9695-38b0d3205d24)
FIFTEEN (#ulink_29800764-3f51-5d92-a2a5-f3a14c9471d7)
SIXTEEN (#ulink_40fbeac1-bcc0-5872-82e5-101330ee0ac6)
SEVENTEEN (#ulink_da7edc9c-0019-5758-9b9e-e02e48834a8d)
EIGHTEEN (#ulink_bd38983d-68bb-58f6-82c4-c43b3feb25d6)
NINETEEN (#ulink_6613d529-fb01-5105-968a-ed2fd8f19cff)
TWENTY (#ulink_0d190b9a-8da4-5408-9adc-f56f7e35d99a)
TWENTY-ONE (#ulink_3150176b-6cd6-5219-89e2-19215a52398e)
TWENTY-TWO (#ulink_82d96e8e-8d19-53ec-9524-3f89bd678f88)
TWENTY-THREE (#ulink_4b8e2e4e-3eef-537e-95e3-fa1cd55e745b)
TWENTY-FOUR (#ulink_2086688e-cadd-5ce6-a597-30cd411dfcca)
TWENTY-FIVE (#ulink_337830ca-33de-5026-939c-f55358730fe5)
PART THREE
Reflections
CHARTER FOR PEACE (#ulink_6bef9aae-2bac-5c9c-bfbe-aa71776e6251)
AMERICAN FOOTBALL (#ulink_2d715c76-99f8-54b5-817e-2565afc161f7)
Glossary (#ulink_9acc8890-ef0f-5503-9f1a-84479c63900d)
Index (#ulink_da2b6c93-908d-5461-b89b-d6b2c4fbcca2)
Author’s Note (#ulink_54f36351-b8fc-5204-8e40-079c5d78c656)
About the Author (#ulink_8897141a-bb44-5aa4-9b5d-ef331f8f164b)
About the Publisher (#ulink_c7ba1023-560f-5be6-a8c1-06f00f6caddd)
Foreword (#ulink_83f54a3b-cd80-56e0-b8d0-4bfa3d409b6d)
BY MARTIN BELL OBE, MP
In January 1993 in Central Bosnia I met a British officer who was introduced to me as Captain Mike Stanley of the Parachute Regiment. There was something quietly out of the ordinary about him. He was not in the usual Sandhurst mould. He was reserved, self-contained, intense and fiercely loyal to the cause he was serving, which was to save as many lives as possible under the inadequate mandate of the UN peacekeeping force. He was at that time the interpreter and adviser to Brigadier Andrew Cumming, the first commander of British Forces in Bosnia. He went on to work for Lieutenant Colonel Bob Stewart of the Cheshire Regiment, Brigadier Robin Searby and Generals Rose and Smith, the British commanders of UNPROFOR in Sarajevo. He served longer in the Bosnian war than any other British soldier.
His real name was Milos Stankovic. His father was a Serb and his mother was partly Serb and partly Scottish. Both had served the Allied cause in Yugoslavia in the Second World War, and had been lucky to escape to England with their lives. Their son, a British citizen, chose a military career. He was accepted by the Parachute Regiment, and served in Northern Ireland, Mozambique and the Gulf. When the Bosnian war broke out he was one of only three soldiers in the British Army who spoke the language fluently. It seemed an advantage at the time – or at least an advantage to everyone but himself.
His value to successive British commanders was that he could translate the people as well as the language. Tito’s illusion of ‘Brotherhood and Unity’ fractured into barbarism, and competing warlords dragged their peoples into an abyss of psychotic savagery and primeval horror. These leaders were as indifferent to suffering on their own side as on the others’. Betrayal, mendacity and manipulation were their common currency. At prisoner exchanges they traded in bodies both dead and alive – and the dead, it seemed, mattered more to them than the living. Stankovic called this necrowar. He did not share their values but he understood their mentality. The Balkan warlords on one side and the International Community on the other glared at each other with incomprehension across a great divide. The captain from the Parachute Regiment could make sense of each to the other across that barrier.
He also saved lives. He rescued a wounded Muslim woman under fire in Vitez. With another British officer of similar background, known to us as Captain Nick Costello, and with the approval of the UN Commander, he smuggled scores of people out of the besieged city of Sarajevo – Muslims, Croats and Serbs alike – to join their families abroad. He helped to unblock UN convoys and to negotiate cease-fires. His mission was to win the trust of the Serbs, and he did so. They knew of his origins, but they also knew that he was not ‘one of them’. ‘Captain Stanley is a nice enough guy,’ the Bosnian Serb Vice-President Nikola Koljevic was quoted as saying to a colleague, ‘but you must always remember that his loyalty is to his Queen and his Commanders.’
He served with honour and distinction and received the MBE from the hand of the Queen. He was the outstanding liaison officer of his time. He did for Britain in the 1990s what Fitzroy MacLean had done in the 1940s, and in the same turbulent corner of Europe. Whenever Milos Stankovic crossed over into Bosnian Serb territory he described it as going to the ‘Dark Side’.
In April 1995, after serving in Bosnia for the greater part of two years, he returned from that theatre of operations and resumed his military career. By this stage he had been promoted to major while in Bosnia. He served as a company commander with the 1
Battalion of the Parachute Regiment and was accepted into the Joint Services Staff College at Bracknell.
It was there on 16 October 1997, two and a half years after leaving Bosnia, that he was arrested by the Ministry of Defence Police under the Official Secrets Act, on suspicion of having spied for the Bosnian Serbs. Neither the origin nor the precise nature of the allegations was ever made clear.
By that time I had embarked on a new career as a Member of Parliament. He would not have been allowed to speak to me had I still been a journalist, but as an MP I could contact him. I offered to help because I knew the man and was convinced of his innocence. I also knew he was totally alone. There is no lonelier soul on the planet than a British soldier arrested under the Official Secrets Act. The Army at that stage had not even provided a ‘soldier’s friend’, the basic right of any soldier facing a serious charge.
His treatment at the hands of the MoD Police is a story in its own right. He was extraordinarily well served both by his lawyer, Steve Barker, and by his ‘soldier’s friend’, Brigadier Andrew Cumming, who was eventually appointed, as Milos Stankovic’s choice, into that role. All I will say at this point is that the conduct of the inquiry was hostile and prejudicial, and should be used in our police academies for years to come as the textbook case of how not to conduct an investigation.
One of the many injustices of the police inquiry, in which an innocent man’s rights were flagrantly violated, was the sheer inordinate length of it. Stankovic was thirty-four when it started, and thirty-six when the papers were finally passed to the Crown Prosecution Service. One advantage of this, however, was that it gave him the time to reflect on his years as a soldier of peace in Bosnia and to set down his account of them.
That account is what follows. It is the best book yet written on the Bosnian war, certainly including my own. It is more than that. It is the most extraordinary soldier’s story that I have ever read.
Mother Bosnia (#ulink_58230aac-0de8-5901-b141-2e8b81427809)
Independence, the dream of man.
Independence, the goal of nations.
Why for Bosnia is this a contradiction?
Mother to three major creeds,
Whose devotees fight for spoils
In each other’s gardens.
Horrified is the gaze of the world
While Mother Bosnia tears herself apart.
Offspring, brothers and sisters
Are set along the route to destruction
Deaf to Reason, blind to facts.
Mother Bosnia – a cradle of riches
Now becomes the spring of discord,
History repeating itself
Maiming, killing, displacing,
Robbing of land, the rule of the gun.
Seeds of a future conflict are sown,
Mother Bosnia is torn apart
The atomic age is with us,
But Bosnia is just another name for Lepanto:
Creeds disunited and waging war.
I often wonder how God must feel
When three sons with different flags
Crave for his attention:
‘In your name I kill,
Thy will be done.’
How? By killing the other son?
Mother Bosnia is bleeding
No quarter is given.
Hate is a chameleon of chauvinistic meanings,
And the World at large watches on TV
With an attitude of:
Provided it is you and not me
You can have my sympathy.
And so, Bosnians are
The perpetrators and the victims.
While the World watches on
Mother Bosnia is torn apart.
Bernardo Stella, London 1994
PART ONE (#ulink_d9ffb7f5-d7bf-5f8f-b7bf-080791e9175b)
1992–1993 (#ulink_d9ffb7f5-d7bf-5f8f-b7bf-080791e9175b)
Baby Blue (#ulink_d9ffb7f5-d7bf-5f8f-b7bf-080791e9175b)
You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun
Crying like a fire in the sun
Look out, baby, the saints are comin’ through
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.
‘It’s All Over Now Baby Blue’, Bob Dylan, 1966.
ONE Operation Bretton (#ulink_3ec5174a-9221-59de-ac7c-a96e18c5141b)
Thursday 16 October 1997 – Joint Services Command and Staff College, Bracknell, UK
‘Are you Major Stankovic?’ I catch the flash of a silver warrant badge encased in black leather and glimpse a pair of shiny handcuffs in one of the open brief-cases on the table. I nod – what the hell’s going on here?
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector —, Ministry of Defence Police. I have a warrant for your arrest under Section 2.2b of the 1989 Official Secrets Act …’ he’s reading from the warrant, ‘… on suspicion of maintaining contact with the Bosnian Serb leadership, of passing information which might endanger the lives of British soldiers in Bosnia, of embarrassing the British government and the United Nations …’
My stomach lurches. Instinctively I cross my arms.
‘… You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say can and will be used in evidence against you. Do you understand?’
My mind is racing – say nothing. ‘Mmm’ is my only response.
The day had started normally enough. I’d spent the previous night at home in Farnham reading up on various articles and reports in preparation for the following morning’s syndicate room discussion on getting women into front-line units. Normal Staff College stuff.
The alarm wakes me at seven – quick shave, throw on the leathers, twenty minutes threading my way through solid early morning traffic on the M3. My thoughts are given up to taking a radical line – get ’em into the Paras and Marines first. I leave the Suzuki in the car park, dump the leathers in my room, climb into Barrack Dress – brown shoes, green plastic trousers, shirt, green woollen jersey – don’t forget the wretched name-tag, they’re so anal about them here. I wander over to the syndicate room and leave my bag. Still ten minutes to go. Time for a quick coffee and a smoke.
It’s 0820. I’m standing outside the Purple Hall smoking a cigarette and chatting to James Stewart – something about women sticking bayonets into people and could they do it. Brigadier Reddy Watt walks past. He catches my eye and gives me a funny look. I carry on chatting to James for another couple of minutes. The Brigadier is back again.
‘Milos, could I have a quiet word with you?’ Nothing unusual in that. Probably something to do with last Friday’s syndicate room discussion which he’d sat in on.
‘Sure, Brigadier.’ I put out my cigarette and follow him in silence. It’s slightly uncomfortable and I’m wondering why he’s saying nothing. We round the corner of one of the large unused prefabricated lecture halls. He opens the door and motions me inside. The lights are on. The place is almost empty, but not quite – two men in dark suits on the left, brief-cases open on a desk. At the far end of the hall two more men in dark suits, also with open brief-cases on a desk. They’re chatting quietly. I take a couple of paces forward and turn to the Brigadier to say, ‘We can’t talk in here. There are people here.’ But I don’t – his right hand is stretched out, palm open. There’s a strange expression in his eyes, almost apologetic.
I walk towards the two at the far end. They’re watching me now. The one on the left is short and tubby with a pot belly hanging over his belt. The one on the right is slightly taller but not much. He is also slightly portly but not as flabby. Both men are wearing cheap, dark blue off-the-peg C&A-type suits. There’s a puffed up, officious air about the pair of them. As I approach the one on the right produces a warrant badge. Pot Belly does the same. The first one then starts reading from a piece of paper. Time stops dead.
The Taller One produces a warrant for the search of my house with authorisation to seize just about anything they want. It’s signed off at Bow Street Magistrate’s Court. I’m forced to hand over my house keys, car keys and motorbike keys. I sign some bit of paper to that effect.
‘You’ll now be taken to your room where you’ll be able to change. We want to minimise any embarrassment.’ That’s kind of you! I’m not really interested in them. Spying for the Bosnian Serbs! Where has this come from? I feel faint.
I change quickly – trousers, shoes, shirt, tie and blazer, all a bit grubby but so what. Pot Belly and The Taller One are in there with me. I’m told not to touch anything. They’re talking into their Cell phones,‘… is the car ready yet? … no! … ten minutes! … yes, that’s right, side entrance …’
There’s time to kill. They’re not ready for whatever’s coming next. I sit on the bed and smoke a couple of cigarettes.
The Taller One turns to Pot Belly. ‘What did the suspect say when he was arrested?’
Pot Belly checks his notes. ‘He said quote “Mm” unquote.’
‘Is that with two Ms or three?’ his companion asks.
Pot Belly looks confused.
I rescue them. ‘It’s three “Ms”.’ Jesus! These boys really are Keystone Cops. And they’re flapping too, nervous almost. Curious.
Eventually they’re ready. I’m bundled into the back of an unmarked car along with The Taller One. There’s a woman driving. Pot Belly follows in another car. Apparently we’re off to Guildford Police Station – quite what for I still don’t know.
The Taller One asks what my neighbours are like and whether they’re likely to cause trouble. I tell him that they’ll all be at work. He continues asking questions about the house almost bashfully.
‘Is there anything we need to know about your house before we enter?’
‘Like what? What do you mean?’ Now he’s got me baffled.
He says almost shyly, ‘Well you know … some people leave things in their homes, when they’re out …’
‘What sort of things?’ Now I’m interested.
‘Well … unexpected things …’
‘Unexpected things?’
‘You know … booby traps and things like that,’ he says quickly. Booby traps! Does he really think I’ve dug a bear pit in my mid-terrace two-up two-down?
‘No, no, don’t worry. Just turn the key. You’ll be fine,’ I reassure him.
With nothing else to talk about he tries to engage me in idle conversation, ‘So, you’re a biker then. What type do you ride?’
‘Suzuki … eleven hundred,’ I reply automatically.
‘Eleven hundred, eh. What’s the servicing interval then?’ I’m stunned. I can’t believe this is happening. Motorbikes! Servicing intervals … who givesa shit! Here am I arrested for spying and this clown wants to know about servicing intervals.
I make a huge effort, ‘… er … every six thousand miles …’ He nods knowledgeably and the stupid conversation continues. He’s got an accent, West Country or something. I ask him.
‘Devon actually.’
‘Oh, right.’ What next?
‘Have you come far?’ Now I’m doing it, asking stupid questions, ‘Do you come here often?’
‘From Braintree, in Essex. Early start this morning. We were up at five.’ Poor thing! Must have been terrible for you. It’s the early copper who catches a spy. Braintree? Essex? What the hell happens there? And, anyway, who are these people? The only MoD Police I’ve ever seen are those rude, unfriendly uniformed knobs who lurk at the main gates of MoD establishments. Those buggers at Shrivenham are particularly odious – gits without a civil word in their heads.
On the outskirts of Guildford the inane conversation stops. The Taller One’s voice changes, goes up by perhaps half an octave, quicker too. ‘Right, when we get to the police station this is what will happen …’ He quickly outlines a sequence of events adding almost breathlessly,‘… I don’t want to make a mistake at this stage!’ I don’t want to make a mistake at this stage!? You’re flapping. For the first time I realise he’s nervous. You’ve just made your first mistake … never reveal a weakness.
The car swings right through a rear entrance followed by Pot Belly. We’re out of the cars. Flanked by both suits I’m marched into a dark entrance leading to a custody suite with a long, raised counter. There’s an unshaven scruffy drunk slumped against one end of the counter. There’s a large desk sergeant and a young PC behind the counter. The Taller One approaches the PC who is partially hidden behind a computer screen. He produces him his warrant card and explains who he is. The PC looks a bit bewildered. The civilian police don’t know anything about this. They’re not expecting us.
The Taller One starts to read out the arrest warrant. The PC taps furiously on his keyboard – ‘Hold on. Slow down. I’ve got to type all this in.’ He slows down … Official Secrets Act … Bosnian Serbs … passing information … endangering lives … blah, blah, blah … The PC glances at me. His eyes are popping out of his head. Even the drunk perks up.
I’m told to empty my pockets of everything. Wallet is emptied, coins, an old train ticket, Zippo lighter, twenty B&H – ten left. Everything is itemised and recorded in triplicate by the sergeant. My meagre bits and pieces are stuffed into plastic bags.
‘Please remove your belt and tie.’ I do as I’m asked. I can’t believe this is happening!
‘Do you want my watch?’
‘No. You can keep that and your cigarettes. Not the lighter. You’ll have to buzz if you want a light.’ What the hell do they think I’m going to do? Set fire to myself with a Zippo!
‘Have you ever been arrested before?’ asks the PC, eyes still popping. What do you think?
‘No. Never.’
‘Didn’t think so somehow.’ He casts an eye over my blazer with its brass buttons of the Parachute Regiment.
All puffed up, The Taller One pipes up, ‘We don’t want him to make any phone calls at this stage … because of the seriousness of the arrest … not until we’ve searched his house …’ What! What does this asshole think I’m going to do? Pick up the phone to some fictitious contact and say ‘The violets are red’! They really do think I’m a spy.
The PC looks uneasy. ‘No phone call?’
The Taller One nods, ‘… because of the serious nature of the arrest …’ Oh, you’re so bloody sure of yourself aren’t you!
The PC looks troubled and turns to me. ‘Who would you call?’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘Dunno.’
‘Well, don’t you want to phone a lawyer?’
‘A lawyer? I don’t know any lawyers. What do I need a lawyer for?’
‘Is there anyone you want to call?’
I think – Mum? ‘Hi Mum, I’ve just been arrested by MoD Plod for being a spy … how’s the weather in Cornwall?’ Sister? She’d freak out.
I shake my head, ‘No. No one.’
The PC frowns again and hands me a booklet. ‘You might want to read this in the cell … your rights.’ He stresses the word, glancing at The Taller One. Something clicks – you’ve just made your second mistake, you plonker – two in less than half an hour!
The Taller One and Pot Belly go one way, back out, and I go the other. I’m led down a linoleum-floored passage, the left-hand side punctuated by grey steel doors. The sergeant stops at the last, selects a key from the long chain on his belt, turns it in the lock and heaves open the solid door. I step into the cell.
‘Want anything just press this button – coffee or a light, just buzz for it.’
The door slams heavily shut. The key turns in the lock. Silence. For the first time in my life I find myself on the wrong side of the law and the wrong side of a cell door. I feel weak and sick. My knees tremble. I’m sweating slightly. Delayed shock starts to creep over me.
The cell stinks. Shit, piss, puke, stale smoke, disinfectant. I stare in shock at my bleak surroundings. The cell measures maybe twelve by twelve feet, painted a faded, chipped blue-grey. There are two fixed wooden benches; on top of each of them a blue plastic mattress is propped against the wall. To the left is a small alcove with a toilet – chipped and dirty porcelain, no seat, no chain.
I sit down heavily on the right-hand bench. It’s cold and hard. Dumbly, I stare down at my leather brogues – so out of place – and then fish around in my pockets for a light. I need a cigarette. Shit. No light.
I press the buzzer. Nothing happens. I wait a minute and buzz again. Still nothing. I’m about to try again when a little metal grate, half way up the door, scrapes open. A bored voice says, ‘Yeah. Whaddaya want?’ Whaddaya want!!! … YOU … somehow, my criminalisation is now complete.
‘… Er … do you have a light, please?’ I’m trying to be polite here.
‘… Yeah …’
As if by magic a cheap red lighter appears between fat fingers. For a second there I think it’s Pot Belly’s hand, but he’s busy ransacking my house. A dirty thumb strikes a flame. Gratefully I bend and suck in my first lungful of smoke.
‘Thanks very mu—’ The grate slams shut. Silence again. I exhale noisily and sit back down. My mind is now going bananas. What? Why? Who? When? How?
The tip of the cigarette glows angrily. I’m smoking hard. I light another one from it. What to do with the stub? I hold it in my hand and search for an ashtray. There isn’t one. Above the other bench there’s a barred, thick, frosted glass window. On its ledge there are five or six Styrofoam cups lined up like soldiers. I grab one. It’s brimming with cigarette butts. So’s the next, only these are smeared with garish red lipstick – I wonder who you were?
I sit and chainsmoke five cigarettes. Blue smoke hangs in the cell. The nervous, sinking feeling in my stomach gets worse. My bowels are churning furiously. My head is bursting. Pain straight up my neck, around my brain and down into my teeth. How did this happen?
One minute you’re a student half way through a two-year Staff Course, one of the so-called ‘elite’ top five per cent; doing well, head above water, bright future. And the next, here you are, career blown to smithereens by an arrest warrant for espionage – for spying!? … espionage? … a traitor? Howthe fuck did this happen? How? How? How?
Despite the pain, ache and worry I’m thinking furiously. How? Connections, seemingly unrelated snippets from the past year and a half.
I’m trying to connect. Random telephone calls. A mysterious major from MoD security. Taped conversations. Jamie’s telling me that people don’t trust me. I voice my concerns. Nothing happens. No one gets back to me.
And then there are the watchers, followers. Horrible, uncomfortable feeling that I’m being watched, followed … for a long time. Eighteen months perhaps. I’ve seen them occasionally – just faces, out of place, people doing nothing, with no reason to be there. Who were they? Croats? Bosnians? Serbs? Someone is watching me. Paranoia? I know I’m being watched. Who’s doing it? Why?
The cell door crashes open, severing my train of thought. I leap to my feet not quite knowing what to expect. It’s the young PC. He’s looking at me, uncertainly, almost sympathetically.
‘We’re not happy about this. I’ve been upstairs to see the Inspector. He agrees with me. We think your civil rights have been abused. You’re entitled to make a phone call. It was obvious to me that you had no one in mind when I asked you who you’d like to call, so, who do you want to call?’
I’m stunned. I can’t believe it. Good on him for doing his job properly.
‘Dunno. Don’t know anyone,’ I stammer.
He’s adamant. ‘Look, it’s only advice, but you do need a lawyer. Really you do.’
‘But I don’t know any lawy—’
He cuts me short. ‘We’ll call you a duty lawyer if you like.’ I nod. He disappears and the door clangs shut. I glance at my watch. Over two hours since I was booked in. Bloody heavy-handed MoD Plod – GUILTY, now let’s prove the case!
Ten minutes later the PC is back. ‘We’ve got you a lawyer. She’s on the phone right now … come on!’ I’m led from the cell and shown to a phone hanging off a wall. The handset’s almost touching the floor. I pick it up and put it to my ear.
‘Hello, I’m Issy White from Tanner and Taylor in Farnborough. I understand you need help …’ Help. What can you do for me?
‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
‘What can you tell me?’ What can I tell you? What should I tell her? How much? All of it? Some of it? Which bits to leave out?
‘Er … well … it’s all very sensitive … I can’t … well, not on the phone …’
‘I’ll be round shortly.’ She’s curt.
I’m pathetically grateful that someone, anyone, has shown interest. Face to face she’s as brusque as she was on the phone. In three hours she has my story, all but the really sensitive stuff. She doesn’t need to know about that at the moment. I tell her about my time out there, about the List, the gong, the phone calls, about everything that matters. She scribbles furiously throughout.
‘Does all this sound unbelievable to you, Issy?’
She looks up and quite matter of factly says, ‘No. It all sounds true. I can spot a liar a mile off.’ She’s very serious.
‘No. I don’t really mean “unbelievable”, I suppose I mean “weird”.’
‘Weird? …’ She pauses, ‘… I’ve never heard anything like it.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s all true, every word of it …’ I feel tired ‘… It’s all true. It happened.’
Issy promises to get me some more cigarettes. She thinks they’ll be finished with my house by two o’clock. She leaves and tells me she’ll be back for ‘question time’.
Back in the cell I’ve got nothing to do except mull over the same old thoughts. Two o’clock comes and goes. Nothing. Three o’clock. Still nothing. I’m dog tired but still thinking, sick and churning but still thinking. What should I tell them? All of it? That would implicate Rose and Smith. Keep it from them. Tell them the minimum. I know what this is about. It’s about phone calls. It’s about a lot more than that. But for now, it’s about phone calls. I’m not about to bubble away Rose, Smith and the others. Not yet anyway. Keep the List out of it.
I’m sitting there staring at my shoes again, my elbows on my knees, head in my hands. I’ve smoked my last cigarette. There’s nothing else to think about. There’s nothing left anymore. Staff College and all that’s happened in the last two and a half years – a dream, a lifetime ago. And now they’re utterly irrelevant to me. Reality is where the illusion is strongest. This is where it’s strongest. Reality is this cell. Nothing else exists and I’m so tired, so, so tired. I have to sleep. Get some strength. Must sleep.
I take off my blazer and lie down on the bench. I can’t be bothered with the mattress. I cover my head with the blazer. It’s all so cold and dark, just like it was then, a thousand years ago – cold, dark, unknown and terrifying. I close my eyes. The tape starts playing and I’m back there. Reality. I can hear the shouts and screams, feel the cold, the panic and the terror. I’m there again.
TWO Operation Grapple – Bosnia (#ulink_33c0abf5-6cae-54a7-9a22-76da49749162)
8 January 1993 – British National Support Element Base, Tomislavgrad
The Americans were about to bomb the Iraqis again. On the hour, every hour, the television fixed high in a corner of the dusty warehouse spewed out the impassioned, near hysterical commentaries of the drama unfolding in the Middle East. Iraqi non-compliance with some UN Security Council Resolution seemed to be the issue; cruise missiles were poised to fly, midnight the deadline. In another place at another time we’d all have been glued to the box as we had been in 1991, eagerly anticipating the voyeuristic thrill of technowar. But not this time, not here and not tonight. The crisis in the Persian Gulf seemed so remote, so distant, so unreal. Shattered and numbed by the day’s events, nearly all the soldiers had shuffled off to their makeshift bunk beds, stacked four high around the warehouse.
Being less tired and having nothing more appealing than a sleeping bag on a cold concrete floor to look forward to, I’d delayed getting my head down. I was alone at a small wooden table, determined to finish recording the day’s hectic events in an airmail ‘bluey’ to a stewardess friend at British Airways. I glanced at my bedspace and marvelled that Seb had somehow managed to stuff his massive frame into his doss bag. Even more astonishingly, he’d managed to doze off despite the freezing concrete.
2225. The time flashed on the TV screen as the latest news from the Gulf came in from CNN. I turned back to the letter. Over the page and I’d be done, ‘… so, once the Boss realised what was going on, the three of us spent most of the day driving like madmen to get down here, but it was all over when we arr—.’
Ink splattered across the page. The pen sprang from my fingers as I leapt out of my skin knocking over the table. The newsreader had disappeared from the TV screen, obliterated. My ears were ringing, my mind stunned as a deep WOOOMF slammed into the warehouse, rattled the filthy windows and rolled over and around us. The air was filled with a fluttering, ripping sound and then another shockingly loud detonation somewhere beyond the wall. I was rooted to the spot. My legs started trembling. Adrenalin gushed through my veins.
‘Fuck! Shit! Oh, Christ, not again!’ Expletives echoed around the warehouse.
Pandemonium. All around me soldiers cursing, grunting, wild-eyed, tumbled from their bunks clutching helmets, flak jackets, stuffing feet into boots, laces flying, others scampering off with boots in hand, determinedly dragging their sleeping bags behind them into the darkness of the back of the warehouse.
Seb was on his feet in the same state of stunned confusion as I was. Within seconds the warehouse had emptied. The soldiers seemed to know precisely what to do. Why didn’t we? The greater terror of being left behind seemed to unfreeze me. A corporal raced past. I grabbed at him.
‘Hey! Where do we go? We’ve just arrived.’ Panic in my voice.
He wasn’t going to be stopped. ‘Just follow me, sir!’ he yelled over his shoulder as he disappeared into the gloom. We bolted after him. Ironic that he should be our saviour at that moment; officers were supposed to lead the men. Ridiculous really, but I didn’t care, just so long as he took us to wherever it was everyone else was going.
Cramming ourselves through a small door at the back of the hall, we emerged onto a raised walkway of a loading bay. Turning left we hurried after fleeting, bobbing dark shapes. I hadn’t a clue where we were going and blundered on regardless, driven by panic. We raced through a cavernous, dank boiler room. Another salvo of shells screamed in. Through a door at the far end we were hit by a wall of freezing air. It had been below minus twenty during the day. Now it was even colder.
We were now slipping and stumbling over uneven and frozen gravel. Ahead, stooped and crab-like, dragging doss bags, the black shapes of soldiers darted and weaved – like ghosts caught in the chilling glow of a half moon. Another whirring and ripping of disturbed air. We flung ourselves down grazing palms and knees, cheeks were driven into rough and frozen stones. I clung to the earth as an oily, slithery serpent in my stomach uncurled itself. The night was split for an instant, spiteful red and white followed by a deafening, high-pitched cracking, ringing shockingly loud. Then a deeper note, a rolling wave through the ground beneath, the air swept with an electric, burning hiss.
The desire to remain welded to the earth, panting and cowering, was overwhelming. Although the brain screamed ‘no!’, no sooner had the pulse washed over us than we were up, stumbling across the gravel. With horror I realised we were running towards the impacts. It made no sense. Surely we should be legging it in the opposite direction?
Far in the distance, beyond the broad, flat and featureless plain, now cloaked in darkness, behind a distant, rocky escarpment, two soundless halos of dull yellow flickered briefly. Moments passed and then two flat reports.
‘Incoming!’ screamed a breathless, hysterical voice somewhere ahead.
For seconds, hours, nothing … nothing … then a fluttering warning which sent us diving headlong into the gravel again. More cringing and tensing, detonations, ringing – closer this time. What the fuck are we doing running towards it?
We moved forward, staggering and diving in short bounds for what seemed like an eternity, keeping the edge of the warehouse to our left. In the darkness it was difficult to tell how far we’d gone – time and distance distorted by panic and fear. We rounded the far corner. Beyond a concrete V-shaped ditch was a row of maybe five or six armoured personnel carriers, APCs, neatly parked, squat and black.
I still had the corporal firmly in my sights. In a single bound he vaulted the ditch, raced up to the rear of the left-hand APC, yanked open the rear door and hurled himself inside. Others flung themselves in after him. Another flash on the horizon. Shit!
I was the last into the vehicle and feverishly pulled the door to before the shell landed. It wouldn’t shut. Too many people and too many sleeping bags. It was the bags or me.
‘We don’t need this sodding thing,’ I hissed in desperation, hurling one out into the night. I wrestled the door shut and hauled down on the locking lever just as the shell exploded somewhere to our front.
Inside the APC it was pitch black. Nobody said a word. Nothing could be heard save ragged, terror-edged panting as each man fought to recover his breath. Someone in the front flicked on a torch with a red filter. What little light managed to seep into the back cast eerie patches of dull red across strained, pallid faces. There were far too many of us crammed into the vehicle – knees and elbows everywhere. On my left was a slight youth clad in a boiler suit, who didn’t look like a soldier at all. Opposite me I recognised one of the batch of colloquial interpreters, a staff sergeant in the REME,
evidently posted up to Tomislavgrad, TSG, and now stuck in this APC. He looked terrified. It was his sleeping bag I’d slung out. Two down from me and next to the youth was Seb, still panting furiously. There were others too. Seb’s driver, Marine Dawson, had somehow ended up in the commander’s seat, and somewhere up there was the Sapper corporal, whom we’d blindly followed. There must have been about eight or nine of us stuffed into the small APC.
Our private thoughts were interrupted by a wild banging on the door and muffled shouting. Reluctantly, I eased up the lever and opened the door an inch.
‘Fuck’s sake! Lemme in. Lemme in!’ A helmeted shadow was trying to rip open the door. I held on grimly, not wishing to expose us any more to the outside world.
‘Sorry mate. No room in here … try the one next door …’ I barked through the gap. The shadow swore savagely and disappeared into the night. I slammed the door shut just as another shell screamed in, shattering the night.
‘Oi! You! Get the fucking periscope up!’ It was the corporal, up front somewhere. What was he on about now? Deathly silence. Nothing happened.
‘You in the commander’s seat! Get the periscope up and let’s get a fix on those flashes … work out where the bastards are firing at us from …’ Hasbe gone mad?
The unfortunate Dawson, who clearly had never been in an APC in his life, frantically started to tug at the various levers and knobs around him. He had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. I’d have been just as clueless. Another shell screamed in.
‘Fuck’s sake, fuck’s sake … get out, get fucking out!’ The corporal had finally lost his rag. A scuffle broke out up front as the shell exploded. In the darkness all you could hear above the high-pitched ringing in your ears were thuds, grunts and the occasional blow as Dawson and the corporal struggled with each other. Somebody whimpered, the APC rocked softly on its suspension, a few more grunts and blows and the unfortunate Marine was ejected from his seat.
Settled in the seat the corporal expertly flipped up the periscope and glued his forehead to the eyepiece. ‘Compass … somebody gimme a compass!’ he yelled without removing his eyes from the optic. His voice rose a note, ‘Shit! ’nother two flashes on the horizon … two rounds incoming!!’
I stared down at the luminous second hand of my watch … five seconds … it swept past ten seconds. Someone started to whimper, another’s breathing rose in volume, great gasping pants … thirteen seconds … my watch started to tremble. I was mesmerised by it … fourteen … fifteen – the air was ripped; two double concussions which rolled into each other. A collective sigh of relief swept through the APC.
‘Where’s that fucking compass?’ The corporal was at it again. Either he was barking mad or had simply been born without fear. He was still determined to get a fix on the guns. I dug out a Silva compass from my smock pocket and passed it up the APC.
‘Time of flight’s about fifteen seconds,’ I shouted up at him.
‘Good. Fifteen seconds, yeah?’ He seemed pleased. What difference did it make? Flashes, bearings, time of flight? The facts couldn’t be altered. We were stuck in this APC. Shells were landing somewhere to our front. A direct hit would destroy the vehicle. A very near miss would destroy it as well, and, with it, us. But I had a sneaking admiration for that unknown corporal. He was one of Kipling’s men, keeping his head and his cool while all around him were losing theirs. At least he was doing something, keeping his mind busy, warding off the intrusion of fear and panic – pure professionalism. I felt useless, unable to contribute in any way, jammed as I was in the rear and prey to my fears and imagination.
What were we doing sitting in an aluminium bucket between the building and the incoming rounds? Surely we’d be safer in the lee of the building, behind it? Another dreadful thought came to mind: the CVR(T) series of vehicles, of which this Spartan was one, were the last of the British Army’s combat vehicles which still ran on petrol. All the others – tanks, armoured infantry fighting vehicles, lorries, Land Rover and plant – ran on diesel. We were sitting on top of hundreds of litres of petrol ‘protected’ only by an aluminium skin. We’d sought refuge inside a petrol bomb. My mind imagined a near miss – red hot steel fragments slicing through aluminium, piercing the fuel tank, which we were sitting on, and wooooossssh ... frying tonight! Fuck this! This was not the place to take cover.
‘Hey! Why don’t we just drive out of here, round the back of the building where it’s safer?’ I shouted at the corporal and anyone else who might care to listen.
‘No driver in the front,’ he shouted back, seemingly unconcerned. I don’t suppose the fuel thing had occurred to him.
‘We had this for four hours this afternoon … just sat here, froze and waited … shit myself,’ mumbled the staff sergeant opposite and then he added savagely, ‘I’ve fucking had enough of this shite!’
‘Another flash!’ screamed the corporal. Bugger him! Why did he have to be so efficient? I didn’t want to know that another shell was arcing towards us. This is the one that’s going to fry us!… three seconds … the panting started … five seconds … where were Corporal Fox and Brigadier Cumming? Where had they taken cover? … seven seconds ... How had we got ourselves into this? How eager and consumed with childish enthusiasm we’d been, desperate not to miss out! How we’d raced down to TSG – and for what? … nine seconds. ... Idiots! The lot of us.
We’d been in Vitez that morning. In fact we’d just left the Cheshire Regiment’s camp at Stara Bila when it happened. We’d driven there from Brigadier Cumming’s tactical headquarters in the hotel in Fojnica. He’d been incensed by an article in the Daily Mail, written by Anna Pukas, which had glorified the British contribution to the UN and had damned, by omission, everyone else’s. We’d dropped by the Public Information house in Vitez late the previous night after a gruelling eleven-hour trip up into the Tesanj salient. Cumming had returned to the Land Rover Discovery clutching a fax of the article. He’d been livid but it had been too late to do anything about it at that hour so we’d returned to Fojnica. The following day we shot back to Vitez where Cumming had words with the Cheshires’ Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Bob Stewart, who had been quoted in the article.
We were heading back to Fojnica and had been on the road some ten minutes. The Brigadier was silent. Corporal Fox was concentrating on keeping the vehicle on the icy road and the accompanying UKLO team – an RAF flight lieutenant called Seb, his driver, Marine Dawson, and their wretched satellite dish in the back of their RB44 truck – in his rear-view mirror. Next to his pistol on the dash the handset of our HF radio spluttered and hissed into life. It was always making strange noises and ‘dropping’ so I never paid much attention to it. Corporal Fox grabbed it and stuck it to his ear.
‘Sir, I’m not sure, but it sounds like something’s going on in TSG … signal’s breaking up and I can’t work out their call sign … sounds like they’re being shelled or are under attack.’ Corporal Simon Fox was a pretty cool character, never flustered, always the laconic Lancastrian. I couldn’t make much sense with the radio either. Static and atmospherics were bad. All we could hear was a booming noise in the background. We decided to head back to Vitez.
The Operations Room at Vitez was packed. We entered to a deathly, expectant hush as everyone strained to hear the transmissions from TSG.
‘… that’s forty-seven and they’re still landing … forty-nine, fifty … still incoming …’ There was no mistaking it: TSG was definitely being shelled and some brave soul was still manning a radio, probably cowering under a desk, and was giving a live commentary as each shell landed.
‘How long’s this been going on for?’ snapped Cumming, now hugely concerned that his logistics and engineer bases were being attacked.
‘About twenty minutes.’
‘Any casualties?’ His tone was unmistakable.
‘None as yet. Too early to tell. Everyone’s under cover except …’ except the loony under the table.
‘Right, I’m off to TSG. Get hold of the Chief of Staff in Split. Tell him what we’re up to.’ And with that we swept out of the Ops Room. The Brigadier was right of course. He could hardly sit around in Vitez or, worse still, retire to Fojnica, while his troops were under fire. I told Corporal Fox and Seb what was happening. They’d had the presence of mind to get the vehicles fuelled up.
Ahead of us stretched a long journey: Route Diamond to Gornji Vakuf, around the lake at Prozor and then the long climb up over the ‘mountain’ on Route Triangle. This was the worse of the two main supply routes into Central Bosnia, a hell of frozen ruts, tortuous bends, precipitous slopes and broken-down and stranded vehicles. It would take us hours.
I doubt there was a man among us who didn’t feel a buzz of anticipation.The military is a peculiar profession. It’s crammed full of frustrated people – highly trained, frustrated professionals. Unlike any other profession we rarely actually put into practice what we train for ad nauseam. In a sense, we’re untried, untested, and always there’s that little nagging doubt, that little question – how would I cope? Would I do the right thing? Would I freeze? Panic?
Sometimes there are incidents and soldiers are shot at, attacked, bombed, and they are tested. But it doesn’t happen to everyone. Most of the time nothing happens. I’ve done three tours in Northern Ireland, one in the bandit country of South Armagh, and I’ve never been shot at, heard a shot fired in anger or heard a bomb go off. There are the occasional blips – the Falklands and Gulf Wars, where people really are tested and really do ‘see an elephant’ as the Americans refer to combat: ‘Few people have actually seen an elephant, most have only had one described to them.’
It’s an odd arrogance that underpins opinion on being in combat. The US Army is almost obsessive in this respect. As a visual manifestation of this, soldiers who have ‘seen their elephant’ wear on the right sleeve of their fatigues the patch or emblem of the unit or division with which they served on operations – ‘look-at-me-I’ve-been-there’ symbolism. Those unlucky enough not to have been on operations can only wear on their left sleeve the patch of the division with which they are currently serving; their right sleeves remain bare. Fortunately, we have no such rites of passage badges in the British Army, just medals which we’re required to wear so infrequently that most people can’t remember where they’ve put theirs.
As a very young soldier I remember well one night in McDonald’s in Aldershot. It was June 1982 and 2 and 3 PARA had just returned from the Falklands War. The place started to fill up with a gang of Toms from 2 PARA, all wearing ‘Darwin and Goose Green’ sweatshirts. All were drunk.
‘An’ where were you fookin’ craphats while we were scrapping wi’ the Argies?’ snarled one of them aggressively (some of us had missed out). And then they all rounded on us.
‘Watch who you’re calling a craphat, boyo. I’m 1 PARA,’ spat back Taff Barnes, our corporal, who was from 1 PARA mortar platoon. He was a hulking great bloke – crazy to pick a fight with him.
‘You 1 PARA? Oh, well, that’s okay then.’ Instantly they were mollified and we were all suddenly the best of friends.
‘So, what was it like then?’ I asked our original assailant. I was curious to know.
He looked at me. The drunkenness in his eyes seemed to evaporate. They became focused and intense. ‘It was shit,’ he said evenly. ‘It was pure shit … you’re lucky you weren’t there.’ And then he was gone, staggering off to order his ‘fookin” Big Mac and mega large chips.
His answer had floored me. What had he seen and done that had been so terrible as to humble him in that way, to knock the bravado out of him so completely? I remember feeling pure jealousy at that moment, jealousy born out of a weird frustration that we now had nothing in common. He’d seen his elephant up close.
The majority of people in the Army have never seen an elephant. There are senior officers, even generals, who haven’t got a single campaign service or operation medal. Some only have a Queen’s Jubilee Medal. It’s not really their fault. Put it down to fate or luck. It doesn’t make them any less professional or useful to the system. But it is a source of personal frustration. So much training, so many years learning your profession and yet never been tested. So, it’s not at all surprising that we were all gripped by a horrid fascination to get down to TSG as quickly as possible, in case we missed seeing the elephant.
By the time we’d passed through Gornji Vakuf, skirted Lake Prozor, crawled up the ‘mountain’ beyond, shaken ourselves to bits on the winding and hellish Route Triangle, darkness had fallen. At a UN checkpoint, the last British outpost along the route before TSG, a burly Sapper corporal waved us down outside a small cluster of Portakabins in a bleak, rocky and windswept landscape.
Cumming stuck his head out into the freezing night air.
‘Sir, you can’t go any further. There’s heavy shelling in TSG,’ the corporal informed us gravely.
‘I know,’ answered Cumming without a hint of frustration in his voice, ‘that’s why we’re here.’
‘Sorry, sir, I’ve got my orders. No soft-skinned vehicles beyond this point.’
‘But I’m the Commander. No soft-skinned vehicles? Not even me?’ I could tell Cumming was highly amused by the proceedings. The corporal was adamant.
We were saved by the shrill ringing of the car phone.
Evidently, from the conversation which followed, it was someone on the phone from TSG. An arrangement was made to proceed as far as the Croat checkpoint at Lipa in the Duvno valley. There we’d cross-load into an APC for the final couple of miles to the NSE (National Support Element) logistics base.
At Lipa the Brigadier and I donned helmets and leapt into one of two 432 APCs. Corporal Fox would wait at Lipa and only proceed to the base once summoned on the radio. As we clattered along in the APC I felt faintly ridiculous, surrounded by all this armour. Ten minutes later we rocked to a halt in 35 Engineer Regiment’s part of the NSE to be met by the Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel John Field. It rapidly transpired that the shelling had ceased some time ago.
We could see little in the darkness but were given a quick guided tour of the warehouse and the offices where some of the windows had been blown in. Colonel Field described the events of the day. The Serbs had ‘walked’ their artillery fire around the town and it was believed that they had been targeting a Croat gun line which had been set up behind the UN base. A total of one hundred and forty-eight 152mm shells had been counted. A number of buildings in the town had been hit, some of the NSE’s ‘B’ vehicles – soft-skinned trucks and Land Rovers – had been damaged, but no one in the base had been injured. Very lucky. Well-rehearsed drills in the event of such an attack had paid off. The ‘loggies’ next door had had the luxury of taking cover in a huge bunker, while the Sappers had had to seek protection inside their armoured vehicles.
I spotted Corporal Fox emerging from the shadow. ‘How the hell did you get here?’
‘Oh, I came in with you … followed your APC in. I wasn’t going to miss this sitting at that checkpoint!’
‘Nothing here to miss. It ended hours ago.’ I think we both felt a bit deflated. Worse still we were now ‘war tourists’, hanging on every word of those who had undoubtedly seen their elephants that afternoon.
As there wasn’t much else to do, Seb and I found a patch of concrete to kip down on in the TV room. I bought a box of Rowntree’s Fruit Pastilles in the canteen for the journey back the next day and then wandered off to the TV room where CNN was reporting another crisis in Iraq.
The sweep of the second hand jolted me back to the present … twelve seconds … frantic heavy breathing in my ears. It was infectious, unnerving. Others’ terror compounded your own … thirteen seconds … it was hopeless. We were helpless. Unable to do anything to influence fate, to save ourselves. We were completely at the mercy of the Serbian gunners and their thunderbolts, which hammered the earth around us … fourteen seconds ... shit! I felt myself slipping into unchecked panic, muscles taut and trembling … fifteen …
The shell hissed in and missed. We were still alive and not burning to death. Intense relief.
The corporal was still doing his thing up front. ‘Think I got a fix on ’em that time,’ he shouted. ‘Be able to confirm it next time.’
Next time! He was barking mad. But he was keeping himself together by occupying his mind. I doubted I could stomach much more of this. I had to do something quickly. Anything. The fruit pastilles! I clawed at the crushed box in my pocket.
‘Anyone want a sweetie?’ I produced the box in the red half-light expecting to be told to sod off. Absurd really. The reaction was quite the opposite. Hands appeared from nowhere. Passed down the APC – even the corporal got one – the pastilles were feverishly devoured. The chewing seemed to help and at least brought some saliva back to dry mouths. It was a short-lived respite.
‘Here we go again! ’nother one incoming. Should get a fix this time.’
Another fifteen seconds of clock-watching, bowel-churning gripped us. I was raging. We had nothing to fire back at them with. Where was DENY FLIGHT? Where were the jets that were supposed to be somewhere up there? Why couldn’t a couple of Sea Harriers whip off Ark Royal in the Adriatic, zip over here and drop a couple of cluster bombs on the bastards?
It then occurred to me that this was only my tenth day in theatre. Snuffed out on day ten by the Serbs of all people. My parents would love that one! Day bloody ten. This hadn’t been part of the plan at all. Mentally, I cursed my youth, my wretched impetuosity, and my pig-headed unwillingness to listen to my father, whose dire words of warning were spinning around in my head – ‘Son, listen to your father. You don’t know what you’re getting into. You don’t know the mentality of the people there … all of them, they’re rotten, rotten, rotten … dangerous people and they’ll get you, they’ll kill you in the end just for what you are.’
I hadn’t listened to him. And now that arrogance had led me up this blind alley and there was no way out.
I felt myself slipping off the edge of sanity. Again the earth rocked. Another miss. Someone grunted in relief, another whimpered. Perhaps me.
‘They’ll send a runner round soon.’ The staff sergeant sounded as though he was being strangled.
‘A what?’ A runner! He must have cracked. A runner, round all the vehicles? During the shelling?
He nodded. ‘They did it this afternoon … to find out who was in each vehicle in case one of them got hit.’ It sounded mad but also made sense.
‘Right, I want everyone’s ID card now. Pass them down.’ I got out my notebook, stuck a Maglite torch in my mouth and started scribbling down numbers, ranks and names. At last I was doing something positive. It was a great tonic and, I’m convinced, stopped me from losing it. As I scrawled my mind retreated a step or two back from the edge of panic. There was one card missing.
‘He hasn’t got one. The boilerman’s a local.’ The staff sergeant nodded towards the youth next to me.
‘Kako se zoves? What’s your name?’ The boy was trembling. He half whispered something, Darko, Dario, Mario or something. I couldn’t quite get it so simply wrote down boilerman – local.
The shelling continued sporadically, the gaps between the salvos increasing. Five minutes passed. Nothing. Another couple of minutes. Still nothing. For the first time I noticed it was freezing in the vehicle. Suddenly the door lever sprang upwards. A helmeted soldier poked his head in.
‘Who’s in this one?’
‘Here you go. It’s all there, if you can read it.’ He grabbed the slip and tore off into the night.
We sat there in silence waiting for the corporal’s words to throw us into terror. They never came. Eventually, the door was opened. It was the runner again.
‘All clear,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘It’s all clear. You can come out now.’
I was stunned. All clear? Just like that! ‘I suppose someone’s rung up the Serbs and asked them if they’ve finished for the night!’ I quipped, more out of relief than sarcasm. But he’d already disappeared.
Stiffly we eased ourselves out of the Spartan. I expected devastation. There was nothing. The sky was cloudless and the moon had risen higher, casting its chilling rays, illuminating soldiers who were clambering out of other vehicles and walking slowly back to the warehouse clutching their sleeping bags.
‘Well, I don’t know about you, but if they do it again I’m not taking cover in that fucking thing – it’s full of petrol.’ I was shocked at what we’d done. The staff sergeant mumbled his agreement. There was more to it than just the petrol and the exposed position of the vehicle. The worst of it had been the claustrophobic and narcotic effect of being in close proximity to other people’s terror. We’d all set each other off.
Next to the boiler room door stood a large square chimney running up the outside of the building but offset from the wall by about two and a half feet. Where it disappeared into the ground, between wall and chimney, was a concrete-lined well about four feet deep. Perfect for two people. That’s where we’d be going next time.
Together we found a couple of hefty slabs of concrete, a manhole cover and some sandbags, enough to create some form of overhead cover against splinters. Twenty minutes of grunting and heaving warmed us up considerably. I was pleased. The chances of a shell actually landing on us were slim. Satisfied that we knew where we’d be going next time, we retraced our steps into the warehouse and parted company.
In the warehouse I spotted Brigadier Cumming, Colonel Field and his RSM, Graeme Furguson. They were chatting and laughing, an encouraging sign. Someone had produced an urn of sweet tea. There was plenty of nervous chatter and laughter, a strange but perfectly normal reaction to stress. I asked the Brigadier where he’d got to.
‘Oh, I had a marvellous time. I was in the command APC. They even made me a cup of tea!’ He seemed quite relaxed about things. I recalled the 432s clustered somewhere round the back of the building. At least he would have been spared the running commentary and the clock-watching.
The CO and RSM were doing their leadership bit, moving among the soldiers and chatting. It all helped. It was time to try and get some kip so I wandered back to my sleeping bag only to be confronted by a disturbing sight.
Standing in the half-shadow, just beyond our bergens and sleeping bags, were three soldiers. With them was a young Sapper lieutenant supported by two others. He seemed to be trying to get away from them. But, they weren’t so much trying to restrain him as calm him. One was holding his left arm and patting his shoulder while the other was attempting to soothe him. He seemed oblivious to them both. His eyes, unfocused, wild and staring, said it all. His lips trembled slightly. Occasionally he’d gulp hard and nod his head, but his eyes just kept staring. He’d had it. Genuinely shell-shocked.
‘He all right?’ I asked, approaching.
The one on the left shot me a glance. ‘He had a bad time of it this afternoon. This last lot …’ He didn’t bother finishing the sentence.
‘He’ll be fine,’ chimed in the second, which really meant ‘leave us alone’. I was only too glad to. It was unnerving seeing someone’s soul stripped bare, so starkly reminding me of my own terror.
I thought the Serbs were bound to shell us again so I didn’t bother taking anything off. Somehow I managed to cram myself into the sleeping bag still wearing the flak jacket, but I couldn’t zip the bag up over the bulk. It was a wretched night and I suppose I was still edgy. I dozed fitfully on the cold concrete while freezing air seeped into the bag. They had the last laugh: there was no more shelling that night.
Breakfast was a subdued affair. I found a place opposite Seb at one of the wooden trestle tables in the makeshift canteen in one of the halls. He was talking about the shelling, banging on as if none of us had been there. I suppose it was just a delayed reaction or just his way of getting it out of his system but it was irritating and he was making me distinctly nervous. I didn’t need an action replay over breakfast.
‘Seb, it’s over, it’s passed. Just drop it.’ It was precisely the wrong thing to say. He rounded on me angrily.
‘Yeah, that’s right, rufty tufty Para. Easy for you to play it cool, especially if you’ve been through it loads of times. For some of us it was our first time.’
I was stunned by his presumption. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like breakfast, got up and walked off. In the following six months Seb and I could barely stand to be in the same room as each other. The atmosphere would always be tense and uncomfortable. Was it because he thought I’d seen him lose it that night? Who knows. It’s strange and sad what these things do to people.
Before we left Brigadier Cumming inspected the night’s damage. In the compound where we’d taken cover in the Spartans stood a row of four-tonne trucks some thirty metres forward of the APCs. Nearly all were shrapnel-damaged and sagging forlornly on punctured tyres. The walls of the warehouse were deeply scarred. To one side of the warehouse two Land Rovers had been completely destroyed. A shell had landed fifteen metres on the other side of the compound fence and shrapnel had ripped through their soft aluminium sides, turning them into sieves. It was a sobering sight.
Not one shell had landed within the compound. Further analysis revealed that the shells had landed some 100 metres forward of the camp with the nearest landing about seventy metres away. How could the Serbs have managed to converge all their guns on one spot and yet drop all the rounds short? Maybe it had been deliberate, a warning – stop allowing the Croats to fire their guns from behind UN buildings. Another suggestion was that they’d intended to hit the warehouse but had been working from old and inaccurate maps. I doubted it; they’d recorded that particular DF during the day and would have known to ‘add one hundred’.
In all some thirty-three 152mm shells had been fired that night. Astonishingly, no one had been hit. Two things had saved us. The first was the row of four-tonne trucks which had absorbed some of the shrapnel, the second that the Serbs had been using old stocks of shells which had burst into large lumps of jagged metal. Although these looked menacing, they travelled less far and quickly lost their energy. Modern artillery rounds fragment into splinters one third of the size and travel three times further. We’d been lucky. The TSG incident so disturbed the politicians back home that a Naval Task Force, including a regiment of 105mm light guns, was quickly dispatched to the Adriatic.
We departed TSG at 0900 hours. Brigadier Cumming was keen to get back to Tac in Fojnica as quickly as possible. Another crisis was brewing. While we’d been racing down to TSG, a French APC transporting the Bosnian Deputy Prime Minister, Hakija Turajlic, to the airport in Sarajevo had been stopped by Chetniks, Serb irregulars. After a stand-off, they’d gained access to the APC through the rear door, machine-gunned the interior and murdered the Deputy. The UN’s future in Bosnia looked short-lived.
We crossed the almost featureless Duvno plain before picking up the road which ran along the plain’s eastern edge. At the Lipa checkpoint the Brigadier decided that we’d reach Fojnica quicker if we took Route Square along the Dugo Polje valley and thence drop down off the ‘mountain’ to Jablanica. It was a favourite route and spectacularly beautiful. We drove for half an hour in silence. Eventually Corporal Fox broke it.
‘Well, I don’t know about you … ,’ he drawled, addressing no one in particular,‘… in a way I’m glad we went there, but I wouldn’t ever want to go through that again.’ We said nothing. There was nothing to say. He’d spoken for us all.
We’d begun the descent into a breathtakingly steep valley – a wild, almost prehistoric place of towering black mountains, jagged rocks and shimmering ice, both bleak and forbidding. Some of the previous night’s terror entered my thoughts. How on earth had I got myself into this mess? Almost a year earlier, amid the arid wastes of Iraq and Kuwait, I’d been desperate to get to Yugoslavia. Now I wasn’t quite so sure I hadn’t made a terrible mistake – one all of my own making.
THREE Operation Bretton (#ulink_240db86d-39fc-5519-bddc-420cc2d0d01f)
October 1997 – Ian, UK
I’m sitting down, leaning forward, my stomach a fire of anger and fear. Legs crossed, one foot kicking uncontrollably.
I’m fiddling like mad with my watch strap. I can feel the fire welling up about to engulf me. I’m struggling to suppress tears of rage and frustration. I’m trying to explain but I’m just burbling incoherently. The man opposite me is a saint. I’ve met him before – in a past life. I mean, he’s seen me before, after the first time. He’s a lieutenant colonel, also a psychiatrist, the only one worth seeing. His name is Ian. He’s got a clipboard and a pen, but he’s not writing. He’s just looking at me, listening to me ranting.
‘I should have come to see you a long time ago, but I couldn’t. You just can’t … I mean, you try and get on with your life, put the past in a box and sit on the lid by busying yourself … of course, they’ll always tell you that the support is there – all you have to do is ask. But it’s not really there at all … let me tell you, your sort of help is virtually inaccessible.’
‘How do you mean, Milos?’ He’s frowning.
‘It’s the culture … it’s a cultural thing.’
‘Culture?’
‘Culture, macho Army culture. Can you understand what I’m saying? Y’know, you’re a major in the Parachute Regiment or whatever. In that culture you can’t show weakness or flaws. No one can. You’re supposed to be strong. So you wander around keeping it all inside, pretending everything’s okay … you bluff those around you, you bluff yourself …’ I’m close to tears now, ‘… but deep down you know you’re not well. You’re ill and need help but you can’t ask for it because you’re trapped in a straitjacket which is put on you by your peers, by the culture, by yourself … because you are the culture …’
‘So, why are you here now, Milos?’ his voice is soft and gentle, probing. ‘Why did you ask to see me?’
I stare out of the window at the sea. Why indeed? It’s choppy and green-grey. The waves are flecked with white horses. Why? The nightmare of the last five days flashes through my mind. It had been an unimaginable nightmare – it still is – and had it not been for Niki, my girlfriend, I’m not sure I’d be sitting here with Ian.
I’d held myself together long enough to answer their questions. They hadn’t finished with my house until past six in the evening. The questioning – in an interview room, all taped – had started at six thirty. Fortunately Issy, my solicitor, and I had been able to see the questions beforehand. It was all about phone numbers, phone calls to the former Yugoslavia, just as I’d expected. Most were instantly explicable and innocuous. It boiled down to three which weren’t. I told them the truth, but not all of it. I couldn’t bring myself to start talking about the List and about Rose and Smith. They’d have to find that out for themselves. The interview had lasted for no more than about twenty minutes, after which one of the policemen unexpectedly announced that I was on police bail. Just like that.
Curiously, he’d looked at his watch. ‘We’ll get this thing wrapped up by Christmas, so, let’s say bailed until eleven o’clock on 11 December – back here at Guildford police station.’ I was stunned. Oh, you’re confident of yourself, mate. Think you’ll get this cracked in a couple of months? You’re about to open up a real can of Balkan worms.
Before Issy left and I was handed back to the Army, she let slip two snippets of information – something about the Bosnian ambassador making a complaint and that the police had mentioned that they’d seized my diary from Bosnia, which apparently contained ‘evidence of disaffection with the West’s policies’.
After the questioning, I was led to another room where two colonels from Bracknell were waiting. One was in a suit and the other, a very tall, thin Guards officer, was in uniform. The Guards officer simply read out a typewritten statement from Bracknell to the effect that, due to the serious nature of my arrest, my vetting had been revoked and I therefore could not continue on the course. Forthwith I’d be posted to the Parachute Regiment’s headquarters in Aldershot. With that he dropped the paper into his brief-case, snapped it shut and brushed past me without so much as glancing in my direction. I felt like dirt, a leper standing there with no tie or belt.
The other colonel, Dennis Hall, was kinder. He explained that he’d been tasked to look after me. He asked me not to discuss the case with him and, with that, his driver drove us the ten miles to Farnham. It was dark and raining heavily.
My house had been taken apart. They’d removed just about anything they could lay their hands on. On the table lay a number of blue seizure of property forms. The words ‘OPERATION BRETTON’ were printed across the top of each. They had mounted an operation against me.
I’d quickly scanned the house. None of it really made sense. Why had they left that? That would have been useful to them. Why had they taken a whole pile of novels and Latin textbooks, and a sheaf of sandpaper? What possible purpose could they serve? Why had they taken that picture but left that one? Then I spotted it.
They left a Coke can in the kitchen. I don’t drink Coke at home – ever. They were drinking and eating while ransacking my house and then left their rubbish behind. A specialist search team? Nothing but a bunch of incompetents. They’re not professionals, they’re just Plod from the MoD.
I’d found a bottle of red wine in the fridge. At least they hadn’t touched that. Having opened it I then rang my mother. I had to. She was alone in Cornwall.
‘What!! Milos, I don’t believe it! After all you’ve done for them …’ Her voice was cracking and breaking over the connection. Then she got angry, ‘It’s the Muslims, Milos, the Muslims and the Americans!’
Things happen either by cock-up or by conspiracy. In my experience, usually the former. In any event the phone was probably tapped so I asked her not to jump to any conclusions and told her that a mistake had probably been made. I didn’t believe a word of it and neither did she. We agreed not to tell my sister.
Half an hour later L-P, a friend from the Army, called from a bar in London. He’d been interviewed by the MoD Police while I’d been in my cell. ‘Milos, don’t worry. I’m behind you all the way. One hundred per cent.’ He couldn’t discuss anything, certainly not over the phone. I didn’t want to know anyway. All he had to do was tell the truth. I trust him with my life. His call perked me up slightly.
As I polished off the wine I stared at what was left of my house. It wasn’t mine anymore. It was theirs now – they’d taken my life, my mementoes, dismantled my museum and carted off a large part of me. I was a squatter in my own home. I felt hollow and sick – this is what it must feel like to be violated!.
I awoke the next morning curled up in a little sweating ball. I’d had another of those vivid dreams from over there. Everything was an effort; dragging myself out of bed, shaving – I’m staring at myself in the mirror, mindlessly pulling the razor across my face. I’m staring into my eyes. I can still look at myself in the mirror, because I know the truth. But I feel like shit. I’ve got this horrible squirming, sinking feeling in my stomach. I feel weak, sweaty and queasy. I stare at myself, razor frozen in mid stroke – Traitor? No.
I smoked a couple of cigarettes. At nine-thirty Colonel Hall arrived to take me to Bracknell to clear out my room. Before we reached the car he stopped, looked around and said in a low voice, ‘Look, I’m breaking the rules by saying this … don’t feel as though you’re on your own in this. You’re not. A lot of people are backing you on this but they can’t tell you. People like Rose and Smith cast long shadows.’ It was something to cling to.
When we arrived at Bracknell the students were in a lecture. Just as well because I didn’t want to see any of them. Plod had gutted my room – laptop, printer, keyboard, monitor, books, books, books – all issued – gone. Gone also one copy of Playboy, my Service Dress jacket and my medals. They’d even unpicked my miniatures from my Mess Dress jacket.
It took me less than half an hour to pack up my room. We then drove back to Farnham in convoy. I dumped my stuff without bothering to unpack it and jumped in with Colonel Dennis. Next stop Regimental Headquarters, The Parachute Regiment in Aldershot to see my new Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Joe Poraj-Wilczynski, the Regimental Colonel. We’re old friends. He was shocked, didn’t really know what it was all about. All he’d heard was that I’d been arrested, kicked out of Staff College and that I was to be under him for welfare matters. Joe gave me a cup of coffee and Colonel Dennis returned to Bracknell saying he’d send his driver back for me. I still had to collect the motorbike.
Joe and I chatted for about an hour. He explained that, as my CO, he couldn’t be privy to any details about the case and that we’d have to confine our conversations to other matters. This was a blow. I was rapidly running out of people to talk to.
The driver took me back to Bracknell. When we arrived I discovered that I had to go and see my Divisional Colonel, Colonel Hamish Fletcher, also a Para and an old acquaintance. As I walked into his office he stood up and just stared at me. It looked as though he’d been crying, but he hadn’t – bad flu. Concern and worry were etched across his face.
‘Has someone stitched you up, Milos?’
‘Don’t know, Colonel.’ Really I didn’t.
He continued, ‘I’m not supposed to say this to you or talk to you about it but, when you were arrested we had a meeting with them and I told him in no uncertain terms. I told the spook that …’
‘Spook? Y’sure, Colonel? It was MoD Police who arrested me.’
‘No, this guy was definitely a spook and I told him, “You better make sure you’ve got this right. He’s thirty-four, last chance at Staff College, and you’ve just blown his career apart. If you’ve got this wrong he could just turn round, resign and sue the MoD!”’
I blanched. Thanks for the support, but I wish you hadn’t said that. Now they’ll be under added pressure to prove a case, to fabricate something.
‘Your posting order’s being sorted out now. I’m popping over to Aldershot this afternoon with it. Where will you be?’ I told him I’d wait in Joe’s office and with that I went, collected the bike and sped off to Aldershot.
Colonel Joe had some more unpleasant news for me. He produced a long secret signal which he’d received from someone in the MoD. It was a set of Draconian instructions detailing what I could and couldn’t do. I was forbidden from having any contact with anyone in the Services and discussing the case. If I did they’d be obliged instantly to record the details of the conversation and report them to the MoD Plod. But I was free to organise my own defence!
Colonel Hamish arrived at five with the paperwork. He told me that General Rupert Smith had phoned him from Northern Ireland and that his first question had been, ‘Has he been spying for the Serbs?’ Colonel Hamish had told him ‘no’.
‘Well, you told him right, Colonel. I haven’t been spying for the Serbs!’
Before I left for Farnham, Joe asked me if there was anything he could do for me on the welfare front. I’d thought about it long and hard in the cell and throughout the day.
‘There’s only one thing I want right now, Colonel. I want to see a doctor, and not just any doctor.’ I told him about Ian. Joe wanted to see me on Monday. Till then I was free to do my own thing.
I arrived home at five-thirty with a splitting headache. I hadn’t eaten for forty-eight hours but I wasn’t in the least bit hungry. I tried to turn the key but the front door was already unlocked. Niki was lying on the sofa with Frankie, her dog. She’d come down from London for the night. She had a christening in Camberley the next day and we’d made the arrangement the previous weekend. She smiled brightly at me. ‘I’m bored with this revision. How’s your day been?’ She had an Open University exam to sit on the following Wednesday.
I sat down heavily in the armchair, loosened my tie and just stared at her. She frowned.
‘Notice anything different about the house, Niki?’
Her frown deepened. ‘No, not really. Well, sort of cleaner, less junk. Come to think of it, have you had a clearout?’
‘Sort of …’ I closed my eyes and took a deep breath – here goes! – ‘Nix, I was arrested for espionage on Thursday … I’m on police bail …’
She stared back at me uncomprehendingly. The next four days were a nightmare, so bad that I can’t recall them.
And now I’m sitting in front of this bloke Ian, who’s asking me why I’m here. I’m staring out of the window wondering why there are no yachts out there on the sea. Must be at least a force six – perfect perfect day for a sail … Why am I here?
‘Why am I here, Ian? … I’ll tell you why. I’m here because I’ve got nothing left, nothing. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘That’s right, nothing!’ I struggle to control my voice. ‘Look! The Army’s a great life-support machine. It provides you with all sorts of crutches … well, life-jackets really. They keep you afloat and everything looks fine to the casual observer …’
‘Life-jackets?’
‘Precisely that. The uniform is a life-jacket, so is the job. They prop you up and keep you going … you know, you stick on the uniform and the beret and bingo! You’re a company commander. But when you take off the uniform, when you get home in the evenings or at the weekend and you step through the front door – alone – you step back into the museum and the pause button on the machine in your head gets pressed. The tape starts running again, and you’re back there. You’re somebody else and you’re back there. Everything else is irrelevant because being back there is more real.’
‘Where’s there, Milos?’
‘The Dark Side, Ian. You’re back on the Dark Side. That’s what we called Serb-held territory. That’s it then, by day or during the week you’re a major, Parachute Regiment, MBE, company commander or student. But at night or during the weekends you’re somebody else, you’re Stanley again … Mike Stanley, fixer, useful tool. You won’t believe this, Ian, but people still ring me up and call me “Mike”. Geordie does all the time. And I still get letters dropping onto the carpet addressed to this person called Mike Stanley … there are still people out there who don’t know me as anything other than Mike Stanley!’
‘And now? Who are you now?’ he asks gently.
I think hard. I’m not sure of the answer. ‘I’m both, Ian. Or maybe I’m nothing … a hybrid, a monster.’
I lapse into silence. I’m fiddling with the bezel of my watch – round and round and round, click, click, click, click, click, click. Ian’s waiting for me to say something. A thought enters my head and makes me instantly furious. I look directly at Ian.
‘I still can’t believe it, really, I can’t … I mean, you can’t dream up a more tragic joke. It’s a sick joke!’
‘What is?’
‘Names, Ian. Our names! I mean, I can’t believe it. We’ve got thirty years experience in Northern Ireland, thirty years of living with the terrorist threat, thirty years of developing systems and procedures for personal security, of protecting people’s identities … and what do we do with all that experience? Do we transfer it to the Balkans … ?’ I’m gulping for air. I didn’t wait for him to answer,‘… do we hell!! D’you know what names they gave the three of us? The first two they called Abbott and Costello. Can you believe it? And then I flew out as Laurel and then they changed my name to Stanley … Abbott, Costello, Laurel and Stanley. Big joke, Ian. Very funny if it wasn’t so serious. It’s our lives they’re playing with!’ I’m breathless, furious, almost shouting.
And then quietly, ‘Ian, Abbott was blown after only three months there. The Croats found out who he was, threatened to kill him, just because he was a Serb. He was removed from theatre within twenty-four hours. He never came back.’ I lapse back into silence. Staring at my boots. Big joke.
‘Has it always been like this, Milos?’
‘Like what?’
‘This double life of yours. Has it got progressively worse or has it stayed the same? You’ve been back two-and-a-half years now …’
I’m not sure what to say. I think hard for a moment, ‘...’ 95 was quite bad, the last half of ‘95. I had a naff job with the Territorial Army up north, did a parachute refresher course, my Company Commanders Course. It sort of kept me busy, but I was back there when I wasn’t busy. 1996 was so busy, that’s when I was Company Commanding in 1 PARA – twice in the States, once in Northern Ireland, once in France, in between exercises. Just didn’t stop, I wasn’t on the Dark Side much. Thought I’d cracked it. Put all my demons in the box and locked the lid.’
‘And?’
‘And then, Ian, I went to Shrivenham. Nightmare. Suddenly you’re a student along with ninety-nine others, all on an equal footing. No responsibility, except for yourself; no soldiers to look after; no careers to manage. This year has been a nightmare. It’s just got worse and worse. More and more polarised. It’s the routine.’
‘Routine?’
‘Predictable, bloody routine. Monday morning to Friday afternoon you’re a student. Live in a room there. Work hard. Drink Diet Coke only, watch the diet and become an obsessive fitness fanatic.’
‘And then?’
‘And then, get home Friday evening. Walk through the door of the museum. Tape starts playing and I’m there again on the Dark Side. Sink a bottle of red wine, stagger up to the pub, few pints of Guinness …’
‘How many?’
‘Five or six maybe. Sometimes I get a kebab, sometimes I forget to eat all weekend. Saturday’s the same. So’s Sunday. I’m there on the Dark Side with all my friends, dead and alive. And then Monday morning I drive to Shriven ham where I’m a student again, for another four and a half days. And that was my life. You keep it all inside you.’
There’s a long silence. ‘That’s why I’m here, Ian. I’m here because when something like this happens, something big that explodes your fragile world, something that removes all your crutches and life-jackets …’ I can feel tears welling, that’s when you realise that all those things were nothing, that you’re still where you’ve always been – on the Dark Side … ’
‘Is that where you are now?’
I shrug, not trusting myself to speak. Not really knowing the answer.
Another long silence. Ian very quietly, ‘Do you want to come back?’
I can’t speak. I nod my head and then shake it. I really don’t know.
Ian’s scribbling something. I try to get a grip of myself.
‘How do you see the future?’ he asks quietly.
‘Sorry?’ He’s suddenly changed tack and caught me by surprise.
‘Do you see a future for yourself? I mean how do you see your future?’
‘I don’t. There isn’t one. There is no future on the Dark Side. I suppose I’ve been drifting ever since I got back. I’m still there, but I’m back. Does that make sense?’
Ian nods. We’ve been at it over an hour. Me burbling, him listening and making the occasional note.
I’m staring out at the sea again. It’s getting dark there. Winter’s definitely on its way. It’s dark, cold and lonely out there. Ian’s asking me a whole load of practical questions: sleep patterns, dreams, panic attacks? Alcohol intake, diet? How’s your libido? Sex life? Steady relationship? I answer him as best I can, but I don’t take my eyes off the sea. My answers are automatic. I know myself so well by now, I don’t even have to think about the answers.
‘If we’re to do any meaningful work we need some sort of structure to work from. When did you last see me?’ He sounds quite businesslike now.
I’m still looking at the sea. ‘November ’93 after my first year there.’
‘That’s right. I’ve got the notes somewhere, but I think it would help if you took me through it … from the beginning …’
‘The beginning?’ The beginning? When was that? Where did it begin? This century? Last century? When I was born? The recruiting office in Plymouth? It began all over the place. Where to start? Kuwait in the desert, that’s as good a place as any.
‘Milos?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did it start? What was it like?’ What was it like?
I tear my eyes from the sea and stare at Ian. I don’t really see him. What was it like?
I’m speaking slowly now, more measured. ‘It started in Kuwait and turned into a living nightmare. It was a completely upside down world – Alice-Through-the-Looking-Glass – warped, weird, back-to-front. I can’t begin to explain what it was like.’
‘Well, why don’t you just tell me about the job? Start there.’
‘Job? Interpreter?’ I pause for a moment. Was that it? Just that? ‘Only for a short while, Ian, just at the beginning.’ I’d hated interpreting. It had given me hideous headaches and in any case I just didn’t have that computer-like brain that the job requires.
‘Well, what was your job then?’ What was it? How do you describe it? It doesn’t exist in any job description that the Army has ever heard of. What was it … in a nutshell? I’m thinking hard now and it comes, absurd though it sounds.
‘Ian, I was a fixer.’
‘A fixer?’
‘Yeah, that’s right – a fixer, a sort of go-between … for the UN, for Rose and Smith … you know “go-and-wave-your-magic-wand” stuff.’
‘That’s the job they gave you?’ He sounds incredulous.
‘No, not really. It sort of just happened by accident. It evolved I guess … by accident.’
‘Okay then, but what exactly did it involve?’ I can see he’s not getting it.
‘Involve? Just about everything. As I’ve just said: “go and wave your magic wand at the Serbs … fix this … sort that problem out … get ’em to see it this way … get the hostages released …” on and on and on. There was no job description, just sort of made it up as I went along.’
‘How?’
‘History, that’s how. By prostituting myself, not my body … but my history, my family history … I was a sort of historical prostitute. I prostituted my background and my soul to get close to those people.’
‘Which people?’
‘The Serbs. Just them. Hid it from the others, the Muslims and Croats. They’d have killed me had they found out. They tried to kill Nick Abbott. This is serious shit, Ian. You don’t fuck around with these people.’
‘Did it work? I mean, this prostitution.’
‘Did it work? Did it! Why do you think I spent two years out there? It worked all right … worked a treat. It was a sort of Barclaycard, y’know, gets you in anywhere. Gets you into their mentality and into their minds. Problem is, once you’re in you end up playing mind games with them.’
‘Mind games?’
‘That’s right. Three-D mental chess. Trouble is, once you’re in their minds, they’re in yours too … they’re still there, that lot … and you engage in this bizarre struggle of wills. Did it work? Too bloody well. It worked too well and that’s the problem. It just never ends.’
‘How do you mean too well?’
‘Too well means that you become a sort of useful tool and everyone wants a bit of you. As I said, it’s never over. It never ends.’
‘But you’ve been back a while now, Milos. Surely it’s over.’
‘It’s never over. You know, you come back. No one bothers to debrief you. No one grabs you and tells you it’s over. So, you drift along never really sure whether you’re going back or not. No one tells you a thing. You just don’t know.’
‘But surely you’d started a new job, done your courses. Surely that’s enough?’ This is getting exasperating. He’s just not getting it.
‘No it isn’t. Listen,’ I can feel the anger rising again, ‘I come back and guess what? Two months later I’m at this wedding. Mark Etherington’s marrying Chelsea Renton, the MP’s daughter. I’m at this wedding, this is mid-June 1995, and General Mike Jackson comes up to me, he’s the bloke I delivered all those parcels for, on behalf of his au pair …’
‘What parcels?’
‘I was Postman Pat out there, but I’ll tell you about that later. I even fixed up a meeting for him with Mladic once, but anyway, so he comes up to me at the wedding and slaps me on the back and says, “Ah, Milos, well done, good to see you back ... done more than anyone could have asked of you … no need for you to go back … got a good career to crack on with … get yourself to Staff College etc etc etc …” and then what?’
‘Go on.’
‘Six and a half months later, on 2 January 1996, on the day that I’ve taken over command of A Company 1 PARA in Aldershot, I get this phone call. It’s Will Buckley, the Regimental Adjutant, and he says to me, “General Jackson’s been pinged to be the IFOR Commander Multinational Division South West in Bosnia and has asked for you to go out with him.” Can you believe it? One minute it’s one thing and the next it’s quite another. So, you see, it’s never really over. You just don’t know … ’
‘Why didn’t you go back out?’
‘Simple. The Muslims would have killed me. Jackson’s not the only one. Three months after that we get a new second-in-command in 1 PARA – Paul, who has just come from a staff job in the MoD and he tells me that, at the same time Jackson was asking for me, his boss, who is also pinged to deploy his HQ into Sarajevo also asks for me – “let’s get Stanley out. He’ll give us the inside track on the Serbs.” See what I mean …’ I’m shouting at him again, ‘… which is it? I mean, what do these people want? One minute they give you an MBE for your work out there. The next they arrest you as a spy! Who’s mad here? Me or them?’ I lapse into silence, exhausted.
We stare at each other. ‘No, Ian – that’s the way we did that. Historical prostitute … funny if it wasn’t so tragic, being a prostitute.’
Ian’s picked up his board again. He doesn’t bother writing while I’m raving at him. He’s talking softly now, ‘Let’s forget about Bosnia for a moment. Why don’t you tell me about your family? Let’s start with that, shall we. That seems to be the root of all this.’ His voice is very soothing, compelling, almost narcotic.
‘My family! Have you got all night? There’s more history here than anyone can cope with. Sure you’re up to it?’
‘Only if you are.’
‘We’ve been at it for most of the century. All over the place. Even the Army can’t figure out what I’m supposed to be. On my PAMPUS computer record they’ve got me down as “BRIT NAT/FOREIGN” for my nationality at birth and current nationality. What’s that supposed to mean? “FOREIGN”?’
Ian just shrugs. There’s no answer to that sort of question.
‘I suppose it’s their way of labelling someone if they can’t work out where they’re really from. You’ve got to sympathise with them to a certain extent. It’s a nightmare trying to work out what’s what in our family this century.’
‘So, tell me about it.’
‘Okay. Best place to start is with my maternal grandmother, Jessie Constance Millar Rowan. A Scot. I suppose that’s what the Army means by “FOREIGN”. She was from a wealthy Ayrshire family who were shipping-line owners in the last century. Of course, she had the best schooling – Paris and Cheltenham Ladies – and pretty much did nothing other than look after a menagerie at home and drive around Scotland. She was somewhat eccentric, though. She had no brothers, so in a peculiar sort of way became the son her father never had. She’d sit there with him after dinner, at the age of fifteen, smoking cigars and drinking port. She also wore a monocle for some reason. When the Great War broke out she nursed with the VADs in France and then in Malta during the Gallipoli campaign. After that she had a brief but disastrous driving job in London with the War Office from which she was sacked for being rude to an American general whom she’d accused of coming into the war three years too late. That wasn’t the end of her driving career, though. She ended up as a Scottish Women’s Hospital ambulance driver on the Salonika front in the Balkans where the British, French and Serbs were holding the line in the Macedonian mountains. There she met her future husband, a Serbian officer called Vladimir Ilija Dusmanic.
‘He was from a grand Belgrade family. His father had been Minister for Education in Nikola Pasic’s government in Serbia. Both Vladimir and his younger brother, Branko, were educated at the Pazhovski Institute in Russia. He went on to study law in Moscow but was recalled to Serbia in 1911 when the Balkan war against the Turks broke out. Branko never returned from Russia. He was at one of the Tzar’s cadet academies and disappeared in the Revolution, no doubt eliminated by the Bolsheviks. My grandmother met Vladimir Dusmanic on the Salonika front. He was close friends with Prince Alexander, who later became King of Yugoslavia. He was in uniform for the best part of eight years, by the end of which he’d been decorated with the Milos Obilic Gold medal for Valour, the VC equivalent. Nice, but his education had been blown to bits by all these wars.
‘He and my grandmother lost touch at the end of the war. She went back to her pets in Scotland and he was sent to Paris to finish off his law studies. After that he joined the diplomatic service and was posted to London where he was the Third Secretary at the Serbian Legation. From there he tracked down Constance, pursued her to Scotland and they were married in Ayr in 1920. That was just the beginning of it.
‘He left the diplomatic service because the thought of rushing around Europe with my grandmother’s pets was too much for him. He went back to law in Belgrade where they built a home in Dedinje, just opposite what is now Milosevic’s palace, and settled down. They had four children – three daughters, of which my mother was the second, and a son. Most were actually born in Scotland.’
‘How come?’
‘Oh, don’t think they lived in penury in Belgrade. They had an extraordinary life. At least once a year they’d jump into the Bentley and drive from Belgrade to Ayr. It only took four days. On one occasion my grandmother was escort for ten days to the Duchess of York, when she and the future King George VI were visiting Belgrade in the early 1920s. So, all in all, they were pretty well-connected at court. The children received English and then Swiss finishing school educations, though they were removed from Switzerland as Nazism took hold of Germany and it looked as though Europe was heading towards another war. At the end of March 1941 they had to escape from Yugoslavia.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s obvious. Germany was about to attack in the Balkans. My grandfather was back in uniform as a lieutenant colonel and was the Royal Yugoslav Army’s liaison officer in the British Embassy in Belgrade. A few days prior to the German bombing of Belgrade and the invasion of Yugoslavia the Brits warned my grandfather and told him to get his family out of the country. Any family with connections at court was earmarked for liquidation by the Nazis. So he rang my grandmother, told her to get the children packed – one suitcase each – and to leave that very day. And that’s exactly what happened. They grabbed what they could and fled south by train that same night. My grandmother never saw her husband again after that call from the British Embassy. He stayed on to fight the Germans and died in 1943.’
‘What happened to your grandmother?’
‘She and the four children escaped by train, south to Istanbul initially and then over the Bosphorus into Asia Minor and down to the port of Mersin in southern Turkey. They stayed in Mersin for nearly a week hoping to catch a refugee ship across the Med to Palestine. Half of middle Europe was mooching about in Mersin having fled from the Germans. Eventually, they got passage on the Warshawa, a chartered refugee ship that was crammed with all sorts of aristocracy on the move out of Europe. Four days later they landed in Haifa, Palestine, where the British gave them refugee status and provided them with accommodation.’
‘And that’s where they sat out the war?’
‘Sat out? Hardly. All four children joined up with British Forces Middle East. Yvan, the youngest, lied about his age and got into the Royal Signals. The youngest daughter, Tatjana, joined the Royal Navy as a Wren, while my mother and her elder sister both joined the ATS and were posted to Cairo. My mother became a driver, initially moving tanks about large depots, then graduating to motorcycle dispatch rider and finally ending up driving ambulances during the battle of El Alamein. Her sister worked in SOE Cairo, on account of her Serbo-Croat, where she married a British officer called Rocky. He was an SOE agent and member of Force 133 which fought for Tito against the Germans in the Adriatic. Even got an uncle who fought there in the last war.’
‘So, your aunt was the only one involved on the Yugoslav side of things?’
‘Initially yes, but eventually my mother was roped into it too, again because she could speak the language. She was posted to a large refugee camp in the Sinai desert which was packed with Croat refugees. From there she was moved into Dr McPhail’s “Save the Children” Unit. By the end of 1944 they were in southern Italy preparing to go back to Yugoslavia with their ambulances as part of UNRRA, the United Nations Refugee Rehabilitation Administration. The first ever UN mission. Ironic that my mother should have been sent to Yugoslavia. In March 1945 she landed in Dubrovnik with her ambulance and spent the remainder of that year driving around Bosnia, Hercegovina and Montenegro dispensing aid to orphans. At one stage she managed to get up to Belgrade to check on the house. There was nothing left of it. German nurses had used it during the war but when the Russians arrived in Belgrade they’d used it as accommodation for a platoon. The Russians had stolen everything and defecated in every conceivable corner of the house.
‘She was eventually demobbed and returned to England to join her mother, sisters and brother, who were also now “out”. They lived for a while in Godmanchester in Cambridgeshire. Mum did Russian at the School of Eastern European and Slavonic Languages and even got a job as an interpreter in the 1948 London Olympics. Grandmother’s health wasn’t good, though. It was a combination of ill-health and poor English weather which forced them to emigrate to Rhodesia. They bought ten acres just north of Salisbury, built a house and settled down to grow flowers. My grandmother died in 1957, well before I was born. I never knew her, nor my grandfather who was left behind in Yugoslavia and died before the end of the war. In fact I never knew any of my grandparents, not even on my father’s side – all because of the last war really.’
‘And you end up in Bosnia fifty years later with the UN.’
‘Correct. Three generations, all fiddling around in the Balkans during three different wars. A novelist couldn’t have written that one.’
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that your father was in the UN as well.’ Ian’s laughing.
‘No. That side of the story’s quite different. There are parallels with my mother’s side of the family, but nothing as grand and aristocratic. His father also fought on the Salonika front in the First World War, but as a warrant officer in the artillery. But that’s not to say he was a peasant or anything like that. In fact he was an agricultural specialist who’d been university trained in Prague before the War. They came from a small village in Sumadija called Mrcajevci, in Central Serbia. No great connections at court. My father was born in Kraljevo in 1920. His mother died when he was very young and he was brought up by his two older sisters, the eldest of whom was killed during an Allied bombing raid in 1943. He was educated in Skopje in Macedonia where he was studying law when the Germans invaded. He’d been politically active throughout the 1930s and had been a staunch anti-Communist and supporter of the King.
‘When the Germans invaded King Peter fled to London in April 1941 and set up a government in exile. The likes of my father stayed on to fight. You could write a book about what went on in Yugoslavia during the war and still not understand it. Although the Germans occupied the Balkans and fostered Fascism in Croatia, which included in those days all of Bosnia and Hercegovina, they were quite happy to allow the locals to fight it out amongst themselves in a bloody civil war. My father joined the Serbian Volunteer Corps, a Royalist outfit fighting Tito’s Communists. He was one of the original volunteers. By the end of the war he was a company commander in an infantry regiment. The commanding officer of his battalion, Ratko Obradovic, eventually became my godfather but was assassinated in an underground car park in Munich in 1968 by Tito’s UDBA assassins.’
‘Assassinated!’
‘That’s right. Tito couldn’t tolerate anti-Communist opposition from the émigré community, so he had them murdered. The Royalists and Chetniks, under Draza Mihajlovic, were forced to fight a rearguard action withdrawing from Yugoslavia. Some went north to Austria, others, like my father’s battalion, went west into Italy. In fact, his war ended on 5 May 1945 when he conducted the last bridge demolition guard of the war. They were holding the bridge over the river Soca, which marked the border between Slovenia and Italy. The bridge had been prepared for demolition and my father’s company was on the Slovenian side holding that end of the bridge in order to allow as many refugees as possible to get across into Italy. Russian tanks eventually appeared and they were forced to leg it over into Italy and blow the bridge. End of his war.
‘The next day they handed over their weapons to the British in Palmanova and were then carted off to a concentration camp at Eboli, south of Naples. No one really knew what to do with these people so they stayed in that camp for the best part of two years before being moved to other camps in Europe. My father was moved to one near Munich where, in 1947, he was selected by the British as suitable for labour in Britain. The Belgians had already rejected him. At the end of 1947 he stepped off a refugee ship at Southampton docks. No socks, no money and not a word of English. Each person was given a pound as they stepped off the gangplank; my father remembered his first purchase, a pair of socks, and his first meal, fish and chips, wrapped up in newspaper. I remember him laughing about this, how shocked and horrified that such a cultured people could eat their food with fingers from newspaper.
‘The deal for all these displaced people from Eastern Europe was simple. Three years labour in exchange for the right of abode but not citizenship. For three years my father, ex-law student, ex-officer, was a hod carrier at the London Brick Company factory in Bedfordshire. That did his back in. Still couldn’t speak a word of English and by the time he’d worked off his obligation to the British government he still wasn’t integrated into society in any way. To put that right he lived with an English family in Ealing and gradually learned the language. He also put himself through night school and taught himself electronics. By day he swept the floors of the Rank Bush Murphy television and radio factory at Chiswick. By night he studied for his degree. By the end of the 1950s he’d qualified as an electrical engineer and was employed by Rank as a TV design engineer.’
Ian’s puzzled by something. ‘But I thought your mother’s lot were in Rhodesia by this stage. How did your parents meet?’
‘In 1960 Rank sent him out to Southern Rhodesia to help set up the black and white TV system there. He and my mother met in Salisbury and they married in the Greek Orthodox church. I was born in 1962, my sister fifteen months later. Then, in 1965, Ian Smith declared UDI. My father sniffed another war and wanted no part of it whatsoever. You could hardly blame him. Branko, my maternal grandfather’s younger brother, was lost in Russia during the civil war. My mother’s father died in 1943 in Yugoslavia. My father never saw his father again after 1945 – he died in 1957 in Serbia. That’s why they decided to leave Rhodesia before things got worse.
‘We returned to London but most of my cousins stayed on in Rhodesia and fought their Communists in that war. In fact, we’ve still got the property in Harare. Mum’s eldest sister, the one who worked in SOE Cairo, lives there, has a beautiful house.
‘My father continued working for Rank in Chiswick. I received a pretty bog standard education. They pumped every penny they could into it; prep school in Leicestershire, minor public school in the West Country where I was head boy and head of the Combined Cadet Force. Father, of course, wanted me to be what he never was – a lawyer. I had other ideas. The day after my last A level – I did Latin, Greek and Ancient History – I walked into the Army recruiting office on Mayflower Street in Plymouth and enlisted in the Parachute Regiment. My father hit the bloody roof. Real drama.’
‘Drama?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe. But you’ve got to see it from his point of view. So many upheavals, so much misfortune in both families for so long, it’s hardly surprising that the one thing he wanted for me was security. But you’re wilful at that age. At eighteen you know best and he just had to live with it.’
Ian has been listening patiently, only asking one or two questions.
‘Why didn’t your father return to Yugoslavia after the war?’
‘Oh, that’s because of the code.’
‘What code?’
‘There was an unwritten code, a rule, among the émigrés. There was to be no returning to Yugoslavia while Tito and the Communists were in power, not for any reason whatsoever. Some weakened towards the end of their lives and went back. He never did. A die-hard to the day he died. I suppose it was because of the assassination of my godfather. He didn’t even go back when his own father died. None of us did, except my mother who’d trip out there every couple of years to look after Dad’s sole surviving sister, Bisenija. She’d been declared “mad” and an “enemy of the state” by the Yugoslav authorities; she had no state pension, so we had to keep her alive from the UK.’
‘That determination never to go back to Yugoslavia is a hard attitude to take, Milos.’
‘Hard, but understandable too. It’s all a product of history and personal experience.’
‘That’s a lot of history you’re carrying around on your back.’
I’m silent for a moment. ‘It’s like a sodding monkey hanging off you. Can’t complain, though. It’s beyond my control. I suppose Trotsky was right in the end.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, he said that anyone who wanted a quiet life should not have been born in the twentieth century.’
‘Do you think he was right?’
‘Looks that way now, doesn’t it?’
Ian doesn’t reply to that one. He’s turned the page on his note pad. The pen’s poised again.
‘Let’s get back to Bosnia, to the present. Pick it up from the start.’
‘Even that’s all over the place. I could pick any bloody starting point and it still wouldn’t make any sense. I mean, I could start in Iraq and Kuwait if you wanted me to, because that’s where this mess really began.’
‘All right then. Let’s start with something concrete.’
‘Like what?’
‘A date. When exactly did you go out to the Balkans?’
‘That’s easy! 29 December 1992. How about that, then? There’s a date for you.’
‘Okay then. Tell me about that and Kuwait if it’s relevant.’
‘It’s all relevant, in its own way.’
I take a deep breath, pause, and then begin.
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Martin Bell и Milos Stankovic
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Историческая литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A high-octane account by a decorated major in the British Army of his high-level dealings with the Bosnian Serb leadership, of his running a ‘Schindler’s List’ operation in Sarajevo, and of his extraordinary subsequent arrest by Ministry of Defence police on suspicion of betraying secrets to the Serbs.Trusted Mole is the powerful and disturbing first-hand account of a British soldier of part Yugoslav origin painfully caught up in the savage maelstrom of the Bosnian war. Armed only with the pseudonym ‘Mike Stanley’ and an antiquated Serbo-Croat vocabulary, Milos Stankovic – an officer in the Parachute Regiment – worked as interpreter and go-between for two British brigadiers and two British UN generals, Mike Rose and Rupert Smith.His experiences plunged him deeper and deeper into Bosnia’s heart of darkness, where all human life was lived in extremis. His own Balkan heritage likewise drew him in: his Scottish grandmother had been a nurse on the Salonika front in the First World War; his father was a former Royalist Yugoslav who had fought in the Second World War; and his mother in 1945 had driven one of the first UN ambulances around Bosnia and Montenegro.In helping to negotiate ceasefires between rival warlords, securing the release of UN hostages and organising the escape from Sarajevo of stricken families, Milos Stankovic was propelled from one nerve-wracking crisis to another. Throughout he was engaged in the highly dangerous game of bridging the gap between alien Balkan and Western mentalities. His was a role for which there was no military rule-book, and in the general climate of suspicion and paranoia his close contacts with the Bosnian Serb leadership of Dr Karadzic and General Ratko Mladic caused him to be branded by the Americans and the Bosnian Muslims as a Serb spy in the UN and later as a British spy – General Rose’s ‘trusted mole’.In a final, horrific twist, the author was arrested by the British authorities on suspicion of being a Serb spy. At journey’s end, Milos Stankovic was now confronted with the awful and inescapable truth of ‘Mike Stanley’.