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

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СКАЧАТЬ had been delighted, confident that their son had finally grown up. It made me break out in a cold sweat: mortgage repayments equals commitment equals entrapment equals lack of freedom! I took possession of the keys the day before disappearing on a six-month course and had barely had time to haul over from the Depot two large cardboard boxes containing my worldly possessions, buy a bean bag and a cheap phone.

      There was of course the odd weekend off when I tried my hand at painting, but other than that the course was long and thoroughly absorbing, so much so that I barely registered the fact that a war was raging out of control in a place called Bosnia. It seemed to be as bloody and as confusing as the Croatian one. In October the TV reporting in the UK intensified – the British had deployed an armoured infantry battalion out there as part of a new UN force. Barely a day passed when the lunchtime news didn’t carry pictures of the Cheshire Regiment’s white-painted thirty-tonne Warriors charging down some Bosnian road, or their CO, the flamboyant Lieutenant Colonel Bob Stewart, instantly elevated to a household idol, issuing a statement. It all seemed so distant and I viewed the proceedings with the detached interest of one who knew he wouldn’t be going.

      The course ended in November. I was sitting in front of the course officer receiving my final interview. I finished reading the report, handed it back to him and stood up.

      I stared at him. What was he on about? He must have sensed my confusion.

      ‘Yeah, in fact if I remember correctly, it was September when your postings branch, PB2, rang us up and asked to get you released from the course. They needed interpreters or something to go out with the Cheshires …’

      ‘What! You’re joking!’

      ‘No … interpreters, you know, anyone who can speak the lingo. They’d scoured the Army for them … found two others and you. Anyway at the time it was felt that you should stay on the course. Send us a postcard, you lucky bastard.’

      I was stunned and couldn’t get his words out of my mind as I drove home. By the time I’d arrived I was more than curious to get to the bottom of all this. I rang PB2 within moments of opening the front door.

      ‘I do remember something about that,’ the desk officer seemed dubious, ‘… oh yes, that’s right, but that was in September. Anyway the moment’s passed.’

      What did he mean, ‘the moment has passed’? The Cheshires had been in theatre barely a month. I rang the Regimental Adjutant, David Bennest. He hadn’t actually lined me up with my next job and agreed that he’d speak to somebody at the Army’s HQ at Wilton, which was controlling the Bosnia operation. He also ordered me to take three weeks leave.

      ‘You probably need it. Just leave us a contact number. Any ideas where you might go?’

      I told him Zimbabwe. I hadn’t been back since the Mozambique job. The course had been long and tiring, English winters were revolting and I couldn’t think of a better place to recharge the batteries than Zim. It was the natural place to go – back to my birthplace.

      The weather was a dream. The garden at Braenada was basking in the heat of a Zimbabwean summer. Elat, the gardener, was capering about in one of the flowerbeds while Tilly, my aunt’s Staffie, savaged one of his gumboots. I’m sure she was doing that the last time I’d been to Braenada. Nothing ever seemed to change in Africa. It was an enchanting time warp.

      ‘Do you think they’ll send you?’ my aunt asked over tea.

      ‘Perhaps … who knows, the way this year has panned out I’d say anything is possible.’ I blew an almost perfect smoke ring and watched it rise slowly, expanding and distorting until it was a mere wisp of blue.

      ‘Do Mum and Dad know anything about this?’ I glanced over at her. Her cup was frozen half way to her lips. She raised a quizzical eyebrow and her grey eyes twinkled knowingly.

      ‘No. Nothing. I haven’t told them a thing.’

      ‘Just as well,’ she continued, ‘you know what your father’s like. Such a worrier. He won’t like you going to the Balkans one bit.’ She was right. It was going to be a very difficult subject to broach.

      I stared out over the perfect lawn. Now and then something yapping wildly darted from the shrubs, deftly avoiding Elat’s half-hearted kicks.

      ‘No, he won’t like it one bit.’ She was off again, telling me what I already knew.

      ‘They ruined his life and forced him to flee as a wretched refugee. He’s hated them all his life, the Communists … and then when they assassinated your godfather … no, he’ll take this very badly …’ Her voice trailed off and suddenly perked up,‘… of course your mother will be delighted. It’ll appeal to her sense of adventure. You know what she’s like!’

      ‘Oh well, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. It’s hardly likely to happen. You know what the Army’s like. I’ve a friend in the Regiment who speaks fluent Arabic. Studied it at Cambridge and in Egypt. When the Gulf War broke out he was posted to Northern Ireland!’

      Zimbabwe proved to be just the tonic I needed. After three weeks soaking up the sun, visiting the camp up at Inyanga where we’d trained the Mozambicans, and catching up with old friends, I was ready to return to the gloom of a British winter. I arrived home on 8 December wondering what the future held. I didn’t have to wait long to find out. Amidst a pile of unopened letters was an official looking brown HMSO envelope marked On Her Majesty’s Service with Orderly Room – Depot Para stamped across the back. It felt flimsy and insubstantial – probably a Mess bill. A sixth sense told me it wasn’t. My heart pounded as I tore it open. It was a Memo from the Chief Clerk dated almost a week earlier:

      Sir,

      You should have been in Bosnia a week ago. Where have you been? We’ve been trying to get hold of you. Get in touch ASAP. Your joining instructions are with the Adjutant.

      Chief.

      Exactly as my aunt had predicted, breaking the news to my father was not easy.

      ‘You don’t know what you’re doing, what you’re letting yourself in for.’ There was a horrible pause. The phone felt like a brick in my hand. ‘Son, please, you’re making a terrible mistake … a huge mistake.’

      My father died in March 1996. I think he died of a broken heart. I will always remember him: for his love and his support, for his unfailing encouragement and for his wisdom. I will remember him for his industry and his utter honesty, as a husband, as a father and as head of the household. But more than all those things I will remember him for those haunting and prophetic final words. I wish I had listened to him and heeded his advice. But I didn’t. I was youthful, impetuous, callow and cruel.

      Around me in the Herc everyone seemed dead to the world. I stared at the white paint of the vehicles inches from my nose, hoping to sleep. My mind was racing and I was slightly depressed as England and its familiar comforts slipped away. The unknown lay ahead and that curious mix of regret and apprehension squeezed me.

      The three weeks since arriving back from Zimbabwe had been frantic. I learnt that the first group of some thirteen volunteers had just finished a crash course in colloquial Serbo-Croat at Westminster University. I was to join them since the Commander British Forces, COMBRITFOR, Brigadier Andrew Cumming, based in Split, had no objections to my coming out. Our imminent departure had then been delayed when some kind soul in the MoD or at the UN office in Wilton had decided that the interpreters could spend Christmas at home, and that we’d all СКАЧАТЬ