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

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      ‘What’re you doing there? Thought you were in Africa?’

      ‘… ran out of money … dumped the bike in Nairobi … got a job now

      as a European Community monitor …’ the line was getting worse, ‘gotta go … on my mobile … not good reception in this cellar …’ And then he was gone, cut off in an instant.

      I searched for Bihac on the silk map and found it, a dot in the top left-hand corner of Bosnia. As I stared at the silk, I was chilled by the incongruity of it all: me enjoying Christmas in the warmth and security of a house in the West Country, listening to the sound of battle hundreds and hundreds of miles away, where a friend was cowering in a cellar.

      I’ve always hated goodbyes. The following day we repeated a ritual that had been going on for the past twelve years. I’d kiss my parents goodbye and stuff my head into the helmet saying ‘don’t bother coming out’ – but they always would. They’d traipse out after me; my father would grab my arm and say ‘be careful on that thing’ and my mother would say ‘I wish you’d get rid of it’. They hated the bike. Then I’d roar off down the road and they’d stand there waving until I was out of sight. It never changed.

      But this time it was different. We were on the road. My father grabbed me. ‘Be careful out there.’

      ‘Yes, son, be careful and God bless.’ My mother was never one for grand emotions.

      I fired the engine and clicked the bike into gear glancing across the road as I did so. They looked small and vulnerable in the December chill. My mother was waving, smiling encouragement, as mothers always do, masking her true feelings. My father was just standing there staring. What was in those eyes? I couldn’t quite place it. Regret? Compassion? Pity? It was something deep and sorrowful and it cut me to the quick. His lips were quivering. Quickly I glanced over my left shoulder, rolled the throttle and roared off down the road. In the mirror I could see them standing there, waving madly – two small old people standing in the road. They waved until I rounded the corner and could see them no longer. That image burns in my mind today. I have often wondered what happened next as they turned and went indoors. Did he put his arm around her? What did they say to each other? What did they think? What were their private and miserable thoughts?

      For some reason sleep continued to elude me, which is peculiar as it’s quite normal for a Herc load of ninety paratroopers to nod off immediately after the aircraft has taken off. SOP. My stomach was still knotted with apprehension. How was I going to get out of the airport at the other end? Had the ‘movers’ there been briefed? A week ago it had seemed funny. Now, stuck in limbo at thirty thousand feet, it was anything but.

      After being thoroughly savaged by Major Windsor’s barrage of Op GRAPPLE abbreviations, route names and a plethora of confusing place names, we’d staggered out of the Wilton briefing room and made our way up several flights of stairs to see another major called Francis Brancato. He ran the UN office at Wilton. I’d met him once before when he’d come out to visit us in Kuwait. In his office he’d taken me to one side and announced that I’d be flying out as Captain Laurel.

      ‘Pardon me?’ What was he on about?

      ‘Captain Laurel. That’s who you’re going out as and that’s who you’ll be,’ he repeated matter of factly.

      ‘Laurel! Why?’ I was bemused.

      ‘Do you know the other two who’re out there now?’ He was deadly serious, ‘… both Serbs … like you …’ he rattled off their names. One was a lieutenant in the Light Infantry, the other a corporal in the Royal Anglian Regiment.

      ‘Nope. Never heard of them … didn’t know there were any others in the Army.’

      Now I was genuinely surprised.

      ‘Well there are and they’re out there. Apparently there’s some sort of threat to them from the Muslims and Croats. It’s not very healthy being a Serb of any sort in Croatia and Bosnia these days. Anyway we’ve changed their names … Abbott and Costello!’ he sniggered …

      ‘And you want me to be Laurel!’ I was almost shouting, ‘… and what happens if you find a fourth Serb? What’s he going to be?’

      There was a horrible pause. Francis could barely contain himself,‘… how about Hardy?’ he spluttered. I stared at him in disbelief and then we both burst out laughing. What else could we do?

      The day before our departure there’d been yet another unexpected change in plans. I was telephoned by someone in Movements in Wilton (they co-ordinated movements of personnel going abroad) and informed that I wouldn’t be flying with the others from Gatwick.

      ‘Why not? What’s the problem?’ The obstacles seemed endless. What now?

      ‘Problem is you haven’t got a passport in the name of Laurel and you’ll be stopped by Croatian customs if you go civil.’

      ‘Does that mean I’m now not going?’ More frustration.

      ‘No, no, you’re still going. There’s a “Herc” flight to Split early tomorrow … departing RAF Lyneham. You’ve got to be in uniform and you’re to be there at 0500.’

      ‘Why so early?’ It was always early report times with the RAF.

      ‘Dunno, those are the timings. Oh yeah, when you report just tell them you’re Captain Laurel … they’ll know. At the other end you’ll be met by movers, our people who’ve got access to the pan. They’ll get you through one of the side gates. Okay?’

      Next morning Colin and I got up at a grotesquely indecent hour. It was bitterly cold but despite the darkness and the frosty roads we reached Lyneham with fifteen minutes to spare. Between us we lugged the bergen and bags into the terminal building where other bleary-eyed fellow travellers were sprawled over hard plastic seats.

      ‘Come on Col, let’s see if the Captain Laurel shit really works.’ I nodded towards the counter where a lone and youthful leading airman was tapping away furiously at a keyboard. I dumped the bergen heavily on the electronic scales next to him.

      ‘Ninety-five and a half pounds!’ I announced. Startled, he looked up.

      ‘Oh right, morning sir.’ He was slightly flustered.

      ‘I’m flying to Split this morning. This where I check in?’

      ‘It is, sir. Could I see your ID card?’ He’d recovered his composure.

      ‘I’m sorry but I’m afraid I haven’t got one.’ Which was true, not in the name of Laurel anyway.

      ‘Oh well … I’m afraid you can’t fly if you haven’t got ID.’ I glanced over at Colin who was enjoying himself immensely.

      ‘Look … I’m Captain Laurel if it’ll help.’ Somewhere to my left I heard Colin snigger. I was doing my best to contain myself and make the best of this charade.

      The airman suddenly became very tense, his eyes almost feral. Carefully he looked from left to right, checking that no one else was within earshot before leaning towards me. His words were husky, deliberate, almost conspiratorial.

      ‘Captain Laurel is it? Yeeeees … it’s okay … we know all about you.’

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