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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      ‘What now? Close down?’

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

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

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

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

      ‘But–’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘… СКАЧАТЬ