It's Personal

by Philip Bond

  “Am I anything but?”

  “Oh,” with some nervous humour… “What about in that back ally in Düsseldorf, you call that being careful?”

  “You can talk,” the macabre humour continues… “You step in on that Albanian militia guy today, babe, he’s ready to shoot.”

  “I’m not going to lose you, Matt,” whispering in his ear… “Not for any one or thing.”

  *

  From the air, the United States main base in Kosovo seems expansive. From ground level, the only thing larger is snow-covered Mount Ljebuten.

  Surrounded by fourteen kilometres of 2.5-metre-high earth barrier, fences, razor wire and eleven watch towers, the facility is home to seven thousand US service personnel housed in three hundred structures connected by twenty-five kilometres of compacted gravel roadways with over fifty, Blackhawk and Apache attack helicopters, nesting on individual pads. Colloquially zoned into uptown midtown downtown, the facility boasts twenty-four-hour sports facilities, churches, a movie theatre, recreation halls, internet lounges, cappuccino bars, burger and pizza outlets and the ubiquitous PX. Suddenly, Matt feels he’s returned home.

  Exiting the helio, heading for the civilian contactor’s administration office for documentation checks and billet assignment for the two-day stay.

  Completing administration formalities, it’s off to check in with the media liaison section before real business, getting a coffee.

  Information flows freely in a relaxed environment and the cappuccino bar the best place to start but first… “Hey corporal,” the military protocols… “Matt Leveaux, CNN Berlin.”

  “Wait one.” The corporal has his head buried in the computer screen. Seconds tick by the corporal stops typing… “Okay, you’re two days here. Ain’t you the lucky one?” Matt’s motionless… “Okay, there’s a briefing session,” Looking to the wall clock… “Seventeen minutes in the next building.” Handing Matt, a sheet from the printer… “A press sitrep as at 09:00 today. I guess you’ve got your billet and admin stuff complete, the briefing officer’s Major Cornelius Rutterford the third.” The corporal returns to the computer screen… “Enjoy your stay.”

  “Thanks, corporal,” Matt looks at the document before heading off to locate the briefing session.

  An assault north of Mitrovica number of assailant’s unknown, several houses searched as a result of a car pursuit near Brankovo Brdo, yields a hand grenade, two ammunition magazines and sixty rounds of ammunition. KPS and UNMIK-Police find unexploded ordinance in a graveyard in Fushė. An EOD team remove and dispose the object. UNMIK-Police attending a family quarrel, request KFOR backup in searching a Petrove house resulting in locating a pistol and eight rounds, man arrested. KPS police search for four men after they threaten two women in Gnjilane. KFOR investigate an explosion in Peć damaging a local monument. A later search yields a homemade 1 kg high explosive device investigations are ongoing, Military Police and KFOR patrols search two Gllavicë houses finding forty-five rounds of ammunition. No arrests reported.

  Looking up, the sign says it all… “MNB-E press briefing room.”

  Fourteen years of carrying weapons and various pieces of equipment makes toting a camera and its associated paraphernalia easy. Entering the room, finding space for his equipment, it’s crowded.

  Inside are twenty or so people, the majority being the world’s press. Despite seeing one familiar face, a Reuters cameraman from Germany, everyone’s a stranger.

  Firing up the camera, panning the room’s faces, setting the scene.

  Twenty minutes of patience and small talk with those in the vicinity abruptly end as the door in the back of the room bursts open. Three men in crisp military camouflage march in, two positioning either side of the lectern with the third stepping to the microphones… “Good morning. For those who do not know me, I’m Major Cornelius Rutterford.” His uniform’s crisp with all folds and lines straight… “MNB-E operations for the past twenty-four hours include, twenty-seven community activities from repair of damaged drinking water filtration plants, restoration of electricity supply due to lightning strikes, completion two school and one kindergarten buildings, providing security details to two municipal council meetings and one soccer game.” Pausing, turning the page… “The secure environment provided by MNB-E allows fifteen thousand children to attend school regularly, farmers to tend their crops shepherds their flocks and Kosovars to lead normal lives.”

  The Deutsche Welle journalist seizes on the pause… “Not mention you do, four armed and masked men terrorising a farming family?”

  “They are criminals,” the major returns fire… “And come under the jurisdiction of the Kosovo Police Force.”

  “Major,” the journalist maintains the offensive… “I understand a daughter is abducted.”

  The retort’s as crisp as his uniform… “I have no information on that.” The major announces, adding… “You will have to take that up with the Kosovo Police Force.”

  “Major,” the journalist remains determine… “These briefings are becoming irrelevant with all violence and trauma seemingly coming under the auspices of the KPF.”

  “I remind you and your colleagues,” he’s off his game… “KFOR’s mission is to allow normal life in this country to function. If such a thing were to happen in Germany, you would go to the police for information. Here it’s no different.” And closes his notes before… “Now, thank you, that’s all for today.”

  In unison, they right wheel to retreat through the door leaving the journalistic audience aghast.

  Having completed the mandatory elements in visiting camp Bondsteel, Matt’s off on his clandestine task. Soldiers relax over a cappuccino or latte, their weapons either within reach or slung, visible signs of readiness in a region of simmering hostility.

  “Yo bro,” it’s a youngish soldier sitting angled on a chair holding a polystyrene cup… “Are you a war tourist?”

  “Yep, CNN.”

  “My man,” the soldier waves an arm towards those with him… “Come meet some genuine big dicks.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Matt knows the type, this was him just on ten years ago, brash abrasive impulsive egotistical, very gung-ho.

  “Here, sit down,” he instructs pulling out a chair… “This here’s Smartarse,” pointing to one of the group who looks only fifteen years old… “’n he’s Pointman.” The man sitting beside him… “That man,” directing Matt to the only white in the group… “Is Teacher ’n me, you kin call me Trouble.”

  To counter the soldier’s testosterone, Matt completes the acronym… “Dedicated Infantry Combat Killers.”

  It didn’t work… “You know it, man.” His attitude burgeons… “We’re the real things.”

  Just going with the flow… “So, you guys are heroes why.”

  “Last night,” Trouble boasts… “We saved six lovely ladies from their virginity.”

  The one called Smartarse jumps in… “Don’t think, man, they had it to start with.”

  “So how long you guys been here?”

  “Three weeks,” Trouble responds, emphasising… “This time.”

  Ignoring a large group of soldiers walking into the shop, Matt questions the presumptuous soldier… “Second rotation?”

  “Hell no, man, my third.” His bravado disguises trepidation… “But it’s the first for these grunts.” The abrasiveness returns… “So, tell me my man, dippin’ yer toe inta troubled waters, aimin’ to see what’s it like when the shootin’ starts?”

  It’s a no-win situation, not worth competing… “Yeah, it’s all of that.”

  Trouble lives up to his name… “Typical rear-echelon motherfucker, sit tight behind the wire ’n venture out only when we make it safe. All that makes it onto the TV news are shots of you, news guys covered with body armour ’n pretty blue helmets.” Trouble’s voice elevates, attracting an audience. Matt sits in silence as the soldier continues… “You Hajji’s are never around when the shit happens. Either sitting on ass
or in Humvee’s, you make out you’re where it’s happenin’.” Realising he has a sizable audience, Trouble turns away from Matt to address the on-lookers… “These TV people are so full of shit. Leave it to the grunts to take bullets, then you stand in front of a camera all brave and fearless. You guys are just bullshit.”

  “Gunnery Sergeant Leveaux,” that voice’s familiar… “What’re you doin’ out of uniform and where’s your fuckin’ weapon?”

  Turning to the voice… “Goddamn, Sergeant First Class Jun Nowak, you cantankerous cunt.” The two men shake hands to hug warmly… “How’ve you been?”

  The NCO releases himself from Matt bear hug and turns to Trouble and his comrades… “Most of you grunts here aren’t fit to share a roof with this man, let alone address him.” The NCO turns to the wider audience… “This man, although only a marine, is the finest, bravest human being you’ll ever meet. This man holds the Navy Cross with two gold stars, three purple hearts. This man’s a SEAL.” The NCO booms… “You talk about brave; this man is in a team of marines behind Serbian lines rescuin’ a downed zoomie. In Afghanistan, his team come under fire from three directions. He crawls through an avalanche of metal to take out two machine guns then calls in artillery onto the two remaining Taliban positions, one hundred metres away.” The NCO stands erect… “Don’t lecture this man about bravery. You,” glaring directly at Trouble… “You fuckin’ fobbit aren’t fit to polish his LPCs. Now, you’re dismissed!” The NCO turns his glare to Matt… “You black motherfucker, where’s yer uniform and weapon?”

  Visibly embarrassed at having his military record aired publicly… “Put my papers in. I’m a Leroy, got a cameraman gig with CNN.”

  “Goddamn it, a camera’s no fuckin’ good in a firefight!”

  “Can’t argue with that, however, the world needs to know what’s happenin’. It needs to know those stories that, for whatever reason, go ignored.”

  The friend replaces the NCO… “Sounds like you’re a man on a mission.”

  Both men relax into each other’s company… “Well,” it’s as if they are in a bar sharing a beer… “I’m not too sure about that.”

  Several soldiers enter the shop intent upon a coffee break… “Anyways, tell me what’s happened with you since Lejeune?”

  It’s been some time since both have been in the same place long enough to talk. Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune was thirteen months ago. Jun an inmate of the military prison for striking an officer, questioning his honour and integrity. Medical assessments suggested Matt exhibited early symptoms of combat stress reaction and assigned to Marine Corps Combat Service Support Schools as time out.

  “Man, where to start.” Kicking back into the chair… “There’s been another mission in Afghanistan, two in Iraq and then back to Bosnia.”

  Although he’s in the brig, Matt’s Jun’s only visitor. Their history predates the military, and both evolved into a father confessor to the other. Whenever they meet, both will expose their most inner emotions to the other, something a counsellor or physiatrist will never hear.

  “You’ve been busy.” Jun announces in both awe and envy.

  “Yeah, put my papers in while on embassy posting in Australia.”

  “Outstanding, embassy duty in Australia, some mothers have all the luck.”

  “And I met a woman.”

  This is such sweet news to Jun… “Are you telling me, Master Sergeant Leveaux, you’re restrictin’ yourself to one woman? Sweet Jesus, she must be somethin’.”

  “That she is. She’s also a CNN journalist with me here in Kosovo.”

  It’s Matt’s last Special Ops mission before Lejeune. Vital to that mission is the recovery of a female hostage. The mission success deteriorates when the intelligence is found wanting; Matt and his team members encounter a superior force.

  “Where, here in Bondsteel?”

  The team elude the surging enemy for eleven days losing three team members in the process.

  “No back in MNB-S with the Germans.”

  Eleven days of constant danger and close contact builds an emotional bond with Lillyana.

  “She’s German?”

  His world shatters on the twelfth when a sniper’s bullet punches into her skull. Matt loses all sense of self-preservation, charging enemy positions, killing nine.

  “No Australian, Austrian parents.”

  No medals or commendations follow their eventual recovery. Due to political sensitivity, all references are marked eyes only.

  “So why’s she somewhere you ain’t?” He bellows… “Why, Matt Leveaux, are you here without this magnificent creature who has the power over Leveaux hormones?”

  “There’s a story attached.” Meeting Harry changes everything.

  “I’m listenin’.”

  On seeing the bruised and battered journalist on television, he immediately knew there’s a camaraderie, a kinship between them. And when she walks the second time into his embassy gatehouse, he knew immediately that he could live with this woman… “She broke a drugs story in Australia that brought down some political heavyweights. There’s evidence linkin’ Lloyd Sanders to importin’ a huge quantity of heroin into Australia.”

  Jun announces… “He’s here you know,” and before Matt can reply, Jun barks… “Fuck me, you’re after him!”

  Ignoring the exclamation, Matt continues… “Harry.”

  “Who’s Harry?” Jun interrupts.

  “That’s my girl, Harry Reisner,” Matt returns to the telling… “Joins me in Berlin and we become interested in people smugglin’. We decide to attach to KFOR and investigate some more.”

  “Step cautiously, Matt Leveaux. You know, a mountain of shit these guys can dump on you.”

  “Only too well.” Both have stories to support the good advice… “So, tell me, he hangs in operations?”

  “Never leaves,” Jun cannons the return.

  “He’s runnin’ ops?”

  “Yeah, mostly involving Serbians.”

  “Is he protectin’ any?”

  “There’s a coupla groups he gives free reign throughout the sector.” Jun does little to disguise his dislike for Sanders… “They’re well equipped and armed.”

  “What’re their activities, their purpose?”

  “Unsure.” Jun moves forward in his chair limiting those who might hear… “They sure seem to be gettin’ more than they provide us. Sanders has aerial surveillance 24/7 and there’s regular no-go areas.” Suddenly, Jun remembers Matt’s new profession… “Matt, this is off the record, isn’t it?”

  “Of course, wouldn’t do that to you, man.”

  “Good.” Relaxing somewhat… “You know as soon as Sanders gets your wind, he’ll go offensive.”

  “Yeah, I plan to be down wind and invisible, that is, until you did that this is your life number on me.”

  “Sorry, man.” What’s done is done, both move on… “How long you here?”

  “I’m in Bondsteel until 16:00 hrs tomorrow and Kosovo another nine days.” he fishes for intel… “Tell me about the base commander.”

  Again, Jun leans forward with concern for who overhears… “He’s a West Point ring-knocker, a leader and a good man. It’s my guess, if Sanders has somethin’ going on, it’s not visible.”

  “Doesn’t anyone question his operational worth?”

  “Hell man, be in no doubt, some of his ops have produced dramatic results. Huge arms caches and serious intel headin’ off some major disturbances.”

  “Yeah,” to Matt, the subterfuge is obvious… “Give the man somethin’ while hiding the real stuff.”

  “Maybe, so tell me again, what’s it you think he’s involved with?”

  “Planes fly into Geilenkirchen Germany with people and fly out with armaments.”

  “Weapons are everywhere in country.” Families may not have a proper toilet but definitely at least one Kalashnikov in a cupboard… “Not your rusted piece of scrap but well-oiled and clean. We’re startin’ to see heavier
calibre weapons up 23 mm.” Pausing momentarily, Jun adds… “Geilenkirchen, you say?”

  Matt jumps on the response… “It rings a bell?”

  “Sort of. I remember somethin’ recently about that place. Damned if I can remember what.” Never mind, back to the present… “So, tell me, what do you intend doing while here?”

  “Stay low now I’ve confirmed Sanders is here.”

  “What time’s your helio, 16:00 hrs tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The regular grunts don’t do night patrols but I have a special group to do recon.” Jun has an idea… “We’re going out tonight,” something for old time’s sake… “Interested?”

  Matt’s eyes light up… “You sure as hell won’t want baggage with a camera to worry about.”

  “You can ask them.”

  “Let’s go talk.”

  “I’ll introduce you.” Both men walk off towards the barrack lines… “This one woman, Harry Reisner, sounds serious?”

  They follow a platoon of soldiers marching along the road.

  “Yep, asked her to marry me.”

  There’s activity everywhere trucks rumble, Humvee’s roll and there’s the constant sound of helicopter blades slicing through the still crisp morning air.

  “Fuck me! And you know this woman how long?”

  Four soldiers in full kit pound past… “Since November last.”

  Humvee’s full of officers’ approaches.

  Jun snaps a salute before offering… “Fuck me, and you’re getting’ married?”

  “Well, not yet. She wants us to be together for a while to see how we get on, then maybe.”

  “This woman sounds interestin’.”

  “That she is. This story she broke in Australia got her car run off the road.”

  “That’s dangerous.”

  The platoon left wheels off onto a side road.

  “That’s not all, later on, she’s kidnapped and set free after a shootout with one cop dead, then after the drug bust goes down and things should go quiet, someone tries to kill her in a drive-by.”

  Three Blackhawk helicopters power up, lifting off the pad flying noisily westward.