by Alex Lochrie
They had no contact with the outside world other than what they gleaned from new arrivals in the forest. They knew nothing about the peace negotiations and put little faith in them anyway. These were poor village people who happened to be Muslim by birth, caught up in a war that they did not understand. One man had hauled an old treadle sewing machine up into the forest. Apart from making clothes he used it to power a generator which produced enough electricity to run an old transistor radio. The only radio station he could get was the BBC World Service but he didn’t really understand what was being said, and he had only heard Bosnia mentioned a couple of times anyway.
They could see no end to their nightmare. They were desperately short of food and clothing and had no medical supplies whatsoever. It was then that Captain D decided to organize a relief air drop. The only suitable drop zone was an exposed plateau which was within range of Serbian artillery. There was no other choice. The drop would have to take place at night and although the DZ was small, it was hoped that enough of the supplies would land on the target to make it worthwhile. We returned to the VAB, made radio contact with UN headquarters in Sarajevo and it was arranged that the US would make a drop the following night. We returned to the group to tell them the news.
We would have to mark out the DZ with flares at the last moment but we would talk the aircraft onto the DZ. We spent the night in the forest to gain the confidence of the refugees. I suspect that if the drop had not gone ahead, we would never have made it out of there alive. They were not totally convinced that we were not there to spy on them for the Serbs, as the Ukrainians had been doing. I took lots of photographs of the women and their starving, emaciated children. It reminded me of the photographs I had seen of Jews in concentration camps in the 1940s, and this was our brave new world of 1993. I knew that this would be valuable evidence if anyone was ever brought to justice at a later date, although I should have known better. Because of my experience as a police photographer I knew exactly what kind of photographs to take.
The first pass was a bit of a disaster. It was no one’s fault as there was a strong wind blowing at ground level and the DZ was so small. The pilots were reluctant to fly too low because they felt to do so would tell the Serbs what they were doing and they would open fire on the DZ. The drop from the first aircraft saw the packages fall into the ravine and most of the supplies were washed away. It was then decided to risk a lower pass and the second drop was spot on. They used a technique called the ‘crush box’ for the drops. This was more accurate than by parachute and the cardboard containers crushed and absorbed the shock of the impact against the ground. These initial drops were mostly American ration packs which come in the form of plastic sachets that were able to withstand being dropped from a height.
What happened next illustrates the depths of despair that can be reached when people are fighting for their families’ survival. They had been so deprived of food that a frantic battle started over each individual ration pack. A woman who had just managed to gather up half a dozen of the small ration packs was stabbed to death by another woman for her meagre supply. This was not a criminal act, this was the animal instinct to survive taking over. Eventually calm was restored and we tried to convince them that the drops would continue each night for as long as required. There would be enough for everyone.
We spent another day with them and I promised before we left that I would tell the world about their plight. We then returned to Zepa to rejoin the Company, before retracing our steps back to Sarajevo. I made sure that all the film and equipment was back in its hiding place before we started out on the return journey. The air drops would not have gone undetected and we expected the Serbs to be obstructive. As we passed through the Ukrainian lines there was not as much as a smile on their faces. Our presence in the area was far from welcome and they were glad to see the back of us. There were dozens of refugees passing through their lines into the enclave and we witnessed one of the Ukrainians taking a gold chain from the neck of an old lady. It was the price she had to pay to get into the ‘safe haven’.
When we reached the official Serbian lines we were delayed as expected. At the back of the checkpoint area was a large armoured Mercedes with the grey-haired figure of Radovan Karadic watching the search. There was no doubt that his presence at the checkpoint showed that he knew exactly what was going on in the Zepa enclave and that they were working under his direct orders.
I had more than enough photographic evidence of the atrocious conditions these people were being forced to live under and felt good that at least I might be able to contribute something to the relief of these poor people.
It took us two days to get back to Sarajevo. The final stretch between Pale and Sarajevo was under mortar attack by the Bosnians and we had to wait a couple of hours until it was safe enough to proceed. After Captain D wrote his report on our findings, we went to the PTT building to present them to the most senior staff of the UN in Sarajevo. This included some of the politicians who had been chairing the peace negotiations taking place at the airport. I was told to hand over the films which would be sent to the UN facility in Zagreb for developing. After showing them the video footage I was instructed to leave it with them for ‘safekeeping’.
We were forbidden to discuss the mission or any of our findings with anyone, in particular with the press. They said that the material was so sensitive that it would have to be dealt with through the proper channels. As the weeks passed, the air drops continued, but nothing else was happening. When I asked to see the photos I was told that there had been a technical problem in the development of the films and that all of the images had been lost. When I asked for the return of the video footage I was told that the subject was now classified and that the video had been sent elsewhere for assessment. It was no longer our problem and we should drop the subject.
I could have kicked myself for being so naive and for not making a copy of the video. When our Colonel made an official complaint he was told that it had been decided at the ‘highest level’ in the UN and that it was not in the public interest for our ‘allegations’ to be made public at this time.
I feel that I personally let those people down and I am ashamed at not exposing what was happening at the time. My only excuse is that I was a mere Caporal Chef and could not disobey an order given to me from on high. I do not blame my officers, but I do blame the politicians who could not care less about anyone other than themselves. I recently heard the very same person who had been one of the chief UN negotiators in Bosnia, saying in a radio interview that economic sanctions were not the answer to Russia’s invasion of Georgia. Of course, the fact that he was on the board of one of Russia’s largest oil-exporting companies has absolutely nothing to do with it.
In hindsight my decision not to speak out was morally wrong. Two years later I heard the UN authorities say that they had no way of knowing about, or preventing, the Srebrenica region massacres. This area includes Zepa. At the time, I wrote a letter to my future wife explaining what I had just witnessed. Despite it being opened and heavily censored, she tells me that it was so full of anger that she could not keep it after reading it. The incident has troubled me ever since and it has been hard to write about it. The experience has made me think very hard about what we were being asked to do, and why we were doing it. There is no doubt in my mind that politicians are the most dangerous animals on the planet. They play games with the lives of the very people they were elected to serve, simply to satisfy their own agendas.
It is true that a soldier is there to serve and obey, to carry out lawful orders. Whether it be for King and Country or as part of a UN peacekeeping force, it is not the place of the soldier to question the motives behind the orders. But you shouldn’t be put in that position in the first place. Sadly that does not stop you thinking about it, especially when you are the ones seeing first hand the results of these orders. Unfortunately the politicians are not the ones being put on the spot. If they are, they just resign, get knighted an
d use their name to move on to a lucrative position or directorship somewhere.
Everyone was tired and stressed out. Tempers were getting short and our Colonel saw that we all needed to have a bit of a break. It was not possible to give anyone leave outside the country, but there were regions of the old Yugoslavia that were more or less untouched by the war. Our Croatian NCO had members of his family who lived in the Croatian seaside resort of Primosten, only a few miles up the coast from Split, which itself was only half an hour away by plane from Sarajevo. The area was deemed safe enough for everyone to have a week’s break. The local hotels were crying out for business and, using his family connections, our NCO struck a deal with a fairly modern hotel to take a different section every week. Everything was paid for by the Regiment, including the supply of a small selection of civilian clothes for us to wear. I am glad to say that military uniforms were not allowed.
My turn didn’t come until the last group, and that was almost at the end of our fifth month in Sarajevo. The only advantage was that it was now the end of May and the weather was a good 10 to 15 degrees warmer than it was in Sarajevo. The worst of the cold weather had passed and it would be nice to feel the warmth of the sun on our faces.
We flew into the civilian airport at Split and changed out of our military uniforms in the toilets. It was only a short bus trip down the coast to Primosten and it was hard to believe that less than an hour earlier we had been in the middle of a war in the same country. I could see why the Adriatic coast had become a favourite holiday resort with the British before this conflict started. The beaches were deserted but it was great to see the sea.
The hotel was typical of the 1960s/1970s concrete buildings which had been constructed during communist rule. Everything was a bit basic but spotlessly clean. Primosten itself is a lovely little town with a small marina, a couple of good restaurants, bars and some small gift shops. There were no tourists as such, although there were one or two private yachts from an Italian sailing club which were berthed in the marina.
The locals were very welcoming and overall the atmosphere was just what the doctor ordered. Most of our time was spent relaxing in the harbour bars just watching the world go by. I had brought a sketch book and some watercolour paints with me, and was contented to just sit on the quayside and paint. I even went to the local barber and had a haircut.
Unfortunately, by the time we had started to relax, it was time to head back to Sarajevo – something that none of us were looking forward to. We enjoyed a good meal together in the hotel on the last night, but the stress was coming back and the conversation was stilted. We were all preoccupied with what the next month would hold for us.
We all withdrew into ourselves and, on reflection, I wonder if psychologically it was a good idea to give us this break. Over the past five months we had built up our own way of dealing with the stress. This break had lowered our defences and made it harder for us all to cope with the last stint in Sarajevo. At Split airport it was back into combat gear and flak jackets for the flight back to Sarajevo. You could have heard a pin drop. As soon as the aircraft dropped its nose for the descent into the airport, the lads seemed to switch into soldier mode. Heads came up and everyone was alert and ready to go. The holiday was now a thing of the past and it was business as usual. One thing had changed. There had been a huge reduction in the numbers trying to cross the airport at night. There were several contributing factors: the amount of humanitarian aid actually finding its way to those who needed it most, and the nightly bombardment of the city had eased quite a bit. I think that the Serbs were finding it harder to obtain a regular supply of ammunition, but the most important factor was without a doubt the tunnel.
We had no interest in finding it officially. If we had, some bright politically correct politician would have had us close it down. As long as it wasn’t a threat to the security of the airport, and was helping to reduce the casualty figures of both those trying to cross and of our own men, we were content to let it be. What was disturbing were the rumours of how the access to the tunnel was being controlled. We were told that it was in the hands of the warlords who also just happened to be members of the local Mafia. If you couldn’t pay, you couldn’t use it.
We suffered a couple of serious injuries during our last couple of weeks at the airport. One lad was shot in the head and the other received two gunshot wounds in his left leg. The Legionnaire with the head injury received a full pension after a considerable period of rehabilitation. But fortunately our time in Sarajevo had come to an end and it was time for us to hand over operations to our replacements. Another Legion regiment in the form of the 2nd Infantry Regiment from Nimes was replacing us and their Colonel in Chief had been an old boss of mine in the BOI in Calvi back in the early 1980s.
We had been instructed to hand over all the information we had gathered during the past six months to the incoming detachment, but there was one major problem. I had more or less been given a free hand to perform my task as I saw fit and had created a role that had not existed before. That was the problem, because they didn’t have anyone nominated to take over from me. The two colonels, who had worked together in the REP, got their heads together and agreed that I should stay on with the 2nd REI for an indefinite period – but only if I agreed. It took me all of five seconds to decide. I was flattered to be thought of so highly, but no! I had had enough and I was going home to Calvi as planned. As if by magic someone was found to replace me and I spent the next couple of weeks bringing him up to speed. A young Lieutenant was given the task and I think that he was looking forward to doing something a little bit different. At least I had done a lot of the groundwork and he only had to continue along the same lines.
Our greatest satisfaction was that we felt that the airport and its surroundings were a much safer place than they had been when we had taken over six months before. Was it really only six months? It seemed as if we had been there for years.
When the main detachment of the 2nd REI arrived, they were not given the same reception by the warring factions that we had received. To our surprise we were seen off by a delegation from both sides who thanked us for our unbiased efforts during our stay. Perhaps it had been worthwhile after all, but I don’t think that the family of Legionnaire Benco would agree.
We walked to the aircraft carrying out flak jackets and wearing our green Legion berets, the blue UN ones already consigned to our pockets as souvenirs. As the aircraft left the runway a huge cheer broke out spontaneously. It was simply an explosion of nervous tension and there were quite a few wet eyes amongst us as the sudden realization struck home that we were finally on our way home safely and out of danger.
The flak jackets were passed to the back of the aircraft ready to be handed out to any new arrivals. When we landed at Zagreb we had time for a quick bit of duty free shopping in the terminal. The shops did a roaring trade in expensive watches for the lads and jewellery for wives and girlfriends.
The short flight back to Corsica was on an Air France 747. Because of the size of the aircraft and the weight of the freight it was carrying, the plane had to land in Bastia. This meant that we had to be bused back to Calvi – a delay of a couple of hours that we could well have done without. I think that if the flight had been diverted for a security search as before, there would have been a riot. Our Colonel flew back to the camp by helicopter.
It was a beautiful sunny afternoon when we eventually pulled up outside the camp. We could see that the main road outside the camp was lined by families, girlfriends and locals who had all turned out to welcome us home. The buses stopped short of the main gate and in true Legion tradition we formed up into our companies to march into the camp singing the Regimental song. The Colonel plus the officers and legionnaires who had remained in Calvi during our deployment formed a guard of honour. It was a moving moment for everyone and it was not just the families and friends who were fighting back the tears. I have never heard the Regimental song sung so well and with such pride. We were
home.
In record time all our gear was put into storage for the night then we were released into the welcoming arms of our families and friends. The local bars, restaurants and night clubs had their busiest night of the season. My personal reunion would have to wait for a few days yet until I went on leave. Meanwhile, it was back to work first thing in the morning for all of us. Equipment had to be cleaned, sent for repair if required, then put back in storage ready for the next mission.
Exactly a week after our return, we departed on a well-earned month’s leave. I headed for Scotland to be reunited with my family and partner. It was strange to walk the streets of Aberdeen, a city of comparable size to Sarajevo, completely free of the stress and constraints of the past six months. There was no need to cower behind walls or be scared to cross a junction in case you got shot. I looked at the faces of everyone around me, going about the daily lives, oblivious to the horrors taking place just a couple of hours’ flying time away.
It was impossible not to compare life here to that of Sarajevo; in fact, it made me realize that we do not connect with the misery of the masses in any war-torn country. What we watch on the news may horrify us for all of thirty seconds until it is time for the next episode of Coronation Street or Eastenders, but that’s it. If you have not experienced the horror of war first hand, you can have no comprehension of what it is like to be caught up in one. No amount of coverage in the press or on TV can do that.
My wife to be and I enjoyed a couple of weeks in Scotland visiting our parents before heading back to Calvi by car. We spent another two weeks just meandering southwards through France in the general direction of Nice before catching the ferry back to Corsica. I was glad to be back on the island and looked on Calvi as my home.