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

had their lunch. We’d do it then.

      The next day we informed Josic that we had heard but not seen the helicopters and that we’d report that fact. The two Muslim policemen smirked as they watched us fill in the trenches, carefully replacing the squares of turf – just as we do on Salisbury Plain – and, in extended line picked up every scrap of litter. We left the place just as we’d found it. They probably thought we were off our heads.

      At midday we shot through Tesanj like rabbits and popped out of the neck of the ‘light bulb’ mighty relieved at having done so. That night I was back in the Mess chatting to Edi Letic. The log fire was burning merrily and I was hugely relieved to be out of Tesanj.

      Out of the blue a runner came into the Mess and handed me a scrap of paper, ‘Sir, from the Ops Officer.’ I read the message: ‘For Mike Stanley. Report to BHC tomorrow at 1700 for a briefing. Helicopter evacuation of Srebrenica wounded planned for Wednesday 24 Mar 93. You’re to go along as interpreter for 845 NAS.’ That was it. Nothing more. What did this mean other than the para drop option seemed to have been sensibly abandoned? I showed it to Edi. He chuckled. I remember it so well. Then he threw his head back and laughed, muttering darkly and shaking his head, ‘Srebrenica, eh? Helicopters is it? Joj, covece, ti ces ostaviti kosti na Balkanu – Man, but you’re going to leave your bones in the Balkans!’

NINE Operation Grapple, Bosnia

       Tuesday 23 March 1993 – BH Command, Kiseljak

      The plight of the Muslims in Srebrenica had finally and unexpectedly come to a head. Somehow, General Morillon had managed to cut a deal with the Serbs to evacuate Srebrenica’s wounded by helicopter in exchange for the authorities in Tuzla allowing 240 Serbs to leave the town and move across to the Serb side. The Serbs themselves had agreed to silence their guns and co-operate.

      The plan was relatively simple. Four Super Pumas from the French DETALAT, already in position at Tuzla airfield, would lead in the first wave, land at Zvornik and submit to an inspection by the Serbs, who were paranoid that the UN would use the opportunity to smuggle in arms and ammunition. Concurrently, three of 845’s Sea Kings, commanded by George Wallace, would transit to Tuzla and make for Zvornik once the French had departed the town for Srebrenica, from where the wounded would be flown direct to Tuzla. The Brits would then do the same and the staggered, triangular routing, including the Zvornik inspection, would be repeated until all the wounded had been transferred to Tuzla. The first wave would also take in Lieutenant Colonel Jean Richard, DETALAT’s CO, along with 845’s Royal Navy MAOT, Lieutenant Tim Kelly. They would remain on the ground on the football pitch at Srebrenica, which was the designated and only HLS in this steep-sided valley town. They would maintain a constant radio link with inbound aircraft and with ‘Magic’, the AWAC aircraft over the Adriatic. At the same time they would run the HLS and organise the wounded into groups for extraction.

      The evacuation completed, Alan Abraham’s B Squadron would escort the 240 Serbs from Tuzla over the front line at Kalesija and hand them over to the Bosnian Serb authorities. The operation would last a day and we’d be back in Kiseljak by the evening. It all seemed pretty straightforward particularly as the French had successfully conducted a number of proving flights up to Tuzla airfield over the past few days. Serb artillery had remained silent and bombardment of the airfield had ceased. In general, confidence was high and it appeared that the operation would go ahead. The world’s oldest, boldest and smelliest names in international journalism had flocked to Tuzla, commandeered the hotel and were waiting with bated breath and whirring cameras at the airfield. What could possibly go wrong?

      Unbeknown to us in Kiseljak, the authorities in Tuzla had already announced that they’d only be releasing forty-six Serbs. General Morillon felt let down. Worse still, although the Bosnian Serb political and military leaders had given their blessing to the operation, no word had come back from their staff HQ with details as to how the operation would be conducted. There was, therefore, some niggling doubt as to whether Dr Karadzic and General Mladic would be able to exercise control over the local Serbs besieging Srebrenica. Despite this lack of firm commitment and guarantee of control, a view prevailed that the plight of the wounded civilians was such that the operation could wait no longer.

      George Wallace, the Squadron boss, didn’t share in the general euphoria. His mood was sombre and serious. The consummate professional, he was not prepared to hype up feelings. The small briefing room in the bowels of the hotel was packed with aircraft commanders, pilots and crewmen, about twenty in all including the standby crews. They’d spent the past hour hunched over their notebooks intently scribbling down details of the operation. Wallace let it be known that he considered it an extremely high-risk operation. There would be two Air Commanders, himself and his French counterpart. If either commander felt it necessary to abort the mission, the other followed.

      The O Group broke up and crews shuffled quietly out clutching sleeping bags, looking for a space in which to sleep for the night. I asked George exactly what he wanted me to do. He nodded at the two loudhailers I had managed to prise from the Danish stores: ‘You come in my aircraft and sweet-talk the Serbs at Zvornik. As for Srebrenica … God knows what we’ll find on the ground, but if we’re swamped by a rabble desperate to escape from the enclave, then you just bellow at them through those things …’ He added with a smile, ‘… not that it will help much.’ He lit a cigarette, picked up his papers and wandered out of the room in search of a bed.

       0945 hrs, Wednesday 24 March 1993 – Dubrave Airfield, Tuzla, Northern Bosnia

      It couldn’t have been a more perfect day for it: warm, a cloudless sky, crystal clear visibility. As the airfield broadened to fill the view from the cockpit, I strained to look over George’s shoulder and could make out the Vis feature, barely ten kilometres away. Atop it sat Serb forward observers watching our every move, the same who had relentlessly brought down artillery fire onto the airfield. Vis was what the military call Vital Ground – you couldn’t take a piss in the trees without the Serbs knowing about it.

      ‘Will 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