‘Well, I don’t know about you … ,’ he drawled, addressing no one in particular,‘… in a way I’m glad we went there, but I wouldn’t ever want to go through that again.’ We said nothing. There was nothing to say. He’d spoken for us all.
We’d begun the descent into a breathtakingly steep valley – a wild, almost prehistoric place of towering black mountains, jagged rocks and shimmering ice, both bleak and forbidding. Some of the previous night’s terror entered my thoughts. How on earth had I got myself into this mess? Almost a year earlier, amid the arid wastes of Iraq and Kuwait, I’d been desperate to get to Yugoslavia. Now I wasn’t quite so sure I hadn’t made a terrible mistake – one all of my own making.
October 1997 – Ian, UK
I’m sitting down, leaning forward, my stomach a fire of anger and fear. Legs crossed, one foot kicking uncontrollably.
I’m fiddling like mad with my watch strap. I can feel the fire welling up about to engulf me. I’m struggling to suppress tears of rage and frustration. I’m trying to explain but I’m just burbling incoherently. The man opposite me is a saint. I’ve met him before – in a past life. I mean, he’s seen me before, after the first time. He’s a lieutenant colonel, also a psychiatrist, the only one worth seeing. His name is Ian. He’s got a clipboard and a pen, but he’s not writing. He’s just looking at me, listening to me ranting.
‘I should have come to see you a long time ago, but I couldn’t. You just can’t … I mean, you try and get on with your life, put the past in a box and sit on the lid by busying yourself … of course, they’ll always tell you that the support is there – all you have to do is ask. But it’s not really there at all … let me tell you, your sort of help is virtually inaccessible.’
‘How do you mean, Milos?’ He’s frowning.
‘It’s the culture … it’s a cultural thing.’
‘Culture?’
‘Culture, macho Army culture. Can you understand what I’m saying? Y’know, you’re a major in the Parachute Regiment or whatever. In that culture you can’t show weakness or flaws. No one can. You’re supposed to be strong. So you wander around keeping it all inside, pretending everything’s okay … you bluff those around you, you bluff yourself …’ I’m close to tears now, ‘… but deep down you know you’re not well. You’re ill and need help but you can’t ask for it because you’re trapped in a straitjacket which is put on you by your peers, by the culture, by yourself … because you are the culture …’
‘So, why are you here now, Milos?’ his voice is soft and gentle, probing. ‘Why did you ask to see me?’
I stare out of the window at the sea. Why indeed? It’s choppy and green-grey. The waves are flecked with white horses. Why? The nightmare of the last five days flashes through my mind. It had been an unimaginable nightmare – it still is – and had it not been for Niki, my girlfriend, I’m not sure I’d be sitting here with Ian.
I’d held myself together long enough to answer their questions. They hadn’t finished with my house until past six in the evening. The questioning – in an interview room, all taped – had started at six thirty. Fortunately Issy, my solicitor, and I had been able to see the questions beforehand. It was all about phone numbers, phone calls to the former Yugoslavia, just as I’d expected. Most were instantly explicable and innocuous. It boiled down to three which weren’t. I told them the truth, but not all of it. I couldn’t bring myself to start talking about the List and about Rose and Smith. They’d have to find that out for themselves. The interview had lasted for no more than about twenty minutes, after which one of the policemen unexpectedly announced that I was on police bail. Just like that.
Curiously, he’d looked at his watch. ‘We’ll get this thing wrapped up by Christmas, so, let’s say bailed until eleven o’clock on 11 December – back here at Guildford police station.’ I was stunned. Oh, you’re confident of yourself, mate. Think you’ll get this cracked in a couple of months? You’re about to open up a real can of Balkan worms.
Before Issy left and I was handed back to the Army, she let slip two snippets of information – something about the Bosnian ambassador making a complaint and that the police had mentioned that they’d seized my diary from Bosnia, which apparently contained ‘evidence of disaffection with the West’s policies’.
After the questioning, I was led to another room where two colonels from Bracknell were waiting. One was in a suit and the other, a very tall, thin Guards officer, was in uniform. The Guards officer simply read out a typewritten statement from Bracknell to the effect that, due to the serious nature of my arrest, my vetting had been revoked and I therefore could not continue on the course. Forthwith I’d be posted to the Parachute Regiment’s headquarters in Aldershot. With that he dropped the paper into his brief-case, snapped it shut and brushed past me without so much as glancing in my direction. I felt like dirt, a leper standing there with no tie or belt.
The other colonel, Dennis Hall, was kinder. He explained that he’d been tasked to look after me. He asked me not to discuss the case with him and, with that, his driver drove us the ten miles to Farnham. It was dark and raining heavily.
My house had been taken apart. They’d removed just about anything they could lay their hands on. On the table lay a number of blue seizure of property forms. The words ‘OPERATION BRETTON’ were printed across the top of each. They had mounted an operation against me.
I’d quickly scanned the house. None of it really made sense. Why had they left that? That would have been useful to them. Why had they taken a whole pile of novels and Latin textbooks, and a sheaf of sandpaper? What possible purpose could they serve? Why had they taken that picture but left that one? Then I spotted it.
They left a Coke can in the kitchen. I don’t drink Coke at home – ever. They were drinking and eating while ransacking my house and then left their rubbish behind. A specialist search team? Nothing but a bunch of incompetents. They’re not professionals, they’re just Plod from the MoD.
I’d found a bottle of red wine in the fridge. At least they hadn’t touched that. Having opened it I then rang my mother. I had to. She was alone in Cornwall.
‘What!! Milos, I don’t believe it! After all you’ve done for them …’ Her voice was cracking and breaking over the connection. Then she got angry, ‘It’s the Muslims, Milos, the Muslims and the Americans!’
Things happen either by cock-up or by conspiracy. In my experience, usually the former. In any event the phone was probably tapped so I asked her not to jump to any conclusions and told her that a mistake had probably been made. I didn’t believe a word of it and neither did she. We agreed not to tell my sister.
Half an hour later L-P, a friend from the Army, called from a bar in London. He’d been interviewed by the MoD Police while I’d been in my cell. ‘Milos, don’t worry. I’m behind you all the way. One hundred per cent.’ He couldn’t discuss anything, certainly not over the phone. I didn’t want to know anyway. All he had to do was tell the truth. I trust him with my life. His call perked me up slightly.
As I polished off the wine I stared at what was left of my house. It wasn’t mine anymore. It was theirs now – they’d taken my life, my mementoes, dismantled my museum and carted off a large part of me. I was a squatter in my own home. I felt hollow and sick – this is what it must feel like to be violated!.
I awoke the next morning curled up in a little sweating ball. I’d had another