Having decided that the mine was laid by the Bosnian side, we agreed that I would go forward with Eric to the clearing and would try to attract the attention of the Bosnian forces in their eerie. This I would do with a United Nations flag attached to a branch from a tree, shouting my favourite words—Visoko Kommissariat. I did this, much to the amusement of the soldiers, the joy of the press, and the embarrassment of myself. Whilst I was performing, Eric was looking at the clearing with his professional eye.
– Larry, there are more mines here. These are anti-tank. I stopped my “Relief of Mafeking” semaphore act and joined him at the perimeter of a fresh pile of stones clearly covering a large green dish designed to tear the wheels of any of our vehicles.
– Very well placed—said Eric—There is no way the convoy could have avoided it. To swing around the bend, you had to go over the mine. It would have had a more devastating attack on our progress than the first one.
– Eric, if we have two, we may have more.
I returned to my cabaret act but attracted nothing and no one. Eric got on his battalion radio to Sarajevo, by morse, and told them of the latest developments. We were told to sit tight, a meaningful HQ decision, in the circumstances. Sarajevo first asked the Serbs if they would clear the mines. Apparently they said—Yes—until they realised where they were. They then said—NO.
Sarajevo then decided to send the engineers out from the marines at the airport, from the same battalion who were escorting us. This all took time. We spent the whole day and the whole night in the custody of these mines. It was halfway through the next day when we heard that the marines were in the area. They arrived cautiously and slowly. Which was just as well. At the bridge with the two-tonne limit, they found more mines. It was late in the afternoon before they had made safe the mine with the wire and a little later when they detonated the anti-tank mine in the road.
We were then free to move, forty hours after the sharp-eyed Lieutenant spotted the wire. Incidentally, he was later to receive an award for his professionalism. We returned to Rogatica, where we were met by an extremely agitated Brane.
– Mr. Larry, get the convoy through here as fast as you can. You are not welcome here. The people may attack your convoy.
– Brane, what has happened?
– Whilst you were mined in, the Muslims moved their troops using your convoy as a shield. They came into Rogatica, there was a battle, and twelve from the town are dead. This is the largest number of casualties in one battle in this area since the war began. They are very anti-UN, anti-UNHCR, and especially anti-you, Mr. Larry.
I liaised with Eric and directed the convoy to speed through Rogatica. As I was talking to him, two Serb commanders from Rogatica came up to me. Their faces black with anger. One, Captain Rajic, I would get to know very well. They began to threaten me, to accuse me of having aided a Muslim attack, of having taken ammunition into Gorazde.
– That is ridiculous. You inspected the trucks. You know they were clean. We have never and will never carry warlike stores for any side. I was becoming angry. Rajic, in particular, can look very menacing. He is about five foot two, round, podgy face, black straight hair, stained teeth, and unshaven. He is accompanied by a bandoliered bodyguard whom I was to antagonise on many occasions. Being in the company of Rajic was like being an extra in a “spaghetti western,” with Rajic playing Zapata.
The other Serb was a reasonable, almost kindly man.
– The Muslims moved using you as a shield. We fired one mortar, to warn them and to let you know that we knew that they were moving. We could have prevented their attack and wiped them out in the hills but that would have placed you in extreme danger. We had given you our word that you would not be in any danger from us. Our word has cost us lives.
As we spoke, a small open truck drove by, on it the bodies of eight of the victims of the battle. We were joined by a man who said he was the mayor of Rogatica. He had some very heated words with Brane. It was obvious that the Serbs in Rogatica were identifying Brane with us. Brane, the extremely brave Liaison Officer that he is, had heard the situation developing and raced to Rogatica on his own initiative to assist us. His action was angering his own people.
– Mr. Larry, they want you and the press to go to a makeshift mortuary and see the bodies unloaded. They want you to see close up what your convoy has done to their people. This convoy was turning out to be a real media event, a photo call at every phase.
– What do you think, Brane? Is it wise or not?—My fears were of meeting either angry soldiers or grieving women.
– Mr. Larry, I don’t think you have an option—Brane said with a wry smile.
– Let’s go—I said, knowing that, at least by now, the convoy was clear of the town. I just hoped that Eric had halted it and was waiting for us to catch up. Rogatica was not the place for my Land Rover and two press vehicles! Brane was driving a VW Golf; he followed the Mayor’s car, we followed him.
Rogatica is a three road town. We had come from one of them, the convoy was on another, we took the third, the right fork behind the flour mill. We caught up with the truck and formed a macabre procession. The truck turned into a small yard. We swung in after it. The yard was not large enough for more than the truck, my vehicle, and one other. The truck parked in front of a small room with double metal and glass doors. To the left of this room was an office and a workshop. A group of men, some in uniform, some not, started to unload the truck.
I heard Corinne Dufkas say—My god, some of them are still bleeding—by which I presumed that she was indicating that they were very “fresh,” straight from the battlefield which could not be far away. Corinne asked me if I could find out if she could take photos. – Yes—said Brane.
Corinne literally raced across to the truck and started snapping, close, bloody, gruesome shots. It’s her job. She must have a steady hand, a good eye, and a strong stomach. Taking the lead from Corinne, the TV men moved in. Kurt Schork from Reuters endeared himself to me by saying—I’m staying right here. I have seen enough dead bodies in my life.
I had no option. I had not been invited just to stand back. There were eight bodies, the other four were “on their way” from some other location. The bodies were not neatly laid out; they had been thrown on the truck, probably in a hurry near where the battle took place. The initial view was of intertwined limbs. Some bodies faced upwards with open, milky eyes, some lay sprawled across their neighbours, their open-mouthed, lifeless heads supported by blood stained torsos. Some were indeed bleeding. As they were pulled and dragged off the truck, they left red scuff marks on the bodies of their colleagues. Some were very heavy. None of these men had been professional soldiers. They were men from Rogatica. The heaviest had a large stomach, the men unloading his body had great difficulty. They attempted to lift him by his clothing, but a handful of shirt and trouser leg was never going to support his bulk. They succeeded only in pulling his trousers down, exposing his genitals in an obscene way. I remember clearly thinking—I hope his wife does not see him now. The men unloading were forced to take hold of the bodies by their limbs. They sagged under the dead weights.
We were then told to stand back and wait. After a short time, we were told to enter the room where they had been taken. They each lay on the floor, heads to the left, feet to the right. The eighth body was so close to the door that we had to step over his feet to enter the room. I walked the eight paces to the end of the room and stood still. The sun was streaming in through the open door. In the room was myself, the mayor, and Corinne. I slowly looked at each of the dead. Some seemed hardly marked. One had lost half of his head and face, and part of his hand was missing. He must have been close to a mortar round. May even have been hit by a passing shell. Whatever, he was not a pretty sight. The youngest of them was probably thirty;