Wilmot — Route 4b, Bosnia-Herzegovina | November 1996
“Dobar dan NATO strašilo”
It’s getting dark. We’ve been on the road for hours, patrolling our Area of Responsibility and ‘showing the force’ in central Bosnia-Herzegovina. The idea behind showing the force is very straightforward: a fully equipped 120mm heavy mortar infantry platoon driving around on public roads, taking rapid-fire positions, should send a clear message to the former warring factions that the NATO Implementation Force (IFOR), unlike its UN predecessors, is not to be messed with. Additionally, it should give the civilians in this war-torn country the assurance that they are safe now.
As Fire Direction Centre, my vehicle leads four Armoured Personnel Carriers (APCs) and two Mercedes 4x4s. My APC’s tracks rattle noisily over pot-holed Route 4B as we make our way back to base, a former Olympic ski-resort in Šišava. I carefully scan my surroundings from the commander’s seat, the armoured hatch set to a protective half-shell.
Alongside the road, there are the ghostly remains of burned-out houses and a chilling number of car wrecks. The white walls are torn with bullet holes and sprayed with black graffiti in Cyrillic. Behind the houses, there’s a thick forest in which it’s easy to see the ghosts of war. There’s no sign of life other than a pack of stray dogs play-fighting. Then I spot lights coming from the skeleton of a house in the distance.
“Romeo this is Charlie, possible contact ahead. Over,” I inform my platoon commander, using our NATO call-signs.
“Romeo here, reduce speed. Alpha observe left sector, Bravo observe right, Mike fall back. Over.”
“Alpha, roger out.”
“Bravo, roger out.”
“Mike here, WILCO out.”
Turning my head, I see how the .50 machine guns on the APCs behind me swing left and right and the second 4×4 is slowing down, creating a gap. As we come closer to the house, I can hear music and people talking loudly.
Suddenly a man comes out of the doorway and steps into the middle of the road. He’s wearing a Serbian Četnik cap and a thick long overcoat, his hands deep into the side pockets. Who is this man? Is he armed? He looks in his mid-forties, but the war has aged people significantly, he could be much younger.
“Dobar dan NATO strašilo,” he shouts, keeping his hands in his pockets.
I get the “Good afternoon NATO,” but I don’t know what strašilo means; I doubt it’s something nice. “Point your barrel skyward,” I tell my gunner, “It will make us look less aggressive.”
“What about me?” the nervous voice of my driver calls over the intercom, “Am I supposed to stop?”
“No! Keep going straight, slow down a bit, but don’t stop,” I say, trying to sound confident.
Shit! Of course we can’t just run the Četnik over, even the Chinese didn’t do that to the tank man on Tiananmen Square, but neither can we stop. Who is this man? My brain goes into overdrive. I can’t recall anything we might have learnt about a situation like this during our ‘green’ UN training.
He’s still standing on the road, staring at us with bloodshot eyes. He’s at least another 30 metres away, but we are closing in quickly. What to do? We really can’t stop, that would render our whole day of ‘Showing the Force’ futile and cause too much trouble for future patrols. But we also can’t harm someone who hasn’t actually done anything other than stand in the middle of a public road. Then it hits me…
“Put your engine in neutral and place your hands somewhere where he can see them,” I order my driver.
He complies without any questions; isn’t it great if people just do what you tell them to? My idea is simple, if an APC’s gear is placed in neutral it will keep moving, but very, very slowly and steadily. This, combined with the skyward pointing machine gun and a driver clearly not ready to speed up, should give the Četnik before us enough confidence that we mean him no harm.
“Popij malo Šljivovica sa mnom NATO,” he shouts, pulling a bottle of Slivovitz out of his right pocket and a couple of small glasses from the left.
“Ne, hvala,” I say, attempting a smile. This is something I do remember from our training, don’t accept any drinks from the local militia.
Centimetre by centimetre my APC inches forward. The Četnik stands firm.
“Piti sa mnom!” he shouts, shaking the bottle of Slivovitz at me and staring me straight in the eyes. He must be seeing my panic as more rough looking men emerge from the house.
We’re now just centimetres away from him. He looks at the front of the APC, spits on the ground and then slowly steps aside, literally millimetres before we make contact.
“Kukavičluk NATO psi,” he grumbles as he walks back to the house, the other men welcoming him back like a hero.
It worked, this is a classic win-win situation. The Četnik has won because he managed to almost stop a NATO platoon, by himself and unarmed, and we’ve won because we didn’t actually stop and there hasn’t been any escalation of the situation.
I also know now that I can do this. After months of pretending to be a group commander, following the rules of the game but not really believing in myself, I’m not playing sergeant anymore: I am a sergeant.
I’m also very ready for the two cans of beer we’re allowed to have back at base tonight.
Sabres of Paradise. Wilmot single [CD]. Sheffield, United Kingdom: Warp Records (1994)
This autobiographical sketch comes from my bundle In the Moment: A Disjointed Audiobiography which is available at Amazon.com. (USD 9.50 for a paperback or USD 4.50 for the Kindle version)
