‘No problem, mate.’
The governors were fixed and I came up with a plan of action. The convoy would be split into twos and threes and released at ten-minute intervals. Much smaller targets for a start, and with the governors off we could get up to 65mph, maybe even 70mph at a pinch. At least we stood a fighting chance now. I decided to go in the last truck so if there were any casualties I could sort it out.
The convoy set off. It was only a few miles to Tuzla, but the journey was going to be a complete nightmare. I was dreading the tell-tale ‘pop’ sound that signalled a mortar was incoming. Nothing happened. We were down to the last two trucks to go. Oh no, I thought, they’re saving it for the last two. Still nothing. We blasted along the road as best we could. The terrain was flattening out here, so we managed to keep up a decent speed. Two miles. Three miles. So far so good. Then in the distance I saw mortar splashes on the road ahead. Oh no! Time to get the prayer book out. It was a DF position. I thought, ‘Here we go. They’ve got our range and position. That’s the place!’ The trouble is when you’re in a truck roaring along with the engine straining to the limit you can’t hear the mortars ‘popping’. All you hear is the explosion that kills you. As we got closer, you could even see the ten-finned mortar tails sticking out of the tarmac. Dozens of them. I thought, ‘All these years I’ve got away with it and this is how it’s going to end.’
We kept our foot down and blasted along the road, swerving around the mortar splashes to prevent the fins and bits of shrapnel puncturing our tyres. Every nerve strained for signs of attack. Nothing. I’ll never know how, but we got away with it. Maybe the Serb forces were tied up elsewhere, on another front. Maybe it was simply a lack of discipline in their ranks. Whatever the reason, it was a minor miracle in my book. Another few hours of gut-wrenching tension, more rusting and burnedout tanks at the side of the road, more houses with their roofs blown off, more ethnically cleansed homes with timbers and tiles strewn into the road, some with bodies still lying stiffly and silently across the rubble, more slithering along the snow and ice, more threatening grey skies. Then, mercifully, we came round a bend and there it was before us. Tuzla. We’d managed to get through and somehow we were still in one piece.
We were the first Western agency to reach Tuzla since the war began. What state did we find the people in? Proud. Resilient. In surprisingly good shape considering their dire circumstances. They were used to it. A lot of the older folk had survived occupation under the Nazis in the Second World War. That they were hugely grateful for the humanitarian supplies we brought goes without saying. They couldn’t have survived much longer on their own. What struck me, though, was how dignified they were as the aid was being doled out.
The town itself was less orderly. A bit like the Wild West. That’s where we met these couple of clowns – Geordies, ex-Army, freelance zappers. Mad as a bag full of frogs. They were tooled up with AK-47s and spent most of their time down in Sarajevo holed up in deserted blocks of flats taking on the Serb snipers just for the hell of it. Like a rifle range at the fair. They were living off charity and buckshee scoff. To them, it was just like playing darts at the weekend. As they explained in their near-impenetrable Geordie accents, ‘Just havin’ a bit of fun, like.’ Unbelievable! You’d think they were talking about going off to shoot a few rabbits. Crazy place, Bosnia. Full of crazy people.
Anyway, at least I could relax a bit now. Or so I thought. Tuzla wasn’t the end of the story. It was just the beginning.
Just beyond Tuzla was where I nearly became a millionaire.
24
My Kingdom for a Stinger
With the aid we had delivered, things, at least in the short term, had improved greatly for the inhabitants of the city. Not for us, though. This was the point when it all started going wrong. Our orders were quite clearly to ‘Deliver the aid to the besieged city of Tuzla’. But Orlando had other ideas. He sidled up to me as we were unloading the convoy. ‘Pete, I want a word. Keep five trucks back. Numbers one, five, seven, eleven and fifteen.’
One had a load of medical supplies, the others food. ‘What do you want these for, Orlando?’ I asked, suspiciously.
Without batting an eyelid, he said calmly, ‘We’re going up to the front line.’
‘Fuck it!’ I thought. Hidden agendas. ‘Orlando,’ I protested, ‘that’s not in my brief. As far as I’m concerned the mission’s complete.’ I could see my objections were falling on deaf ears. Curiosity got the better of me. ‘Anyway, where exactly is this front line you’re proposing to go to?’
‘About ten k’s from here. There’s an enclave nobody’s been to since the war began. They’re in desperate trouble. We’re going to deliver these supplies there. It’s much smaller than Tuzla. They didn’t have the stocks of food to rely on like Tuzla when it all kicked off.’
‘And how do you propose to get through the checkpoints, Orlando? You’re now heading into serious warfare. They’ll shoot you as soon as look at you.’
‘Don’t worry about that, Pete. Leave that to me.’
Off he went with his briefcase again. I wondered what he was going to turn up with this time. An Apache helicopter gunship? A Challenger 2 main battle tank?
For the next couple of hours I concentrated on overseeing the trucks as they were unloaded into a compound. Suddenly Orlando returned followed by a massive, gleaming black limo. It was a ZiL, favourite limousine of Russian politicians and high-up government officials, their equivalent of the Rolls-Royce. With its prominent square badge on the front and utilitarian, factory-inspired shape, it looked like a slightly upmarket hearse. Could well have been armour-plated judging by the size of it. Sat up front was this Croatian bloke with dark glasses, looking for all the world like he was straight out of The Godfather.
Orlando looked very pleased with himself. His friend – let’s just call him ‘Big Zil’ – was going to help us through the checkpoints.
Big Zil got out of the car and introduced himself. Gestapo regulation leather coat, shoulders like an American NFL quarterback. Talk about intimidating. That’s good enough for me, I thought. Let’s crack on. I’d already decided to go. It’s not in my blood to turn down a challenge.
We piled off down the road again in our mini-convoy, Big Zil at the front. Unbelievable! There were all these checkpoints en route. Each time we were stopped, Big Zil simply poked his head out of the window, and growled, snarled and bared his teeth. As if by magic, we were greeted like honoured guests and were waved through before you could say Checkpoint Charlie. It was just as well we had him with us. The gunfire was intensifying and getting ever closer. We had Union Jacks draped all over the bonnets of our vehicles to let people know who we were. We needn’t have bothered, thanks to having Big Zil with us. Officially he was the police chief of the enclave where we were going. Unofficially he was the warlord who ran the place.
We reached the enclave unscathed. It was just like Liberation Day! Unlike the calm and dignified display in Tuzla, here we were absolutely mobbed. Men, women and children crowding round, arms raised with pure joy, waving at us, wanting to shake our hands. I got a real thrill out of it. With the Union Jacks all over our vehicles, I felt proud to be British. It was like reliving something my father did in the Second World War. I thought I would never do something like that. My wars had been much messier, less black-and-white, all undercover. No one ever knew we were even there. I enjoyed that moment like nothing I’d ever done before. That memory will stay with me for the rest of my life.