14/08/2008

Over the next few weeks, allmediascotland.com is to publish, each weekday, extracts from the memoirs of Scottish war correspondent, Paul Harris. ‘More Thrills than Skills: A Half-life in Journalism’, is being scheduled for publication next year.

Meantime, from the back seat, we were treated to a relentless diatribe from young Rade. Three years in the army and he had absorbed some curious ideas. He was convinced that Germany and the US would attack the Serbs of former Yugoslavia.

“We are ready for them. We will destroy them.” Now an afterthought.  “Will you English also attack us ?” I neatly side-step this one in my usual way. “I am from Scotland. You should understand Scotland is a separate nation from England. We are different.” He seemed to be well satisfied by this nationalist explanation.

Now came a mildly sensational piece of news to which we had not been privy. “Already, we have shot down one US AWACS plane.”

This is announced with evident pride as his finger insistently jabbed my shoulder. “Be sure you write this truth in your newspaper.”

His friend, Goran, unnervingly prepares his Kalashnikov for firing. Weapons handling was not a strongpoint with these chaps. They tended to treat their guns like movie props. NATO no-fly-zone or not, two Gazelle helicopters flew low overhead barely above tree-height in the direction of military headquarters in Banja Luka.

As we reached the checkpoint at Modrica, the bombastic Rade had a sudden change of mind. He was not going to kill ustase in Brcko after all. We were glad of this, if only to rid ourselves of our increasingly tiresome passenger. Instead, he now planned to meet up with military drinking buddies in Modrica Lug. We were mightily relieved as he lurched off and I was gratified to note that he was stopped by the military police and appeared to be getting a hard time of it over the state of his travel papers.

Near to Brcko, Goran left us for his unit and we were now on our own to deal with the military checkpoints. It was mid-afternoon and our progress came to a halt at the checkpoint outside the eastern Bosnian town of Bijeljina.

Passports and press cards were this time insufficent to get us through a rather more thorough check. We lacked the necessary permission from military headquarters in Banja Luka. Of this I was well aware. I also knew we would never have been granted permission to travel this road so I hadn't even bothered rolling up in Banja Luka to be kept waiting in order to to learn this rather obvious piece of information.

We were detained at the side of the road by a not unfriendly group of military police and their less compromising commander. They were all fascinated by the Skoda. Part wonderment at how it managed to get to the war zones of former Yugoslavia, part the usual amazement that a western journalist apparently couldn't afford more opulent transport.

The hours passed and darkness fell as telephone calls were made. Around 8pm, we were instructed to proceed to the nearest police station and from there were taken to the local HQ of the Office of National Security where our passports were confiscated. We were lodged overnight in the local hotel. Or at least that is what it was in better times. It was now a hostel for soldiers and showed signs of widespread military abuse: the wardrobe in my room appeared to have been opened with a Kalashnikov. Bullet holes were splayed across both doors, both of which now flapped uselessly open.

Questioning started at 8am. prompt. It was something of a parody of interrogation techniques; second rate B-movie stuff. A plainclothes officer did it from the textbook. “It is no use to deny things. We know that your passports are forgeries. You must confess what you are doing here.” My driver, Igor, got the treatment first.

Waiting in the corridor outside I was earnestly engaged in conversation in halting German by a burly bull-headed, but altogether genial, denizen of Serbian Security. He tells me he must learn German for his job. He clutches a thick, well-thumbed dictionary in his hand. I ask him in a simple sentence of German if Bijeljina is his home town. He refers to the dictionary looking up the word town, the word home, and so on. Communication is slow and ponderous. His job is apparently very important.

“When the Germans come and attack us it will be my job to interrogate the prisoners.”  This could be a long war. Meantime, he is conscientiously taking every opportunity to spruce up his command of the language. Our conversation comes to an end as I am summoned for interview by a gap-toothed, leather-jacketed operative of state security.

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