Dear All,
this is a short excerpt from the book "Diary of an Uncivil War" by Scott Taylor. You could obtain it in every major book store in Canada, or by contacting the author/publisher at : [EMAIL PROTECTED] The book is easy to read. In his book Mr. Taylor writes about the war in Kosovo and Macedonia the way he experienced it. Similar to Ernest Hemingway , Taylor sees all sides of the conflict not only through the eyes of a military reporter but also as a human being. Boba Borojevic ==================== http://www.herald.ns.ca/stories/2002/02/24/f289.raw.html Sunday, February 24, 2002 Back The Halifax Herald Limited ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -------- Misadventures in an uncivil war James Phillips The wreckage of a Macedonian vehicle marks the Aug. 8, 2001 ambush site on the Skopje-Tetovo highway. Two policemen were killed and 14 wounded in this attack. James Phillips This passenger bus was another casualty of the Aug. 8, 2001 Grupcin ambush. It was attacked in full view of a NATO camp 800 meters beyond. Andrej Ginovski / The Associated Press A police officer walks behind a police armored personnel carrier through the Macedonian village of Ratae. Macedonian police still guard the village fearing attacks from ethnic Albanian splinter insurgent groups. By Scott Taylor / Special to The Sunday Herald Editor's note: Military writer Scott Taylor spent some time last year in the middle of the conflict between Macedonia and ethnic Albanian rebels. Here is an excerpt from his forthcoming book on the conflict, Diary of an Uncivil War Skopje, Aug. 8, 2001 - DESPITE THE FACT that the weather forecast called for the temperature to soar above 40 C, I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and tie. I had an interview later in the morning with Macedonia's new defence minister, Vladimir Buchkovski, and I felt a certain amount of decorum was necessary. I hitched a ride back to the Macedonian capital. Arriving in the city centre before 9:30 a.m., we agreed to meet for a late supper back at our hotel in Tetovo (about 30 km west of Skopje, near the Kosovo border). We had no idea that at that moment all hell was breaking loose on the stretch of road we had just traveled over. The first inkling I had that something was wrong was the flurry of activity at the Macedonian Defence Ministry. A crowd had gathered in the guarded entranceway and were trying to get in, while on the other side of a barrier people were trying to reclaim their identification cards in order to get out. It took me a while to work my way forward to a harassed military policeman at the reception window. As soon as I told him I was there to interview Minister Buchkovski, the young corporal put a finger to his temple and asked incredulously, "Are you f-----? Do you have any idea of what is going on?" When I tried to explain to him that I didn't, I was contemptuously dismissed. A short, pot-bellied colonel at the rear of the queue had seen and understood the curt exchange. Politely, he explained to me that the UCK had just mounted a major offensive. The Tetovo-Skopje highway had been cut off and that many soldiers were killed in an ambush. Furthermore, there could be no interview with Buchkovski today because he was trapped in Tetovo. The helpful colonel did not know when or if there would be a press conference, as the information was too sketchy. He suggested that I go to the official press accreditation counter for an update on the situation. As I walked to the nearby foreign media office, a flight of Mi-24 Hind helicopters flew overhead towards the Tetovo highway. Unfortunately, Atanas Georgievski was the only person on duty in the office. He knew nothing of the UCK attack, and without a mutual language (he spoke only Macedonian and Greek, a decided drawback when dealing with the foreign media) we were reduced to communicating in sign language. In this manner, I learned that I was one of only five foreign journalists registered in Macedonia. The others were an American, two from a Dutch television crew and a reporter from Abu Dhabi. As it seemed unlikely that the Macedonian military would hold a press conference, I contacted Rade Lesko at Skynet Television. He told me that ten soldiers had been killed and 14 wounded. A number of civilians had also been attacked along the 42 kilometres of highway that separate Tetovo and Skopje, and the Macedonian army had closed the road. "Until when?" I asked stupidly. "Until we win the battle, I would assume," Lesko answered. The ambush had taken place outside the village of Grupcin, about halfway between the two cities. I had no way of knowing whether or not this was part of a sustained offensive by the UCK or an isolated attack. However, with most of my gear and travel documents still in Tetovo, I had to get back as quickly as possible. I hailed a taxi and told the driver I wanted to go to Grupcin. He had been listening to his radio and told me it was not possible. "The road is closed," he said. I showed him my press pass and told him that as a foreign correspondent I had clearance to get through. He bought it, and we set off. The bluff worked at the first police checkpoint as well. However, at Saraj, a village on the western outskirts of Skopje, the Macedonian security forces were turning back all traffic, and there was a lineup of vehicles parked along the roadside. A crowd of curious drivers had gathered at the head of the column, anxious to obtain word of the battle's progress. My driver was only too ready to obey the policeman at the barricade. As soon as he stopped and I stepped out of the car, he turned around and sped off back to Skopje without waiting to be paid. There were at least two dozen heavily armed security personnel at the Saraj roadblock, along with armoured personnel carriers and a sandbagged punkt, which appeared to be the headquarters. I was hoping to talk my way through by telling the commanding officer that it was important for a foreign journalist to be on the scene to confirm the UCK's ambush at Grupcin and present the "big picture." A surly-looking policeman came towards me shouting "f--- off" or its Macedonian equivalent before I even had time to state my case. I therefore politely asked to see his superior. Overhearing the conversation, a hatless policeman lounging in the shade nearby yelled out that he was in charge. After a few moments of talking to him, I realized my case was hopeless. Even when I asked for details of the ambush and the current situation, he just shrugged and said, "Ask the Defence Ministry spokesman." Admitting defeat, I turned to the policeman who had first approached me and said, "Izvini (I'm sorry)." As I picked up my briefcase, he suddenly lunged forward and struck me across the chest with his Kalashnikov. "Ne ma izvini!" (No, 'I'm sorry!') he shouted. Surprised and knocked off balance, I was just regaining my composure when he struck me again, this time more forcefully, still shouting, "Ne ma izvini!" As I walked back towards the line of parked cars, the police and the assembled onlookers were all laughing. I decided then and there that, whatever it took, I would get through to Tetovo. Kondovo, Aug. 8, 2001 (Wednesday afternoon) I climbed a hillside in order to get around the police checkpoint. Without a map, I reasoned that if I headed west, then south, I could get back onto the main highway at the bottom of the hill. I came across a rail line, which I wrongly assumed led to Grupcin and Tetovo. After walking nearly three kilometres, I learned of my mistake from a trio of young Albanian boys who were crossing the tracks on their way back from swimming. They had been quite startled by my sudden appearance. Drenched in sweat, dressed in a shirt and tie, and carrying a briefcase and camera bag, I must have been a very strange sight indeed. The boys were puzzled when I asked how far it was to the highway. My dead reckoning had been correct, but I had forgotten to factor in the curve of the Vardar River, which ran through the valley. To get to Grupcin, I would have to retrace my steps, almost all the way back to the police punkt in Saraj. Footsore from walking in my leather dress shoes, I asked the boys if I could rent a bicycle. This request amused them and they ran off ahead of me to the village of Kondovo to see if they could find one. News of the approaching stranger soon spread throughout this little Albanian village, and when I arrived in Kondovo, I was swarmed by curious children. An uncle of one of the boys I had met on the tracks joined the group and tried his best to dissuade me from making the trip. There is much fighting in the valley; it is very dangerous right now," he said. "Join my family for lunch and we will arrange for a driver to take you to Tetovo via Kosovo tonight." He told me that he could put me in touch with the local UCK commanders as they still had routes open. I really did not want to spend too much time with the UCK, especially with copies of my book in my briefcase that had not been well received in Kosovo. Finally realizing that I was determined to get to Grupcin, he produced a battered old mountain bike. Using his tractor engine as a compressor, he re-inflated the rear tire and explained that only the front brake worked. After sharing a midday meal with his family, I changed from my sweat-soaked shirt and tie into the clean T-shirt they gave me and bade them farewell. A number of young Albanians offered to guide me across the Vardar and when I started off, they ran along beside me. From the direction of Tetovo, the crump of far-off mortars could be clearly heard and columns of black smoke rose from the next valley. Macedonian fighter jets were visible overhead and helicopter gunships occasionally appeared above the ridgeline. Things were really heating up. As we reached the banks of the Vardar, an American Twin Huey utility helicopter roared over us at treetop level. A grinning door-gunner gave us a thumbs-up and the kids cheered wildly. Startled at the appearance of a NATO aircraft so blatantly violating Macedonian air space, I asked out loud, "What the hell are the Yanks doing here?" One of the older boys looked at me sternly and said, "They're here to help us, or don't you think they should?" I noticed that the helicopter had veered west and was heading straight towards the Grupcin ambush site. Dodging the boy's question, I pointed at the now distant chopper and said, "At least with NATO up there, things should be a little safer." There was a ford across the Vardar about a kilometre from the Macedonian police punkt at Saraj. Crossing the river, I knew that the police could see us. I just hoped that they would not be unduly alarmed by a bicyclist surrounded by a cluster of teenage Albanians. I came out on the highway on a slight rise, just out of sight of the roadblock. With my heavy briefcase clamped across the handlebars and my camera bag tightly slung across my back, I set off on the 25-kilometre ride to Grupcin. I have never been much of a cyclist and with my unbalanced baggage, I dared not lift a hand to wave goodbye to my Albanian escorts. Shouting thank you over my shoulder, I wobbled away. It did not take long for the euphoria of having slipped past the police to evaporate. I was overcome by an overwhelming sense of anxiety and fear. As I climbed the first long slope on the eerily empty four-lane highway, I suddenly felt very much alone. I realized that nobody had any idea of my whereabouts and that I was riding a dilapidated bicycle into the middle of a combat zone. I convinced myself that I could not go back now, and that I would be able to visit the ambush site and make it all the way back to Tetovo before dusk. The ride was proving to be much more strenuous than I had thought it would be. The bicycle had seen better days - a slight warp in the front wheel prevented me from picking up any speed, even on the downhill stretches. The seat was set too low and I could not peddle safely while standing for fear that my shoes would slip. My butt was also beginning to feel the effects of not having a ridden a bike for at least ten years. I had not seen another living soul since I got back on the highway, and without a watch or map, it was difficult to measure my progress. Ahead, plumes of smoke were rising above the horizon and the dull thump of artillery was becoming louder. As my fears mounted, I began talking out loud to the bicycle, coaxing it along. Two Hind gunships suddenly roared overhead less than 30 metres off the ground, the aircrew probably as startled at the sight of a lone cyclist as I was of them. About 800 meters ahead of me, they hovered directly over the highway and began firing rockets at an unseen UCK position. Startled by the blasts, I almost fell off the bicycle. Empty metal casings, each weighing approximately one kilogram, came plummeting down all over the highway and bounced off the asphalt with a curious metallic pinging sound. When I reached the spot where the gunships had fired, I stopped briefly to pick up one of the still-hot rocket tubes as a souvenir. I was beginning to wonder if I had somehow passed Grupcin when, off to my right, I heard a muffled hiss, and turned to see a camouflaged figure on a grassy slope, pointing in my direction. Two other armed men joined him and took up firing positions. They were about 150 meters away, but they offered no formal challenge. I could not tell whether they were UCK or Macedonian security forces, but assumed that this was close to the ambush site, and with so much air activity about, the UCK would be long gone. I kept riding straight down the middle of the road, hoping that I looked more ridiculous than threatening. At any moment I expected to be either shot or at least challenged and stopped. Just as I was beginning to believe that I was in the clear, I saw a pair of flashing headlights coming towards me in the oncoming lane. I assumed that the hidden gunmen had radioed for a mobile police unit to check me out. I was already thinking about how I could get rid of the bike and hitch a ride when the white Mercedes roared past me. The flashing lights were not a signal for me to stop, but to get the hell out of the way. I passed the burnt-out hulk of a civilian Yugo, with the charred remains of the driver still inside, the flames flickering at the edge of a blackened field. A little farther on, I rode past an abandoned Macedonian army bunker. A few minutes later, I came upon four armoured personnel carriers in the middle of the road, their turrets constantly traversing in a threatening manner. Ahead of them were the shattered remains of two army vehicles, their blackened hulks still smoldering. As I approached, a dismounted soldier spotted me and shouted an alarm. The turret of the rearmost APC swung around and the machinegun barrel was depressed until it centred squarely on my chest. I could not understand what the soldier said, but knew immediately that I was not welcome here. A sergeant gestured for me to raise my hands in the air. With my briefcase on the handlebar and only one brake handle, this proved to be rather difficult. About 20 metres away from him, I dismounted and walked toward him with my hands raised high. He was not only angry with me but also very edgy about the situation. Behind him, I could see body parts of Macedonian soldiers strewn across the road. After examining my passport and press credentials, the sergeant shouted, "What the f--- are you doing here? The road is closed!" Realizing he meant to intimidate me, I instead shouted back my own question: "If the road is closed, then how did I get here?" Startled by my outburst, he calmed down a little and asked where I got on the highway. I told him past Saraj, and that I came here directly from Kondovo. Playing dumb, I asked, "Is there some sort of trouble ahead?" He didn't wish to elaborate and kept telling me that I must go back, as this place was too dangerous. When I asked why the other Macedonian patrol had not stopped me, this news puzzled him. When I explained to him exactly where I had seen the figures on the hillside, it was apparent from his reaction that they must have been UCK. Not only were he and his detachment stuck in the open in a killing ground, but now I had also brought the unwelcome news that the UCK had stepped in behind them. He became even more insistent that I leave the site immediately and ride all the way back to Skopje. I knew that, physically, I could not manage it even if I had wanted to. My (backside) was killing me and I was so dehydrated that I was no longer sweating. Then I spotted three Albanian civilians; an old man and what appeared to be a young married couple standing beside the road. I asked the sergeant why I could not simply stay with them. "Just forget that you ever saw these people," he snapped, and went over to the nearest APC to use the radio. A member of the Wolves special forces had overheard our conversation. Lowering his voice, he said, "Look, just get your bike and get out of sight. Go back a couple of kilometres and hide beside the road. We hope to have the road to Tetovo clear in a couple of hours." As I started to ask another question, he cut me off. "Just get going before that terrified idiot kills you." I hurried back to my bicycle. I decided to get off the highway and try to find a telephone to contact the Ottawa Citizen. I hoped to dictate a quick story, and at least let someone know where I was. I retraced my route back a couple of kilometres and turned onto a small farm track. The first house I approached appeared to be deserted. I called out, hoping to attract the owner's attention but the sudden roar of two gunships coming in low drowned me out. The helicopters passed directly overhead and began to plaster the next hillside, meaning the UCK forces had cut the road to Skopje. Getting no answer at the farmhouse, I pushed my bicycle up the steep path towards the hamlet I could see about a kilometre away. I had barely gone 60 meters when two UCK soldiers emerged from the woods lining the track. To say that they startled me would be an understatement. One had a Kalashnikov, the other a pistol, and both were aimed directly at me. I dropped the bicycle and put up my hands. The one with the pistol hissed in German, "Get off the road, you idiot. Do you want to get us all killed?" I grabbed my briefcase and camera bag and plunged into a thicket with them. "Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?" he asked. When I told him I was a Canadian journalist, his demeanour changed completely. Holstering his pistol, he smiled broadly and said, "Welcome, my friend." >From our vantage point it was still possible to see the Macedonian >armoured column at the ambush site. My new friend advised me that it was dangerous for me here, and he used his cell phone to call for a car and driver to take me further away from the highway. Within minutes, a little red Yugo came racing down the farm track and braked beside us. Hiding the bicycle under some branches, I hurried over and got in. Our destination was the hamlet I had been heading towards, which I learned was Bojane. In the central square, about a dozen cheerful Albanian men and teenage boys came over to greet me. I asked for some mineral water, which I drank thirstily, and then a telephone. Several of them produced their cellular phones, even after I told them that I wanted to put a call through to Canada. I reached Bruce Garvey at the Citizen and brought him up to date. He had heard of the ambush on the wire service, then I informed him that I had been in the middle of the fighting. It was not a great phone connection, but I dictated the details as best I could. Garvey assured me he would be able to piece together a story from what I told him. Not wanting to worry my family with my predicament, nor for them to learn of it in the morning paper, I asked Garvey to call my wife early the next morning in order to brace her. He wished me luck and I signed off. During my phone call, several Albanians had crowded around, trying to follow my story. When I finished, one of the older men asked, "Why didn't you tell them about how our women and children are suffering?" When I replied that I hadn't seen any women or children, I immediately realized that I had taken his bait. A few men escorted me to the basements of some of Bojane's larger houses. In each crowded cellar, there were about two dozen women and children sitting on mats around the floor, rocking back and forth and pretending to cry from fear of the Macedonian police, I was told. I say pretending because the whole scene was so badly acted, it was embarrassing to be a part of. I knew that I was expected to express my shock and sympathy, but seeing the young girls laughing behind their hands at each other's phony tears made it impossible for me to feign compassion. When my guide asked if I would like to photograph this "suffering," I lied and said that I was out of film. "They have been down in this shelter since the fighting in June," he told me. When I asked if all they did was sit and cry all day, every day, he replied with a straight face, "Yes." As we were leaving, I glanced back and saw young children spilling out eagerly into the back garden, and teenage girls watching our passage from an upstairs window. Scott Taylor is a military affairs columnist for The Herald and editor of the magazine Esprit de Corps. *** ADDED THE FOLLOWING COPY *** ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -------- Back ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -------- Copyright C 2002 The Halifax Herald Limited Serbian News Network - SNN [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.antic.org/
