Busmans holiday

We were carrying on the bus with us a very large quantity of explosives. A mixture of, TNT blocks, Bangor demolition tubes with timers, a couple of boxes of plastic explosive, a few detonators and two coils of fuse wire. These caused us some concern as they were all piled in the isles at the front of the bus the only concession to safety being that we have moved the small sawdust filled box of detonators away from the rest of the explosives.
The roads out side Zagreb were empty and we met only the occasional checkpoint. At this stage of the game we really didn’t know who was who and could only pray that we didn’t bump into anyone who didn’t like us in our very vulnerable state.
the country was in turmoil, Jugoslav baracks still existed on Croation soil surounded though they were by police and national guard units a break out or advance could happen at any time, we drew the curtains on the buss to hide ourselves from prying eyes as we headed into the unknown.
All we had with us were the two hand grenades and in the close quarters of the buss they would not be much use
We arrived in Vinkovci to find burnt buildings and the streets littered with roof tiles the civilians had all fled or were in hiding. It was overcast cold and miserable; we could hear the sounds of fighting in the distance. Looking round I could see that almost all of the windows in the town had been blown in by enemy artillery fire, whilst those that had remained intact had been boarded up. The piles of rubble and roof slates in the road betrayed the fact that very little traffic had used this road recently, welcome to the front.
When we pulled up outside an area command post, we found that it was in a shopping centre under a hotel. Here a Croatian boarded the bus and looked us over. He was very confident in himself as he checked out the “new meat”; he then asked us if he could have our berets. Now nobody touches or wears a beret that he is not entitled too so we told him that it was not possible. He then said, “then tell me where you are going to fight, so I can go and pick them up when you are dead!” A very warm greeting, especially when we never actually saw him on our area of the front.
　
After getting off the buss we followed the journalist carrying our kit and the explosives he led us to a ‘deserted house, it is numbered No. 42. It is a typical Slavonian design with the house built right on the edge of the street and a large back garden. The owners were probably Serbs who have fled the area for health reasons.
The house was being used by a man who introduced himself as Mark Tidwell the commander of all forgein units in the area. He explained to us that he was the liaison for the local Croatian commander, and that he would have to ‘interview’ us before we could be considered for deployment and were allocated to any of the front line units. He had a few other foreigners with him, who claimed to work closely with the local police unit. Mark carried an Argentine Self-Loading Rifle (7.62/51) it was not the kind of weapon we wanted due to the shortage of ammunition available for it.
We unloaded the explosives into the garage at the back of the house; the general question went round as to who had what military experience.
Being a Gulf veteran I toped the list. However being a tank soldier I slipped down to the bottom of the list, they were mainly looking for grunts, and at this stage of the game I was willing to tow the line when someone had more local knowledge than I did.
Mark Tidwell then went on to explain to us that he had been with the 2nd battalion of the Queens regiment, and claimed to have come from the Shetlands. Obviously this confused Mark Western because he genuinely had been in the Queens regiment and this ‘expert’ didn’t know the battalion or fit the bill as an old hand! Mind you his uncle tried to do the same to me with his I’m a Stafford speech, so we accept them as a ticket to the front were we expect to meet more realistic people.
He had us wait in one of the rooms, while he and Dragen interviewed us individually, he took notes in a notebook about our units and our past. We were all issued a dire warning that we were not at any point to communicate with the press or to keep diary’s containing names of other unit members in case we were captured. These seemed like normal requests to us. Dragen spoke to Danny the Canadian and he decided that he was going to go back to Zagreb to join one of the Croat units.
He then has the group divided into two sections. One was the experienced group the other was the ones with no experience who would be sent to a group of students charged with defending a piece of the front under the supervision of a former French soldier.
It goes without saying that Herman the German had been kicked right out the door after in his interveiw he explained that he intended to use CS gas on the first Serb he saw, stab him with a bayonette he had aquired and steal his gun! Ok an interesting tactic that may have worked on the streets of Hamburg, but not a viable plan of action for a war zone! The last we heard of him, he had been attempting to get cyanide from the local hospital.
Anyway we are left to fend for ourselves in the house whilst the others disappear to make our movement arrangements.
We were to be fed at the local Red Cross centre. This in its self is to provide a challenge to some of the new bodies. The food was served in the community hall, which was some distance away from the house.
When we made our way to the hall we could hear the sounds of the front behind us; sporadic machinegun fire and occasional explosions as positions were shelled.
The journalist led us, he was carrying the Argentine FN with him, which had been lent to him by mark. The streets were still deserted There was no visible signs of war, just an oppressed feeling about the place as we moved across the wide empty streets.
When we got there the hall had no electricity; it was furnished with trestle tables on a wooden floor. A large, brick built wood burning stove against one wall heated it.
A soldier was sitting up on an old curtained stage with a field radio relaying messages; this place was being used as some kind of a command post.
The food when it came was typical government food STEW! Lots of vegetables and some odd bits of animal all stuck in one pot and boiled. A large pot of the stuff was put on our bench with lumps of bead.
We all took it in turns to fill our bowls dipping into the mystery brew with the ladle, when it came to Robert’s turn he pulled the ladle out to and found a chickens foot sticking out of it!
The expression on his face said it all; he went from hunger to going to throw up in about 5 seconds flat. He just sat there staring at the foot to make sure it was really there. Then put the whole lot back in the pot and just ate the bread.
It was I must say a very clean chickens foot, however Robert’s pampered western life stile had not prepared him for the brutal truth that something normally has to die to get its self on to your plate, it was the beginning of the end for Robert. Real country food with bits and bobs in them turned his guts, god knows how he was going to react when he found his first pick and mix person on the front.