Radovan Karadzic did try to kill me. Well, not personally, but the troops under his command certainly had a go at it.

 

In 1994 Tuzla airport was repeatedly shelled. At the time, I was the commander of the UN unit stationed at the airport. Meanwhile, the surrounding, area with its mainly Muslim population, was under fire every day.

 

Monday (26th October) was scheduled to be the start of the trial against Radovan Karadzic by the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia in The Hague.

 

It now transpires that the former Bosnian-Serbian president needs more time to prepare for the trial. I think it is about time to condemn him.

 

My friend W, who is a judge and moves in the highest echelons of the European Liberal Democrats, recently, visited Serbia. ‘They are moving in the right direction,’ said W. ‘But that doesn’t mean they are ready to join the EU,’ I argued, ‘not before Karadzic has been found guilty and Mladic is in custody.’

 

W thinks that Serbia is part of Europe. ‘That is exactly my point,’ I said. ‘The Serbians were instrumental in allowing the greatest war crime since the Second World War to happen.’

 

OK, I had a point, admitted W, ‘But still,’ he said, ‘How much longer can you justify keeping Serbia outside the EU?’

 

Before this conversation took place, I was sitting in the pub awaiting the arrival of W. A young man joined me at my table. He was whipped thin, with sunken cheeks, a pronounced chin and wearing sunglasses.

 

He could have been on drugs. ‘I’m airborne,’ he declared out of the blue. ‘So am I,’ I said, in all honesty. I am the owner of the red beret and I used to be an officer with the Grenadier Guards.

 

Actually it transpired that his claim to being ‘airborne’ rested on having completed the Airborne March three times, a march held each year in commemoration of the landing of the 1st Airborne Division in Arnhem in 1944.

 

He kept moving closer towards me and I noticed the strong smell of alcohol on his breath. ‘Do you hunt as well?’ he said, pointing out my hunting green Scottish scarf. It was my lucky day, because at this point my friend W arrived and came to my rescue.

 

Nowadays, no one believes me when I tell them I used to be in the army. I am below average height, stout and wear glasses.

 

Most of the time I amuse people with stories about my time in the Armed Forces. I tell them about being in charge of the Grenadier Guards which escort the famous Gold State Coach that carries the Queen to the opening of Parliament. I did this five times.

 

Also, once I was in charge of the Queen’s personal protection guard at her palace. It must have looked as though Elton John had donned the full ceremonial Guard’s uniform complete with a bearskin helmet.

 

I was carefully instructed: ‘If you happen to come across Her Majesty, please be aware that it is not fitting to acknowledge her presence or greet her.’ Of course, on the one occasion that I did run into her, I just couldn’t resist saying very politely: ‘Good morning, Majesty.’ Her Majesty in return gave me a friendly nod.

 

In those times our means of communication were very old fashioned. We just had these ancient, very heavy, portable phones. The only place we could hide them was inside the bearskin helmets.

 

Still, they did work and watching out from a palace window, I could instruct my men to move as one. The people watching the Palace from outside the gates were impressed. ‘We didn’t know our soldiers were drilled that well.’ 

 

They must, however, have been surprised by the voice emerging from the soldiers’ bearskins.

 

The old portable phone had it uses. So: I issued instructions to my men: ‘Watch out, another bus with tourists. I will go outside and join you.’ Forthwith I went outside with my ceremonial sword drawn and proceeded to show the gathered spectators a few intricate exercises.

 

Yet, one day I found myself with the 212 men under my command on Tuzla airport, a position very near the frontline. We were showered with shells from ‘Sugar Hill’, a fortified position which provided the Bosnian Serbs with excellent views over the airbase.

 

Through sheer luck I managed to bring back all my men to our base in The Netherlands. Six months, later I left the army to write full time and become a poet.

 

It was not until 2008 that Karadzic was captured. During the intervening years he had taken on the personality of Doctor Dragan David Dabic. ‘Urine is an excellent medicine,’ was one of the ideas promoted by Doctor Dabic. Apparently there is even a video in which he drinks a litre of the stuff to prove his point.

 

General Mladic is still a fugitive. Until the time when both Karadzic and Mladic are locked up for life, the war will not have truly ended.

 

 

© Arnold Jansen op de Haar
© Translation Holland Park Press
 
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