The RCR Association Documents
Outside the Compound
By Capt Fred Doucette, CD (ret'd)
My first move outside the compound was with Jean Bruyere and Ronnie Denyft, our deputy team leader with the Serb liaison officer in Sarajevo. Ronnie was a veteran of the UN efforts in the Balkans. This was his third tour. He had seen a lot, probably enough to last him several lifetimes. He was our voice of reason, especially when a decision had to be made.
Our trip on this day was to visit the Belgians injured in the mortar attack that had taken place on my first ride over Mount Igman on the way into Sarajevo. We put on our helmets and vests and then hopped into a soft-skinned Toyota Land Cruiser. Our first stop was at a French battalion in Skenderija, right between the warring factions. This area had been the site of many shelling incidents and an all-out attack by the French to dislodge the Serbs. The French lived in a maze of hallways and storefronts that had once been a state-of-the-art underground shopping mall. The mall had been ransacked and was pockmarked with impacts. It was a very damp and unpleasant place. Our mission? We were hunting for booze. Jean had heard that their small battalion shop had managed to get some liquor in. A lot of busy talk produced two bottles of cognac. Happy, we went on our way, weaving through the back streets to avoid snipers.
The sights inside the city of Sarajevo were beyond what I would have imagined. Everywhere people huddled in the lee of buildings, out of sight of the Serb gunners. They scurried across streets. Pazi Snajper (Caution: Snipers) signs were everywhere--as if anyone needed to be told.
Looking around, I was impressed with the local ingenuity. This used to be a prosperous, thriving, bustling city. Now every remaining piece of arable ground was a garden. The steep hills were stepped to make growing space. It was amazing where food was growing: window ledges were lined with tins labelled "Donation from USA," their original contents used up and now put to use as planters for whatever would grow in them.
Our destination was Sector Sarajevo HQ, where one of the several UN military hospitals was located deep in the basement. UN soldiers carried a list of these hospitals with them at all times. The list included the hospital's location and what was available there. Some hospitals had a nurse and a couple of medics. This hospital had six surgeons and advanced life-support systems. It was a busy place that treated all injuries, and on this day four patients were in the intensive care unit. The three Belgian soldiers were fine; they had holes in them, none life-threatening. But the fourth patient, a Ukrainian soldier, was clinging to life. He had massive head injuries and was wired to every life-support system available. He died twice while I was there. A flurry of caregivers, and he was brought back to life. In this crazy place, his fate was not a result of war but one of the products of war--the black market. His fellow soldiers had beaten him to a pulp. The beating had something to do with holding out on some illegal sales. Now he'd probably pay with his life.
At the end of this busy day, I made my way back to my accommodation stumbling in the dark. I was shielding my flashlight while seeking out the route, trying not to draw attention to myself and my light. Luckily I had my helmet on, because try as I might I could never remember the low balcony on the way to the apartment entrance, and bang, I cracked my melon on the damn thing. Cursing under my breath, I made my way up the stairs. The two dogs, one on the first floor and the other on the second, barked out their warnings, which in the quiet of the night made them sound like the hounds from hell. Whispered threats to "Be quiet, go lie down" were hissed at the dogs from behind the door. I could imagine the dogs skulking away, their duty done.
I could smell the wood smoke from the tiny wood stoves, now in use since the Serbs had turned off the city's gas supply. The smell seemed so out of place in an apartment building. I could imagine people inside the flats huddled around a candle, waiting for their meagre meal, listening to small radios with weak batteries, hoping to hear some good news. These scenes were being played out all over the city.
Finally, at the top of the stairs, my door loomed out of the darkness. That goddamn European lock. Try as I might, I never did master the turns of the key that would get me in on the first try; it was usually by chance that I'd crack the code that would let me into the flat. Late at night, when the shelling and shooting would slow down or let up, an eerie silence would descend on the city. It would not happen often, and when it did it was very unnerving.