One had a load of medical supplies, the others food. 'What do you want these for, Orlando?' I asked, suspiciously.
Without batting an eyelid, he said calmly, 'We're going up to the front line.'
'Fuck it!' I thought. Hidden agendas. 'Orlando,' I protested, 'that's not in my brief. As far as I'm concerned the mission's complete.' I could see my objections were falling on deaf ears. Curiosity got the better of me. 'Anyway, where exactly is this front line you're proposing to go to?'
'About ten k's from here. There's an enclave nobody's been to since the war began. They're in desperate trouble. We're going to deliver these supplies there. It's much smaller than Tuzla. They didn't have the stocks of food to rely on like Tuzla when it all kicked off.'
'And how do you propose to get through the checkpoints, Orlando? You're now heading into serious warfare. They'll shoot you as soon as look at you.'
'Don't worry about that, Pete. Leave that to me.'
Off he went with his briefcase again. I wondered what he was going to turn up with this time. An Apache helicopter gunship? A Challenger 2 main battle tank?
For the next couple of hours I concentrated on overseeing the trucks as they were unloaded into a compound. Suddenly Orlando returned followed by a massive, gleaming black limo. It was a ZiL, favourite limousine of Russian politicians and high-up government officials, their equivalent of the Rolls-Royce. With its prominent square badge on the front and utilitarian, factory-inspired shape, it looked like a slightly upmarket hearse. Could well have been armour-plated judging by the size of it. Sat up front was this Croatian bloke with dark glasses, looking for all the world like he was straight out of The Godfather.
Orlando looked very pleased with himself. His friend – let's just call him 'Big Zil' – was going to help us through the checkpoints.
Big Zil got out of the car and introduced himself. Gestapo regulation leather coat, shoulders like an American NFL quarterback. Talk about intimidating. That's good enough for me, I thought. Let's crack on. I'd already decided to go. It's not in my blood to turn down a challenge.
We piled off down the road again in our mini-convoy, Big Zil at the front. Unbelievable! There were all these checkpoints en route. Each time we were stopped, Big Zil simply poked his head out of the window, and growled, snarled and bared his teeth. As if by magic, we were greeted like honoured guests and were waved through before you could say Checkpoint Charlie. It was just as well we had him with us. The gunfire was intensifying and getting ever closer. We had Union Jacks draped all over the bonnets of our vehicles to let people know who we were. We needn't have bothered, thanks to having Big Zil with us. Officially he was the police chief of the enclave where we were going. Unofficially he was the warlord who ran the place.
We reached the enclave unscathed. It was just like Liberation Day! Unlike the calm and dignified display in Tuzla, here we were absolutely mobbed. Men, women and children crowding round, arms raised with pure joy, waving at us, wanting to shake our hands. I got a real thrill out of it. With the Union Jacks all over our vehicles, I felt proud to be British. It was like reliving something my father did in the Second World War. I thought I would never do something like that. My wars had been much messier, less black-and-white, all undercover. No one ever knew we were even there. I enjoyed that moment like nothing I'd ever done before. That memory will stay with me for the rest of my life.
After we'd unloaded the precious cargo, the mayor and all the local council invited us to a civic reception in one of the few buildings that remained standing. They laid out a feast of the local produce that was still available and some potent home-made plum brandy known as slivovitch. So there we all were gathered in this room and it's all 'Thank you, thank you' with clapping of hands and speeches and 'Now we drink the slivovitch.' I was only intending to have a couple as I knew we had to be up at first light the next day to make our way back to Split through 200 miles of bandit country. 'Down in one,' they instructed. Now, to say I was used to drinking after eighteen years in the SAS would be a slight understatement. I thought I could take anything that was pushed across the table to me, and some more. But this slivovitch was in a league of its own. After one gulp, I thought a flash-bang grenade had gone off in my head.
The party was soon rocking. Suddenly Big Zil reappeared and sidled up to me. 'Who are you?' he demanded, with no sense of humour whatsoever.
I was on high alert. I wasn't dealing with an amateur here. I kept it deliberately vague. 'I'm in charge of convoy security.'
'How did you get that job?' he persisted.
'I'm a professional soldier. Ex-British Army.'
He stared at me with his cold eyes. 'You must have contacts in the arms world, yes?'
I thought, 'Whoa. I don't move in those circles. My name's Sergeant Pete Winner not General Mike Rose.' I was very curious as to where his line of questioning was leading, though, so I answered simply, 'Nah, not really.'
'You must have. I can tell you are an important man. You get me the Stinger. We knock the jets out of the sky like you did in the Falklands, yes?'
I was playing for time. I said, 'But, Big Zil, I thought there was a total arms embargo in Bosnia.'
'No problem. We get anything we want through our friends in Albania. Give them a good price, we get everything. You get me the Stingers.'
I said, 'Give me your contact details. I'll see what I can do.'
'Good. Good. Now we drink the slivovitch.'
My kingdom for a Stinger! If I'd had a contact for Stingers, I could have cleaned up. With a couple of dozen nice shiny missiles nestling in a shipping crate, I would have been writing these memoirs sat by a pool sipping a long, cool drink in my millionaire's villa in Barbados. But it was not to be.
Meanwhile flags were being exchanged and more speeches being made. Willie Stirling started to get delusions of being immortal and in a moment of solidarity with our besieged cousins, he decided to present his body armour to the mayor. I told him to sit down because he was too young to die. In what was one of my more insane moments I decided to give the mayor my own body armour instead. 'Here, you have my body armour. You need it more than me. I can't be shot. I survived the battle of Mirbat.'
This is where too much combat experience plus an excess of alcohol can turn to recklessness. I survived this, this and this, so it's never going to happen to me. You get careless. Now I had to drive 200 miles back to Split without any body armour. At least we could get our heads down in the local lodgings and freshen up before setting off. Or so I thought. Orlando, as usual, had other ideas.
'Right, Pete. Let's get on the road.'
'Orlando! Do you realize what time it is? It's way past midnight.'
'I must be in Split by noon. There's an official reception at the British Embassy and I've got to be there.'
I couldn't believe it. Never mind the slivovitch which I had been imbibing, what really concerned me was the fatigue. That was the potential killer. It's exhaustion that really affects your judgement, your reaction time.
That's when I made the biggest – and only – mistake of my bodyguarding career. I agreed, and in doing so let the principal take control. Of course, to start the journey then was madness. The drink, the fatigue, the nerves frazzled to bits with the constant danger. We should have rested up. It was a decision I would soon bitterly regret.
We left the trucks there and set off in the two Range Rovers. I was in the lead vehicle with Orlando and David Rieff, the American reporter. I thought, 'Sod this,' got the sleeping bags out, laid them over the back seats and fell asleep.
The next minute: BANG! Then rolling, rolling, rolling. The Range Rover was careering over and over down the mountainside. I thought, 'Fuck it! We've been ambushed. We've been zapped.' Our vehicle came to a jarring halt: SMASH! We were upside down. The Range Rover on its roof, wheels spinning in the air. It was pitch black. No light anywhere, a complete blackout. All I could hear was 'Tick, tick, tick' as the wheels slowly turned round. Then came the groaning. It w
as Orlando, who had come to in the front. I didn't like the sound of that. He was obviously badly hurt. I didn't really know what was going on. I was upside down, exhausted, concussed, my head swimming with slivovitch.
Suddenly I could smell fuel. Got to get everyone out as quick as possible. We could burst into flames at any second. Luckily, my years of training kicked in and I quickly focused. First things first. There was something more urgent even than the danger of fire. The window on my side had been smashed. I kicked out the rest of the glass, crawled through and crouched down by the side of the vehicle, waiting for the gunfire. If this was an ambush, they'd try to pick us off one by one as we exited the vehicle. Even though it was pitch black, chances are they'd have infrared night sights on their weapons. They'd see us clear as daylight. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. I strained my ears. Nothing. Everything was silent. I looked around and surveyed the terrain, trying to get my bearings. Further up the hillside, I could just make out a large truck on its side. To the right, further away, I could see the headlights of the other Range Rover. Stopped. They thought we'd been attacked. It was only later that I gradually pieced the story together. Orlando, half-asleep, had whacked into a truck coming the other way with only one headlight working – a 'Bosnian motorcycle'.
I set about getting the others out of the vehicle as quickly as I could. Orlando was in a bad way. Collar bone smashed. Nose smashed. Ribs either broken or badly bruised. Bleeding badly. David Rieff, the American journalist who was writing about us, was staggering around. He seemed OK apart from having changed colour. All his extremities were blue – a sure sign of severe shock. I thought, 'What the fuck are we going to do now?' In the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. No help at hand for miles and miles.
I don't know about being immortal, but the gods of combat were certainly watching over us that night. All of a sudden I saw another vehicle approaching, its lights all ablaze. I scrambled up the hillside towards the road as it overtook the other Range Rover. As it drew closer, I could just make out the insignia on its side. The Red Crescent! I couldn't believe it. An ambulance! What on earth was an ambulance doing here in the middle of the night? It was truly surreal.
I frantically waved it down. It was a miracle it stopped, this being bandit country. Two guys jumped out dressed in medics' gear. Luckily, one of them spoke broken English. It turned out they had just come from the front line. They were transporting an urgent injury back to the nearest hospital. There was just one combatant in the back on a stretcher with a leg half blown off. There was space for one more casualty. We got Orlando in and the medics gave him the once-over. The only thing that had saved him was his body armour. He'd impacted heavily against the steering column. If that had been me driving with no body armour I would have been killed instantly.
But he had lost a lot of blood. If we didn't get him to hospital in time he would bleed to death on the mountainside. David was OK. He was treatable. He could come with me in the Range Rover. I directed the ambulance to drive to the nearest British military hospital in Zeneca approximately 15km away. Off they went, hell for leather down the road. I scrambled after them in the other Range Rover. I was lucky to be able to follow them. I hadn't a clue where we were. I hadn't been reading the map. I'd left that to Orlando. Fatal mistake, almost literally. It was a mistake I would never repeat again. I could excuse myself. It was early on in my bodyguarding career and I'd learnt my lesson good and proper.
Five years later, another bodyguard made two crucial mistakes. Just like me, he allowed one of his two principals to take control of the journey, and he didn't insist they wear seatbelts. He became, in effect, merely cosmetic, a baggage-handler. He had no real control of the job he was supposed to be doing. The consequences for him were far more wide-reaching than my mistakes in Bosnia. This incident was on 31 August 1997, and the principals were Diana, Princess of Wales and Dodi al-Fayed.
In Zeneca, we found a hotel and got a good night's kip. The next morning I went to the British military hospital to find Orlando. He was in a sorry state, all tied up in bandages, tubes and drips. I marched straight up to him and bellowed at the top of my voice, 'I TOLD YOU! I FUCKING TOLD YOU!'
He just moaned over and over, 'I'm sorry, Pete. I'm sorry.' To his credit, he later sent me a letter of apology for making the wrong decision. In spite of everything, I got to like Orlando. Grudging admiration, I suppose you'd call it. More than anything, I admired his balls. Not many people had the bottle to do what he did.
I had the last laugh. After a bit of small talk, I said I had to leave straightaway so I could get back to the UK for Christmas.
'Going already?' moaned Orlando.
'Yep. Got to get back to Split. Can't hang around here. Got to PUSH ON! Got to PUSH ON!' I walked out with a grin on my face as broad as Big Zil's shoulders.
I was on a real high. Job well done! In spite of the injury to Orlando, the trip to Bosnia had been a big success, despite the difficult and dangerous circumstances. I couldn't believe my luck. After the huge stress and pressure of first leaving the SAS and trying to adjust to civilian life, my career outside the Regiment was now going from strength to strength. There I was, rubbing shoulders with the great and the good on a high-profile humanitarian aid mission, guarding an exhibition of jewellery in the hallowed confines of the St James Club, transporting a massive £80 million shipment of diamonds to the Sultan of Brunei. It couldn't get any better than this. I was living the champagne lifestyle. The days of the hard tack routine in the Army seemed a lifetime away. The adrenaline was pumping. I couldn't wait to get back to the UK to see what my next assignment would be.
That's when it all fell apart.
25
Banned and Blackballed
Banned! I was in shock. No more Regimental reunions. No more invitations to SAS functions and anniversaries. Persona non grata at the Regimental Association. I was devastated. No more socialising of any kind. I wasn't allowed to set foot anywhere within the perimeter fence of my own camp. My name was on a 'prohibited' list pinned to the guardroom wall at Stirling Lines. The ultimate indignity after years of loyal service. A veteran of Aden, the secret war in Oman, the Embassy siege, the Falklands War and Northern Ireland.
But what was the most cutting of all? Banned from the Armistice Day commemorations. The names of all our dead are on the clock tower in the camp. Friends I fought with are commemorated there. That was the cruellest thing of all. No longer would I be able to pay my respects to my fallen comrades during those agonizing two minutes of silence at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. I was not even allowed to lay a wreath. And why did all this happen? Because I wrote a series of articles in the Daily Mirror.
The Regiment has traditionally shunned publicity, practising the 'humility, modesty and the avoidance of boasting' as laid down by the founder, David Stirling. We were designed to be a troop of men that came in, did the job, then drifted away into the night. But that all changed at
1923 hours on 5 May 1980, when the Regiment stormed into the Iranian
Embassy in Princes Gate, London, to the deafening roar of explosive charges and G60 stun grenades. It changed the profile of the SAS forever, catapulting the most secret of regiments onto the world stage.
Following the siege there were persistent rumblings in the media about the manner in which some of the terrorists had been dealt with. To counter any negative publicity Tak and I were instructed by the Kremlin to talk to the Daily Mirror reporter Alastair McQueen to put the story straight. The resulting article was a huge success. So with my new life as a civilian going so swimmingly I decided to try and replicate the success but without the official backing. I gave Alastair a call. I had been jotting down notes in diaries and on bits of paper for the last seven years of my Army career and I had loads of potential stories for him. But way beyond any thoughts of earning a few quid, I had a much deeper motivation.
I felt that it was necessary to lay down a factual report, an eyewitness tes
tament of what really happened before it became distorted and corrupted by the passage of time and political agendas. I took my lead from my great hero Sir Winston Churchill. As long ago as the battle of Omdurman, on 2 September 1898, he was busy writing about his exploits as a young officer in one of the last cavalry charges carried out by the British Army. When he got home from the battle he immediately wrote down the details while they were fresh in his mind so that no one could plunder the truth in the future for their own political ends. The full account of the battle was published just a year later, in 1899, in a book entitled The River War: An Account of the Reconquest of the Sudan. Kitchener hauled Churchill over the coals, but it didn't do his career much harm! Churchill even used to submit stories to The Times, despite Kitchener's orders to stop. He got around the ban by filing the reports in letters to his mother, who was American, and through contacts she got the stories published in the Washington Post.
I was proved right. Before I knew it, the history of the battle of Mirbat was being kicked around by the politicians and the Army's top brass as a political football. The death of Labalaba, one of the Regiment's greatest heroes, and one of my greatest friends, was used as a rebuke to the BNP after they were accused of hijacking British military history for racist ends. But Laba was a soldier, plain and simple, and one of the bravest men I ever knew – not someone who deserved to be dragged into the public arena. He was no card-carrying politician. In my book, to use history in this way is one step away from rewriting it.
Soldier I Page 36
