Chapter 14: Spoils of war

Two days after the 'incident', Bravo 6 was deployed to Tizer — well that is as close a pronunciation as we could make of the name of the town. I say 'Bravo 6', but Big Ben and #1 section, accompanied by Danko the Bosnian Serb interpreter, were actually in Split, where the HQ of British forces in Bosnia was situated, as well as the HQ of the UN observers.
A full blown UN inquiry had been launched into the 'incident' at the behest of Yugoslavia/ Serbia, and Russia. This was a blatant political act; Bosnian Serbs had been carrying out atrocities since the beginning of the conflict, as had the Croats and Bosniaks – there are no 'good guys' in a civil war. All three groups were trying to occupy the moral high ground, and this was a chance for the Serbs to show themselves as victims for once, rather than the villains.

Before we left Bugs Major Roddy Beauchamp had called Sergeant Claypole and me into his office and appointed Neddy Claypole acting platoon commander, in the absence of Lieutenant Westminster, while I was appointed acting platoon sergeant.
"Well chaps, I've been ordered by the Old Man to get your platoon away from the area in case reprisals are taken against you, for the ... err ... incident on Boxing Day."
I thought that if any reprisals were taken the Serbs wouldn't differentiate between the platoons of Bravo Company, but who was I to question the motives of the Lieutenant Colonel of the battalion?
Roddy continued with his briefing. "The CO of Britbat has asked for a platoon strength force to act as guards at the UN Humanitarian Aid depot at Tizer, and Bravo Six fits the bill." He saw our look of incomprehension, and explained.
"Britbat is the code name assigned to the British battalion serving in Tizer, currently a battalion of the Wessex Regiment. Their task is escorting the aid convoys through the region, besides distributing the humanitarian aid locally." He paused in thought for a moment. "In fact, they carry out a similar role in the Tizer region as ERB does in the Bugs region."

Tizer was a complete change from Bugs. Not only was it at a higher altitude, and a damn sight colder than the relatively well sheltered Bugs, but as it had been under attack from the Bosniak army for months the town was devastated by shelling. In Bugs it was the Bosniaks being attacked by Serbs in hit and run raids, mounted by paramilitary forces. Tizer, in contrat, was a Croat dominated town, and under attack by units of the Bosniak Army (ARBH), including artillery and mortar fire, snipers and mine laying. It was on the front line, and over the two years of the British being in residence several squaddies had lost their lives to shell fire, driving over mines and IEDs, and the occasional sniper.

I make no apologies for my completele ignorance of the political, historical and religious machinations that were the on-going Greek Chorus to the civil war. I defy anyone who has not got a degree in Balkan Studies to be able to give you the Full Monty on what was happening, and why. Even then I reckon the professors would be scratching their heads in bewilderment as alliances were made and broken, and odd partners got into bed with each other one day and fell out of the bed the next. Throw into this highly potent mix the United Nations, NATO, the world's media, and sundry confounded and confused squaddies from a mix of countries, whose senior commanders were answerable to their political masters back home, and it will give you some idea of the utter confusion that reigned in Bosnia–Herzegovina during the six months ERB was there. And it didn't get much better after we had left.

I suppose Tizer could be seen as an example of what a complex pattern was woven by the weft and warp of Balkan politics. Until Bosnia gained its independence from Yugoslavia the town held similar numbers of Muslims and Bosnian Croats, the latter having migrated to the area from Croatia in the late 18th Cent, when mineral deposits were discovered. The few resident Bosnian Serbs left when independence was declared. At first the town was at peace; Muslim villagers to the east and south, and Croat villagers to the west and north, brought their produce to market in Tizer, and they saw their common enemy as the Bosnian Serbs, who, enraged at the breakup of Yugoslavia, were determined to seize as much of Bosnia as possible and make it part of a Greater Serbia. Backed by Serbia, whose army was supplying them with arms and ammunition, they were succeeding.
Then came a schism between those Bosnian Croats who wished to live in a fully independent sovereign Bosnia and those Bosnian Croats who wished to join a Greater Croatia. After a brief and bloody power struggle the latter won, and then made a compact with the Bosnian Serbs to attack the Bosnian Muslims — are you managing to keep up with the twists and turns?

The Bosnian Croat army (HVO), backed by regular troops from the newly independent Croatia, attacked Tizer, and after several days of blood letting the Muslims fled to the countryside, taking refuge in the villages of their co-religionists. A few months later units of the Bosniak Army (ARBH) arrived in the area. They attacked and occupied several of the Croat villages, and then shelled Tizer, but lacked the men or equipment to capture the town. Since then, May 1992, the town has been on the front line, with sporadic attacks by each side on the other's positions in the countryside, and artillery duels, between the Croats dug into fortified positions in the town, and the Bosniaks on the higher ground to the east and south.
A British battalion –Britbat – was actually in situ when the Bosniaks started their attack, and, in the bizarre way of doing business in the place, was allowed to convey aid to each side. However, each day brings new and different parameters for the aid convoys and their escorts to deal with. The aid storage compound, and Britbat, are situated on the western outskirts of the town, and are infrequently shelled or mortared, although the town and surrounding villages have a daily baptism of fire.

The second in command of the 2nd Wessex—Britbat – briefed Sergeant Claypole and me as to the current situation. "You chaps will be the permanent guards at the storage facility. My chaps have been doing that task, but we are really stretched at the moment, and I'm delighted that you 'Erbs'... ," he made a slight imperceptible grimace as he uttered our title, " ... have been made available. You shouldn't have too much trouble from artillery or mortars as the ARBH are aware of what you chaps did at Bugs, and have given us assurances that they will not fire on who they call 'The Serb Killers'."
He gave a wintery smile, and it was obvious that he was not too enamoured of having 'Serb killers' on his patch, any more than we would be welcomed by the Croats.
The duty was easy and boring. When aid convoys arrived, usually once a week, we helped to unload the supplies for our area, and then loaded the vehicles making the local supply drops. We patrolled the perimeter, to dissuade any thieving, and guarded the entrance. Basically that was that. Claypole seldom showed his face and I kept the admin just ticking over.
The weather was perishing cold, with daily falls of snow, and I made sure the lads were relieved every hour and warmed up in the storage container that served as the platoon office. Other containers had been converted into accommodation for Bravo 6, and for the drivers of the aid convoys, which stayed overnight before heading on to another regional supply depot further to the north.

It was New Year's Eve when a signal arrived for Claypole from Split, informing him that the Court of Inquiry was over and that Big Ben and #1 section would be joining us when the next convoy departed, which would probably be the 2nd of January. Depending on the weather, and road conditions, we could expect the platoon being at full strength by January the 4th.
There was no mention of the findings of the court, but as Big Ben was coming back to take over command of the platoon it would seem he was not going to appear before a court-martial. Claypole seemed pleased that he could soon hand over control of the platoon back to Big Ben, not that he had exerted any control, or anything like it, since being made acting platoon commander.
I was, as usual, on duty; Claypole hardly stirred from the office, and it was I who set the guards and made sure they were awake during the night, although I must add that Doc Watson, Tomtom Piper, and Figgy Duff, the section commanders, did their fair share of the night shifts.
"When you have done your rounds tonight come in for a drink to see in the New Year." Neddy Claypole had already finished off a bottle of whisky and had started on a bottle of slivovitz. I nodded, not that I was all that keen to join him, but it was the New Year, and that was what you did at the turn of the year, see out the Old and see in the New.
I made my rounds, wished the lads on guard a Happy New Year and gave them each a slug of brandy, good French stuff, to keep out the cold, and then returned to the platoon office to a drunk and maudlin Neddy Claypole. I saw the New Year in with him; trying not to listen to him telling me what a miserable life he had with his wife, in fact what a miserable life he had, full stop. I felt really sorry – for his wife.

January 1st 1994 was no different to December 31st 1993, except it was one day nearer to us going home, and that 3 hours into the New Year Sergeant Claypole blew his brains out. Happy New Year, Dewey.
I had left him, still moaning about his wife and his life, 30 minutes after the start of 1994. I checked on the guards, then sat in my room and wrote a letter to Miriam before turning in. I couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour when the corporal i/c the guard, Tomtom Piper of #2 section, woke me up with the news that a shot had been heard, and investigation had found Claypole with the barrel of 9mm Browning automatic pistol in his mouth, and the back of his skull missing.
I sent Tomtom to notify the Orderly Officer and viewed the corpse. I suppose I should have felt some sympathy that Neddy Claypole had been so despondent that he ended his miserable existence, but instead I was bloody annoyed that he hadn't waited until Big Ben had been on site. I wondered how Neddy Claypole's wife would welcome the news – probably glad to see the back of the miserable git, I would suspect. I knew he had a couple of kids and supposed they would miss him.

The Orderly Officer and the Orderly Sergeant arrived, both smelling of drink. I was asked if I knew any reason why the man had blown out his brains and shook my head. Although he had been complaining about his wife and his life all evening he hadn't appeared to be suicidal, just his usual miserable moaning self. Sergeant Claypole's body was removed and placed in cold storage, to await repatriation to the UK.
A Court of Inquiry was held next morning in the battalion HQ, presided over by the Commanding Officer of Britbat. I was chief witness, and after an hour or two of questions and answers the court decided that Sergeant Edward Claypole had taken his own life while the balance of his mind had been disturbed – and that he was as pissed as a handcart when he did it.