Sarajevo, Bosnia (Contested Zone)
02 June, 1992
2300 Hours ZULU - Tuesday
Operation Shield Strike - Day 5
We were running in blackout drive. Nothing but pinlights and NVG's as we moved through the streets of Sarajevo. I was in Humvee-Five, driving, with a gunner I didn't know from Bravo Company on the SAW.
The back of the humvee was loaded with medical supplies, same with the six vehicles behind me. Five-Ton Eighteen was pulling a big 60W trailer as well as having a set of emergency batteries in the back. We had two dozen Marines with us for security, all of them under strict orders with very narrow RoE (Rules of Engagement) and PoW (Plan of Warfare) laid down in no uncertain terms to who would be doing what.
I was in the lead, my M-3 in my lap, feeling butterflies in my guts as we moved through the streets. There were very few cars on the street, the artillery barrage on the city earlier in the day from the surrounding hills had pounded the streets. The tanks on the streets for the last three days had gotten worse and the population had learned to leave the streets clear.
The hospital lights were on, the electricity was still on in the city, but the water had died earlier in the afternoon. Nobody was sure why but I figured that either the processing plant had been hit by artillery fire or something like that had happened.
That wasn't good. There were half a million people in Sarajevo according to the 1991 census, and I figured probably only a fifth of them had left, leaving four hundred thousand people in a city without running water. Without running water the sewage system would stop functioning.
That meant disease would be following soon after.
The UN had sent in relief supplies, ironically all marked with US Army stamps. We'd gotten orders from the USS Saratoga to take the supplies to the hospital. It had landed in the morning and right afterwards the power had gone out.
We started going up the hill and part of me cringed.
Jesus, this hospital was exposed as hell. It might as well be a ranging stake for any artillery unit that wanted to peg...
the sound of quail fluttering caused me to gun the vehicle and whip it to the right, grabbing the Bravo guy's yanking it to throw him down into the vehicle.
The artillery shell hit just to the left of the humvee, throwing dirt and shrapnel against the hard shell armor. I slewed it again, remembering my Soviet artillery doctrine, gunning it.
All I could hope is whoever was doing it would get bored after throwing a few shots at us.
Shrapnel and dirt kept showering over the vehicle, once I hit an impact crater, the big V-8 throwing the vehicle up in the air as the engine roared like a dying beast. The Bravo guy was yelling, holding onto the seat belt, trying to get it buckled, trying not to get thrown around as I swerved back and forth.
please don't hit please don't hit please don't hit
The artillery barrage stopped right as I swung around and pulled into the ambulance bay.
I stared at the ambulance for a moment. The NVG's shades of green brought everything into stark relief. There were bullet holes across the ambulances, one had the trails of blood out the back deck and I knew what that meant.
The floor had been awash with blood.
I slapped the Bravo guy's leg as I pulled my Kevlar helmet off.
"You still alive, champ?" I asked him, pulling my UN blue beret out of my pocket and putting it on my head.
"Yeah, Chief. Holy shit, thanks for pulling me in, ma'am," he said.
"No problem," I got out, the door squealing. I slammed it shut and looked at it. The CARC paint was chipped and I could see a chunk of steel casing the size of my thumb stuck in the armor.
A man was hustling out of the double-doors, waving his hands at us in a 'no' motion and jabbering in the local tongue.
"Do you speak English?" I asked him. He stopped, staring. "Do you speak English?" I repeated.
He nodded. "Yes. Yes I do. No soldiers, please. This is a place of healing."
"It's all right, sir," I told him gently, holding my hands out to the side. The M-3 banged against my hip. "We're not here to harm anyone."
"No soldiers," He repeated.
"Chief Warrant Officer Cromwell, UN Forces, bringing relief supplies for your hospital," I told him, tapping my beret.
He looked shocked at that.
"We've got a water purification unit, 60KW generator, medical supplies, and fuel," I told him. "We're scheduled to bring fuel and other supplies to you as needed," I smiled.
"UN Forces?" He asked.
"Operation Shield Strike," I told him honestly. "UN sent me to keep the airport open and bring resupply when needed."
"I should take you to doctor Zagorsky," he told me.
"Lead the way, sir," I smiled. I looked back at Bravo. "Stay here. Tell Sergeant Sanchez he's in charge till I get back. Tell the Marines to stay near the vehicle. These guys are nervous about soldiers and I can't say I blame them."
Bravo guy nodded slowly, looking around him, his dark face covered in sweat. I took out a small round container, popping it open and swiping a fingertip of grease under my nose.
Vicks.
"Come, come, lady," the man urged. I looked at him, lifting up my M-3 and pulling the magazine out. I put it in my pocket, then racked the bullet out of the chamber, bending down to pick it up and put in in my front pocket with the little round Vicks container.
"Come, come," He said again.
I followed him, steeling myself for what I knew what was beyond.
The doors opened smoothly and the sounds of Hell enveloped me.
Children crying, infants wailing, men and women crying out in pain or grief. Chatter in a half-dozen languages, pleas to Gods who always ignore war zones, people crying out in emotional or physical agony.
The stench of blood, necrotic skin, gangrene, feces, vomit, rotting blood, and worse washed over me as I followed him through the ER waiting room.
There were at least two dead in the ER waiting room. One was a little girl with a blue face and blood stained black holes in her chest, the other was an old woman who looked like she should be baking cookies, half of her head blown away, a colorful bandage soaked with blood wound around her head in a desperate attempt to keep her brains in and her life in her body.
I'd seen scenes like this before, each one different, each one horribly the same.
Hands clutched at me, pleading voice and desperate faces that I ignored as I kept moving.
They weren't afraid of my uniform, like they understood that I wasn't there to hurt them.
Even the M-3 bouncing on my hip wasn't deterring them.
We moved past the waiting room, through the triage area. I knew he was giving me the tour.
Doctors and nurses, bloodstained scrubs, old equipment, desperate eyes over the surgical masks, hands working quickly with too much practice.
Part of me wanted to scrub up, go in, help them.
They were dealing with the kinds of wounds I'd been trained for.
Shrapnel, bullet, blast compression, thermal bloom burns.
Collateral damage.
Past the surgical bay. Six of them. Two women. Three children. One man.
They were stepping back from the table of the little girl, the slump in their shoulders telling me everything I needed to know about her prognosis.
The Huntsman and his pack would be riding hard tonight.
"We need many things," the man said as we reached the elevators. He pressed the button. "We do not have enough doctors, not enough supplies. People are leaving. They are afraid."
"They're wise to leave," I told him. "This will get worse. I have seen it before."
He looked at me, nodding. "I see it in your eyes."
"I am sorry," I told him right as the door pinged, the elevator on our floor. The door hissed open and we walked in together.
"I fear for my family," he told me.
"Send them away," I tried as he hit the button for the third floor.
"This is our home," he told me. "I will not let them force me to leave."
I shrugged. "Then they may kill you, but it's up to you," I looked at him, reaching down and patting my M-3. "I understand. I'm an American."
He frowned and I smiled.
"I wouldn't let anyone force me from my home either. I'm American, I'd fight," I told him. He looked at my M-3 and made a face. When he looked back up at me I just shrugged. "I understand why you will not leave."
That made him smile and nod. "Allah wills it, my family will be fine."
I just nodded as the elevator opened.
"Doctor Zagorsky is the hospital administrator," The guy told me. "He does not speak English."
I just nodded.
"He is Russian. He may not like you," He told me.
I just nodded again.
We stopped at an office and he nodded at me. "He is in here."
The man knocked on the door and I heard a voice tell him to enter in Russian. We went inside. The office was trashed, well, not trashed, just the office of a man overburdened with work and not enough time.
"What do you want, Vitomir? the man behind the desk asked in Russian. He looked up, saw me, and stared.
"Wow, Senior Sergeant Kason," I smiled, stepping forward and speaking Russian.
"Sergeant Cromwell," The big Russian said, standing up from behind his desk. He looked behind me. "Where is that trained gorilla?"
I shrugged. "Missing, presumed dead," I told him honestly. "JSOC run gone bad."
He nodded. "So what is as someone from that terrible place doing here?" he asked me. I could tell by the tightness in his voice that the big blond man was worried.
"I'm part of a UN relief face, Task Force Hatchet," I told him. "I've got a small convoy full of supplies for your hospital."
That made him smile. "Now I am glad to see you," he said.
"Pfft, no you aren't," I grinned. "You're just glad I've brought supplies."
"What kind of supplies?" He asked me, looking suspicious. "We do not need ammunition or anything like that."
I shook my head. "Medical supplies, diesel fuel, a water purification unit, a 60KW generator with sound baffling. One of the new long use ones, better fuel consumption, steadier power output, designed for long term use," I told him. "Brought three emergency batteries, the kind we use in our own mobile hospitals."
"Why?" He asked me as he came around the desk. He faced me. "Our relationship has never been a friendly one."
"The Cold War is over, you Russian jackass," I told him. "People here are dying. If you don't want all of it, I can just get in my vehicle and head back. It makes no difference to me," I shook my head. "I'm just following orders."
He curled his lip slightly, staring at me. "You are good at that."
I hung my head slightly, shaking it. "You know what, nevermind. I'll tell the UN that you don't want our help."
"I don't want your help!" He shouted.
That snapped my temper. I reached forward, pushing my fingers into his side. "You didn't seem to mind it when your appendix was rotting and I had to do surgery on you," I snarled at him as he stumbled back, his hands going to his side. "Just like then, Senior Sergeant, I am doing what needs to be done, not what I want."
He stared at me for a long moment. "Fine," He said. "But you will no longer come here."
"I understand," I told him. I shook my head. "It didn't have to be this way."
"There was no other way it could have been," He told me.
"Fine. Whatever," I turned around. "I see myself out. Gunnery Sergeant Haskell of the United States Marine Corps will be your liaison from here on out. You will receive only UN scheduled relief supplies, nothing more, nothing less."
I pushed by the man who had led me up to the office, stopping in the doorway to turn back and look at him.
"It didn't have to be this way, Senior Sergeant. The Cold War is over. We could have worked together," I told him.
"Get out, whore," was all he said.
I walked away.
Just Cold War Bullshit.
That's all.
Cold. War. Bullshit.