I. Arriving in Bosnia
II. First Days at Tuzla Airbase
I. Arriving in Bosnia
We loaded the double-decker bus or motor coach that would take us from Taszár, Hungary to Tuzla, Bosnia at 9:30 AM under gray skies. Our equipment had been loaded on a truck that would follow behind. Our bus pulled away from the LSA and traveled across the bumpy dirt roads that circumnavigated the airstrip. It picked up speed when it reached the paved roads at the end of the base and headed south toward Bosnia. Without a map of Hungary, I had no idea what lay between us and our final destination.
We were on the first bus, although more motor coach than bus, in our convoy of busses. Behind us the 364th rode in a purple bus. Behind the 364th came the 129th. Then came several Blue Birds, more school bus than motor coach, loaded with soldiers returning from passes to Budapest by way of Taszár.
I stared out the window until the passing Hungarian villages became repetitious and the scenery monotonous. Eventually, I pulled a novel out of my army bag and spent time reading.
We traveled several hours before I noticed that the villages and farmland had given way to the outskirts of a city. Our convoy had entered the city of Pécs. A few minutes later, we stopped at a lime green and orange painted gas station. The sign above the station said VIVA.
There was a cold wind blowing as we stepped down from our bus. I noticed a few soldiers from the Blue Birds that were wearing their helmets instead of their soft caps. Proper wear of the uniform includes always having "head cover" when outside. Those soldiers must have forgotten their soft caps in Bosnia, which forced them to don their helmets. A stream of soldiers headed directly into the gas station's convenience store. Others milled around outside happy to be off the busses. Smokers stood in the cold air puffing on their cigarettes trying to get the clean air out of their lungs. I headed into the already crowded convenience store. There was a long line for the bathrooms, which I was happy not to need. There was a toilet on our bus, but we weren't supposed to use it. When you looked into the bowl, you could see the pavement passing quickly below the bus.
I browsed around the store for a while. I found Sgt. Doss looking at maps. I would have bought one, but of course everything was in Hungarian. The power was out in the coolers so there were no cold drinks available. The juices and sodas were all warm and unappealing. I eventually found some snacks to buy and waited in the long line for the cashier. I didn’t have any Hungarian currency, but the store took German Deutchmarks, which I did have.
Back outside, I waited with Capt. Goeke by the bus. He pointed out a gorgeous woman who had driven up to one of the six gas pumps. She had long dark hair, high heels and a fur coat and looked very out of place pumping her own gas. Goeke took her picture with his camera and then asked me to take his picture using the city as a backdrop. In the distance were apartment buildings and factories. Not very scenic, but there was still the novelty of being in a foreign country. I snapped off a few pictures for him.
Back on the bus, we continued to head south. Our next stop was at the border between Hungary and Croatia. We waited a long time parked on the Hungarian side of the border. Someone finally told us that one of the busses behind us had incorrect paperwork. Either Hungary wouldn't let us all leave or Croatia wouldn't let us enter.
Since we were traveling as a military unit, our bus manifests replaced the need for civilian passports. This didn't stop Staff Sgt. Geiger and Staff Sgt. Kroske from climbing down and trying to get their civilian passports stamped by Hungarian customs. A good try, but they returned empty handed.
After sitting for what seemed like an eternity, the busses finally lurched into motion and we crossed the Drava River into Croatia.
Croatia had seen it's share of fighting, but I couldn't see any evidence from the windows of the bus. We continued on until we reached the US Base at Slavinski Brod. Slav Brod was one of the nine US bases still operational in the "Former Yugoslavia" and one of only two not in Bosnia. During the initial deployment of troops in late 1995, there were many more temporary bases now closed. Most of the soldiers at Slav Brod were engineers responsible for maintaining the bridge over the Sava River.
Our busses parked parallel to each other in a large lot. We stepped down wearing our Kevlar helmets and flak vests. Croatia was noticeably warmer than Taszár despite a light rain that had started falling. A one-hour stop was announced giving us a chance to look around. The base seemed to be in an industrial area as if the army had taken over some old Croatian warehouses. I followed the soldiers who began walking down the paved street toward some large buildings.
There were port-a-johns along the way, and I didn't pass up the opportunity this time. At the end of the row of buildings, we found a small Popeye’s Chicken stand looking strangely out of place in the industrial surroundings. Inside the unheated building, was a small Post Exchange (PX). From what I could see, Slav Brod didn’t have much else to offer. I waited in line at the PX to buy subdued Captain’s rank for my flak vest. On the way back to the bus, I picked up some chicken and biscuits and a soda from Popeye's for the ride.
On the road again, the unit settled back to reading or sleeping or listening to music. I sat on the top of the double-decker trying to finish the novel that I had started. At the tables on the lower level of the bus, two games of Hearts were being played. Boyer and Goeke formed the core of the card players who sat with helmets off laughing and enjoying the game. Capt. Close gave the order to put our helmets on. The card game continued.
Darkness fell as we drove deeper into Croatia. There was a debate over whether the lights should be turned off. Anyone sitting on the bus under the internal lights would present a nice target to a sniper in the darkness. Since we hadn't crossed into Bosnia yet, the lights stayed on and the card games continued.
I felt an increasing sense of uneasiness as we headed into the unknown. Maybe it was just the darkness surrounding the bus.
The border between Croatia and Bosnia came up suddenly. The bus slowed and the darkness around us gave way to glowing lights ahead.
The internal lights on the bus were switched off and everyone moved to the front windows. There was a great view from the top of the double-decker where the front seats looked out one large window. I could see that we were stopped at a checkpoint on the Croatian side of the river. Within a few minutes, the bus was allowed to ease across the bridge that spanned the Sava River and connected the two countries.
The bridge was narrow leaving little clearance on either side of the bus. Inside, everyone had gone quiet. Outside everything was still. Our bus continued to move inevitably forward. Sandbags and concertina wire surrounded us. On the far side of the bridge a US tank blocked access to Bosnia and the city of Brcko to all those wishing to cross the bridge. As we drew closer I could see that it wasn’t a tank, but a Bradley Fighting Vehicle (BFV). A tracked vehicle with a smaller gun designed to mechanized infantry. Blinding lights illuminate the scene. Night had turned into day. It was the first time that I felt the full impact of being deployment to a hostile fire zone.
Our bus paused again before receiving permission to pass. The Bradley churned to life with a belch of smoke and lurched backwards clearing the way. The soldiers on security waved our bus through.
As we crossed into Bosnia, our convoy gained an MP HMMWV as our armed escort. A .50 caliber machine gun protruded from the turret at the top of the HMMWV. The vehicle's "up-armor" made it look bulky but reassuringly "small-arms" proof. I didn’t stop to think that a bullet would pass through the sides of our bus like it was paper.
Our convoy turned right and continued through the town of Brcko.
"It’s getting spooky," Butler-Jones said to Kroske. We could see that some shops were intact, lights illuminating the wares inside. Yet, the very next building would be a burned out shell. "You don’t suppose it depends on who lived there?" Capt. Close asked. Thinking, probably correctly, that the burned out shops belonged to the Muslims were who chased from town by the ethnic Serbs.
I saw more traffic and more people than I would have guessed as we moved away from the bridge. "Looks better than parts of Alabama," joked Kroske. "Looks better than all of Alabama," said Thompson a good-old Georgia boy. Nervous laughter filled the bus. I saw snow on ground. The light rain, frozen as it fell by our bus’ headlights, added to the air of drama. Our bus followed the taillights of our escort.
Soon, the city streets of the town of Brcko gave way to countryside and darkness.
It didn't take long to get bored staring out the window. Soldiers began to drift away from the windows retreating farther back into the bus to sleep. Some used their flashlights to read. Others broke out their MREs and began eating.
It is hard to maintain a feeling of anxiety. The body and the mind retreats from it. If you can't do anything about your situation, you can only make the best of it. I decided to eat.
An MRE or Meal Ready to Eat, is the Army’s version of a boxed lunch. It comes sealed in thick brown plastic that you have to tear at the end to open. Better to use a knife. There are about a dozen different meals available, but each MRE includes the same basic components. A meat-based main course. Crackers. Peanut butter, apple jelly, or cheese spread to go with your crackers. Some form of mixed fruit, usually freeze-dried. Beverage powder or cocoa. Some form of dessert. An accessory pack consisting of gum (Chick-let), salt, matches, non-dairy cream substitute, coffee, sugar, a wet nap, a packet of toilet paper. And a brown plastic spoon.
Since Operation Desert storm, the desserts have gotten better. Researchers came up with a chocolate that doesn’t melt in the desert heat. My last MRE include a package of M&M’s. The meal choices have gotten better as well. Some of the early MREs included the dehydrated pork patty or the dehydrated beef patty, both of which tasted like a cross between a cardboard box and leather boots. MREs also offer an opportunity to get creative with the contents. The recipe for "Ranger pudding" includes the cocoa packet, the coffee packet, the dried creamer, and the sugar all mixed with enough water to hold it together.
Some of the members of the 300th, Capt. Close and Capt. Harper included, refused to eat MREs. Most of the unit had no problems. In the darkness, I pulled out the MRE I had started at lunch and inspected its contents. I still had some corned beef hash left over so I ate it. Spec. Bisenius who was sitting next to me offered her peanut butter that I gladly accepted. Using my flashlight as needed I tried to make a PBJ with my apple jelly and the dry crackers in the dark. Crumbs everywhere. But tasty.
Every now and then, I'd looked out the window. No lights were visible in the countryside. Eerie. As if the country had known we were coming and had turned the lights out to say, "You're not welcome here".
As the hours passed, I drifted off to sleep lulled by the drone of the bus’ engine. When the engine noise changed in pitch, I awoke suddenly as if I'd been expecting it. Our bus slowed down and then pulled off the road. Without warning, the entrance to Eagle Base lay before us. I could see sandbags and concertina wire and a guard shack with armed soldiers, but overall it didn't look any more impressive than any other checkpoint we'd passed. Like the bridge in Brcko, bright light from halogen lamps turned the night into a ghostly day.
The bus door opened and a soldier climbed aboard to check everyone’s ID before we were allowed to enter the airbase. The soldier had his weapon slung over his shoulder and wore his full battle rattle including flak vest and helmet. Satisfied that we were who we were pretending to be, the soldier climbed down. Our bus pulled through the checkpoint then turned right onto a paved road. About a mile later our bus made a final turn into a narrow parking lot and eased to a halt.
After three weeks of deployment, we'd finally arrived.
The bus door opened and we stepped down onto Bosnia soil. Streetlights only dented the darkness. The air was cool and misty. There was snow on the ground. I looked around and saw rows of tents surrounded by concrete barriers. Protection against mortar or artillery attack.
It was late, nearing midnight, but we had a welcoming committee. Members of the unit we were replacing had been waiting for us. They seemed very happy that we’d finally arrived. Capt. Bowers introduced himself and Staff Sgt. Jane Jackson. Capt. Close and 1st Sgt. Boyer huddled with our new sponsors to discuss what was to happen to us next.
What happened next was a lot of disorganization and confusion. We stacked our weapons and posted Sgt. Plumlee to guard them. We began to unload our duffel bags while trying to make sure we removed everything from the bus. At first we piled the duffel bags on the ground. We were told that the bus had dropped us in Tent City 2, but tents have been reserved for us in Tent City 1. Could the bus take us to the other location? No. A HMMWV was brought in and we began to load duffel bags into the back. I admired the energy of Staff Sgt. Jackson who had climbed into the HMMWV and was throwing bags around like a frenzied woman.
Through the whole process, everyone watched where he or she stepped. Afraid to step on the snow covered grass besides the bus. Everyone being too careful with fresh memories of Hohenfels' mine awareness training.
After loading our equipment on the HMMWV, we walked the few hundred yards in the darkness from Tent City two to Tent City one.
Capt. Goeke went to sign for cots even though they were already in the tent. Someone got the heaters going and set up the cots. Each tent had a wooden floor and half-walls. Electricity. We secured the weapons. The confusion continued. Who got what tent? Which bags belonged to what unit, much less which individual? The bags were all stacked up together. Disorganized. Everyone was giving orders.
Both 1st Sgt. Boyer and I were trying to take charge and to make decisions. I told the men how to organize the duffel bag. This triggered an angry outburst from Boyer. We had been struggling with our roles for the last three weeks. After the commander, I was the ranking person in the unit in terms of seniority and grade. A first sergeant's job is to be the commander's right hand man and advocate for the enlisted. Regardless, you never mouth off to an officer in front of the men. I pulled Boyer aside. "Don’t ever talk to me in front of the troops like that." His jaw was clenched and I noticed the vein throbbing in his forehead. "Why not?" This was so disrespectful and out of character that I was momentarily speechless. Since we were both tired and burned out from the anxiety, I let it pass. "Look, if you have a problem with me, pull me aside and we’ll talk about it."
When we finally settled in, we were told that the chow hall or dining facility was open twenty-four hours a day and just a hundred yards from our tents. No meals were served this late, but there was always some bread and hot soup. We were tired, but food sounded appealing. The dining facility was in a large building. The main room had rows of benches and tables. The wall were white. There was a smaller room with a large screen television in back. Not a great picture on the TV. I had some soup and grabbed a large loaf of fresh bread. It was soft, warm, and delicious. I washed it down with bottled water. The label said Naya and I noticed the Canadian flag on the plastic bottle. After a quick walk back to the tents, we were asleep.
II. First Days at Tuzla Airbase
The US set up many bases in the "Former Yugoslavia" when peacekeeping troops first deployed just over one year ago. Many of the smaller bases had been closed in the US sector. There were nine now. Eagle Base (Tuzla Airbase), Bedrock, Colt, Comanche, Demi, Dobol, Guardian, McGovern, and Task Force Pershing at Slav Brod.
Eagle Base, like Taszár, occupied the site of an old MiG airbase. The length of the airstrip defined the size of the base. On the eastern end were a cluster of building that originally housed the Yugoslavian Air Force and later UN peacekeepers during the war. This was the heart of the base. In the open spaces between buildings, Army tents were grouped into "tent cities" to provide additional housing. Although we referred to Eagle Base as being in Tuzla, it was actually outside of the city near the small Bosnian town of Dubrave. Eagle base with its size and airstrip must have been the logical choice for the MultiNational Division (North) headquarters commanded by a US two-star general
Our first morning in Bosnia would be like many during our first month. Cold, foggy, and gloomy. Wearing my Army sweats and flip flops, I walked along the wooden blanks to the shower and shitters located in trailers or conexes. The conex was steamy and the floor covered with dirty water. I showered in lukewarm water and shaved. Stepping back outside I noticed the frost covering the planks. There were two steps down to the walkway that would take me back to my tent. On the second step my flip-flop slipped out from under me. Although I caught myself from falling I jammed my big toe against the wood drawing blood. Welcome to Bosnia.
Back in the tent I dressed for the day. Tuzla had a strange mix of field and garrison rules. In a true field or combat environment, a soldier wears camouflage face paint, carries his weapon and all his battle gear including a protective mask. Peacekeepers don't wear face paint. Hard to gain the confidence of the local population that way. And with no chemical threat, we didn't have to carry our protective masks. There would be no formations typical of a garrison environment, and yet saluting was expected. Saluting is a no-no in the field. All it does is easily identify the unit's leaders for enemy snipers.
Unlike some of the outlying camps, the division commander had only days before removed the requirement for US troops to wear our LBE (pistol belt, suspenders, canteens, ammo pouches, etc.) while on base. We still had to carry our weapon at all times along with two magazines of ammunition. Never before in my 14-year military career had I had to carry live ammunition. The only time I'd been seen ammo in the military was under carefully controlled range conditions. Knowing I carried the ability to kill gave me a strange feeling and added to the gravity of our situation.
From Tent City One it was a short walk to the Coalition Press Information Center (CPIC), the public affairs office in Tulza. The building was small and located just outside the base's pedestrian gate. It was used as a guard barracks by UN troops during the war and now housed both public affairs and civil affairs offices.
The staff of the CPIC represented the diversity of the peacekeeping forces. US Army Col. Larry Icenogle, a.k.a. Iceman, was in charge of the CPIC and reported directly to the two-star general. The deputy director was Commander Bjorn Rydmark from Norway. There was a Turkish press officer who was on vacation when we arrived. The Danish press office (representing the NORDPOL division) had temporarily been sent to Sarajevo (until we chose one of our own officers to replace him). We had an administrative sergeant from England and the rest of the staff was from US public affairs units. The 367th MPAD came from Ohio and included three fillers from the 363rd MPAD out of St. Louis.
The double doors of the CPIC's only entrance opened into a hallway with two offices on the right. The hallway continued in about five steps and took a ninety-degree turn to the left. The front office on the right was a large open area set aside for press conferences. There hadn't been a press conference in months, and equipment was spread throughout the room as the 367th prepared to hand off /sign off their equipment to us. There were painted logos on the far walls, a bank of phones on the right. A whole corner of the room had been blocked off by a large rough wooden structure to create a makeshift office for the three local Bosnian translators.
The back room on the right was the Query room where most of the 367th members were crammed together. This was the nerve center of the CPIC where media questions were answered and press releases were created. There were almost more tables and desks than fit in the room. And a lot of telephones. Telephone wires taped to the floor crisscrossed the room. (It wouldn't be until after the 367th left that Capt. Goeke and I would work late one night ripping out the wires and reorganizing the desks.)
The left-hand turn of the hallway offered five doorways and a table that ran the length of the hall. The table held magazines, a microwave, a coffee maker, and usually some of the delicious bread or other snacks brought in from the chow hall. A small refrigerator sat below the table. Three of the doors were offices. One for CPIC director. One for the deputy director. One for the British admin sergeant responsible for providing credentials to reporters. The fourth door led to the bathrooms. Two stalls for the men and one for the women. The last room was a closet being used as a mailroom.
Mud dried and fell off our combat boots as we tramped through the offices. A layer of dirt covered the old tile floor. Local Bosnians were hired by an army contractor to provide cleaning support for Eagle Base and two women, Esada and Katrina, were assigned to the CPIC. They cleaned the mud off the floor using a bucket of water and an old towel wrapped around the end of what looked like a squeegee with a long handle.
In the query room, we met the commander of the 367th, Major Poole. She was friendly. Her first sergeant was not. He was anxious to get us to sign for the equipment so he could get out of Bosnia. The equipment included four HMMWV's and we would learn that they were in pretty rough shape. With the outgoing MPADs leaving in a few days. It would be a very short hand-over.
There would be a lot to get done in the first few days. In addition to the equipment hand-off, Capt. Close had to decide how to position the 18 members of the 300th MPAD. Not only would the unit be divided up to provide 24-hour public affairs support for the CPIC and for the Battlestar, Eagle Base's operation center, two soldiers would have to be selected to work as liaison's in Sarajevo. One officer and one enlisted were needed and the choices went from Capt. Goeke and Spec. Dickenson, to Capt. Harper and Dickenson, before Close decided on the final team of Harper and Spec. Thompson.
The 300th MPAD was in good shape from a training point of view. The unit had a lot of talent using the digital cameras, video equipment, and computers. However, our job wouldn't be to produce stories, our strength. It was to run the CPIC. We needed to learn how to answer media questions. Who to go to for answers. What was expected by the CPIC director and his boss the Major General.
The only real help we got from the exiting MPADs was a quick indoctrination briefing they had prepared. We spent the better part of a day listening to a mind-numbing litany of speakers telling us about their jobs and the important things for us to remember. I took a lot of notes, but didn't retain much. It was all too much to digest on the first day. Afterwards, two of the sergeants volunteer to take us on a walking tour of the base.
The CPIC, next to the pedestrian gate, was as on the edge of the base. Behind the CPIC was a trailer and what looked like camper truck. This was the home of the Armed Forces Network (AFN) radio station. The truck housed the broadcast booth. Walking a few hundred yards down from the road away from the CPIC and the pedestrian gate, you'd find Tent City one on the right. Continue down the road a few miles and it would eventually lead to the gate our bus entered on our first night. If you turn left instead at Tent City one, and walk a hundred yards down the wooden walkway, you'd find the dining facility (DFAC) on the right and several three story barracks on the left.
At the DFAC, the road continued straight and looped back around by more barracks. We turned right keeping the long DFAC building on our right. To the left was an empty lot where a few stray vehicles were parked. At the end of the DFAC was a pizza place. Then a building for turning in laundry. Then another building which housed a barbershop and a tailor. We stopped at another intersection. The loop came in from the left past the mayor's office. The "mayor" was simply a senior sergeant responsible for keeping track of living quarters. We turned right and headed down a road that will take us back to the main street. On the left we pass several buildings including the chapel, and the offices were the 129th would set up shop.
At the intersection with the main road we could have turned right to get back to the CPIC, or turned left to head off base. We went straight. The large building on our right was the Whitehouse, the Headquarters of Eagle Base. Inside were the Commanding General's office and most of his staff. The 364th would have a small office inside where they would put together the Talon, the weekly base newspaper. You needed special passes to gain access to the Battlestar. We were given visitor badges and escorted on a quick tour of the building. Behind the building was a large tent and home of the Battlestar, or operations center.
Back outside, we continued down the road. The road turned from pavement to dirt. A few hundred yards later we find an "alley" on the right side of the road. On the left are small wooden buildings full of local Bosnian merchandise, and beyond them rows of large storage containers. On the right there is a large concrete building. Inside is the Post Exchange (PX), our base store that is kept very well stocked.
Farther down the road we reached the last stop on our tour. Next to an old tower was another concrete building that housed a well-equipped gym.
The CPIC, Tent City One, and the DFAC would form the corners of my world for the first days in Bosnia. However, Tent City One provided only temporary living arrangements for the unit. Once the outgoing MPADs left, we would takeover their housing. For the enlisted, this would mean moving into one of the three-story barracks near the DFAC. For the officer's, we would move into a conex (trailer) in Tent City Two. All things considered, we were as anxious for the 367th to leave and they were.
Before leaving, three of the officers from the 367th invited Capt. Harper, Capt. Close, and myself over to their conex for pizza. It wasn't a pep talk, but turned into more of a bitch session. We heard a lot about the 367th and their personnel problems. The commander had relieved their 1st Sergeant before the unit arrived in country because he wasn't getting the job done. She relieved the next guy in line not long after. No one was getting along. No one appreciated the work the officers were doing. No one in the unit liked the Commander, a born-again Christian.
None of it sounded encouraging and I only hoped that our unit didn't sink to this level over the next five months. Or longer. We had been told that we'd only be deployed for five months and that we could expect to go home in May. But only a few optimistic souls in the unit believed it. Every indication was that Eagle Base would be our home for the better part of the next nine months. Nothing to do but make the best of it.
Mist shrouded the base day and night keeping our focus on our new, narrow world. We quickly settled into a routine.