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Abandoned checkpoint south of Karlovac, Croatia

Old battle damage, Karlovac, Croatia

Fresh battle damage, Karlovac, Croatia

Fresh battle damage, Karlovac, Croatia

Back in the UN headquarters, I met up with one of the Canadian NCO's who wanted to trade a UN baseball cap for some Toronto Sun memorabilia. As I strolled across the UN compound, I was surprised to see three US Air Force officers walking towards me. A colonel and two majors. The official line was, there were no US Army, Marine, Navy or Air Force personnel in Croatia. 'Hey, that's a cool cap,' said the Colonel. 'It would look great in my rec[reation] room. Where can I get one?'

Outside the UN headquarters I noticed a UN soldier hurrying past my parked car loaded down with plastic shopping bags. He'd just been to the UN's shop - the PX. A local was hurrying towards him. The local took the bags and the soldier took an envelope from the local. Black market, booze and smokes. Had to be. When I'd tried to buy a chocolate bar and soft drink in the shop the clerk had refused to serve me as I was not a UN employee. A Canadian officer came up and used his i.d. card to allow the transaction to continue. Small acts of kindness like this kept a smile on your face.

A day or so later, I drove out to Pleso, by Zagreb Airport. Pleso was the chief rear logistics base for UNPROFOR in Croatia. There were 433 Canadian peacekeepers amongst a total force of 2,528 military based there.

I wanted to track down the Canadian Forces media officer, Lt. Commander Agnew. He was doing a live 'phone interview to a Toronto radio station. When he had finished, we had a chat. What a man. When I told him of the problem I'd had at the roadblock south of Karlovac, he got a sheet of Canadian Defense notepaper and raced it into his typewriter. After bashing out a note, he signed it, then opened a desk draw.
'The Croats and the Serbs are impressed by forms and rubber stamps,' grinned Agnew. He got three different colour ink pads out and about eight or ten rubber stamps. He covered the sides and bottom of the note with impressive stamps. 'They figure you've probably got permission from Franjo Tudman [the Croat president] when they see this lot.'
He stuck the letter in an envelope.
'Anything else I can do to help?'
I'd been down towards Kutina late the previous evening and, dog tired, I'd slept in the Volvo.
'Couldn't fix me up with a shower?'
'Fill your boots!' boomed Agnew. 'Fill your boots, man.'
I learned that this was one of his signature responses, as he showed me to the shower block and left me alone.

A week or so late, I had a day with nothing breaking on the horizon. I decided to try the route south of Karlovac again. I checked my map and tried the smaller roads rather than the highway. I got stopped pretty much right away. These two soldiers were much more relaxed. I broke out the UN and Croat identity cards and Commander Agnew's letter. I showed them on my map where I wanted to go. I say they were polite, but the end result was they were not letting me through. 'Fighting, fighting' mumbled one. Oh well, gave it my best shot. The only way I could see cracking this was to find a small bridge that spanned the Kupa River that might not be marked on the UN map. If I saw another vehicle cross, it would mean probably no mines. Although they'd already refused me access, I broke out a pack of Marlboro and gave them a couple each.

The next day, I returned to the area of the roadblock but I took a small track that led towards the river. I parked by a big, empty house, turned the Volvo around and got out of the car. You can't be too careful, so I pulled on the flak jacket and helmet. I walked around and noticed the cellar had steps leading down - good shelter if I needed it. The Kupa River trickled by but my eyes were drawn to three barrels of an anti-aircraft gun, slowly moving from an upright point of aim... until I was almost level with my eyes.
'Oh dear...' I said, or something like that!
As I sprinted - as much as you can sprint wearing a ton of body armour - a couple of shells whacked into the ground and bits of stone and earth flew through the air. I ran and dove into the entrance to the cellar. I hit the door at some speed as 20mm shells whacked into the floor above me. Although the combined weight of me and the flak jacket was somewhere around 250lb, the damn door stayed put. I wished I'd left the flak jacket in the car, as the flak jacket was little protection to this firepower. The shells hitting the brickwork above me were designed to bring down jet aircraft flying thousands of feet in the air and would turn me into a sieve, flak jacket or not.
Essentially, I was trapped where I was. The door on the cellar was holding but even if I broke through it, it was likely the only way in or out of the cellar. Sooner or later I would have to move up the steps to ground level where I would be in sight of whoever was doing the shooting.
I spent a nervous half hour figuring out my options. There was only one. I'd have to jump out of the cellar entrance at light speed, turn and get back to the Volvo by keeping the house between me and the guns. Which is what I did. Luckily, they seemed to have something more interesting to do, and I reached the car without incident.
It wasn't until I was miles away from the front that I noticed a white area of material shining through the dark blue finish of the Kevlar helmet.  The money spent on body armour had been very worth while.

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On the front lines, south of Karlovac, Croatia

There was nothing I really needed from Lt. Commander Agnew, but I decided to touch base with him. I wanted to see his view of what was happening across the whole region and maybe get a lead on a story. I drove towards Pleso, which has a set of traffic lights controlling the airport entrance. As I stopped in the left turn lane to make the turn off the highway and into the airport, a Zastava police car screamed up to the lights from the opposite direction with lights flashing and siren wailing. This was, in itself, unusual as by now I'd been living in Zagreb for some time and I'd never once heard a siren, even in the city. The police officer in the passenger seat had his window open and as the police car crept through the crossroads as the traffic stopped, he held aloft a small round sign which I presumed that all the traffic should wait before entering the crossroads. Then, a flatbed truck painted camoflague green carrying a tank or Panhard on the flatbed.

I was pretty much trapped where I was, the cops had wanted me to stop and there were other vehicles behind me waiting to get into the airport. The first three or four flatbeds in the convoy went through but as the next truck rolled through, several soldiers were on the top of the tank celebrating. Now, let me tell you, nothing was going to stop me getting this picture. Get the picture or die trying. A couple more tanks on flatbeds rolled through with the crews riding on top, as I formed a plan. These guys were stopping for nothing so there was no hope of getting in front of them via another route. The only hope was to pass them...

The last truck went through and another police car, siren wailing, stopped briefly and the passenger waved another sign, which I presumed meant the road was now open. I floored the Volvo and pulled in behind the convoy. The police car at the back was straddling the centre of the two northbound lanes as were all the transport trucks. The tank treads sat well proud of the width of the flatbeds so there was only three or four feet of road available on each side.

The centre reservation was grassy and if you took in the available road and the grass, in theory this was do-able. There were frequent obstactes on the opposite side - no chance there. The police officers in the trailing police car were not happy having a big Volvo so close to the back of their Zastava and only a little further away from the last tank. The passenger leaned over behind the driver and rolled down the window. The end of a Kalashnikov appeared as he shouldered the weapon. I was beyond caring. I slowed briefly, and got the left wheels up onto the grassy centre reservation.

I got the car balanced as I sped up. I simply refused to believe the police officers would open fire, although it was certainly a possibility. As I passed the last flatbed, it appeared that I was safe for now. I raced past all the flatbeds and the crews cheered me on all the way. I passed the front police car, thinking maybe they'll just think I've lost me mind. The next problem was where I could stop the Volvo, not block the road but get my pictures. I saw a sign for a turn to the right, raced ahead and threw the Volvo into the filter lane. I think the handbrake was on, the gearshift in neutral and the door open way before the old car had stopped.

It wasn't until I developed the film that I saw on one frame that the truck driver was delivering a 'Nazi' salute and one of the crew riding on top was wearing a top hat and waving a sword.

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Croat soldiers with anti-aircraft artillery, near Sisak, Croatia

Croat tanks near Pleso, Croatia

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The Croats were 'ethnically cleansing' an area called the Krajina. It was a Serb enclave within Croatia. The Serb were fleeing in whatever transport they had, heading for Belgrade. The Croat authorities had closed down the main highway heading south-east from Zagreb to keep people away. There were reports of Serb refugees being pulled from the convoy and killed or beaten at the roadside. After international pressure, the Croat authorities had provided police officers to escort the refugees. I headed towards the town of Kutina where I planned to turn west and try and meet up with the convoy. Other cars on the road were often Serbs with everything they owned packed inside their cars.

In the small village of Popovaca I reached what the Croat police believed would be the end of my journey. The Sisak road, and hopefully the refugee convoy, were just a few miles ahead. Blocking my way was a Zastava police car, it's blue light spinning, pulled across the road. The one police officer was dealing with the first car of half-a-dozen lined up. Mostly, these were just local people trying to get home and he was probably just advising them of the best alternative route before they continued. When I drew up, the cop dramatically stepped back in shock, seeing the left seat empty. Then, he realized the car was right hand drive and he walked around to my side of the Volvo. We had a very limited conversation which ended in him telling me in no uncertain terms that I should drive back to Zagreb immediately.

One side of my brain was working on the conversation, but I was also working out the risk of just 'blowing' through the roadblock. I doubted the radio in the police car would be able to communicate with the military. He would have to radio his dispatch who would then have to telephone the military who would then have to radio the soldiers with the convoy. I figured I'd have ten minutes 'lead time' before anyone with the convoy would know. My flak jacket was in it's usual spot on the passenger seat so if the policeman opened fire, things would go bad very quickly. But he was armed with just a 9mm automatic handgun, not a Kalashnikov. Hitting a fast moving car with a handgun wasn't going to be easy. I hoped he wasn't the Croat police's marksman...

I told the cop, and made a hand gesture, that I would 'turn around.' The police officer agreed and stepped back. I planted my foot on the accelerator and the Volvo flew down the Sisak road. I didn't look back. I just hunched down in the seat waiting for the 'crack' as a 9mm bullet smashed the back window. But it didn't come. After a mile, I glanced at the speedometer, which showed 90mph. I came over a rise in the road to see two armoured vehicles, barb wire entanglements and a row of mines across the road. I pushed the brake pedal so hard I swore it would go right through the floor of the car. When I eventually came to a stop, the front bumper was over the row of mines.

A soldier walked forward and examined my UN and Croat identity cards, he shouted something to the other soldiers and they pulled the mines back, moved the barb wire and backed the armoured vehicles up. Ten minutes later I met the front of the refugee convoy.

Once the convoy had passed, I packed my gear into the car and headed towards Sisak where I would swing north towards Zagreb. In a small village I came across a cart abandoned by the fleeing Serbs. It was being looted by two small children, one about to run off with her goods and another still in the cart searching for anything of any use. As I opened the car door, Nikon camera with a Tamron 200-400mm lens attached, a shout went up from a couple of locals. I don't know if they were warning the kids or trying to get some people to 'see me off' but I grabbed a quick picture and left.

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By the late summer, Croatia had calmed down and international interest in the Balkans was cooling off. Now, the International Tribunal on War Crimes became the focus as massacre scenes were uncovered. And the [mostly] untold stories of war continue - always refugees and sometimes huge area's of landmines. For me, on a very cold basis, the ongoing UNHCR effort and the landmine de-commissioning were stories but not an ongoing story - newspapers and magazines tend to do a feature piece on one or the other, then move on. It wasn't something that would sustain me living there.
The war here made me grow up. The 'glamour' and 'romance' of war are myth's. It's a dirty, nasty business. Old scores are settled, criminals become local power barons. Black marketeers get rich. Sex, alcohol and tobacco become the currency of choice. Politicians show how inept they are. The nimby's don't care, because it's not in their back yard.
These are just snapshots of life as a photographer working in a war one. Most days were routine and boring. Check with UNPROFOR, check with the UNHCR, check with contacts, check the BBC World Service, check check check. Then, blinding terror or [more likely] me pushing the boundaries of my sanity made it more of an interesting day. I'm not a brave person. Bravery, to me, is often born of someone who is simply pushed in a direction they won't go in.
Some people will sit back and say 'Ah, but the money! You must've made plenty.' Television crews, reporters and photographers make the same salary in a war zone that they make covering a tiddlywinks tournament 'back home.' There's nothing extra.
John Simpson says he hates anyone who calls themselves a 'war correspondent' but for me, it was a bridge that needed to be crossed. I don't know why... 'I can't tell you why.'

I'm pleased you found time to look at this. Any comments or questions can be sent to-

jimgarnettphotography@gmail.com

Thanks to...

The UN

The UNHCR

UNPROFOR Pleso - Lt. Commander Agnew, Canadian Media Officer

UNPROFOR Zagreb - A Canadian Major who's name remains secret
UNPROFOR Zagreb -  Robert Keeley, Explosive Ordnance Disposal
UNPROFOR Zagreb - Major James Simonds RE Mines and Explosives Officer
UNPROFOR Zagreb - S/Sgt Mikkel Sabroe Mines and Explosives Officer
The Toronto Sun - newspaper
Volvo - two electrical faults in thousands of hard miles [note to self - take a diesel next time]

Nikon - simply the best

Fuji Film
Nancy Stewart - for coming up with some great trip-tunes

Alan Herring - Motorway Belts, Hemel Hempstead for the help preparing the Volvo

RBR Armour - flak jacket and kevlar helmet

Contact Press - London photo agency

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