Whistleblower, Soldier, Spy

A Journey into the Dark Heart of the Global War on Terror

Tom Clonan

• Publisher: Liberties Press
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN: 9781907593963
• eBook ISBN: 9781909718333
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Historical Biographies
• Index: History

Captain Tom Clonan's odyssey begins as an Irish army officer in war-torn Lebanon and Bosnia. As a soldier, he witnesses the brutality and squalor of war in the conflict zones of the Middle East and Central Europe. On his return to peacetime Ireland, he is forced to confront the dark secret at the heart of the Irish Armed Forces including the systematic sexual harassment of Irish women soldiers. Over a million US troops have taken part in the Global War on Terror. Most take their first steps on that journey at Shannon Airport. Thousands return in sealed coffins. From Shannon Airport, to Iraq, Syria and Guantanamo Bay - Clonan's exploration of this world war begins, and ends, in Ireland. Whistleblower, Soldier, Spy charts Clonan's progression from soldier to academic and journalist as Irish Times security analyst and offers an honest and vivid account of life on and off duty. Clonan writes of his own personal hardships, coming to terms with the loss of a precious daughter and the struggle to protect a son in ill health. It is a testimony to conflict, global and personal, and of the importance of moral courage. It is a book which ultimately affirms the power of love in the fight against the forces of destruction.

Chapter 1

Welcome to Bosnia

‘You are a very peculiar man.’

Vienna, Austria
September 1996

Just two hours by air from Dublin, Austria is strangely autumnal. In Dublin, the horse chestnuts are still green. In Vienna’s Innere Stadt, the trees are already flaming yellow, red and golden as the leaves turn. I have no troops with me on this trip. Just me, myself, alone. I check in to the hotel that OSCE have block-booked for election monitors. My room overlooks the Danube. It is brown and fast-flowing. Not blue at all.

After a briefing on the next day’s short flight to Sarajevo, I go into town. Into the central square, Stephansplatz. I gaze up at the serrated roof tiles and gargoyles that adorn Vienna’s cathedral, the Stephansdom. At the corner of the square, at Graben and Kärntner Strasse, I come across the Stock im Eisen. An historic curiosity. A gnarled, medieval spruce tree that has been preserved and placed on public display.

Bound in metal hoops, the fossilised spruce is known in folklore as a ‘nail tree’ or Nagelbaum. Thousands of iron nails have been hammered into the ancient tree over the centuries. The martyred spruce is reputed to stand at the mythic heart of the old city. It is also reputed to attract Satan to its vicinity.

Pondering that, I decide to celebrate my birthday by going for a few drinks. Drinking is what soldiers do, after all. A little habit I’ve picked up in Lebanon. A foolproof way to avoid Satan and all his works.

I go to the Loos Bar, also known as ‘the American Bar’. Frau Kohn, the owner, has restored the Loos to its original glory. Green and white chessboard marble floor. Gleaming mahogany bar counter. Onyx tiles and mirrors. I lose myself in this interior world. I order Wiener Schnitzel – of course – and potato salad. The waitress, high-browed and haughty with plaited platinum-blonde hair, brings me a half litre of Innstadt Weissbier.

She stares at me when I thank her in German. I eat in silence as the bar slowly fills. Three young Viennese women join me at the bar. They ask me about Ireland. I tell them it is my birthday. They ask me if I am a ‘virgin’. All three staring at me intently. I find this an unexpected and unsettling turn of events. I explain to them, slowly and carefully, that this would not be considered a polite question in Dublin. Lotte, the group leader, exhales loudly and remarks that this is ‘foolishness’. She presses home her enquiry. ‘But you must be a virgin.’

I later realise that they are asking me if I am a Virgo. Because it is my birthday. I am unable to explain this misunderstanding. Konstanze tells me that I am ‘a very peculiar man’. Ute insists we go dancing for my birthday. We find a bar with traditional Austrian folk music. It is the only dancing to be had in the city centre. They tease me at my inability to dance a polka – a dance they perform with alarming ease. They ask me if I even know any German. Feeling belligerent, I tell them I know one German word – Anschluss. Thankfully, they laugh. They then take me to see Hitler’s old house, a kind of workman’s shelter on Meldemannstraße in the Brigittenau district. We then get a taxi back into the centre of the old town. I watch as Ute vomits into the Donnerbrunnen Fountain in the Neuer Markt. Lotte is holding her blonde ponytails back as she retches. I call out, ‘Auf wiedersehen!’ and take my leave of my newfound Austrian friends.

In the wee small hours I return to the hotel, which is locked. After much hammering and banging the concierge opens the door and peers out at me quizzically. I see a brass plaque over his chair which reads, ‘Der Pförtner’. He reluctantly allows me in and follows me to my room. He checks my name off a list on a clipboard in the crook of his arm. ‘Aha. Der ire Ire.’ I gather this is a less than complimentary term for ‘Irishman’. He puts his finger to his lips and hisses at me, ‘Singing now is verboten.’ I get the message.

I awake the following morning with a pounding headache. I say a prayer for Lotte, Ute and Konstanze. Head thumping, I count out hundreds of deutsche marks and US dollar bills on the bed. I separate the notes and distribute them about my person in different pockets and bags as best I can. Time to go to Bosnia Herzegovina. Weighed down by various currencies in small denominations I take a taxi to the airport. ‘Flughafen Wien,’ I tell the driver. He snorts and tells me he doesn’t speak English. Another morning, another journey begins.

I check in with dozens of election monitors from all over Europe. I tag along with the Greeks. I meet two lawyers from Athens, Athena and Athena. One Athena is tall, the other shorter. So I call them Little Athena and Big Athena. We board a Swissair jet and I get the window.

The flight from Vienna to Sarajevo is short. Initially, I gaze down at the ordered patchwork quilt of Austrian countryside. Ponds, lakes and the odd metal roof wink and flash up at us as the European Union gives way to Mitteleuropa, which rolls out beneath us. We fly south and east through Hungarian airspace, the countryside below changing. Less patchwork. Less order. More forest. Now overhead Pecs, passing briefly through Croatian airspace and suddenly skirting Tuzla, Zenica and on toward Sarajevo.

The aircraft banks gently as we descend through Bosnian airpace. The terrain below suddenly changes from the brown and beige autumnal field pattern of Austria to jet-black Karst mountains and dark green forest. Like an illustration out of the Grimm’s fairytales I read as a small boy in Dublin. I imagine trolls, witches and wolves in the valleys below. I know, in fact, that there is worse down there. I have a sudden recollection of an Irish army officer who was held hostage by the Serbs at the height of the conflict. I recall images of dozens of soldiers tied to trees and pylons during the NATO air campaign the previous winter. For some reason, the mental images remind me of the Stock im Eisen in Vienna.

The Swissair pilot announces our final approach to Sarajevo. Ears popping, I look through the window. Soviet-era apartment blocks brood grey in the distance. They shimmer a little through the late afternoon heat haze. Closer in to the city, I see terraces and rows of beautiful white-walled, red-tiled villas. Not what I’d expected.

The roar of the engines now as we thump-clunk down on the runway. I see the Sarajevo skyline as we fast taxi to the terminal. It is like a set from Star Trek. Futuristic buildings, onion domes. On closer inspection, bullet holes, flak and blast damage. Missing windows everywhere. The familiar sight of wires and high-tension cables coiled and burned, looped around the bases of poles and pylons. This is reminding me of Beirut. Welcome to Bosnia.

When we disembark the aircraft, the Swissair jet taxis away immediately and is already airborne as a tractor approaches pulling a wooden cart containing our bags. We manhandle the bags down ourselves. I retrieve mine. My mum has tied a shiny red love heart around the handle so that it is easily identifiable on an airport carousel.

A French officer serving with NATO helps me to heft the bag down. ‘Which one of the girls does this bag belong to?’ he asks me. ‘Err, it’s mine,’ I reply. He frowns at me and in a moment of presumably avuncular pity, he whispers to me, ‘Avoid the Serb-held areas if you can. Don’t get deployed to a Serb area. They are not happy.’

I’m digesting this new piece of information when we are called into a large tent. There is a Canadian major calling out names in a sing-song French accent, separating election monitors into groups. He calls out my name. He tells me that I am bound for the town of Prijedor. ‘Where’s that?’ I enquire. Annoyed at the interruption, he glowers at me. ‘It is in the Republika Srpska Region, 50km north-west of Banja Luka. Serb country.’ His staff of NCOs are eyeing me curiously and grin broadly in unison at my obvious discomfort. ‘Don’t worry,’ calls out the sergeant major, ‘they’ll really like you up there. They have not had many English-speaking visitors since the US and British bombing campaign. They’ll be very keen, no doubt, to share with you their views.’ I decide now to stop asking questions.

After a briefing and some bottles of lukewarm water, my group is marshalled out to the edge of the runway. A taciturn Norwegian air force corporal pulls our bags behind us on a hand trolley. We will fly to Banja Luka in a Royal Norwegian Air Force Hercules C-130 cargo aircraft. The Norwegians load pallets into the rear of the aircraft. They then signal for us to file up into the aircraft through the tailgate. They motion for us to sit in small canvas bucket seats which fold down along the sides of the aircraft. We sink into the canvas seats and buckle up, legs dangling over the spars below. I scan my fellow passengers and spot Big Athena and Little Athena on the other side, just opposite me. Big Athena gives me a big thumbs up. Little Athena is applying make-up with a tiny mirror.

And then, the roar of the four propeller engines as we start to taxi. Everything is vibrating and rattling as we sway and bump and whallop down the runway. Eventually, after what seems like a very long drive in the country, we creak up skyward and head north for Banja Luka. The pilots are visible to us in the cockpit. One has his feet crossed and resting along the side of the instrument panel. They are engaged in some hilarious discussion and laugh all the way to Banja Luka. They only pause from their discussion as we make our final approach. They spring into action then, twisting dials, pulling on levers and suddenly we are down. Almost imperceptibly gliding onto the runway as the sun sets in the west.

I think of Vienna and the American Bar now, many hundreds of miles away over the Dinaric and Julian Alps to the north. I have a brief vision of Lotte and Ute and Konstanze nursing their hangovers. I think of my girlfriend in Dublin.

We are met in Banja Luka by a detachment of British soldiers. The Brits belong to a battalion of the Royal Green Jackets. In contrast to our French and Canadian friends in Sarajevo, the Brits are positively cheery and ask us if we have tea bags and powdered milk. They ply us with British army standard-issue chocolate, biscuits, tea bags, powdered milk and marmalade of all things.

They drive us in convoy to Prijedor. I am dropped off at the house of a Serb family. I am billeted with them – their ‘houseguest’ – for the duration of the elections. I am met at the door of the house by Zoran and his son, Bojan.

Chapter 2

Breakfast in Bosnia

‘No one will hurt you in the daytime. No one is permitted to hurt you especially in the night-time.’

Prijedor, Bosnia
September 1996

Zoran and Bojan welcome me to their home. It is a large detached house surrounded by trees. A modern two-storey building – all white plasterwork and an ornate red-tiled roof. A rambling climbing plant with variegated leaves covers the walls on the ground floor. The climber graces the first-floor balconies in a profusion of pink and white flowers. There are painted wooden shutters on the upper windows and a large covered terrace adorns the first floor. There are hanging baskets with multicoloured blossoms suspended from the timber beams of the overhanging roof. I think briefly of Hansel and Gretel.

Zoran resembles Zorba the Greek. He is a very large man with huge hands. His face is burned brown by the sun. A white and grey beard gives him a regal quality. Zoran’s green eyes remind me of my father. Those green eyes bore into mine. A full appraisal. He mutters something under his breath and offers his hand. A firm handshake. Meanwhile, Bojan – pronounced ‘Boyan’ – a seemingly shy twenty-year-old, hangs back, watching me nervously. Zoran nods at Bojan and he too grips my hand, pumping it furiously in a more enthusiastic greeting.

They lead me through the front door into a large hallway. The hallway is painted white with a large central staircase with metal banisters. The floor is shining marble. Family portraits and paintings decorate the walls. A large triptych hangs on the return of the stairwell. Jesus stares down at me forlornly from the upper landing. His hands outward and upward in supplication. The wounds of the crucifixion oozing blood. Mary’s eyes meet mine, imploring. The Orthodox Christian images remind me of the Sacred Heart of Jesus statues at home in Ireland. This Serbian Jesus has a narrower face though. The blood flowing from his wounds is a vivid crimson. Fresh.

Zoran takes me by the elbow and motions me into the family room where I meet his wife and other children. Two girls, Milinka and Dragana, ten and eleven years old. They smile shyly at me. Zoran’s wife Irena looks tired and drawn. She smiles faintly at me and I notice that she is pale, as though she has been indoors for a long time.

I am invited to sit at the family table – a huge timber affair covered with a starched cloth. We eat pickled vegetables, or tursija, followed by cevapcici, a kind of grilled minced meat. There is bread, salad and feta cheese. Zoran offers me slivovitz – home-brewed brandy. It is not unlike poitín and it burns its way down my throat. Everyone, including Bojan, who has been staring at me, smiles as I swallow it. The room comes to life and I feel grateful to this family who have taken me – a complete stranger – into their home. I am gradually made to feel at home, despite being a thousand miles from Dublin and a million light years from all that is familiar, constant and certain to me.

I look around the room and notice the wire trailing through the window into the garden. A diesel generator is humming outside. Zoran follows my gaze and explains in German that the electricity supply is sporadic. They get a few hours of electricity a day. The diesel generator has been turned on in my honour.

Irena explains to me that there is very little in the shops. She speaks in faltering German and Bojan helps with the odd English word. Everyone on the street grows something in their garden; fruit, vegetables. Everyone keeps a pig or some hens to provide the family with eggs and fresh meat during the winter.

Bojan takes me out into a scullery to the rear of the house. It is full of jars and large aluminium pots and pans. They are filled with fruit and vegetables. August and September is a time for pickling fruit and vegetables for the winter. I am beginning to understand that Zoran and Irena are almost self-sufficient when it comes to food. I ask Bojan where his father’s farm is. Bojan laughs. ‘Daddy is not a farmer. He worked in the concrete factory until the war is starting. We learn to do all of this together with our neighbours.’

I glance back into the family room. Zoran and Irena are talking gently to Milinka and Dragana – which translated, mean ‘graceful one’ and ‘beloved one’. I get the briefest flash of insight into what they have been through in the war. Just four years ago, Zoran and Irena had lived normal suburban lives in Prijedor. Commuting to work. Shopping in the supermarket. Doing all of the things that any family in Dublin would be familiar with. The sacred daily rituals of family life. Those weekly routines intimately familiar to households all over Europe.

And then, in 1992, the war began. And in the four years that follow, this family has gone from normality to war. From cosmos to chaos. From serenity to anarchy. With all of the emotions associated with that roller coaster journey. When I look at Irena, I am reminded of the women I saw in Lebanon. When I look at her face, look into her eyes, I see fear.

I wonder how they feel just now, in the autumn of 1996, with a total stranger – from Ireland – under their roof. I think of the Volkswagen I saw in the front garden, covered in a tarpaulin. ‘Daddy has not driven his car for four years,’ Bojan tells me. ‘He is waiting until everything is normal again. Waiting for when he can buy petrol.’

Irena brings the girls to bed. But not before they each solemnly shake hands with me. ‘...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Acknowledgements
• Foreword
• Prologue
• Chapter 1: Welcome to Bosnia
• Chapter 2: Breakfast in Bosnia
• Chapter 3: After Dark
• Chapter 4: Schweinfest
• Chapter 5: Omarska
• Chapter 6: Feminist Theory
• Chapter 7: Sisters in Arms
• Chapter 8: DFHQ
• Chapter 9: Didn’t I tell you not to fuck up?
• Chapter 10: Girl Talk
• Chapter 11: Sexual Harassment
• Chapter 12: Farewell to Lebanon
• Chapter 13: Farewell to Arms
• Chapter 14: Ivory Tower
• Chapter 15: Breaking News
• Chapter 16: Iodine Tablets
• Chapter 17: The Doyle Report
• Chapter 18: We Break Things and Kill People
• Chapter 19: Grey Lady
• Chapter 20: Mission Accomplished
• Chapter 21: Neuromuscular Disorder
• Chapter 22: Investigations
• Chapter 23: White Lady
• Chapter 24: Beslan
• Chapter 25: Court Case
• Chapter 26: GTMO
• Chapter 27: Cuba
• Chapter 28: Camp Delta
• Chapter 29: Camp Echo
• Chapter 30: Landstuhl
• Chapter 31: Polytrauma
• Chapter 32: Bessbrook Mill
• Chapter 33: Pauline
• Chapter 34: Shannon
• Chapter 35: Thunderbirds Are Go
• Chapter 36: Missile Shield
• Chapter 37: Syria
• Chapter 38: Death
• Chapter 39: Postscript
• Plates
• Copyright