The Bus Ride      

                       

“John, John, are you awake? It’s me, Peter. We must get out of here right now!” Said Peter Williamson my BBC cameraman, in a loud stage whisper.

I was not asleep; I had been sitting on the edge of the old iron frame bed looking out the open window of the Central Grand hotel, one of Pristina’s oldest, at the fires and explosions in the direction of the Serb army base. It was four in the morning and I could also hear quite a commotion from around the front of the hotel where it sounded like quite a crowd was gathering.

As a freelance Journalist I had the ‘good’ fortune to be in Pristina, the unofficial capital of Kosovo the breakaway province of Yugoslavia the night NATO began its air strikes against the SERB controlled Yugoslavian military.  The SERBS (Christian), had been fighting a determined group of separatist Albanians (Muslim) called the Kosovo Liberation Army, for the past year. The western press was being accused by Yugoslavia of only reporting atrocities by the SERBS against Kosovo civilians, with little mention of any wrongdoing by the Kosovo Liberation Army. The western media had been hated before the rocket attacks, and most of the media were in this hotel.

“What’s going on Peter?” I said as Peter pushed me aside and slammed my door shut.

“I don’t like the look of it outside. I heard a Serb officer say something about executing the bastards, or something to that effect, and I think we’re the bastards.”

“Don’t worry.” I said “Even the Serbs aren’t stupid enough to kill western journalists. Remember we have our armored truck provided by your lovely BBC. Let’s get the rest of the guys load the truck and get the hell out of here.”

It only took a few minutes to get moving since all of us were used to moving on a moments notice, all told there were about 9 journalists and camera operators.  As we got to the bottom of the staircase the look on the face of the Serb Captain that greeted us said it all. Hid twisted smile oozed hatred, he hated the Albanians from several hundred years’ back and he hated western journalists just as much.

“Give me that camera.”  He said as Peter tried to keep it from him.  I moved to help Peter. Suddenly several more soldiers came up with their automatic rifles pushed into our faces. They not only took and smashed Peter’s cameras but all the others they could find as well.  I had never been treated like this before, but the more we tried to reason with them the more agitated they became.  The Captain spoke very good English.

“OK all of you, give me your passports, you are being deported immediately by Bus to the Bulgarian border.” He said.

“But we have our own armored truck outside, couldn’t you just escort us to the border?” said Peter. 

“There is no discussion. We are keeping the truck, if you don’t get into the Bus immediately I’ll let the crowd have you, it would serve you right.” Said the Captain

Before we knew what was happening we were on an old bus with an assortment of other passengers and rattling out of town.  It was still dark and the fires from the army camp could be seen in the distance as we started off for a three-hour Bus ride to the western border of Bulgaria.

“Well at least we are going to have some interesting stories to tell our readers when we get to Bulgaria.” I heard someone say from the darkness ahead.

We had been traveling for about forty-five minutes when suddenly the Bus came to a screeching halt; a tree had been placed across the road.  When we were stopped, several uniformed and well-armed men entered and ordered all Serbs to leave the Bus.

One of the problems in covering civil wars is being able to tell who is who. The uniforms of both sides were basically identical and the language although actually quite different, to a foreigner sounded the same.  I was having this problem now.  Were these members of the Kosovo Liberation Army, and were they about to massacre these poor unfortunate Serbs right in front to our eyes?  Three of the uniformed men had five-gallon cans of gasoline with them as they entered the Bus, they proceeded up the isle and as they came to the first elderly gentleman they spoke something to him. Suddenly one of them placed his automatic rifle against the old mans ear and blew his brains all over the Bus.  The noise was shattering.  The silence for a few seconds was eerie. 

“OH my God.” Said Peter sitting behind me. “They’re going to kill us all”

“Maybe he was a spy, and that is the end of it. They wouldn’t kill us.” I said with my heart pounding. 

Two of the uniformed men continued up the aisle to the first journalist.  Their companion poured gasoline over the dead peasant. 

They didn’t even speak to our Journalist friend one grabbed him from behind and the other quickly put the gun to his head and fired.  I couldn’t believe my eyes, one-minute a friend sitting in front of me the next he is dead with someone pouring gasoline over him.

I couldn’t move or think. I just sat there, no one seemed to be saying anything, or moving.

“Get up.” Said the first uniformed man as he grabbed me by the hair and pulled.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye the other one getting behind me. I felt the cold rifle against my neck.  Suddenly everything is black.

 I can’t see. My hearing is fading …Gas

I feel Gasoline pouring into my eyes and mouth.

The Front page of the official Government newspaper.

 A picture of a still burning hulk that once was a Bus. 

Caption reads.

Western Journalists die in terrible Bus crash escaping NATO rocket attack.