Terror and roses in ground zero village

Nick Wood describes how he and photographer Andrew Testa were caught in Macedonian army tank fire

Audio: Hear Andrew Testa talking about his experience

Special report: Macedonia

Nick Wood
guardian.co.uk, Thursday May 10 2001 09.23 BST

We set out shortly before 6am. The ceasefire announced by the Macedonian government was due to end in four hours' time.

On the road to Slupcane, ground zero of the government's battle with the ethnic Albanian guerrilla group, the National Liberation Army, two small groups of people were walking along the road, holding bags between them and heading west.

The approach to the village looked much the same as the last time we had gone down the road on Sunday. There were a few more mortar craters in the road, but the dead cow I had seen lying bloated, face upwards in a field, was now being picked at by crows.

We were granted permission to see the village by a rebel commander who insisted that a "press officer", a gaunt man in a puffa jacket and dark trousers, go with us. He did not appear to be armed.

First stop was a series of houses at the southern end of the village. We drove in the BBC's armoured car, a large white Land Rover marked in six places with the letters "TV", which was supposed to afford protection against machine-gun fire.

Our press officer directed our attention to the houses at the edge of the village. All had gaping holes in them. A telegraph wire lay across the road. As Andrew Testa, the Guardian photographer, went ahead with our translator, Artan, I turned the Land Rover around so that we faced back toward the centre of the village.

I caught up with them near a line of sandbags and a bunker. "Keep in," Andrew said, adding that Macedonian army positions were down the road.

Before I had time to think about it, the crack of machine-gun fire opened up around us. I ran to the right and fell into a trench running along a wall, and then a few seconds later into the bunker itself. Half a dozen guerrilla fighters followed suit. A loud bang followed.

"They blown up your car," Artan said as rebels shouted down to us.

The terror of what was happening was just beginning to sink in. The Macedonian army had broken its own ceasefire. The idea that journalists could safely wander in and out of the rebel-held area had literally been blown away.

We set about making frantic phone calls to government spokesmen and other contacts. The only place with a signal was just outside the entrance to the bunker, in a shallow trench. Andrew and I took it in turn to call. "I'll do everything I can, but its not my area, it's the army's," said a despairing ministry of interior official.

This wasn't getting us anywhere. I returned to the dugout. Foam mattresses had been laid out on the floor and covered in blankets. Opposite me a gunman clicked worry beads and sang.

Eventually the Red Cross spokesman, François Stam, called: "I've just spoken to the president's chef de cabinet . He says the army's ceasefire is still holding."

A tank shell slammed into a building behind us, quickly dispelling that idea. "Are you sure you know where the shooting is coming from?" the voice on the other end of the mobile asked.

"Don't worry Nick, everything's going to be alright," Artan said as I jogged my knee with increasing intensity. So long as the Macedonian army stuck to heavy machine gun and tank fire he was right. Mortars and artillery shells however could pierce the earthworks piled on to the wooden roof above our heads.

We were with six guerrillas, including an 18-year-old woman who had fought with the ethnic Albanian Kosovo Liberation Army two years ago. She went out during the shelling and came back with a bunch of roses, removed the thorns and handed me one.

After two hours the shooting had died down to intermittent cannon fire. By now the Red Cross, senior ministry of defence and interior ministry officials were pulling out all the stops.

I was eventually given the number of the local army captain. We could leave but there was one problem. Which way did we want to go?

By 9am, my hopes of getting out were fading. We had one hour until the government was due to relaunch its bombardment. More phone calls were made, and half an hour later we had the signal to leave. We were to make a white flag, and walk about a third of a mile towards the army's checkpoint.

Andrew made quick work of a whitish woolly carpet lying beneath us. Artan was too afraid to leave with us and said he would try to get out with the rebels, via a back road.

I waved the flag over the sandbags for a few seconds and emerged on to the road, with hands raised. It was only now we could see how near we were to the army's lines Ten minutes later, we walked up to a line of tanks and an armoured personnel carrier, waving as we got closer. While we were being searched, a soldier asked. "Whose white van was that?"

"Ours", I said, pointing at my chest.

"Oh, sorry," he replied. An hour later the shelling resumed.

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