Upon the walls of Cafe Lasta are photographs of wives andrnehildren and aged parents, and the largest picture is of a fighterrnthey had known. These are their pin-ups. In my admittedlyrnbrief time in Nevesinje and at the front, I never saw a singlernpiece of pornography of even the mildest description. Thesernare family men, and I could more easily believe the stories ofrnrape hotels if they were told of our troops than of these men—rnso chaste, as old-fashioned Serbs are, to the point of puritanism.rnAt the next camp, the talk is all of hardware. These menrnhave several tanks as well as heavy artillery. I do not ask wherernthey got them, since it is not a secret that the Bosnians havernbeen reinforced and supplied by the Yugoslav army. Thernother side has friends too, and I am shown captured automaticrnweapons made in East Germany and Russia as well as processedrnfood products made in America and supplied by NATO,rnso they insist, and not the U.N. I point out that the chickenrndinner was packed in South Carolina, and they thank me forrnmy people’s unintended generosity.rnThe men have just heard the news that the Belgrade governmentrnis insisting upon the Vance-Owen plan. I ask ColonelrnGushitch what he and his men will do, if Mr. Miloshevitch decidesrnto cut off aid and seals the border. “If we run out of gasrnand supplies, we’ll take them from our enemies.” “That,” hernsays somewhat ominously, “will start the dance.” Badgered byrnquestions, the colonel remains silent for a moment, beforerntelling the men that if the U.N. forces make any attempt torndrive them out, they will cross the river into Muslim territory.rnOverhead we hear the distant rumble of U.N. planes. Onernsoldier hearing the planes shouts, “When will it start? We’rernready.” I ask how low they fly, and an officer tells me, “Fivernhundred meters. If they come in any lower, we’ll shoot themrndown.”rnOn our way back along an exposed ridge, I hear a series of bigrnfirecrackers going off behind the ear, and from the rear windowrn1 see little bursts of flame. We are being fired upon by 20 m.m.rnantiaircraft guns from three positions across the river. They aimrnhigh, apparently, and the shells drop onto the target. In thisrncase, they have spotted the colonel’s car, but they do not evenrncome close. Gushitch laughs, and says we’ll give them a littlernsomething to think about when we get to headquarters. In arnfew minutes, he is ordering an artillery barrage somewhat morernsubstantial than the enemy gave him. I feel sure there is a U.N.rnrecord somewhere declaring, “Serbs break truce in Nevesinje.”rnBack in Nevesinje the town is crowded with soldiers andrnrefugees from across the river. Most are in good humor andrngood order, although I have heard that some Serbs arrived inrnbad shape. I ask to be taken to a hospital, and speak with a soldierrnwhose leg was blown off by a landmine. Ordinarily, hernsays, the idea is to take your foot off, which means that threernmen leave the field—the wounded man and two others to carryrnhim, but the Muslims like to double the charges.rnI speak at length with an old woman from near Konjits, a villagernwhere the Serbs had been terrorized and massacred inrnWorld War II. All the old atrocities were being repeated. Herrnhusband, along with most of the other Serbian men, had beenrncaptured and murdered. He was a big man, if old, and they hadrnbeaten him within an inch of his life, then bayoneted him inrnthe throat and crushed his head with a rifle butt. The Muslimsrnhad put her and the other women in a schoolhouse. No, shernhad not been tortured, and once they were confined, she hadrnwitnessed no sexual assault against the women.rnShe had even been allowed to visit her son in prison, and thernMuslim guard had given her coffee. Things were changing,rnthough. In July 1992, the Croats and Muslims started fightingrnamong themselves and spread the word that it was the Serbsrnwho were attacking. Muslims started shooting into the POWrncamp, and then set fire to it, shouting “Do you want to be shotrnor burnt?” More recently the Mujeheddin were coming in fromrnthe Arab world. Two black Muslims from Africa had interrollerzegovinianrnSerb fighters waiting outside the Cafe Lasta.rngated her to find out where her male relatives were and laughedrnabout her son. “The big fellow, we know about him.” She hadrnnot seen her son since, and she fears the worst.rnI had heard these tales of Muslim volunteers before, but mvrnSerbian friends in Belgrade had put them down to propaganda,rnyet this lady was very scrupulous. When, to test herrncredibility, I repeatedly invited her to tell me atrocity stories ofrnrape and torture, she told me she would only say what she hadrnseen, not what she had heard, although she had heard manyrnsuch stories. A Serb fighter had told me that he had seen thernbadges of these Mujeheddin; a black swan raping a white woman.rnCan this be true?rnI could never be a journalist, squeezing stories out of decentrnpeople who have suffered terribly, and I do not wish to go on tornthe next room, where two Croatian soldiers are recoveringrnfrom their wounds. Their story, however, is worth telling.rnThey too had been in Konjits as allies of the Muslims. Onernnight, without a warning, they said, the Muslims began killingrnthe Croats. I ask why. “We hate each other. That is enoughrnof a reason.” The Croats resisted as long as they could, but theyrncould never have held out, if the Serbs had not given them aid.rnFinally, the Croats had bargained their way into Serbian linesrnby bringing Serbian prisoners. Colonel Gushitch had alreadyrntold me that some of the Croats had been conscripted, withoutrnmuch resistance, to defend Serb lines against Muslims. ThesernAUGUST 1993/19rnrnrn