A Secret Affair

Finally, he spotted them.

His cameraman, Mike Williams, and Joe Alonzo, his soundman, were right in the thick of it, feverishly filming, along with other television crews and photographers who must have arrived on the scene immediately.

Running over to join the CNS crew, Bill shouted above the din, “What the hell happened here? Another bomb?”

“A mortar shell,” Joe answered, swinging his eyes to meet Bill’s. “There must be twenty or thirty dead.”

“Probably more,” Mike added without turning, zooming his lens toward two dazed-looking young children covered in blood and clinging to each other in terror. “The marketplace was real busy…” Mike stopped the camera, grimaced as he looked over at Bill. “A lot of women and children were here. They got caught. This is a real pisser.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Bill said.

Joe said, “The mortar shell made one helluva crater.”

Bill looked over at it, and said softly, in a hard voice, “The Serbs had to know the marketplace would be busy. This is an atrocity.”

“Yes. Another one,” Mike remarked dryly. “But we’ve come to expect that, haven’t we?”

Bill nodded, and he and Mike exchanged knowing looks.

“Wholesale slaughter of civilians—” Bill began and stopped abruptly, biting his lip. Mike and Joe had heard it all before, so why bother to repeat himself? Still, he knew he would do so later, when he did his telecast to the States. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

There was a sudden flurry of additional activity at the far side of the marketplace. Ambulances were driving into the area, followed by armored personnel carriers manned by UN troops, and several official UN cars, all trying to find places to park.

“Here they come, better late than never,” Joe muttered in an acerbic tone. “There’s not much they can do. Except cart off the wounded. Bury the dead.”

Bill made no response. His brain was whirling, words and phrases racing through his head as he prepared his story in his mind. He wanted his telecast to be graphic, moving, vivid, and hard-hitting.

“I guess we’re not going to get our R & R after all,” Mike said, a brow lifting. “We won’t be leaving today, will we, Bill?”

Bill roused himself from his concentration. “No, we can’t leave, Mike. We have to cover the aftermath of this, and there’s bound to be one…of some kind. If Clinton and the other Western leaders don’t do something drastic, something especially meaningful, there’s bound to be a public outcry.”

“So be it,” Mike said. “We stay.”

“They’ll do nothing,” Joe grumbled. “They’ve all been derelict in their duty. They’ve let the Serbs get away with murder, and right from the beginning.”

Bill nodded in agreement. Joe was only voicing what every journalist and television newsman in Bosnia knew only too well. Turning to Mike, he asked, “How much footage do we have so far?”

“A lot. Joe and I were practically the first in the marketplace, seconds after the mortar shell went off. We were in the jeep, just around the corner when it happened. I started filming at once. It’s pretty bloody, gory stuff, Bill.”

“Gruesome,” Joe added emphatically.

Bill said, “It must be shown.” Then, looking at Mike, he went on quickly, “I’d like you to find a place where we can film my spot, if possible one that’s highly dramatic.”

“You got it, Bill. When do you want to start rolling the tape?”

“In about ten minutes. I’m going to go over there first, talk to some of those UN people clustered near the ambulances, see what else I can find out.”

“Okay, and I’ll do a rekky, look for a good spot,” Mike assured him.

William Patrick Fitzgerald was a renowned newsman, the undoubted star at Cable News Systems, noted for his measured, accurate, but hard-hitting reports from the world’s battlefields and troublespots.

His fair coloring and clean-cut, boyish good looks belied his thirty-three years, and his tough demeanor stood him in great stead in front of the television camera.

He had earnest blue eyes and a warm smile that bespoke his sincerity, and integrity was implicit in his nature. These qualities underscored his genuine believability, were part of his huge success on television. Because he had this enormous credibility, people trusted him, had confidence in him. They paid attention to his words, listened to everything he had to say, and took him very seriously.

It was not for nothing that CNS treasured him and other networks coveted him. Offers for his services were always being made to his agent; Bill turned them all down. He was not interested in other networks. Loyalty was another one of his strong suits, and he had no desire to leave CNS, where he had worked for eight years.

Some time later he stood in front of the grim backdrop of burning houses in the marketplace, and his sincerity seemed more pronounced than ever. He spoke somber words in a well-modulated voice, as always following the old journalistic rule of thumb: Who, when, where, what, and how, which had been taught to him by his father, a respected newspaperman until his death five years ago.

“Thirty-seven civilians were killed and many others wounded today when a mortar shell exploded in a busy marketplace in Sarajevo,” Bill began. “The mortar was fired by the Serbian army entrenched in the hills surrounding this battle-torn city. It was an obscene act of aggression against innocent, unarmed people, many of them women and children. UN forces, who quickly arrived on the scene immediately after the bombing, are calling it an atrocity, one that cannot be overlooked by President Clinton and the leaders of the Western alliance. UN officials are already saying that the Serbs must be forced to understand that these acts of extreme violence are unwarranted, unconscionable, and unacceptable. One UN official pointed out that the Serbs are endangering the peace talks.”

After giving further details of the bombing, and doing a short commentary to run with the footage of the carnage, Bill brought his daily news report to a close.

Stepping away from the camera after his ten minutes were up, he waited until the equipment was turned off. Then he glanced from Mike to Joe and said quietly, “What I couldn’t say was that that UN major I was talking to earlier says there has to be some sort of retaliation, intervention by the West. He says it’s inevitable now. Public anger is growing.”

Joe and Mike stared at Bill doubtfully.

It was Joe who spoke, sounding entirely unconvinced.

“I’ve heard that before,” he said and shook his head sadly. “I guess this disgusting war has turned me into a cynic, Billy boy. Nothing’s going to happen, you’ll see…it’ll be status quo…”

But as it turned out, Joe Alonzo was wrong. The leaders of the Western alliance in Washington, London, and Paris had no choice but to take serious steps to stop the Serbs in their systematic slaughter of Bosnian civilians, or risk being the focus of public outrage and anger in their own countries.

Just two days after the mortar shell exploded in the marketplace, the alliance sent in NATO warplanes to attack the Serbian army in the hills of Sarajevo.

It was August 30, 1995. The bombing began in earnest that day, and it was the biggest attack of the war. There were more than 3,500 sorties in the short space of two weeks, and even Tomahawk Cruise missiles were launched in the assault.

At the end of three weeks, the Serbians had begun to back down, withdrawing their heavy weaponry from the Sarajevo hills at the edge of the city, and making sounds about peace negotiations.

Because of the NATO attack and later developments, Bill Fitzgerald and the CNS crew remained in Bosnia, their week of rest and relaxation in Italy postponed indefinitely.

“But we don’t really care, do we?” Bill said one evening when the three of them sat at a large table in the communal dining room of the Holiday Inn.

“No, of course we don’t,” Mike answered. “I mean, who cares about missing a week in Amalfi, relaxing with a couple of beautiful girls. Nobody would mind missing that, certainly not I. Or Joe.” He shrugged. “After all, who gives a damn about sun, sea, and sex. And wonderful pasta.”

Bill chuckled.

So did Joe, who said, “Me, for one. I give a damn.” He grinned at the cameraman, who was his best buddy, then addressed Bill quietly. “I was certainly looking forward to our trip. And you were fixated about Venice, Bill, come on, admit it.”

“Yes, it’s true, I was. And I plan to make it to Venice soon. Maybe in the next month or two.”

It was late September and relatively quiet out on the streets of Sarajevo; the fighting was less intense, with only sporadic sniping and fewer forays into the city on the part of the bloodthirsty Serbs. The entire foreign press corps were fully aware that the intense NATO retaliation had worked far better in curbing the Serbs than the words of appeasement the West had been uttering thus far.

Bill said, “I think things are going to ease up here, and very soon.”

From their expressions, Mike and Joe were obviously disbelieving, and they did not respond.

Looking at his colleagues intently, Bill added, “With a little luck, this war should end soon.”