Boots in the Mud: Witnessing Bosnia’s Ghosts
During this time, Bosnia was always cold, grey, and heavy with a silence that was somehow louder than gunfire. The air hung thick with the aftermath of conflict; the land was scarred by years of ethnic strife. Even in peace, war lingered in the soil, in the hollowed-out buildings, and beneath the surface of the earth itself.
It was 1998. I was a young kid from Texas in the military, living in Germany. I received my first deployment orders to Bosnia. I was attached to NATO for operations Joint Guard and Joint Forge. As part of the SFOR (NATO Stabilization Force), we were peacekeepers for a country that had gone through a vicious civil war and ethnic cleansing. I headed to D Camp.
D camp was perched in a hilly region, surrounded by a patchwork of forests and open fields. The tents we stayed in used wood from pallets to serve as a floor. The wind, during exceptionally windy days, pushed the sides in, giving way to an unexpected cold burst. Outside, mud dominated everything. It clung to our boots, coated our vehicles, and found its way into our clothes. “Wipe your feet!” was always yelled at someone as they entered from the outside. It was all we could do to try to keep it from consuming us. It often made me wonder if the mud carried some part of the war, some residue of the blood and ash that had soaked into it over the years.
The days consisted of patrols and checkpoint duties, punctuated by brief moments of freedom to eat at the chow hall. The nights were alive with the sounds of gunfire being exchanged in the distance, sometimes too close to let us sleep. We would lay there, waiting to see if a stray round would find its way to our tent. We were not sent there to be combatants but to be peacekeepers; however, the tension of possible conflict never left. Locals watched us with a mix of gratitude and suspicion, their faces lined with exhaustion. Entire town buildings were blown out due to artillery or the large divots of bullets chipping away at the concrete exteriors. I didn’t know their stories, but I didn’t have to. You could see it in their eyes, a kind of pain that doesn’t go away, the kind that becomes part of who you are.
“All right, we got a call that there is something blocking the dam. We’ve been tasked to check it out. We push out at 07:45. Get chow, check the vehicles, and get ready to go.” Those were the words of our XO. Since my attachment to the unit, I had been designated as his driver and we had grown to be as close as we could, though our ranks were an eternity apart. The dam was critical, controlling water flow for the area, but something had caused a stoppage. We were tasked with investigating and helping the locals clear up whatever had happened. At first, we thought it might be debris or damage from the war, a sunken vehicle or a collapsed structure. Nothing in my life could have prepared me for what was about to come.
The air was sharp with the metallic tang of cold water when we arrived. The dam’s walls were covered in moss and a silver glistening from the water that usually ran through. This was a hydroelectric dam, responsible for providing not just water downstream but also power to local areas. Some local workers stood in a tight group, perhaps to keep warm. Then I noticed their expressions. As they gestured toward the blockage, their words were hurried and low with a grim look on their middle-aged faces. The look in their eyes told the story. It wasn’t going to be a sunken car, but it was going to be damaged by the war, and we didn’t need translation to sense what kind. “Sir…” I muttered, adjusting my equipment and pulling my weapon to my chest. I could feel the pounding of my heart in my fingertips as I looked back.
“Stay on your toes,” he said as he glanced around. “Sergeant, you take four and head upstream, see if you can find anything.” With a nod, one squad broke off back towards their HUMVEEs. “Gunners, return to your position, provide cover. If you see anything, signal on the radio.” After a quick pause, he looked back toward me. “You and the other two with me.” With that, he strode forward, exuding the confidence of someone battle tested. Yet, he was only 25.
As we approached the site, the smell hit me first. It was unlike anything I had ever encountered, a sickly-sweet stench that turned my stomach and made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I held up a hand, looking down toward the dimly lit area and the workers who had begun to cover their faces. “Cover your faces,” was all I could muster in the moment, a response that was nothing more than conditioned paranoia. We all stopped, pulling out whatever cloth we could use as a makeshift face cover. No one wanted to put on their gas masks. Even in the cold, they were unbelievably stuffy.
The water near the blockage was dark, almost black, and littered with unidentifiable debris. Then, as the workers began clearing the obstruction, the truth surfaced. Bodies. Dozens of them, tangled together like some grotesque raft. Some were barely more than skeletons; their clothing rotted and clinging to their remains. Others were disturbingly intact, their faces frozen in expressions of pain or terror. The mass grave they had dumped into upstream had given way, and the current had carried them here, to this dam, to us. My stomach tried to jump up through my throat, the only words that found a way out: “I’m going to be sick.” I bent over slightly, a hand coming off my weapon to rest on a knee as I looked at the ground. I was trying to find a hint of air that hadn’t been fouled by death.
The lieutenant stepped in front of me, a hand going on my shoulder as he got a closer look. He tried to shield me, pushing me back towards the others, but there was no escaping it. The sight, the smell, the sheer weight of it, it stayed with me. It clung to me like the mud back at camp. I remembered the cold seeping into my gloves as I helped secure the area. The water didn’t help. Everything was cold at first, then it was numb.
Later, I learned that the bodies were likely victims of ethnic cleansing, one of the many massacres that had stained this land during the war. Men, women, even children. Their lives had been stolen, their stories cut short. Now, years later, they had returned to the surface, demanding to be seen. This was brutal ethnic cleansing on one of the highest levels the world had seen.
Several weeks later, we were back to our routine. Patrols, checkpoints, the endless trudge through the mud. But something had changed. I wasn’t the same kid who had arrived here a few months ago. None of us were. Bosnia had a way of stripping you down to your core, forcing you to confront things you never wanted to face. It was a place that demanded you bear witness, whether you were ready or not.
Even now, years later, I can’t forget that day at the dam. I’ve tried, but it’s part of me now, woven into the fabric of who I am. Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I find myself back there, standing on that cold, wet concrete, staring into the dark water. I wonder if those souls ever found peace. If this land ever will. Other times, the smell of decaying grass as fields are cleared for the winter in Texas causes an overwhelming feeling of unease and anxiety. The feelings continue to cling to me every day for the rest of my life. Just like the mud that clung to my boots.
Joshua Riddle is a veteran of the U.S. Army, serving as a Specialist and 19D. He is currently a Sophomore at the University of Arizona majoring in Cyber Security. He has an 8-month-old Golden Retriever and an 11-year-old orange Tabby. He’s done charity work for organizations such as Child’s Play and Extra Life.
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