Liberation Of Kosovo: Sneaky Russians leave Big Mike smouldering

GENERAL SIR Michael Jackson was, in the words of one of his junior officers yesterday, still emitting steam from every orifice. And it was difficult to tell which of two things enraged him more - the sneakiness of the Russians or the road-hoghooligans of the world's media.

It should all have been a piece of cake, a triumphant stroll up from Macedonia for the big gravel-voiced general and his powerful Nato battle groups. Just 35 little miles up a dusty road to victory, with the enemy in agreed retreat. Throw a ring around the Kosovo capital, Pristina, and set up his headquarters out at the airport. Then call in the TV wallahs, do the big face-to-face with Kate Adie, Bob's your uncle, end of story.

Instead it went pear-shaped from the first moment at the Macedonian- Kosovo border, when a very different kind of battle group of up to 400 vehicles of the media's finest - purchased from delighted rip-off merchants in Skopje - overtook his army without a by-your-leave and were already drinking their cold beers at the Grand Hotel in Pristina while his battle tanks were stuck in traffic jams being created by the journalist laggards 20 miles south.

And about 250 Russian airborne troops, their kit gleaming and their ceremonial parade ground hats flaring, were already ensconsed - under a full general who outranked the Big Brit. General Jackson was not only deprived of his main objective at a stroke, but also lost the ability to immediately fly in his troops and the thousands of tonnes of aid meant for returning refugees. The big plan had been shot down in flames.

General Jackson did his best to make light of what must have been one of the biggest humiliations of his life, and pressed on valiantly with his absurd victory press conference. In a perfect example of being dropped on from a great height, he was promptly soaked to the skin by a sudden Balkans downpour, which turned his well-prepared little speech into unreadable mush. With nowhere to lay his head for the night, he went back to Skopje to kick some rear ends for what had been a very bad day.

Yesterday it was much the same story. The staging of meaningless military game shows to somehow create drama for the great, greedy eye of the electronic media turns real human suffering into a kind of strutting ritual.

This powerful army, the biggest assembled by Britain since the Gulf, an army that had been ordered not to fight for the very people they had come to protect, orchestrated yet another set piece that went flat.

The British media were shepherded into a petrol station outside Pristina to watch the symbolic retaking of the city. The tanks and armoured assault vehicles rolled through the streets. Paras and Gurkhas spread out and came in from the hills. The only trouble was that the city had already been liberated by the other hacks, who stood swilling outside the Grand, wondering what all the fuss was all about.

But the Albanian kids adored it, and climbed aboard the tanks, kissing the soldiers, and chanting out their wonderful distortion of the Nato acronym, "Naah-toe, Naah-toe..." So maybe all this display of military heavy metal was good for something.

The invasion force was ignored by other, more sinister, elements. In every street corner, in every bar, in every supermarket, tough-looking and bitter men were loading cars and trucks with the last of the loot they had taken from the city. Carrying assault rifles, smoking and cursing and sweating, they packed in TV sets, washing machines, cameras, even furniture. Then, brandishing their weapons, they filled their tanks and roared off up the M2 for home.

As they passed the big Challengers ringing the city, they tooted their horns and gave their version of the V-sign (upside down) and occasionally ripped off a long burst of automatic fire when they were out of sight.

In the western areas of the city large groups of MUP, the hated gendarmerie, chewed the fat with mobsters outside stylish apartment buildings they had used to store their booty. Many of them had been drinking for hours, and, as the Nato tanks rolled past their casual contempt was clear.

By nightfall, finally, Pristina was largely under Nato command, with troops from 5 Airborne Brigade patrolling on foot and the tanks of the 4 Armoured Brigade at every major road in and out of the city.

Out in the lush, green fields of fertile Kosovan plains, the soldiers and armour of a dozen countries were carrying out a complicated - and ultra-careful - series of criss-cross movements. It was a kind of massive, group tango, involving the complex movement process of debouching one army - Nato - into the country, while allowing another - the Yugoslav VJ - to make their escape north.

"It's all been a bit chaotic, mostly due to you bloody chaps," said a grinning Major Julian Moir, second in command of the King's Royal Hussars, a man with a healthy sense of the absurd who fully understands the difference between the big media showpiece and the real thing. "It's all been a bit good-natured really."

The shooting of a Serb by British troops may change the mood, but this was the attitude among the arriving combat units, some 11,000 strong, as they prepared to fan out across Kosovo. Some of these young men have been in this complex and endlessly warring land for four months.

They want to get the devastated province quietened down, sealed up, locked tight and made safe for whatever history has in store for it. No doubt they will do their job well, if and when the PR people and the image mongers of the media pack up and go home and stop demanding pantomimes.