CITIZEN Deputy Editor Paul Wilkinson reports back from Bosnia after a week's tour of duty with the Kings Own Royal Border Regiment and finds a country of contradictions and a population trying to come to terms with its bloody past

Packing a 35mm piece of kit, I'd set my sights to capture the images of a savage civil war - devastated buildings, the scorched metal of burnt-out tanks, queues of refugees with desolate eyes.

Four years on and in Bosnia's killing fields you'll find chic young women in designer clothes, gleaming new caf bars and the confident purr of expensive German cars.

The striking scenery, mountainous and lush green under a scorching sun, revealed a rural idyll with charming villages and abundant crops.

This was no battle-scarred war zone, as one squaddie joked: "It's like a scene from the Sound of Music!"

Strangely disappointed, I put my camera back in its bag.

It was impossible to imagine that these hills had ever echoed to the sound of explosions or that the smiling villagers had turned upon their neighbours with murder in mind.

It was, well... beautiful, tranquil, unspoilt.

When I'd told people about my week's tour of duty with the Kings Own Royal Border Regiment they furrowed their brows and shrieked "Bosnia?"

But so far the closest I'd come to carnage was on the M6 at Birmingham heading for RAF Brize Norton.

The flight into theatre was aboard a plush, chartered holiday jet and, on arrival at Croatia's Zagreb Airport, it was cappuccinos all round, staring open-mouthed at the supermodel looks of the nonchalant staff.

At first I was reassured that such an air of normality could prevail so soon after war but at the same time I was puzzled and unnerved.

Here was a part of Europe, filled with people who obviously enjoyed a relaxed, cosmopolitan lifestyle, yet 1.7 million of them had died at the hands of their fellow countrymen?

As my week in Bosnia unravelled I got the devastation of my expectations - the bullet holes, the refugees, the grotesque recollections of innocent people who have lived through hell. Within the dense forests are patches of earth that still reek of atrocity and away from the main roads, hidden in the mountains, are ghostly bombed-out villages which a few brave faces still call home.

Yet, just around the corner, business is booming.

For some international aid means a new Mercedes, fresh paint adorns pretty, ethnically cleansed houses and some still reach for a grenade if a neighbourly dispute gets out of hand.

When I asked about the war I often got a shrug of the shoulders as if it had never really happened.

And on first impressions of Bosnia it would have been easy to believe them.

But look beyond appearances and you'll find secrets, deep scars and stories that are difficult to tell.