General Laccetti on Depleted Uranium and the Cost to Soldiers

Interview with Emerico Maria Laccetti, general of the Italian Red Cross Military Corps

Emerico Maria Laccetti, who is now on leave, worked as a colonel and general for the Italian Red Cross Military Corps from the early 1990s to 2016 and spent most of his career dealing with emergencies, both natural disasters and armed conflicts, often outside Italy. Over the years his unit was deployed to five international conflicts and to countless emergency responses.

“In 2016, as is known, the Italian Red Cross in its prior institutional form was dissolved, with responsibilities moved under civil authorities. I then transitioned to civilian roles: first as a manager at the Ministry of the Interior and later, after being called before the Council of Ministers, to serve as a service director within the Presidency of the Council of Ministers. So I’ve seen both sides: uniform and civilian administration.”

You were deployed during the Kosovo war, or more broadly: the Balkan wars. Is that correct?

“Yes. We conducted multiple missions across the former Yugoslavia throughout that period. Our first deployments to the region began around 1992, and my last mission there was in 1999. The roles varied from one phase to another. Sometimes we moved humanitarian cargo; other times we built and ran refugee reception camps. And sometimes, it still pains me to say it, we were called to recover bodies. War doesn’t politely separate combatants and civilians; the reality can be far messier and much uglier.”

Where exactly were you stationed in that final mission, and what did your daily work look like as a commander?

“The base for my last mission was in Albania, about three to four hundred meters from the Morini–Kukës border. We operated a reception camp for refugees as well as a field hospital to handle a very intense, continuous flow of people. As the commander, I had to be a generalist. I went wherever the situation required. Assessing conditions on the ground, deciding what kind of intervention was necessary, coordinating logistics, and ensuring the teams had what they needed. Some days the work was typical humanitarian field management; other days it involved somber tasks like recovering civilian bodies. The tempo didn’t really let up until the very end of the conflict when the major air campaign (the NATO bombings, ed) signaled that the war was winding down.”

How close were you to the bombings and did anyone warn you about specific risks, especially regarding munitions?

“We were very close. I remember the last day vividly. We knew things were nearing the end; the intensity was changing. Standing atop containers, we watched the bombardment like a perverse end-of-year fireworks display. Even at a distance of a few hundred meters you feel the air displacement, those shock waves roll through you. But no, we were not warned about the specific dangers of the weapons being used. We knew we were in a hot zone and just meters from active conflict; we understood the generic risks. What we were not told, ever, was that certain types of munitions could pose long-term hazards even if you weren’t hit: the possibility that a stray shot or a dud might land near us, and, more importantly, the potential contamination risk from what was being used in those strikes.

You’ve mentioned long-term effects. While you were on the ground, did anything strike you as odd, something that, in hindsight, took on new meaning?

“Yes. One detail stuck with me at the time, even though I couldn’t quite place it. In areas where there had been bombings or heavy engagement, I noticed American ground forces were moving fully covered, head to toe, in full protective gear, even in the brutal heat. We, on the other hand, were in summer uniforms with sleeves rolled up; that’s what regulations required and, besides, it was hot. When I mentioned the contrast, the reaction I got was basically, “Oh, that’s the Americans: always a bit over the top.” It made us smile back then, in the heat of operations. Later we understood that the systematic use of such protection was probably not theatrical at all.”

Let’s talk specifically about depleted uranium. From your perspective in the field, what is the hazard?
“Depleted-uranium munitions are valued for their armor-piercing capacity. They’re typically used from aircraft against armored vehicles: you want to penetrate a tank and then shatter inside. But missiles and rounds don’t always hit a tank. It’s enough for one to slam into the ground or rock. On impact, the material can aerosolize into fine particles: a dust you can breathe without seeing it. That can also contaminate soil and water. The main problem for people on the ground, soldiers and civilians alike, is inhalation and contact. Dust settles on hands; hands go to mouths. It’s not the loud, obvious danger you’re trained for. It’s silent. It stays in the body and, if it’s lodged there, it keeps emitting.

The damage does not end with the ceasefire. That’s what troubles me most. If you intend to bring peace to a place, environmental safety is part of the peace. Spreading such substances indiscriminately over inhabited land, where herds graze, where children play, creates a shadow that can last twenty, thirty, forty years. With lawyer Angelo Tartaglia we tried to push for recognition that these weapons are unconventional and should be banned. We received no real acknowledgment. The reasons, to my mind, are economic.”

At what point did you realize something was wrong with your own health?
“It was soon after that final mission—late June 1999 is when I came back. I have another passion besides the military: electrical systems. I was at a close friend’s house helping him fix some wiring. He’s a doctor. I said, “Listen, something strange happens when I take a deep breath, I get stuck, as if I can’t complete it.” He took a blood sample. The results looked normal, except for some lymphopenia he chalked up to diet. But he said, “Since you’re here, stop by the hospital for an X-ray.”

I rode over on my motorcycle, calm as could be, I was 36. They took the films. Then another angle. Then the uneasy silence. The technician wouldn’t say much: “Talk to the doctor.” When the doctor finally showed me the images, what I saw wasn’t mine; it was a normal chest. Then he put up my film: a mass, enormous, about 24 by 12 by 14 centimeters, right in the mediastinum. “What is that?” I asked. They listed possibilities: sarcoma, lymphoma, thymoma. Everything ending in “-oma.” They needed to do further tests.

This was the day after my birthday December 9. The CT machine had been broken, so on December 24 they got me in. The technician, breaking the usual reserve, told me, “Have a good New Year’s Eve; I don’t know if you’ll be here next year.” That was a gut punch. I was admitted around New Year’s for a biopsy.”

After this, Emerico Maria Laccetti got diagnosed with cancer, a very aggressive lymphoma. He describes the enormous amounts of tests and the twelve cycles of chemotherapy. He recovered, but got a second cancer. 

“In 2018, a carcinoma was discovered in my left kidney. It was surgically removed. When they analyzed that tissue, they found the same substances they had seen years earlier: compounds not found naturally on their own, but formed under conditions like a high-energy impact on hard surfaces. They also found an extraordinary number of perfectly round ceramic particles, as if I had been inside a blast furnace, which of course I hadn’t. The implication was stark: those particles had lodged in my body for years and could seed new trouble as they migrate or inflame tissue. As long as the affected organ is operable, there’s something doctors can do. If not, well, then there’s nothing to be done.”

At the time of your first diagnosis, did you connect it to the deployments, or did that realization come later?

“At first, no. I was a platelet donor and therefore more than routinely checked. I was the sort of donor who would push for six-month intervals even when they would have been fine with slightly more frequent draws. So I initially thought it was just bad luck, the sort that makes you ask, “Why me?” The idea that there could be a shared cause started to take shape when I read a brief article in Metro, the free paper at the subway. It described a cluster of soldiers, same age band, same places, same diagnoses. 

A few days after, the Military Observatory called. They asked how I was doing, just that humane, straight question, and said they were looking into these patterns. They connected me with lawyer Angelo Tartaglia. Meanwhile, I had heard nothing from my higher-ups. 

How many people were under your command in those Balkan missions, and did others fall ill?

“Roughly three hundred in total. I was the first, and later six or seven officers and non-commissioned officers developed similar problems. Among my own lower-ranked men, I didn’t personally have cases at that time. I don’t interpret that as protection by rank. I think there’s an element of individual predisposition. We were all exposed to much the same environment, yet many, thankfully, remained perfectly healthy. In oncology, that mix of environmental exposure and genetic susceptibility is a known reality. 

What role did the Military Observatory and lawyer Tartaglia play, and how did the institutions respond?

“The Observatory functioned as an independent body that worked alongside the ministry but was not the ministry. It gathered signals, protected personnel, and offered a path forward for people who otherwise had no clear channel. They were the first official voice to ask, “How are you?” and to say, “Let’s try to understand why this is happening.”

They put me in touch with Angelo Tartaglia. He’s incorruptible. He asked me to tell him everything, and he listened. From there, we began a longer journey, not just for me, but for many who were sick or afraid. There were also attempts, from various corners, to discourage us from speaking. Messages filtered down through command lines, some veiled, some not so veiled: “Let it go.” I was told this more than once, even by a person of some standing. My answer was clear: this concerns my life, my family, my men. I won’t be silenced. My rank gave me a little more space to speak publicly without immediate retaliation. Many younger soldiers didn’t feel they had that protection.

As to the institutional response: at one point a commission was formed—often referred to as the Mandelli Commission. The Defense Minister at that time—today the President of the Republic—proposed that the Ministry of Defense would establish the commission, choose the members, and fund it. Tartaglia, to his credit, insisted that our experts be included as well, so that there would be a joint, scientifically grounded assessment rather than a closed loop. Over time three reports emerged: first, no correlation; then, “perhaps” a correlation, especially with lymphomas; finally, a document acknowledging correlation. To an outsider, that evolving stance can look like the weather shifting with the political climate. Meanwhile, for those ill, days and months mattered.”

What about compensation, responsibility, and the broader duty of care?

“We ran into many rubber walls. There were offers of token “compensation”, amounts that bordered on insulting, including for families of those who had died. Without the Observatory and without Tartaglia, many would have resigned themselves to silence. And just to underscore: Tartaglia did not ask me for a cent before the first official recognitions came. He poured years of work into this, even under pressure and, as I understand it, threats. He made this cause his own.

For me, the core of the grievance is straightforward: as a commander, you must be able to inform and protect your people. “You went voluntarily” is an easy deflection. Voluntary service is not the same as uninformed consent. When you send people to an area, you owe them the truth about the risks and the protocols to mitigate them. Bullets, yes, but also dust you can’t see.

You come from a family of career officers. Did pursuing legal recognition ever feel like betraying your own?

“It crossed my mind. My father, my grandfather, many relatives wore the uniform and rose to high rank. One can feel a tug—am I betraying the corps? But I came to believe the opposite: it would be a betrayal not to speak when your men were left unprotected. The court victories were less about me than about recognizing hazards and responsibilities. They ensured that those affected, and those who came after, would not be dismissed as malingerers or complainers. That matters.

What did you expect from the Ministry of Defense at the time? And who, in your view, should have informed you in the field?

“The Ministry of Defense, plainly. We operated with the Central Committee of the Red Cross and its Military Corps inspectorate, in coordination with Defense. The ministry had the responsibility and the means to warn us about the presence and risks of certain munitions. At one point, as I said, the minister proposed a commission, chosen, funded, and overseen by the same ministry whose actions were under discussion. Tartaglia proposed including our experts, to produce a joint document instead of two monologues. Eventually, the commission’s own outputs evolved from “no correlation” to acknowledgement of correlation, especially with lymphomas. But acknowledgment came slowly and unevenly while people were ill.”

What did it feel like, emotionally, when a court finally ruled in your favor?

“Look, I come from a family where duty and hierarchy matter. It’s not about triumph or settling scores. The initial pain, the thing that bothered me most, was realizing I hadn’t been put in a position to do my job properly as a commander: to warn, to protect, to set protocols. So when a court recognizes your situation, the feeling isn’t victory in a gladiatorial sense. It’s relief that your people, and you, are no longer dismissed. It’s the sense that maybe, finally, someone is willing to say, “This risk existed.”

But I won’t pretend it fixes the past. Recognition doesn’t remove particles from your lungs or your kidney. It doesn’t un-see the war’s stupidity. And it doesn’t magically create the systemic changes we still need.”

From a legal and systemic perspective, what is the legacy of the court cases you and others pursued? Are soldiers and civilians today better protected, for example in places like Ukraine?

“Legally, a great deal of work has been done; scientifically, too. But systemically, I can’t say we’ve turned the corner. Depleted-uranium munitions remain legal. We tried in every way to get them banned, the way cluster munitions or anti-personnel mines have been addressed. We failed. The economic interests are too substantial. The very term “depleted” is misleading. Uranium is enriched for certain uses; what remains is called “depleted” relative to that enrichment, but that doesn’t render it harmless. Initially, the promise of nuclear plants was all upside. Then came the question: what about the waste? Disposal costs are enormous. Turning that waste into inputs for armaments created a kind of “circular economy” that is lucrative. The result is a weapons pathway you will never easily stop. That’s the ugly truth. And yes, reports indicate such munitions have been supplied or used in current conflicts as well, and likely by both sides.”

If you could set the rules today, internationally, what would you want to see?

“A ban on depleted-uranium munitions, full stop. The same clear prohibition that exists for certain mines and cluster weapons. And until that ban exists, absolute transparency about where such munitions are used; mapping and remediation of contaminated sites; medical monitoring of troops and civilians who operated or lived there; protocols for personal protection and decontamination that are actually enforced in the field. And, crucially, truthful briefings before deployment. You cannot build peace on poisoned ground. Environmental safety is not an afterthought; it’s foundational.”

Is there anything you want to add—something you feel is often misunderstood?

“Two things. First, the myth of the wealthy soldier is a convenient way to avoid a reckoning with duty of care. Yes, you get a per diem on deployment, but it’s a modest sum tied to local costs. The idea that we do this “for the money” is not only wrong; it’s a distraction from the real issue: whether we were told the truth and given the tools to protect ourselves and civilians.

Second, silence is corrosive. People told me to keep quiet—sometimes politely, sometimes not. I’m grateful I had the rank and the temperament to refuse. Many did not have that luxury. The Observatory and Tartaglia gave us a voice. If there is a legacy I care about, it is not the court ruling. It is the fact that more of us dared to speak openly about what we saw and what we breathed.”

How do you live with it now, personally?

“With gratitude and realism. Gratitude for the doctors who saved me: Professor Martelli and Professor Cantonetti. Gratitude for my comrades who kept calling when everything else went quiet. Realism, because I carry substances inside me that showed up again in 2018. As long as complications are operable, we fight. If not, then we face that, too. But I would rather live in truth than in convenient fiction. We called them “smart bombs.” The smarter path would be to acknowledge what their dust can do long after the last explosion fades.”

A final thought for policymakers and the public?

“Peace is not just the absence of fire. It’s the presence of safety. That includes the soil, the water, and the air. If we continue to treat environmental contamination as a footnote, we will keep repeating the same mistake. Inform troops honestly; protect civilians; clean what we have dirtied. And stop pretending that “depleted” means “harmless.” The words are deceptive. The particles are real.

Taking off the uniform felt like being told, as a priest, “Tomorrow you will not say Mass.” But even without the uniform, duty doesn’t vanish. Duty is to say what you saw. I saw not only the grotesque face of war, but also a quiet dust that slips into your body long before you know what it is. If we stay blind to that, we will make the same mistake again and again.”

Authors: Gabriele Cruciata, Marjolein Koster, Vjosa Cerkini 

The research for this article was supported by Journalismfund Europe.