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Gorazde

Returning from the airport to my desk in the PTT, I found the card of M. Bernard Kouchner, the French Minister and founder of MSF. It was he who had accompanied President Mitterand when Sarajevo airport was first opened. He had been brought to my office by Mr. Leon Davico, whom I knew from his UNHCR days when he was head of public information. We had last met in Addis Ababa. The card contained greetings from M. Kouchner and the telephone number of Leon, who was staying at the Holiday Inn. I immediately rang him. Leon is a man of many contacts around the world. He was born in Belgrade where I was certain he would know everyone who was anyone. I explained to him that I wanted to get to Gorazde and asked for his help.

– No problem—said Leon. I know Mrs. Plavsic very well. This was excellent news for me. She was a Professor of Biology at the University of Sarajevo. She had a flat in Sarajevo, but now as Vice President of the so called Srpska Republika, she lived in Pale and in Belgrade and was responsible for Humanitarian Affairs. Leon arranged for us to meet her, and I drove us both to the Serb army headquarters barracks at Lukavica on the outskirts of Sarajevo. When we arrived, it was obvious we were expected. We were taken upstairs to the main conference room at the end of the corridor. We were offered coffee, and then Mrs. Plavsic arrived. She is a tall, well-built woman with a very strong Slav face. She has a fine head of mouse brown hair. Her English is slow and hesitant but fluent. She was charming. She and Leon greeted each other in their native Serbo Croat. I was introduced, and English became the language of the discussion. Leon had a few messages from Bernard Kouchner.

Whilst we were talking, shelling began. Mrs. Plavsic said that whenever the Muslims saw that Lukavica had a visitor, they shelled. For sure, these were incoming rounds and they were not very far away. Leon introduced my background to Mrs. Plavsic. He told her that we had first met in Addis Ababa, and he outlined my current task—to provide aid to all sides.

His words were interrupted by an enormous bang. A shell had landed very close. We had heard the whistle, heard the thud, felt the windows rattle and the pressure change. A soldier who was outside the door entered the room and told us to get away from the windows. Mrs. Plavsic, I noted, was unflustered. She picked up her notes and her coffee and moved towards the door. There was another great bang, but this was an outgoing reply to the Muslim intrusion.

The soldier suggested that we find a less exposed room, one with less glass. We moved down the stairs to a tiny room with only a one pane window. It was also at the side of the building.

Mrs. Plavsic took all this in her stolid stride. We resumed our talk. I took the lead and explained that there was tremendous pressure on us to get aid through to Gorazde—UNHCR, led by Fabrizio Hochschild, whom I know you know well, has tried one attempt, but the convoy lost an APC and a truck in mine explosions. Mrs. Plavsic confirmed that she knew Fabrizio well. I had supported the convoy attempt and was sad at its outcome. I have no objection to you trying a convoy, but before you attempt Gorazde, I would like you to try to relieve two other Muslim villages which are cut off and desperate.

This answer was not what I expected. Her magnanimity took me by surprise. She went on to say that—there are Serb majority villages, isolated and starving which I should also like you to attempt to reach. This was good news for me, as I knew that all take and no give would not work in this environment. I showed great enthusiasm to learn the location of all these villages.

She was well prepared for my visit. She called in an army officer and arranged a further meeting for us with some military officers to pinpoint these other locations. She implied that a successful attempt on the easier targets would earn full support for an attempt on Gorazde. At no time did she say—No—to an attempt on Gorazde.

I returned to Sarajevo, very grateful to Leon for his introduction and kind words.

I went to see Eric de Stabenrath, the Lieutenant Colonel Operations Officer of the French battalion at the airport. His battalion had rescued the last attempt at Gorazde. Eric and I were determined that we were going to relieve the siege of Gorazde together. Eric’s background intrigued me. The name de Stabenrath is obviously not French. An ancestor of his had been secretary to one of the Louis’ who had ruled France. But Eric’s father had commanded the French Foreign Legion at Dien Bien Phu. The parallels between the French position in besieged, surrounded Sarajevo and in Dien Bien Phu were uncanny. Eric’s father had died in the closing hours of the battle.

In an unguarded moment, the reserved aristocrat, told me of the time, as a tiny child, when he had told his nanny that he no longer had a father. Long before the news was known, long before it could have travelled, he “knew.”

I had another “experience” with Eric. One day we went together to the “Airport Settlement.” This was a Serb enclave next to the airport adjoining Muslim majority Dobrinje. The Serb Liaison Officer Major Misha Indic told me that civilians lived there and requested food for them. The Bosnian government told me that only Serb soldiers were there. They demanded that I did not deliver any humanitarian aid there, as it would go only to Serb “fighters.”

I asked Eric to investigate. He confirmed that he had been there, with his incredibly brave translator, and visited the settlement and found families. There were women, children, grandmas and grandads living in houses bombed, almost, to dereliction. They needed food.

We decided to take it. A small convoy was organised. Major Indic was our guide. We took in a minimum of food. It was a wild day, lots of shooting and a lot of shelling. In the middle of it all, Indic, who has an impish, nay devilish, sense of humour, took us to a house for coffee. We sat on the floor in the courtyard, the tiny, damaged, house was surrounded by the walls of others. The lady of the house prepared us coffee. In the group was a grandma. Indic knew that she had a reputation for “reading” the coffee cups. As an Englishman, I knew all about “reading” tea leaves. It had never occurred to me that coffee grounds have the same effect.

The old gran offered to read for us. Eric finished his drink first. She told him to swish the dregs around and then hand the cup to her. This he did. The old dear, dressed in black, short of many a tooth, held the tiny cup in her small, surprisingly soft hand. Her daughters were crowded around her, attempting to peek. She called them to order and proceeded, with many twists of the cup, to read… first, Eric’s past…

Past and future, his and mine, she told with conviction and passion. I can reveal that she told Eric that there had been two male influences in his life. One strong, but for a short time, the other strong and long. Eric was amazed. Following the death at Dien Bien Phu of his father, his mother had married again; Eric loved, admired, and respected his stepfather.

One other little incident stands out in my mind. During the reading, there was a sudden and accurate outburst of sniper fire from the Muslim side. The bullets bounced off walls close by, the young children who were playing around us during the “reading” quietly moved to the walls of the buildings and stood silently against them during the bursts of fire. A new instinct for children older than their years.

Back to the aftermath of my visit to Mrs. Plavsic. Eric took me in to see his senior, Colonel Patric Sartre. In effect, Eric is the second in command of the Marines, both he and Sartre are small and tough. Interestingly, they both have strawberry birthmarks on their faces; they tell me that it is not a compulsory feature for promotion. We discussed the “Plavsic” proposal. Colonel Sartre requested that he attend my meeting with the military when I would learn about the Serb and Muslim villages.

I returned to the PTT building to see the liaison officers—the government ones to tell them about the progress towards a Gorazde convoy and the Serb ones to arrange a meeting with the military. The following day, Indic gave me the details; Mrs. Plavsic did not hang about!

The meeting was to be at Pale, the capital of the so-called Srpska Republika where Mrs. Plavsic had her Vice President’s office.

Sartre picked me up at the airport and we went in his APC. We had with us Svetlana, his outstanding translator. But this day she was nervous, she had not met Mrs. Plavsic and was in awe of her. Before we got to Pale, our APC was stopped by a Serb patrol and we were told that the venue was not to be Pale but Jahorina, the ski resort and famous host of the 1984 Winter Olympics.

We pulled in with our APC at this great resort hotel and were met by Mrs. Plavsic on the steps. We were escorted to the conference room. In attendance were Mrs. Plavsic and some senior army officers. We were told what was expected of us. The villages were Podzieblje and Godzenje. We were given grid references, timings, lunch, and wine. Doing business with Mrs. Vice President Plavsic was a pleasure.

On the way back, Lana admitted that her opening translation passages were a little ragged. I later saw her at much more stressful conferences, and she was never again intimidated.

Armed with the grid references, we planned our movements. Gorazde would be on the following Thursday; the two isolated Muslim villages we would do on the Tuesday. Thursday would be the big event, and Lt. Col. Eric would command the military; Tuesday could be left to a captain.

We set off to do the mini event with lots of confidence. Dragon was my driver. A small very intense Serb with a degree in Agriculture. He was a very loyal, quiet, honest, private man.

LO Brane took the convoy to Lukavica where we were met by a Serb APC. In the turret was a tall intelligent Serb Military Police officer, Nenad Rac, who certainly gave me confidence that all would be well. Sarajevo to Sokalac was no problem, the French APC sat behind the Serb APC, and we were all on auto pilot. After Sokolac, the Serb was a little unsure. I was asked to map-read. I had been at the conference. The turning off the main road was narrow and unexpected. The Serb local residents were surprised at the news that we intended reaching the Muslim villages by this route. As we progressed down it, so was I. We were taking a convoy of ten trucks, one Land Cruiser, and two APC along a woodman’s track in a dense forest. What I did not like was the fact that if we came under fire there was no way we could turn or reverse. There being no way to turn or reverse narrows down the options. You have to go on.

On we went. Eventually, we came to a large clearing which should have been on the outskirts of the first village. Our way ahead was blocked by felled trees. The Serb officer told me that there was an alternate route using a path to the left but that we had to be careful of mines and snipers. He therefore suggested that only my UNHCR vehicle went forward; however, he would put in my vehicle an armed escort for my protection. I concurred. His escort jumped in the back. I was sitting in the front, Dragon was driving. We set off.

Suddenly there was the most deafening sound of rifle fire. It awakened the clearing, it reverberated off every tree and bounced off every rock. It was followed by an equally noisy silence.

Dragon asked me how close the shooting was. I knew exactly how close it was. It had whistled past my left ear at a distance of millimetres. Furthermore, it had begun its trajectory not one metre from me. The buggar behind me, my Serb protector, my escort, had accidentally discharged his weapon.

I was not best pleased. I got out of the vehicle, opened the rear passenger door, and dragged him off the seat and threw him out of the vehicle, fully confident that he had no rounds left in his magazine.

With my ears singing, I went to the end of the path where we found this route also blocked by fallen trees.

The Serb officer was now happy. We had done our bit. We had attempted to relieve the villages, but could not get in; Muslims’ own fault, blocked themselves in. Time to go home.

This struck me as being a teeny, weeny bit defeatist. I wanted to explore other routes. So we turned the convoy round, which took an age. If you are in strange territory in a war zone, you can only guarantee the path you have travelled along. You cannot believe that the edges are clear or clean, they may be mined. So you reverse in your own tracks, a tedious task.

We returned almost to the end of the woodman’s track and found a turning off to the left. The map indicated that this would take us by a circuitous route to the first of the villages. I was happy to take it, but the French captain was not happy about the time. We had about two hours of light left, we were about to proceed along an unknown track, if we were held up for any reason, we would be strung out in perfect ambush formation. He referred his position to his HQ. Colonel Sartre decided that it was too late to attempt a try. I was not happy, as failing with this one could jeopardize Gorazde. Sartre would not budge. I asked him to permit the convoy to laager overnight where we were. He vetoed that on the grounds that we were deep in Serb held territory. Besides, the Serb commander was not happy with this. Reluctantly, I accepted the French “advice,” and we left to return to Sarajevo. We arrived at Pale later than we anticipated. There had been shelling in and around Sarajevo, so the captain was told not to attempt to re-enter Sarajevo but to laager overnight deep in Serb held territory!

As we were so close to the Serb headquarters, I, a little cheekily, went to their HQ hotel with my driver Dragon, remember, a Serb. We ordered a meal and amazingly were joined at the table by Mrs. Plavsic. She had heard of the failure of the convoy.

– I thought that this would be easy, especially for you—she said in a very disappointed voice.

– My dear Mrs. Plavsic—I said—sadly, I put too much confidence in your escort. I presumed that he would have reconnoitred the route that your military intelligence would have known that the paths were blocked. Having learned my lesson, I will in future rely only on myself.

– Very wise—she replied.

– Is Gorazde still on?—I asked her.

– If you think you can do it.

Mrs. Plavsic called across one of the hotel staff and Dragon told me that she had ordered rooms for the night for myself, himself and the French officer. I returned to the convoy, explained where I had been, whom I had seen and the offer of a bed for the night. The young officer replied with all the haught (if there is such a noun) as possible—Non, I stay with my men.

I stayed with my man in the chalet hotel, each in our own pine clad room.

The following day, back in Sarajevo, I debriefed the French. They were disappointed but ready for Gorazde. I attended their “Orders Group” where all participants outlined their role. I did my bit which brought back a memory or two. The French were very efficient, this was a battalion with service in Africa’s hotspots. Eric, in particular, was very impressive. I came away thinking that we would never have a better chance at making it.

We loaded the convoy the night before we set off. My Sarajevo drivers could not drive their vehicles. The Serbs would have given them too much hassle, and the convoy was too important to risk on principles. If they could not drive, then they were still going to be part of it. They serviced every vehicle, cleaned every vehicle, and loaded every vehicle with care and determination. The drivers would be Ukrainians. I had insisted that they sleep in the hangar the night before the convoy, as they were not renowned for their ability to be on time. I settled into my cosy corner with all the activity continuing around me.

All sorts of thoughts raced through my head and kept me awake. Would we be mined like Fabrizio? Would we get shot at? Would anybody die? Would we get there? Try as I might, I could not drop off to sleep, and when Nonjo came to awaken me at five with a cup of tea, I was wide awake. I got up, washed and then kick-started the drivers. The Ukrainians were stretched out in their coarse uniforms, tall, stocky, peasants, sound asleep. Nonjo then called me over to the table; he, very touchingly, had cooked a special breakfast for me.

My own drivers were putting finishing touches on the vehicles: carefully stacking and loading medicines, vital medicines for a hospital with a daily intake of patients wounded by mortar shells and sniper fire, a hospital carrying out major surgery without anaesthetics.

We lined up the vehicles, and the French escort arrived. It was exhilarating. I felt proud and excited, the adrenaline was running. The dawn was bright, warm and still, Sarajevo was quiet. The local staff wished us every form of luck.

At H-hour we crossed the start line, the runway taxi area outside the hangar. In the convoy was a contingent of the best of the press. Jeremy Bowen of BBC, Kurt Schork of Reuters, the brave Corinne Dufkas (one of the finest photographers in the business who had started her career as an aid worker in South America), and Patrick Rahir of AFP.

At Lukavica, we were met by Brane. Always an honest and good man, he genuinely wished us luck. The tall Serb in the APC swung out of the Serb barracks, moved to the front of the convoy and led the way. I hoped he was not going to take me down any more cul-desacs, no matter how scenic.

The road as far as Sokolac was that which we had taken on our unsuccessful trip a few days previous. Looking at it for the second time, it contrasted starkly with poor Sarajevo. The fields were green and full of crops. Houses were complete, windows intact, children played. Materially, these Serbs were untouched by war; mentally, they were scarred by the propaganda pushed out from the TV and Radio stations of Belgrade and Pale. They could not see the suffering that their soldiers were inflicting on innocent civilians in Sarajevo, they could hear only of the alleged impending atrocities about to be committed by “Muslim hordes.”

We passed through Podromanje, near Sokolac without stopping; soon the Serbs would establish a checkpoint there to harass and delay our operations. We arrived, still following the Serb APC, at Rogatica. Here, outside a flour mill, the convoy was halted. Here it was to be inspected by the Serbs to ensure that it contained no weapons, no ammunition for Gorazde. The inspection was carried out under the auspices of the Milicija, the police. The Chief of Police of Rogatica who had held the post before the war invited myself, Eric, and some journalists to his office where we drank slivovica and brandy. His office was towards the far end of Rogatica, so we were able to see for the first time the damage done to a front-line town. Before the war, Rogatica had been a majority Muslim town. There had been bitter fighting over it. The Serb army had driven the Muslims out and they had fled into Gorazde. The centre of the town was destroyed, every shop window shattered, most buildings burned. The shopping centre is just one long narrow street. The proximity of one side of the street to the other emphasised the destruction. Literally the damaged buildings leaned over you and hemmed you in. Not a place for a claustrophobic. The Chief was very friendly, I gave him a bottle of whisky, he assured me that we would have no trouble from the Serb side, but he was certain that the Muslims would attack the convoy and put the blame on the Serbs. He therefore gave to me a formal warning that, as we left Rogatica, the Serbs would no longer guarantee our safety and that we were proceeding at our own risk and against their professional advice. This was the first time I was given this speech, the first of many times. The bizarre, devious events that followed this convoy were an early lesson to me, never to forget the “Balkan” factor.

We returned to the convoy, the inspection was going well.

I briefed the journalists and the drivers—If we are ambushed, drive on like hell. If we are mortared, keep moving. If a vehicle is hit and the road blocked, get out and seek cover. If you get out in a hurry, look before you leap. At some stretches the road clings to the mountain side with a sheer drop of a hundred or more feet. If we stop and you want to urinate, do it at the roadside, forget modesty, to attempt to find a secluded spot may result in your genitals immodestly spread over the countryside if you stand on a mine. Any questions?

– Can you show me where we are going on the map? Kurt Schork of Reuters wanted my finger to trace the route. I was soon to learn that this was the most innocuous question that Kurt had ever asked. Normally, he and Sean Maguire of Reuters TV deliver the fast ball that dents the ground and smashes the wickets. The Serb APC and the Chief of Police’s car escorted us to the boundary of Rogatica, conveniently at the entrance to a gorge. You wave to the Serbs, take a sharp right-hand bend and you are on a wide tarmacked road in a steep sided valley. There are huge rocks on the road which have fallen from above. A peacetime hazard in an eerie area full of wartime, evil potential. Since the outbreak of the war, only Fabrizio’s convoy had travelled this far. Somewhere ahead we would find the debris of part of his convoy. We travelled at a slow speed in a strange silence. Birds must have twittered; the river was but yards away but we did not hear it gush and flow.

After a kilometer or so of gorge, the road ran along the valley bed and we saw large houses at generous intervals. They were deserted but hardly damaged. The “normal”—that is in peacetime—way to go from Rogatica to Gorazde is to continue along this good road, our way was to be the mountain route. The Serbs told us that the Muslims had blocked the main road. The Sarajevo Government told us that the Serbs had mined the road. On a later convoy, I was to open up this direct way and find that both were right.

Turning off onto the mountain route, we could see our road ahead. It wound its way up an isolated mountain. Within a few hundred metres, we encountered our first hazard, a rickety wooden bridge with a weight restriction of two tonnes. All of our trucks weighed more than ten tonnes. I decided we would risk it. Eric agreed to send an APC across to secure the other side. The APC is no test of weight for a bridge as their enormous tyres and design specialties distribute their weight more successfully than a truck. I marshalled each vehicle across the bridge individually, they paused about one hundred metres before the bridge, then went at great speed. I waited for the vibrations to stop before sending another. The bridge was obviously grossly underestimated—it eventually took many a convoy.

Soon after the bridge there was a sharp right-hand hairpin bend. It was made negotiable by our trucks because to the left of it extended a rocky plateau at the base of a sheer needle-like mountain. The trucks were able to swing wide onto the plateau. Up at the top of the needle were Muslim forces. It was their outpost—high, safe, and secure. They shared caves with mountain goats whose muffled, plaintive bleats travelled across the still valley. From these observation posts, the Bosnian Army was able to report to Gorazde who was approaching. From their eeries they were also able to snipe at Serb patrols. We passed without incident. One hundred and fifty metres on, there was another bend at which we found a small Serb position, three soldiers in good humour. Just before the next bend (another right hander and exceedingly sharp), we came upon the debris of the APC from Fabrizio’s convoy.

I paused whilst I recollected his account of the events after the vehicle hit a mine, lost a wheel and overturned. The explosion triggered off a firefight. They were caught in the middle and took cover in the steep slopes of the hill where they spent a long, confused night. The convoy was accompanied by the former UK Chief Medical Officer Sir Donald Acheson, then Head of WHO (World Health Organisation) for Former Yugoslavia, who kept himself warm wrapped in the WHO flag he had loyally and conveniently brought along with him. In the damaged APC, morale was kept high by Major Vanessa Lloyd Davies of the British Royal Army Medical Corps. The only casualty was Una Sekerez, the UNHCR translator with the convoy. Our translators could always be found at the front, fearless and faithful. Una received only cuts. Vanessa later received an MBE for Gallantry for this and other actions in Bosnia.

We swung past the discarded APC axle, wheel, and other shrapnel and moved to the top of the mountain. We could just see Gorazde, way down in the distance. I was really excited. I still was not sure if we would make it. We could also see a strong Serb military post and behind it the remains of the ten-tonne truck from Fabrizio’s convoy which had hit a second mine as he had bravely attempted to continue the morning after the APC explosion. I anticipated trouble from the Serbs, they looked a wild bunch, but they gave me no hassle, and the media some excellent pictures. From their positions on the summit, the Serbs could see the whole panorama of the city of Gorazde. Their guns were trained on the strategic points. They could be in no doubt where their shells were landing. Tenement blocks, the hospital, gathering crowds were all clearly visible. It needed no military skill to land a shell in Gorazde. I was never present on either the hills around Sarajevo or Gorazde when Serb guns were fired. I would like to have seen the faces of those who fired. Did they celebrate, cheer? Did they smile, laugh, slap their thighs when their round landed? I suspect they did. Did any feel sick with sadness or shame? There was a story, which I was never able to prove but which I am sure is true, that busloads of Serbs motored from Belgrade to the outskirts of Gorazde to join the guns and to fire “their” round into Gorazde. Men whose number one sport was hunting swapped their quarry, from boar and bear to Muslims.

The hilltop Serbs let us pass. We had one more checkpoint to go, this, halfway down the road into Gorazde. As we descended this road, you could touch, feel, our excitement. We could see Gorazde, so close, surely, we would reach her. We were stopped at the final checkpoint. The Serbs there were not sure we had approval to advance. We must wait for a military commander.

He arrived, a small grey-haired man, aged about fifty. He confirmed that we had permission but warned me that ahead lay no man’s land. He was certain the Muslims had laid mines. Were we certain they were expecting us? They may attack us. He, like his senior counterpart in Rogatica, gave us approval to pass, but at our own risk. We passed his barrier and moved towards our goal. The road was deserted. Bricks, stones, fallen branches littered it. Ahead of me was one APC, then Eric’s vehicle. Behind me, the press and the convoy. The first wave of excitement was when we saw the road sign “Gorazde.” It was scarred with bullets, but it meant we were there. Just after the sign was a gentle bend to the left, as we came out of it the rooftops of a whole Gorazde street were on our right. Many of the houses were destroyed. There was no sign of life.

I halted the convoy. Eric stopped his vehicle and came over to me.

– Eric, I think you and I should walk in on our own from here.

– My view, exactly—replied Eric. We set off together. The APC and the convoy, including journalists, halted. God we were excited! It was a mixture of achievement, expectation, and joy. We walked down the hill, on our right there were some large buildings.

– It seems deserted, Eric.

– I think there is some movement in the basement—he said very quietly. At the bottom of the hill there was a crossroad. There had been traffic lights and streetlamps, but the posts and the wiring hung awry. The shops on the corner were windowless, glass strewn everywhere. We turned right towards where we thought the centre of town may be. We were still alone, but now we were walking along a pavement, and the buildings were within touching distance. There are people looking out of balcony windows—said Eric.

Feeling foolish, I shouted in Serbo Croat the only words that I knew.

– Visoko Kommissariat. United Nations!

A man appeared. He was in his fifties, plump, jolly and very emotional. He embraced Eric and myself. People now appeared in doorways, mainly women and children. Then balconies filled. The man told us that he was to take us and the convoy to the centre of the town. Eric and I turned to return to the convoy. The journalists were on our tail, cameras thrusting, pencils gliding over notebooks. A wave of the arm was all that was needed for the convoy to move. As it entered the town, people appeared from everywhere, they clapped and cheered and wept and sobbed and hugged us. They placed flowers on the vehicles. We, to a man, were overwhelmed. At the centre of the town we were met by the man responsible for receiving the aid. The centre was a carpet of broken glass. The people of Gorazde could not risk their lives sweeping it up. Your feet crunched as you walked about on it. Part of the aid was to go to the basement of a building in the centre. A chain of men was organised to unload those vehicles which carried baby food. Two more locations were decided upon. They wanted the food dispersed, as they were convinced that the Serbs would watch where we unloaded it and then shell there. They were later proved right. The mayor wanted to see us, and we wanted to see the hospital and deliver the medicines we had brought.

Dragon, my driver, who, as a Serb, had been really afraid about entering Gorazde, had been recognised by old University friends, smothered in kisses, cuddled, presented with flowers, now confident enough to lead, on his own, one of the groups of vehicles to be unloaded. Eric and I went together to the Mayor. His office was hidden in the back streets of the city. In an area comparatively hard to shell. We were led there running across notorious sniper locations. It was a dingy, dark office. For our benefit, the room was lit by a tiny bulb powered by a car battery. Eric handed out the cigarettes. Eyes glowed, there was a clamour to get one. That day I was to learn that if the first convoy into a besieged town only carried cigarettes, it would be welcomed. They were desperate for a cigarette made from tobacco. They had their own made from leaves and rolled in newspaper.

The mayor, Hadzo Efendic, I was eventually to know well. After the tragic death of Mr. Tureljevic, he was to become Vice President of Bosnia. He welcomed us. Told us the story of the city: the deaths, the deprivations, the despair. He was straight and blunt. He asked why we had taken so long to come to their rescue. When did we anticipate we would be back? I left the diplomatic Eric who patiently and sympathetically explained the limitations of the United Nations troops in Bosnia.

I left for the hospital.

Soon after our arrival, the Serbs had dropped three mortar shells into Gorazde. In fairness to their promise, they had landed them on the far side of the river, well away from us. They missed us, but they did kill and maim some citizens of Gorazde. As we arrived at the hospital while they were being brought in. One victim was a three-year-old girl, her mother was killed outright. The little girl had multiple shrapnel wounds.

I arrived at the same time as Jeremy Bowen of the BBC. We entered the “casualty” department. The hospital had no electricity, the room was dark. The surgeon, Alija Begovic, was digging the shards of metal out of the body of the writhing child, there was no anaesthetic. The small amount we had brought was not yet unloaded. The girl’s screams were piercing. Sounds etched on my memory’s tape recorder, later to be heard at unguarded moments. The surgeon saw the TV cameraman whose camera had a light attached to it. He called him over, he needed the light to work by, to locate the slivers from where the child was bleeding. We watched as the cameraman closed in on the girl who nurses were holding down.

We, outsiders, were stunned and silent. The Gorazde hospital staff had seen it and done it so many times before. They were able to accept that this was Gorazde in 1992. To me, it was a scene from centuries ago. It was not caused by earthquake or accident. This orphaned child lay bleeding and screaming because some man had fired a mortar bomb into the heart of a city. As we left the room where the girl lay, we passed the other mortar victims waiting for treatment. My heart went out to them. To sit outside a room, to hear that screaming, to know that your turn is next.

I went off to the third location to see how the unloading was going. It wasn’t. Or, at best, it was going very slowly. I started to get angry. I want this truck unloaded now. I’ll give you thirty minutes to unload it or I’ll take it back—I felt guilty because the men were as thin as rakes. God knows how weary and tired they must have been. Opposite where we were unloading was a police station. A policeman came over to me.

– Mr. Larry, don’t get angry. They are not lazy. They are taking their time simply because they do not want you to go. They know that when you go, the shelling will start again and probably worse than before to punish us for your visit.

I understood their fears, their hunger and their reluctance, but I had an obligation to my convoy. We had told the Serbs we would be out before dark. The road we had come along was bad enough by day. To negotiate it by night would be reckless. Besides, it may by now be mined.

The locals were not interested in my problems, they proceeded at a very slow pace. I was not prepared to compromise, nor was I prepared to take any of the food back as I had threatened.

– Right. We will dump the sacks straight onto the floor. This will make life more difficult for you. Instead of them going straight onto your shoulder, you will have to pick them up off the floor.

We began to dump them, in the hope that more people would help with the unloading. They simply called my bluff. We dumped the whole lot on the floor and had emptied the trucks in half an hour.

All three convoy packets met back at the town centre. We had a farewell ceremony with the Mayor. We promised faithfully to be back. Before we left, the French marine Battalion Public Relations Warrant Officer took a photo of a very happy Eric and myself shaking hands. The photo, I saw much later in a magazine when I was in Rwanda. It was captioned: “Bravo Eric. Well done Larry.” So far so good. We now had to get the convoy back safely. We left the cheering, clapping crowd and headed back. We were late. We would at least clear the first checkpoint before dark, probably we could get beyond the summit of the hill. We would then need an unhindered run down the twisting road to be back into Rogatica, where we would overnight.

It was a slow haul up the hill. The Serb checkpoints were interested in the conditions inside. The majority seemed genuinely concerned, but I remember one in particular who said—If the conditions are so bad, why don’t they surrender?

In truth, having the image of the little girl fresh in my mind, I was not in a pro Serb mood. By the time we reached the summit, Eric and I knew that we were going to need a lot of luck if we were to reach Rogatica that night.

– How far do you think we can go?—I asked him.

– We must still aim for Sarajevo—he replied, then a long pause—And hope we reach Rogatica.

We passed again the remains of the ten-tonne truck of Fabrizio’s convoy. Now that we had been into Gorazde, we could appreciate just how close they had been to achieving their aim. I silently saluted Fabrizio.

By now, night had fallen and we decided that I would travel in the leading APC, which was commanded by a really bright young French Lieutenant who spoke beautiful English. We started the descent. The APC had a spotlight and the young officer stood in the commanders’ hatchway and swept the dirt road with the beam of the light as we motored along at a very steady pace. It was a dark night; the mountain was on our left and the hedge of trees delineated the track and prevented us from falling to the next level on our right. Both the mountain and trees captured the dark and enveloped the convoy. As we approached the sharp hair pin bend which led to the foot of the sheer rise where earlier we had seen the Muslim look out, the Lieutenant slowed the APC down to the pace of an escargot. On our way up, he had fleetingly seen a suspicious pile of stones at the side of the road. The sort of location where a mine could be laid at short notice. As we inched forward, he caught the mound of stones in the beam. He stopped the APC. He slowly traversed the light across the track. In its beam, his sharp eyes saw a wire stretching from the mound of stones to the other side of the track. He was on the radio to Eric, who came forward. I got out of the APC, together we slowly, in my case somewhat clumsily, advanced to the wire. At Eric’s order, the Lieutenant held the gaze of the lamp on the pile of stones. There, clearly visible, was a mine, an evil mix of plastic, metal and highly explosive. A few more feet forward and the APC would have set it off. It was so positioned that it would have done most damage to the officer standing in the hatchway. Eric spoke on the radio, and soon we had a small gathering of experts.

– The end of a long day—I said to Eric.

– Non—said a Warrant Officer—We can shoot it and set it off. Then proceed.

I was not happy with this. It may be the “Gung ho Marines” answer, but it was not my recommendation.

– What happens if it is the first of a number of mines. Do we go down the road shooting at all mounds of rocks? Whoever laid it knows it is there. The side that didn’t probably does not. Therefore, if we fire even a single round, let alone set off a mine, we could find ourselves in a firefight—Eric was in no doubt.

– We do nothing till dawn—Sandhurst and St. Cyr were in agreement.

By now, the Press Corps were happy snapping from a distance. For them, the convoy was getting better by the minute. We gathered the drivers together, briefed them and warned everyone to make minimum noise. Mess tins rattled, cans were opened, bottles produced. I particularly remember a good single malt emerging from the bottom of Jeremy Bowen’s bag. Whatever the drink, whatever the food, the conversation was the same in every group.

– Who had laid the mine and why?

– The Serbs—They usually got blamed for everything, so it was natural that someone should start off with them.

– But why, what have they got to gain? Surely, they would have mined the road on our way in to prevent us reaching Gorazde—said someone, refreshingly applying logic.

– Yes, if they had laid it on our way in, the Serbs could easily have said that it was part of the Muslim defence—added a man with a little more time in the Balkans.

– It was the Serbs. They did it now, knowing that we would blame the Muslims. An old Balkan hand talking.

During the long night, the answer partly became clear. Behind us and above us there was a lot of noise. The French had deployed guards and listening posts. They reported that armed men were moving around us. The Marines knew their mandate. If attacked, they could return fire. If they were not, they sat still and observed. Eric had great faith in their training. It could not have been easy for them. The armed groups were close enough to be heard and seen but far enough away not to be identified.

At first, we feared an ambush. We were in a perfect position. We considered moving the convoy back. But not seriously—there was no room to turn, every vehicle would have to be reversed, in the dark, on a narrow road with a steep drop. Also, had we now been mined behind us? So if you cannot go forward and you cannot go back. You make the best of staying.

At the height of the movement, behind our position, another clue as to who had laid the mine fell into place. A mortar bomb came whooshing through the dark sky and landed amongst the trees about one hundred metres behind us. The trees shielded the flash, the blast, and the splinters. The mortar had undoubtedly come from Serb positions ahead of us in the direction of Rogatica. It was unlikely that the Serbs would fire on Serb troops. I was later to learn that this was not a hard and fast rule. Balkan forces could deliberately fire on their own in order to blame the other side.

But this night, we were convinced that the troops moving around us were Bosnian forces from Gorazde. They had mined us in and were using us as a screen whilst they moved. The mortar was a warning shot from the Serbs who knew what was going on.

– Eric, do you think the Serbs will fire anymore?

– No, I do not think they will risk hitting the convoy. But, if I were you Larry, I would sleep in one of my APC’s.

So saying, Eric stretched out in his flimsy little jeep. But I knew that before long, Eric would be up, out, and at the forward sentry posts. I have to admit that I took his advice and found a corner in an APC. Dragon slept in the back of a truck.

We were awake before dawn. We wanted to see the situation by daylight. Eric and I watched the sun come up. Accompanied by his Lieutenant, we could now clearly see the mine, and the wire. The APC moved back a few metres. We placed a branch across the road. No one was to move further forward of this. This was a necessary precaution as the Lady and gentlemen of the press were dancing around and over the wire. I was worried that one of them might attempt to limbo under it.

Having decided that the mine was laid by the Bosnian side, we agreed that I would go forward with Eric to the clearing and would try to attract the attention of the Bosnian forces in their eerie. This I would do with a United Nations flag attached to a branch from a tree, shouting my favourite words—Visoko Kommissariat. I did this, much to the amusement of the soldiers, the joy of the press, and the embarrassment of myself. Whilst I was performing, Eric was looking at the clearing with his professional eye.

– Larry, there are more mines here. These are anti-tank. I stopped my “Relief of Mafeking” semaphore act and joined him at the perimeter of a fresh pile of stones clearly covering a large green dish designed to tear the wheels of any of our vehicles.

– Very well placed—said Eric—There is no way the convoy could have avoided it. To swing around the bend, you had to go over the mine. It would have had a more devastating attack on our progress than the first one.

– Eric, if we have two, we may have more.

I returned to my cabaret act but attracted nothing and no one. Eric got on his battalion radio to Sarajevo, by morse, and told them of the latest developments. We were told to sit tight, a meaningful HQ decision, in the circumstances. Sarajevo first asked the Serbs if they would clear the mines. Apparently they said—Yes—until they realised where they were. They then said—NO.

Sarajevo then decided to send the engineers out from the marines at the airport, from the same battalion who were escorting us. This all took time. We spent the whole day and the whole night in the custody of these mines. It was halfway through the next day when we heard that the marines were in the area. They arrived cautiously and slowly. Which was just as well. At the bridge with the two-tonne limit, they found more mines. It was late in the afternoon before they had made safe the mine with the wire and a little later when they detonated the anti-tank mine in the road.

We were then free to move, forty hours after the sharp-eyed Lieutenant spotted the wire. Incidentally, he was later to receive an award for his professionalism. We returned to Rogatica, where we were met by an extremely agitated Brane.

– Mr. Larry, get the convoy through here as fast as you can. You are not welcome here. The people may attack your convoy.

– Brane, what has happened?

– Whilst you were mined in, the Muslims moved their troops using your convoy as a shield. They came into Rogatica, there was a battle, and twelve from the town are dead. This is the largest number of casualties in one battle in this area since the war began. They are very anti-UN, anti-UNHCR, and especially anti-you, Mr. Larry.

I liaised with Eric and directed the convoy to speed through Rogatica. As I was talking to him, two Serb commanders from Rogatica came up to me. Their faces black with anger. One, Captain Rajic, I would get to know very well. They began to threaten me, to accuse me of having aided a Muslim attack, of having taken ammunition into Gorazde.

– That is ridiculous. You inspected the trucks. You know they were clean. We have never and will never carry warlike stores for any side. I was becoming angry. Rajic, in particular, can look very menacing. He is about five foot two, round, podgy face, black straight hair, stained teeth, and unshaven. He is accompanied by a bandoliered bodyguard whom I was to antagonise on many occasions. Being in the company of Rajic was like being an extra in a “spaghetti western,” with Rajic playing Zapata.

The other Serb was a reasonable, almost kindly man.

– The Muslims moved using you as a shield. We fired one mortar, to warn them and to let you know that we knew that they were moving. We could have prevented their attack and wiped them out in the hills but that would have placed you in extreme danger. We had given you our word that you would not be in any danger from us. Our word has cost us lives.

As we spoke, a small open truck drove by, on it the bodies of eight of the victims of the battle. We were joined by a man who said he was the mayor of Rogatica. He had some very heated words with Brane. It was obvious that the Serbs in Rogatica were identifying Brane with us. Brane, the extremely brave Liaison Officer that he is, had heard the situation developing and raced to Rogatica on his own initiative to assist us. His action was angering his own people.

– Mr. Larry, they want you and the press to go to a makeshift mortuary and see the bodies unloaded. They want you to see close up what your convoy has done to their people. This convoy was turning out to be a real media event, a photo call at every phase.

– What do you think, Brane? Is it wise or not?—My fears were of meeting either angry soldiers or grieving women.

– Mr. Larry, I don’t think you have an option—Brane said with a wry smile.

– Let’s go—I said, knowing that, at least by now, the convoy was clear of the town. I just hoped that Eric had halted it and was waiting for us to catch up. Rogatica was not the place for my Land Rover and two press vehicles! Brane was driving a VW Golf; he followed the Mayor’s car, we followed him.

Rogatica is a three road town. We had come from one of them, the convoy was on another, we took the third, the right fork behind the flour mill. We caught up with the truck and formed a macabre procession. The truck turned into a small yard. We swung in after it. The yard was not large enough for more than the truck, my vehicle, and one other. The truck parked in front of a small room with double metal and glass doors. To the left of this room was an office and a workshop. A group of men, some in uniform, some not, started to unload the truck.

I heard Corinne Dufkas say—My god, some of them are still bleeding—by which I presumed that she was indicating that they were very “fresh,” straight from the battlefield which could not be far away. Corinne asked me if I could find out if she could take photos. – Yes—said Brane.

Corinne literally raced across to the truck and started snapping, close, bloody, gruesome shots. It’s her job. She must have a steady hand, a good eye, and a strong stomach. Taking the lead from Corinne, the TV men moved in. Kurt Schork from Reuters endeared himself to me by saying—I’m staying right here. I have seen enough dead bodies in my life.

I had no option. I had not been invited just to stand back. There were eight bodies, the other four were “on their way” from some other location. The bodies were not neatly laid out; they had been thrown on the truck, probably in a hurry near where the battle took place. The initial view was of intertwined limbs. Some bodies faced upwards with open, milky eyes, some lay sprawled across their neighbours, their open-mouthed, lifeless heads supported by blood stained torsos. Some were indeed bleeding. As they were pulled and dragged off the truck, they left red scuff marks on the bodies of their colleagues. Some were very heavy. None of these men had been professional soldiers. They were men from Rogatica. The heaviest had a large stomach, the men unloading his body had great difficulty. They attempted to lift him by his clothing, but a handful of shirt and trouser leg was never going to support his bulk. They succeeded only in pulling his trousers down, exposing his genitals in an obscene way. I remember clearly thinking—I hope his wife does not see him now. The men unloading were forced to take hold of the bodies by their limbs. They sagged under the dead weights.

We were then told to stand back and wait. After a short time, we were told to enter the room where they had been taken. They each lay on the floor, heads to the left, feet to the right. The eighth body was so close to the door that we had to step over his feet to enter the room. I walked the eight paces to the end of the room and stood still. The sun was streaming in through the open door. In the room was myself, the mayor, and Corinne. I slowly looked at each of the dead. Some seemed hardly marked. One had lost half of his head and face, and part of his hand was missing. He must have been close to a mortar round. May even have been hit by a passing shell. Whatever, he was not a pretty sight. The youngest of them was probably thirty; the oldest was maybe fifty. Yesterday they were alive, somebody’s father, brother, or boyfriend. Today they were dead. And I was accused of being to blame. I, who had set out with a convoy of food for starving people. Like so much in this war, the facts were correct. Judged by the facts, I was guilty. Judged by the motives, could I be any more innocent?

We left. Brane led us to where the convoy was parked. I was about to chat to Eric, but Brane was in no mood for delay.

– Mr. Larry, we must move. I want you back in Sarajevo tonight. It will not be safe for you to park the convoy in Srpska Republika tonight. Eric had done a quick time appreciation and was not happy at us going back the way we had come. One stretch of the road had active gun positions which nightly shelled Sarajevo. He did not want us to pass close to these as they frequently attracted fire as well as delivering it.

– Leave the route to me—said Brane. This we did. We moved fast and used a new “tank road.” A track carved out of the hill by the Serbs for the safe movement of tanks and heavy artillery.

It was soon dark, but as we were so close to the front line, and as neither sides’ front-line troops knew of our presence, we had to travel with convoy lights only; one cowled, measly little bulb in the centre of the rear bumper lights. The going was not easy. It was also not without event. A French APC had broken down and was being towed by the last vehicle in the convoy, the huge, lumbering crane-carrying recovery vehicle. In order to monitor and keep in touch with the progress of our slowest vehicle, I dropped back to escort it. We kept in contact with the convoy, but only just. On a few occasions, the little convoy light of the vehicle in front of me disappeared as it turned a sharp bend or crested a hill. Whenever this happened, there was a moment of panic. Are we driving straight on when everyone else has turned? Are we about to go over a cliff, rapidly followed by a huge recovery vehicle towing an APC? Are they so far ahead that we are lost?

We descended a very steep hill and the convoy came to a halt, itself a tricky movement when you are relying on only convoy lights. We seemed to be moving forward, one vehicle at a time. I got out and advanced towards the front and found the problem. The track we were on was basically a single track, wide enough for a fast-moving ammunition resupply convoy or a troop of tanks or towed guns. In the middle of the dip, at the foot of the hill, was a four-wheel drive vehicle, an ex-German army UNIMOG. It had been part of an ammunition convoy but had broken down. It was facing the opposite way to us and could have been closer to the edge to give us more room to manoeuvre past it. However, the driver had been there some while and had had as his sole companion a one litre bottle of slivovica. Now empty. He was aggressive. I watched the trucks negotiate around him and knew that when it came to my little packet, we were going to have some fun. At last it was time for the recovery vehicle and its APC. No way would it work. I asked politely the drunken driver to get into his cab, and we would gently nudge him closer to the edge. He replied.

– Dragon, what did he say?

– Err, he said no.

– No?

– Well, the gist of it was NO.

– Dragon, you get in his cab and we will push it out of the way. Dragon, faithful fellow, starts to climb up. The Serb driver lunged at him and pulled him out. It is late, we are so close to Sarajevo, and I am not happy.

– Dragon, tell him if he does not let you get into that cab, I will drive this recovery vehicle forward and push his vehicle straight over the side. So far over, he will never see it again. Pause whilst Dragon interprets. The response was unexpected. The driver pulls a hand grenade out of his pocket, puts his finger in the ring, and speaks to Dragon.

– He says that if you come anywhere near his truck, he will pull the pin and blow us all up.

– Dragon, a superfluous translation if ever there was one.

The commotion we were causing has not gone unnoticed. Eric and Brane arrive on the scene. Brane talked to the driver, but he was not to be placated. Eric is a long serving marine officer and a very hard man. Calmly and quietly he drew his pistol and placed it at the side of the head of the driver.

– The grenade. Put it away.

Another time stopping moment. Which action is quicker, the pulling of the pin or the squeezing of the trigger? Even after one litre of slivo the driver knew that the pistol would win. He actually gave in with a smile. He put the grenade back in his pocket. I then did what I should have done in the first place: I asked Brane to ask him what was wrong with his vehicle. This Brane did. The driver replied.

– Ovaj Je Sjeban.

– What did he say is wrong with it, Brane? Brane laughed at this.

– He says it’s fucked. We all laughed. We all felt the same way.

One of the mechanics from the French recovery truck had been with us all the time. I asked him to have a look at it. Brane was back to being agitated and gave us only a few minutes. I watched the French team at work as they tried to start it. But they had no success.

– What is wrong with it?—I asked the corporal.

Eric translated—He says it’s fucked.

Travel broadens the mind and the vocabulary. Dragon persuaded the driver to get into his cab, and we nudged his vehicle to the very edge. We could then pass. At Lukavica we said a heartfelt thanks to Brane.

It was past midnight when we drove onto the tarmac at Sarajevo airport. Outside the UNHCR hangar, all the staff were standing, waiting to greet us. The marvellous Willie Dobson had organised a barbecue. He had kept in touch with our progress through the French ops room. It was a great party. I was called to the phone twice, once to talk to my alma mater BBC World Service and once to talk to the irrepressible, dynamic Deputy High Commissioner of Refugees, Doug Stafford, who was not only a great boss but a good friend. He got me out of many a scrape by his loyal support.

The Sarajevo drivers all wanted to know what it had been like inside Gorazde. Dragon, Serb Dragon, was able to tell it as it was. After a little time at the party, I crept away to my hidey hole. I wanted to be alone. To slowly take in all that we had seen and done.