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