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.
Four
Rogatica
Convoys are exciting, stimulating and satisfying but a small portion of the aid task. A lot of time was spent in negotiation, listening and learning, attending meeting after meeting.
The conferences between the Government and the aid agencies took place mainly on Tuesdays. They were terrible affairs. We had a representative from all the UN agencies, and other non-UN agencies were invited. The government had a permanent liaison officer for aid, but if the subject or the time warranted it, they would upgun their representation to Vice President level. Initially, the permanent member changed frequently, then for a while, it was a Mr. Beardic who had spent a lot of time in America as a Consul and had the looks, mannerisms and accent of a Godfather. He could be charming but he could also be obstructively rude. After a while, he was replaced by Mr. Mugdim Pasic, an electrical engineer by training but now a diplomat, a skilled negotiator and a genuine person. He understood our problems as he understood those of the government he represented. More importantly he realised that life in war torn Sarajevo was a compromise between the necessary and the possible.
In truth, most of what was demanded of us should have been possible. We, the UN, published and printed a minimum scale of food necessary to preserve life in a Central European environment. We even qualified it further, we stipulated a winter and a summer scale. Then we failed to achieve the minimum by an enormous margin. Sometimes the shortfall was as much as ninety per cent, often it was sixty. Daily we admitted the shortfall. We gave the citizens of Sarajevo, the authorities, and the media a huge stick to beat us with.
Why was it not possible? Most of the time we had the money, most of the time we had the food and the medicines, for a lot of the time we had enough transportation to do most of the job. The simple answer is that we were not allowed