Hugh Pain

I was so sorry to learn of Hugh's passing. After receiving the news I spent a good time thinking about the time we spent together covering the Bosnian armed conflict, including, of course, our wee mishap with the land mine in Gorny Vakuf in 1993.

When I think of Hugh what comes to mind is this: not only courage, but also grace, insight and humour under fire.

In late January 1993, we - Hugh, UPI journalist Kevin Sullivan and I - set out to cover the fighting in Gorny Vakuf from our base in Sarajevo. We'd spent the night at the British base there and ventured into the deserted town in the Reuters armoured car. We'd been well advised about where the front lines between the Croats and Bosnians were, but unbeknownst to us, the lines had changed during fighting the previous evening. We drove through the town past row upon row of houses on fire, or smouldering in the early morning mist, a few zingers of AK rounds breaking the eerie silence. We turned right into a small street with debris on it and discussed amongst ourselves whether to continue. We did, and about 30 seconds later hit the anti-tank land mine.

A huge ball of fire lit up the windshield and that was it. I headed off in one direction, ears ringing and blood spurting out from what I later realised was a deep facial wound. Hugh got out from his side of the car and headed off to the right; Kevin’s legs were shattered; he couldn’t move so remained there in the cabin while the engine burned.

I remember clearly how quickly Hugh pulled it together and helped ensure both Kevin and I were safe. I’d wandered down the street in semi-conscious state and after my legs gave out, collapsed about 20 meters down. As I lay there, the Croats started sniping from the hill above - playing. We were sitting ducks; they could easily have killed us. But with all this, and suffering himself from a shattered heel and other bones - Hugh ventured down, picked me up and led me to a safe place, were he set me down behind a wall and ordered me to stay put. Then he went after Kevin who was draped halfway out of the car. Just next to the door was another pie-shaped land mine which Hugh carefully manoeuvred his way around while he extracted Kevin from the car and set him down next to me. All the while he was calm, determined, clear-headed, and remarkably courageous.

After this, the Bosnian fighters came for us, and again, under a hail of bullets, helped the three of us through a labyrinth of small streets, to a makeshift hospital they’d set up in a garage. There, they gave us strong coffee and spirits and called the Brits, who eventually evacuated us in their armoured carrier to hospital. Through it all Hugh was as composed and responsible, as he was insightful and just so damn funny. He joked about how the rather unbecoming [read: large] gash on my face signalled a decisive end to my modelling career, and about how funny he’d look playing tennis with two shattered feet. As we were being evacuated over bad roads - each bump left us seething in pain - he, Kevin and I, started giggling, then laughing, from a weird combination of pain and relief that we were still alive. As we recuperated in hospital, Hugh was terribly good company. He was full of stories, anecdotes, and quirky and witty observations as much about the war and where it was going, as about the nursing staff. He spoke a lot about his family and the love he felt for his girlfriend; when we lost touch I’d hoped they’d remained together.

I’m so sorry about losing Hugh. I will cherish my memories of him. ■