Obituary: Hugh Pain

Pain was in a Reuters armoured Land Rover that ran over an anti-tank mine in Bosnia in January 1993. Both his heels were shattered and he came under fire from a sniper. His dry sense of humour remained intact, however, and he began his report on the incident as follows:

“I had often wondered what it would be like to die.

“Now I know, or near enough to satisfy curiosity,” he wrote from Vitez, Bosnia-Herzegovina under the headline: “The sensation of a huge force...”

“The anti-tank mine that detonated on Monday in the west-central Bosnian town of Gornji Vakuf, where we had gone to report on fighting between Moslems and Croats, had up to three kg (6.6 pounds) of explosive in it.

“It was enough to reduce our armoured Land Rover to a twisted heap of wreckage as it ran over it.

“And more than enough to kill us all, according to British army engineers who inspected it afterwards.

“The good news from the near-death front is that you don't have time to be scared.”

Corinne Dufka, photographer, and Kevin Sullivan, UPI correspondent, were travelling with Pain and were also wounded.

Pain was an avid collector of first edition books and before his war injury a keen tennis player. Previous assignments included Italy, Iran and India. Later, he worked as an editor on the business news unit and other production desks in London including the world desk. He had joined Reuters in 1977 and retired in 2003.

Pain’s elder son Nick said that his father had been in Heraklion hospital since 8 February and was his normal, perfectly lucid self for much of the time.

At around 8:00 pm on Wednesday Pain took his oxygen mask off and said “D’you know, I'm getting really rather bored with this.” He died at 5:45 am the following morning. 

Burial is on Saturday close to his home in Agia Galini, Crete, where he lived with his wife, Caroline. A memorial service will be arranged later.

Following is Hugh Pain’s 1993 account of being blown up in Bosnia:

The sensation of a huge force...

HUGH PAIN

VITEZ, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Jan 29, Reuter - I had often wondered what it would be like to die.

Now I know, or near enough to satisfy curiosity.

The anti-tank mine that detonated on Monday in the west-central Bosnian town of Gornji Vakuf, where we had gone to report on fighting between Moslems and Croats, had up to three kg (6.6 pounds) of explosive in it.

It was enough to reduce our armoured Land Rover to a twisted heap of wreckage as it ran over it.

And more than enough to kill us all, according to British army engineers who inspected it afterwards.

The good news from the near-death front is that you don't have time to be scared.

There was a brief buzz -- presumably the detonator -- a flash and a mighty bang, the sensation of an immense force and a cloud of black smoke. Which cleared, and we were still there.

But if we had not been, there had been no time for fear or curses, or the groans that followed, or even for a prayer. Which is kind of a consolation.

Reuter photographer Corinne Dufka was blown out of her door. She picked herself up and wandered dazed along the road.

I got out -- no visible damage -- and went around to the other side to extract United Press International correspondent Kevin Sullivan, caught up with the gear lever and hurting.

I hauled Kevin out of the shattered car, which was still pumping oil or diesel onto the road like the heart of a dying animal, and tried to pull him to the kerbside.

But my feet hurt and Kevin had to do most of the work himself, dragging himself slowly along with his hands.

Then a sniper opened up from the hillside 300 metres (1,000 feet) away and I went to get Corinne, whose face was bleeding.

"I hurt," she said.

"Where?"

"I don't know. Everywhere."

She crouched behind a bombed-out building, trying to staunch the blood from her chin with a scarf. Then, irrepressibly professional, she started taking photographs of the wreck.

Kevin called out to us. Another mine, as big as a dinner plate, was lying by the road where the blast had thrown it -- less than a metre (one yard) from where he lay immobile, beside the buildings, still exposed to the sniper.

I retrieved our helmets from the road where all of them had been blown off our heads. We all still had our bulletproof flak jackets on. That was something.

I seemed to be the least injured of the three of us, so I said I would go for help. Away from the sniper, towards the main road where a U.N. patrol must come, sooner or later.

I started off across the tiles and debris of the house, but my feet were hurting worse now, so I hobbled, swaying, grabbing for fence posts, walls, to support me.

Only a few metres (yards) farther and the others called me back. From across the road, past the wrecked car, glided six or seven armed men from the Bosnian Moslem army.

Kevin called out desperately to them to watch out for the unexploded mine. Disregarding the increasing sniping, they dragged and carried us along alleys, in and out of fields of fire, to a first aid post in a house.

Kevin was splinted and bandaged. Corinne lay down in utter exhaustion. I sat in a chair because I was afraid that once down on the floor, I might never get up.

It was a long hour before the British troops came. We were given cups of coffee -- helpless kindness from Moslem defenders seemingly embarrassed that this had happened to their guests.

A wretched man kept talking politics in broken English urgently into my ear.

Then large men in battledress burst in, with a tinge of professional disdain for the Bosnian militia. And wasting no sympathy on us.

"What I'm going to do is get you out of here as fast as possible with a minimum of danger to my men," said the British officer in charge. And with little ceremony we were dragged, carried, bundled into the safety of armoured vehicles.

I was first out of the first aid post. A soldier thrust his SA-80 rifle into my hands.

"Ever fire one of these?"

"No."

"Cover the rear. If you have to, pull back the lever and squeeze the trigger."

He went back for the others. Then returned with them, slammed the doors of the Warrior fighting vehicle behind himself and relieved me of my brief guard duty.

It was all rapid, professional, efficient, a textbook operation. And the beginning of the long road back home.

First to the forward medical post at Gornji Vakuf, where a doctor immobilised Kevin's legs, plastered Corinne's chin, bandaged my feet.

Then to British U.N. headquarters at Vitez in an ambulance escorted by two armoured vehicles. Bouncing over the unmade roads, we groaned with the pain and laughed at the surprise of being alive.

At Vitez the serious work began at a British army field hospital.

Kevin had two broken bones in his left foot, three in his right and a broken tibia. Army surgeon Colonel Peter Roberts inspected the X-rays and pronounced sentence: four months laid up, a year before the required titanium pins could come out.

Corinne was bruised all over but no bones were broken. Roberts stitched her chin, which had been gashed to the bone by her own camera as she was flung out the Land Rover door. The scar should fade in a year.

My own left heel was broken once, the right in four places. Only two weeks in hospital, perhaps two months on crutches.

So I guess I was lucky. But we were all lucky. Or foolhardy. Or just plain stupid to go to Gornji Vakuf.

But it doesn't matter. Blame, recrimination, all the might-have-beens are irrelevant.

We are just grateful for the courage and care of all who helped us.

And glad to be alive. ■