A Convert Among the Dying

By Bruce W. Nelan

In his six months as commander of the U.N. peace force in Bosnia, French General Philippe Morillon earned a maverick reputation. He struck observers as unpredictable, impulsive, eccentric; one senior U.N. official called him "a loose cannon" in constant need of being "reined in." He held strange formal dinners while Serbian shells fell on Sarajevo: stories of waiters in tails serving guests in white gloves and full dress uniforms scandalized the city. No one thought he was inclined toward heroics until last week, when he surprised his colleagues, and perhaps himself. He risked his life, his honor and the U.N.'s dwindling credibility to stand with the thousands of people, mostly Muslim refugees, caught in the Serb siege of Srebrenica in eastern Bosnia.

"The Serbs say I'm a human shield," the general conceded in an interview conducted by ham radio. "Yes, I am a shield. I will remain in Srebrenica as long as I consider the safety of the inhabitants at risk." Those were brave words from a soldier who up to then had had few admirers. He had drawn criticism from the U.N. contingent in the Bosnian capital for hobnobbing with Serbian militia chiefs, like Ratko Mladic, dubbed the "Butcher of Sarajevo," and for not forthrightly denouncing Serbian aggression. His orders from the U.N. were not to use force and not to take sides, and he stuck firmly -- perhaps too firmly -- to those instructions.

On a trip to the now fallen Muslim village of Cerska earlier this month the general shocked others on the scene by saying he had not "smelled the odor of death" there. When he returned to the area last week, it was all around him. Serbian shells rained down, one a second at times, and 20 or more people died every day. Morillon drove in over a snow-covered mountain track and encountered the reality of Srebrenica: refugees trudging south from captured towns had swollen the population from 9,000 to as many as 80,000. Everywhere there were ragged, hungry crowds, sleeping in the snow, huddling around sputtering bonfires in sub-zero temperatures.

On the Serbian-Bosnian border, in spite of repeated promises, Serbian forces continued to block a U.N. convoy of 16 trucks bound for Srebrenica with 175 tons of food and medicine. No trucks had gone through to the town since Dec. 9, and the only supplies to arrive there were those parachuted in by U.S. Air Force C-130 cargo planes. Several people were stabbed in struggles over the dropped bundles. Morillon spent eight days futilely trying to open the road for the convoy and start the evacuation of sick and wounded. "We absolutely need this convoy," he said.

Face to face with the hungry Muslims in Srebrenica, watching as they grimly confronted death, waiting as they surrounded his vehicles for 36 hours, Morillon underwent a conversion. He walked off by himself, then returned to speak to the crowd from the balcony of the local post office, assuring them he would remain until help arrived. "I have decided to stay," he shouted through a megaphone, "to calm your anguish and try to save you." He proclaimed the post office his command post, called his 13-man escort to attention and, amid a burst of cheers, had the U.N. flag hoisted.

The standoff continued throughout the week. Serbian troops promised again to allow the convoy to proceed but each time halted it. In a radio message to his Sarajevo headquarters, Morillon termed the situation "unbearable" and said "people are dying right in front of me." On Friday, his frustration boiled over. He drove to the border and demanded an end to the stalling. He accepted Serbian terms that he travel without his escort of two Canadian armored personnel carriers and headed back to Srebrenica in his command car -- followed this time by the trucks of the relief convoy.

Before he returned Friday evening, the town had been engulfed in gunfire. Serbian troops had launched a full-scale attack, firing rockets from the south and tank guns from the north. "It appears to be the final assault on Srebrenica," said one U.N. official. The Serbs closed to within a mile of the town, then held their fire. Though residents and refugees joyously crowded around the huge white relief trucks, shouting and weeping, the shipment did not carry enough to provide for all of them. "We need to get another one in right away," said a spokesman for the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees. Meanwhile, Morillon began trying to talk the Serbs into allowing 2,000 sick and wounded citizens to leave.

Another supply caravan was already being organized. It could reach the town this week, but that may be too late. The lightly armed Bosnian-army defenders are not strong enough to withstand a determined Serbian onslaught. Said a U.N. official: "It's not a matter of whether Srebrenica will fall, but when."

By taking his stand in the snow of eastern Bosnia, Morillon turned up the world spotlight brightly enough to force Serbian leaders to reconsider. They backed down under all the attention and let the stalled supply convoy enter Srebrenica. But food and medicine will not save the town or its people from being overrun and "ethnically cleansed." Like the humanitarian efforts of the West throughout the country, Morillon's intervention provides a momentary respite but does nothing to rescue Bosnia from the fate the Serbs have decided for it.

With reporting by James L. Graff/Vienna, Michael Montgomery/Belgrade and Frederick Painton/Paris