We Did Not Fall on Our Faces in the Bosnian Mud

Abstract

From mountains covered with a cheerless snow, no longer fresh, a dense January fog ringed the Moslem city of Tuzla like a dank, smoky avalanche. Even the American radar experts stationed at the local airport refused to approve the take-off of the Russian military planes languishing on the airfield at Pskov. There, too, things were dank and cheerless. Next to the three 76-ILs, which seemed to have folded their wings from the heavy burden of waiting, an orchestra ready to play "Farewell of a Slavic Girl" had quietly dozed off several hours ago. Our parachutists, who were to replace their peacekeeping compatriots in Bosnia, pressed close together and tried resignedly to catch some sleep as they dreamed their last dreams before going abroad. Before the very eyes of those who stayed awake, a lieutenant, who did not impress me with his parachutist's uniform, brushed cheeks with the fluffy-haired Pskov girl he loved, standing on the other side of the airport's glass wall.