by Blair, Tony
Later, on the day of another event – a third-way progressive politics conference, where Bill and I were due to speak along with the president of Bulgaria (a lovely guy called Petar Stoyanov) and Romano Prodi (bizarre line-up) – a fresh revelation broke, namely the tapes of the Starr interview. It was wall-to-wall. The pressure was mounting on Bill and the attacks were absolutely vicious. His opponents could smell blood and they were going for it.
As it turned out, the tapes were less sensational than at first had been hoped or feared, but the day was more surreal than the last occasion. As I entered the build-up to do the seminar, Bill and Hillary took me to a small office where we talked. It was there that I witnessed the indomitable Hillary determination, nerve and strength. If ever I wondered how important a part of Bill’s rise she had been, I knew it from then on. She was angry and hurt in equal amounts and large amounts – that was clear – but no way was she going to allow it to destroy what she, as well as he, had built. And if anyone had the right to be angry with him, she had, nobody else.
People often asked me about their relationship. There was a common assumption among many people, including other leaders, that theirs was a marriage not of convenience exactly, but of political partnership; that this kept them together, despite it all. I used to say: you know what I think it’s all about? I think they love each other. That’s the real revelation. Yes it’s a political partnership, yes it is buttressed by mutual ambition, but when all is said and done, the ambition is the awning under which true love shelters, not love which gives shelter to the ambition.
I didn’t quite know what to say as the three of us sat there together. Hillary just explained calmly and forcefully: this wasn’t going to drive him out. He would stay, fight and win. We talked for a time about it all, then we went to do the seminar and of course Bill was articulate, interesting, relaxed. I sat there at points open-mouthed in admiration of the chutzpah.
Later that day he and I went to do a meeting with students at Montgomery Blair High School outside Washington. We were supposed to deliver a speech on education policy. When we arrived there were thousands of students in the gymnasium. It was like a rally; they were shouting, stomping their feet, singing. We threw away the scripts and worked the crowd like two old music-hall queens. He got a fantastic reception and it lifted him.
By that time – September 1998 – Kosovo was already making its presence felt. When we got to early 1999 and I had worked out what we needed to succeed, I realised it all depended on my relationship with him. If he could be persuaded, we had a chance. If not, the Europeans on their own would never act. We would repeat the mistake of Bosnia, not learn from it.
In January and February, Bill and I spoke regularly. The diplomatic offensive was still going on, but so was the Milosevic offensive against the Kosovan Muslims. The descriptions coming out of atrocities – Račak was the most reported, but was not exceptional – were pitiful. This was horrible: a civilian population slowly being ground into the dirt and for no other reason than being of a different religion. The leader of the Kosovans, Ibrahim Rugova, came to see me. He was a thin, unwell man who had had throat cancer. He begged for help. ‘They are killing us,’ he said. He gave me a present, a small piece of purple-and-white Kosovo crystal. ‘I have little to give,’ he explained. I used to keep it on my desk in the den in Downing Street.
Bill and I agreed to take military action through NATO in a series of air strikes. At the beginning, and despite my intense misgivings, it was stated unequivocally that there would be no ground troops. Without that statement, there would have been no air action, so I thought it worth agreeing to. We could work out how to unravel it later.
Preparations were made. Suddenly in late March, the eviction, cleansing and killing of Muslim Kosovans quickened. Milosevic was mounting the campaign that had always been presaged. Now we had to act. The air strikes began, in which UK planes took part. I made a statement in the House, and we had broad cross-party support. Paddy, though he had announced in January that he was standing down from the Lib Dem leadership, was still leader at this point, and was strongly supportive. He also sent me a note warning that ground forces would be necessary.
My first full-scale military campaign got under way. Basically, Kosovo demonstrates the fundamental, unavoidable and irredeemable limitations of a pure air campaign against a determined opponent who cares little about losing life. It followed what is now a familiar path for such campaigns. Air strikes do real damage and are visually forceful; they weaken an enemy’s infrastructure and demoralise the military and certainly the civilian population; they can deter, inhibit and constrain – what they can’t do is dislodge a really dogged occupation of land by an enemy willing to sustain losses and wait it out.
At the beginning, the targets are plentiful. With modern technology and weaponry, these are swiftly taken out. The question then arises: now what? The targets get more interspersed with civilian areas. ‘Collateral damage’ – a ghastly phrase that I tried to ban – grows, and the wrong targets get hit. (In this case, not just civilian, but in a terrible accident, the Chinese Embassy in Belgrade.) The enemy is being damaged, but not being beaten. Frustration grows, as does a sense of unfairness, at least in Western nations, at a purely air campaign. ‘Planes versus soldiers’ is not thought quite fair. All of it increases the pressure on the political leaders. If you are not careful, the aggressor starts to assume the mantle of victim.
Worse, in this case, after a few days it became clear that NATO itself had certain severe limitations in running such a campaign. We had a hopelessly, almost laughably, complicated committee procedure for clearing targets, which frequently delayed decisions. Wes Clark, the Supreme Allied Commander Europe in charge of NATO military operations, was a good guy, fired up, committed, but in no way did he have the necessary media and communications infrastructure which a campaign like this, dominating the world news, required. Javier Solana, NATO Secretary General, was also first class, but caught between the differing views (not to say egos) of his political bosses.
To cap it all, there were now hundreds of thousands of refugees streaming across the border, swamping the surrounding nations, especially Macedonia. After two weeks, I thought enough was enough. The thing couldn’t go on like this. It was going to be a disaster.
I then took a clear decision. I had only been in power eighteen months, but already I was contemplating that I might have to leave. I spoke to Alastair and Jonathan and then called the close team together. I said: I am willing to lose the job on this, but we are going to go for broke. We are going to take even more of a fronting-up, out-there, leadership position and stake it all on winning. The response so far to what was a monstrous and unpardonable outrage had been pathetic. We were going to try to grip it and I would use all my chips with President Clinton to get a commitment to ground troops on the agenda.
The team were fabulous at moments like that. Some of them thought it more than a little strange that a government committed to changing Britain’s public services and cutting unemployment should put its life on the line for a military adventure in the Balkans, but they all jumped to it to make it happen.
First, I contacted NATO and spoke to Wes and Javier. To my surprise, rather than resenting help, they welcomed it with open arms. We went to NATO. I took Alastair with me, not for my press but for theirs. I recall seeing Wes in his office. Suddenly his mobile went. It was a journalist asking about the campaign. He spoke to him briefly and returned to our conversation. ‘How often does that happen?’ I asked. ‘Oh, all the time,’ he replied. He was doing the military side brilliantly, but was immensely frustrated at the lack of political cohesion and commitment. He warned me, rather nicely and in a kindly way I thought, that I shouldn’t think all leaders felt like I did. Alastair stayed on to work his magic and organise a proper comms infrastructure. Wes told him that he should watch my back. This was good of Wes but I knew already I was way out on a limb.
I then spoke to the generals, in particula
r the decent German in charge of the air campaign. The generals, including our own very capable Rupert Smith, were unanimous: you can’t win this by an air campaign alone.
Paddy went out to the Balkans again, and returned convinced we were not winning. After thirty days, he said, we have yet to stop Milosevic taking any action he wants to take against the Kosovans. The number of refugees was growing; the targets were shrinking. The Macedonian prime minister sent me a message through Paddy: ‘My people are frightened because they think NATO has a plan and they are not being told about it. I am even more frightened because I know NATO hasn’t got a plan.’
I spoke once more to President Clinton and then followed up with a personal note. I put forward plans for better coordination, changes in targeting procedure, changes in the media operation.
A week later I sent another note. In the meantime, I had visited one of the refugee camps myself. However specious such visits are, it allowed me to speak with greater authority. In this second note, I went over our call of the night before, during which I had again raised the issue of ground forces. Unsurprisingly, Bill had recounted all the objections, even of planning such a thing, since the fact of the planning would inevitably leak out. In the note, I pressed the need for the logistics to begin now, because unless that happened, we might be too late to do anything before the winter came, given that a ground campaign could take months to implement.
I then really went over the score. I saw our military. The Chief of Defence Staff, Charles Guthrie, was someone I really liked, respected and relied on, as I say. He was of the same view as me, but I said if we needed a ground offensive, we should be prepared to offer 50,000 UK troops, with the US supplying 100,000–150,000. I knew that very few, if any, other European nations were likely to join in and we would be relying on the Americans. Not unreasonably they would say: Well, if you’re so keen, what are you prepared to commit? Even Charles’s eyebrows were raised. It was an outsized gamble. And also Gordon, again not unreasonably, was starting to question the cost.
The air strikes continued, but as each day passed, the absurdity of ruling out ground forces became ever more apparent. Of course, the figures for the number of troops staggered everyone. But here’s what is interesting about leadership. These are the decisions that define. They separate out. They are the distinguishing features of high command.
It goes like this. You have a strategic objective. Let us say you have embarked on achieving it. You come to an obstacle. The cost of removing it seems vast. Everyone not sitting in the leader’s chair can have a discussion about it. The cost is very high, says one; the objective is very important, says another; the pros and cons are mighty, says a third. The leader has to decide whether the objective is worth the cost. What’s more, he or she must do so unsure of what the exact cost might be, or the exact price of failing to meet the objective. Both of these have to be judged and measured according to an inexact science. Those not in the seat can point to the cost or the price, but they don’t have to say which prevails. Their responsibility may be acute, but it isn’t ultimate. That responsibility sits with the leader.
In this context, by the way, indecision is also decision. Inaction is also action. Omission and commission both have consequences.
So, yes, a ground war in the Balkans. Are you crazy? But if the alternative is a victory for Milosevic, what price peace in the wider region then? What price NATO credibility? What price deterrence to dictators?
So however high the cost, my decision was that the price of allowing Milosevic to triumph was so high that it couldn’t be countenanced. Therefore, if the only way of avoiding the price was a ground campaign, we had to do it.
It was, nonetheless, let us say, a minority view . . .
As late April dragged into May, my anxiety redoubled. There was far more of a grip in Brussels at NATO HQ. We at least had a serious case to deploy and were deploying it. But the fact remained: Milosevic was still there and there was no sign he was prepared to withdraw. The diplomatic track continued, but it was unclear that it was leading anywhere acceptable, certainly anywhere acceptable to me. By then I had come to believe that nothing except his unequivocal defeat would do.
But the enthusiasm of our European allies for a ground offensive had not burgeoned; on the contrary, the opposition to it was as firm as ever. On 18–19 May, I wrote two notes, one to President Clinton, the other to key fellow European leaders.
In the note to Bill, I agreed again that we needed to prepare for a ground offensive. I advocated a force of around 150,000 with half coming from Europe, and half of that from the UK. It was a pretty bold suggestion since I had no clear reason to believe Europe would contribute any troops other than UK ones, but I bet that if the US committed, the Europeans would feel shamed into support, especially if the Brits were putting in by far the biggest number.
I also tried to amend the proposal being put forward by Massimo D’Alema for a forty-eight-hour pause in the bombing, the purpose of which was to see if Milosevic would strike a deal. I was really worried that if we just accepted this proposal simpliciter, it would give Milosevic exactly what he wanted. So I suggested that along with the pause, there should be a UN Security Council Resolution (there were signs Russia might support one if there was a pause) giving Milosevic an ultimatum: take it or leave it; and if he refused, reconvening immediately with the prospect of a ground operation.
The tone of the note to Bill was apologetic for continuing to press on ground forces, but unyielding on the necessity of confronting the issue. Milosevic was still absorbing the punishment, but the targeting was now harder and harder. A civilian convoy had been hit, causing more criticism of our campaign. I could see where this was heading, and a messy compromise was an acute possibility which I wanted to avoid at all costs.
For the Europeans, I made the point starkly: is the bottom line ‘NATO must not lose’, or is the bottom line ‘NATO must not use ground troops’? If it is the former, how can we rule out ground troops when the military advice is unanimous that we cannot guarantee victory by the air campaign alone?
I buttressed both notes with telephone calls. The one with Bill began very stickily indeed. A series of press reports had suggested the US were being pressured by me to commit and I was having to stiffen him. He pointed the finger at my press operation (of course everyone believed Alastair single-handedly shaped the news everywhere). He was genuinely steamed up. I denied it vigorously (and truthfully). It turned ugly for a bit until, having got it out of his system, the conversation turned back to the issue and for the first time I could feel he was manoeuvring his side into supporting a ground operation. It was a big step forward. I also realised how difficult it was for him. Virtually no one was urging that course on him and he knew full well the Republicans were lining up to cane him either way: weak, or foolhardy.
It was as well our relationship was strong enough to overcome what I call the ‘winding-up syndrome’ of political courts and courtiers. It was a phenomenon I came across so frequently, and it used to do so much utterly pointless damage.
By and large politicians are an odd mix of rhino hide and super-soft tissue. They need the hide just to get through the day, since slings and arrows are more or less constant. At another level, their natural insecurity often makes them acutely sensible of how they are seen, whether they are duly respected by their peers, who is out to get them and who supports them. It is unbelievably easy to forget this. Things can be written and said about another leader without you even being aware of them, but they are attributed to you, and in the blink of an eye a relationship has soured. I always say in politics that other than when you really need to, you should avoid making enemies deliberately, because you make so many entirely accidentally.
In this process, the ‘winding-up syndrome’ plays a big part. Leaders have teams around them. The members of the teams owe their positions to the leader. For the most part they are loyal, sometimes fiercely so. They are always on the lookout for a slight, and scour the pr
ess. More sinisterly, they also know their leader’s inner fears and insecurities, and become adept at manipulating them.
I had a great team and was really lucky that Anji and Jonathan, especially, were very ready not to suspect or see a conspiracy behind every criticism or move made. But I lost count of the times I had to say: You don’t know who put that story there; I don’t know; what’s more we will never know, so let’s stop bothering about it. I therefore got the ‘winding-up’ a lot less than most, but I saw it go on perpetually around other leaders and indeed other Cabinet members. The worst time was in and around any Cabinet reshuffle when the speculation would be rampant, and if anyone’s name appeared in the papers, it was naturally assumed to be put there by the ‘Downing Street machine’.
The most bizarre example of this was in 2004 over the then Secretary of State for Work and Pensions, Andrew Smith. Andrew was a capable minister, nice guy, never going to be Chancellor but hard-working and effective. The press started to say I was ready to sack him. It may well be that Gordon’s people had put the thought in the press mind or his (see – that’s me being a victim of the syndrome, because actually I really don’t know).
Anyway, he was convinced he was for the chop. He came to see me and said he was going to resign before he was pushed. The reshuffle was due in the next days, and I had the outline of it. I was not going to sack him – in fact, I had never thought of it, and told him so – but so wound up was he that he obviously didn’t believe it and said, no, he really preferred to go rather than suffer the indignity of being sacked. So he went.
You have to be fantastically careful of being wound up by people who love the chatter and the intrigue and the ‘behind the arras’ stuff, or even by very well-intentioned close staff who genuinely believe you are being badly done by. Paranoia is the worst condition for a political leader to suffer from.