The only way in was to fly from Yerevan, the Armenian capital, and we knew there was a risk of being shot down by the Azeris. But I really began to wonder what we were getting into when I saw our Armenian army helicopter: a rickety deathtrap with bullet holes in the fuselage. It was carrying tons of ammunition, so there was barely room for eight passengers. While the cameraman, sound man, a translator and I climbed on, civilians — desperate to get back to their families — were pushed off by three bearded militiamen who were flying with us.
I'd handled ammunition in the army, so I knew the boxes of flares I was sitting on were so unstable, even an electronic signal could have set them off. Then a couple of the militia began smokingÉ The pilot made a couple of abortive attempts to take off, and because we were so overloaded tried a rolling takeoff to get up speed. Never mind being shot down by the Azeris — one stiff crosswind and we could drop out of the sky.
We flew, terrifyingly, through cloud and landed in Kolatag, a mountain village. I could see guerrillas racing towards us and they greeted the militia with bear hugs. We were driven by Jeep to Stepanakert, the capital of Nagorno Karabakh. We saw columns of smoke from heavy shells and realised the conflict had taken a turn for the worse. The reporter in me thought: "Good, now we've got a proper story." On the other hand, we were concerned for our safety. The town was being besieged by both sides as part of a savage blockade. There was no electricity or water, buildings were burning and a rocket landed by us. We ran into a cellar with an Armenian fighter who'd been assigned to us.
After half an hour, he said it was safe to go out and film: he'd counted 40 rockets and knew that meant there'd be a break while they reloaded. The hospital was a scene of appalling suffering — a charnel house. Casualties were being treated with aspirin and bandages that looked as if they'd come from a 1970s first-aid kit. There were dead people on trolleys and a guy having shrapnel picked out of his back into a metal kidney dish.
Once we felt we had enough material, we took shelter in the basement of an apartment block. Three hundred people were huddled there in candlelight. We shared out our food supplies — I had a tin of Sainsbury's tuna; someone else had Fray Bentos bully beef — and got into our sleeping bags. Next morning, anxious to fly back to Yerevan, we needed a vehicle to take us the 25 miles back to Kolatag, then a helicopter.
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When an Armenian mountain rescue team came by in a truck, we jumped on board. Snow started falling and within an hour it was pelting down. Visibility was almost nil. Even if there'd been a helicopter in the village, it couldn't have taken off. In Kolatag the village hall was overrun with refugees from Stepanakert. People were sleeping in barns, even though the temperature was subzero. As foreign media, we were allocated a family who took us to their farmhouse, killed a chicken and cooked us an amazing meal. Then the weather worsened and we were stranded. We had no way of knowing if the BBC — or our families — had any idea where we were.
I listened to the BBC World Service and prayed for deliverance. I had one book with me, which I'd read, and a Game Boy. I played Tetris until the batteries died.
We had no way of knowing that our producer, back in Yerevan, had been to the office of the Armenian president, who arranged a special flight for us. On day six, there was a break in the weather, and a civilian helicopter had landed. It could take 15 passengers. The four of us got on and people passed toddlers over our heads, desperate to get them on the flight. I sat next to a woman in excruciating pain: she had shrapnel in her spine and gangrene. We gave her some prescription painkillers. As they took effect, her brother clasped his hands as if to say "God be with us," then he showed us the grenade he was holding. If we were shot down, rather than be taken prisoner he would use it and take a few Azeris with him.
Our film was eventually broadcast, but it was a drop in the ocean of the media diet. In three weeks away, I'd nearly been killed twice. I told my wife, Hilary, that I didn't want to do another story like that for a long time. But within a month I was on a plane to Kabul, covering another war.
Mark Urban's latest book, Rifles: Six Years with Wellington's Elite (Faber and Faber, £8.99), is out now