Aid Memoir. Larry Hollingworth

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СКАЧАТЬ all a doctor and a president as my mother would have said. She always wanted me to keep up appearances, whatever that meant. He knew Arnold.

      – Who is yours?

      – Njegos—he replied. Actually, I thought he had coughed. It was much later that I discovered that Njegos was a famous Montenegrin. He rummaged in his briefcase.

      – I have a copy of one of my books here—he found one.

      – Do you read Serbian?

      – No.

      – Sorry, it is the only copy that I have here. I will send you a copy in English. Who is your favourite author?

      – It is a toss-up between Dickens and Tolstoy—I replied, truthfully this time. We talked about books. I watched his mop of hair bob about his forehead. He has prominent eyebrows. At times he looked like Denis Healey.

      I was actually enjoying his company. But business is business.

      – Dr. Karadzic. What is your aim for Sarajevo?

      – Sometimes I believe the Muslims can have it in exchange for other areas. Sometimes I believe it could be an open city. We could have parts of it like Jerusalem. He is a cartophile. He takes out a map of Sarajevo and shows me the options. He then moved on to other maps, pushing the food out of the way as he spread them out. He does not do this as a general, more as a professor or explorer, a Dr. Challenger. He is not happy with Gorazde, a cancer in his midst. I watch and listen fascinated. I do not need to be there—he is talking to himself, to crowds, to parliament.

      – Do you think it would be possible to stop the shelling of Sarajevo? At least of places like the hospital?—I ask.

      – It is the Muslims’ fault. They place their weapons behind the hospital and fire on us. Sadly, I know this to be frequently true. So I do not pursue it.

      We talked about the opening of the city. He is happy to have corridors. He is happy if all the Muslims leave. He is happy for convoys to move. It is a happy day for Dr. Karadzic. There is a knock on the door. It is his Corps commander from Ilidza.

      My time is up. We shake hands. He promises me the book. I return to Sarajevo and put the suit away. Everyone is asking me—What did he say? I told them. No one is impressed. They have all heard it on the radio, seen it on the tele, read it in the press. A thousand times. I went to debrief Jeremy Brade. He can do the script and the actions better than Dr. Karadzic.

      I never did get the book.

      Meanwhile, back in the hangar, we had a reorganisation. Steve was replaced by Squadron Leader Willie Dobson. The French marines arrived in full force, and the Canadians left, which gave us one small problem, the bunker. They wanted their container back. By now it was part of the landscape. I offered to buy it from the battalion. It had a book value of about one thousand dollars, and I could have raised that in Zagreb. But it was administratively too difficult. So the Canadians came and removed it, but not until they had replaced it with a superb 1914 front line trench-type bunker. Steel girders, sandbags, the works. We missed the Canadians. They had read the mandate. They appreciated that they “were in support of humanitarian aid” and acted accordingly. They also appreciated our shortcomings. We had to learn “on the hoof.” We made many mistakes. We messed them about a lot. But never deliberately. The Canadians were good at pulling order out of chaos. Above all they were flexible. With the arrival of the French, it was us who had to learn flexibility.

      In the hangar reorg, I made myself a super hidey hole. Using pallets of boxes which had just arrived, I built a wall around my bed. It felt safe. It also felt private. I could see no one. No one could see me.

      We spent the majority of most nights in our beds in the hangar. If the shelling rattled the walls or exploded close enough for us to hear the whistling shrapnel we moved to the safety of the bunker until events calmed down.

      The new bunker was more exclusive than the old container. It was also much more tomb-like and claustrophobic. The civilian drivers, strangers to Blackadder, preferred the open plan of the main airport lounge where the French slept.

      Our next visitor is to be Paddy Ashdown. This environment should suit him down to the ground. His office in London asks me if I can arrange for him an interview with the President. I speak to Mr. Somun. The president agrees to meet him.

      It is a hot, hot, August day. Mr. Ashdown gets out of the Herc in shirt sleeves and flak jacket. He is to be bundled into a French APC and taken to meet the French commander. Mr. Ashdown is very popular, everyone wants to meet him. He sees me and kindly recognises me.

      – Larry, good to see you. When will we get together?

      – As soon as you are free.

      – I would like to stay with you and your men.

      – No probs.

      After a brief courtesy call, he is back with us. He is delightful company. So easy to be with. I take him to meet General Mackenzie. Mack is in his little office in the control tower. He and Paddy speak the same straight language.

      The press are at his heels. He is not pulling any punches.

      He is highly critical of the Serbs and wants to lift the arms embargo so that the Bosnian government can be re-armed. Taking him to see President Izetbegovic is going to be easy. Going to Pale is not.

      We motored him at speed to the Presidency. Front entrance, up the stairs and into the reception room. The president is waiting to see him. Paddy extends his arm.

      – Hello, Mr. President. Thank you for seeing me. He could not have predicted Mr. Izetbegovic’s reply.

      – Hello, Mr. Ashdown, I am glad to see you. I am told that you are the most handsome politician in the world. They got on very well. I started the meeting sitting close to Paddy on the same settee. I then saw the Bosnian Sarajevo TV camera and heard Paddy’s hard-line defence of Sarajevo, Gorazde, Tuzla, and his forthright condemnation of the Bosnian Serbs. The President was delighted. I was slowly and—I hope—surreptitiously sliding away from Paddy out of the view of the camera. As noble as his views may have been, they were not the UN’s, nor UNHCR’s, and, in parts, not mine. Furthermore, I was representing impartiality.

      After the meeting, he faced the international cameras, and told them exactly what he had said inside.

      – Mr. Ashdown, tomorrow you are going to Pale. Will you be as strong over there?”

      – Yes—he replied, not knowing what the result would be.

      We returned to the hangar. The shelling was continuous and dangerous. We decided to spend the night in the bunker where we had developed a routine and a system. Lee and Willie had the wall slots. I was piggy in the middle, and Ron slept at the entrance. With Paddy staying, it was going to be a little cosier. I took with me a small hammock, so I gave my bedspace to Paddy and slung the hammock from the supporting girders.

      Paddy had brought some refreshments, we provided the mugs. It was a hot sticky night, so we sat huddled around the entrance to the bunker and watched the battle rage between the Airport settlement and Dobrinja. There was a sound and light show to rival Michel Jarre. As usual, we went to bed early. Equally as usual, I was up first. Reminding myself that I was in a hammock, I climbed out slowly, and, СКАЧАТЬ