Aid Memoir. Larry Hollingworth

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      Nonjo and Ploco were in the hangar but not at the tap. So I washed. As I dried my face, I looked down at my feet. I thought to myself—That’s a fine pair of shoes Larry. I then realised that the fine pair of shoes were on my feet. They certainly did not belong to me. I raced back to the bunker.

      Paddy was still in his sleeping bag. I quietly put his shoes back in place and put on mine. If any of you Liberal Democrats wish to step into Paddy’s shoes, I can tell you they are a size eleven.

      Today was a Pale day for Paddy. I was to take him to the Serb military headquarters in Lukavica. The Serbs had agreed to take him on to Pale. Paddy always seemed to enjoy the challenge of the Butmir 400, the exposed four hundred metres of front line between the Serb and the Government troops guaranteed to increase the heart rate. The French have raised a memorial at the entrance to it in commemoration of those whom they have lost on its deadly tarmac.

      At Lukavica we met Brane, the Serb Liaison officer. They were ready for “the distinguished guest.” They had laid on a BMW. The only time I ever saw them do this. They had also laid on an interpreter. We shook hands and Paddy left. The arrangement, confirmed by Brane, was that they would host him, give him an official dinner, and return him the following morning.

      Mr. Ashdown was as forthright as he promised the press he would be. Dr. Karadzic had not expected such a strong speech, but he had the last word. When Paddy left the hotel to return to Sarajevo, there was no car and no translator. Paddy, in a none too friendly environment and without an interpreter, had to find a car for himself. This was no challenge to an ex-marine. He found a taxi.

      When he eventually returned to Lukavica, I was there to meet him. We returned to Sarajevo. He left for England. I next saw him in Sarajevo a few weeks later. He was to become a regular and very welcome visitor.

      The airlift roared and rumbled on. At the end of each month, donor nations pledged their aircraft. More nations joined, some for a token flight, others for the long haul.

      The first Saudi Hercules was piloted by a sheikh. I always tried to meet the first flight and to thank the crew on behalf of UNHCR in Sarajevo. I was at the tarmac and could see the Saudi Herc approaching.

      – Larry, there is a phone call from Zagreb!—shouted Willie over the noise of taxiing aircraft.

      – Damn. Willie, can you do me a favour? Will you meet and greet the Saudi Herc if I am not back?

      – Sure—said Willie. I ran to the hangar. It was UNHCR Zagreb. Tony Land.

      – Larry, the Saudi herc will be arriving soon. Can you make a special point of meeting it? It is piloted by a member of the Saudi Royal family. I ran back to the tarmac. The herc was down, Willie was having his photograph taken with the Sheikh. The Sheikh presented him with a watch!

      I met the second Saudi flight. No watch. Being second is never the same as being first!

      A few of the flights carried VIP passengers, many carried people who thought they were VIP’s. An American herc landed and out tumbled a large US senator who was a senior Member of the Armed Forces committee. He was accompanied by a press team from the Force’s newspaper The Stars and Stripes. The herc would be on the ground for a maximum of twelve minutes. The Senator saw me and shouted—Here Sonny, over here. Stand by me, and I’ll make you famous! I am not too sure who was the most embarrassed—the photographer, or me.

      Some of the planes had on board the donors of the aid it carried. Most were happy with a photo op on the tarmac. But not all. The first non-government aid to arrive on a Brit herc was accompanied by a small, very insignificant looking fellow, with a little paunch, wispy strands of hair, and weak presence, who had, on his own initiative, touted the sweets and biscuit manufacturers of the UK and asked for misshapen and broken produce. He had been given five tonnes. He arrived with the load on the first Brit herc of the day, having negotiated his return on the last. He explained that he had given his word to the companies that he would return with photographs of the aid delivered in Sarajevo. He had contact numbers of some Catholic nuns who would distribute the goodies to children. He was so plausible, so incongruous, and so unlikely that we took him into the warehouse and took photographs as he handed the aid over directly to the nuns. Back in Reading, they would never ever believe him. But I bet he is not the sort of chap who will ever tell anyone.

      The one thousandth flight of the airlift came around quickly. It was the second of September. We were all excited by it, it was touch and go which nation it would be. In Zagreb, there was a lot of friendly rivalry and jockeying for the honour. Mike Aitcheson, the UNHCR airlift coordinator, was refereeing. We had no way of throwing a party, but the event was marked by the boys who made a huge “1000 Flight” banner. When the plane approached, I could see that it was a Brit herc. I was now especially pleased. The herc landed, the crew got out, and we shook hands; it was all a little flat and a little disappointing. Then Mike Aitcheson appeared at the door with promotion hats and banners from the brewery King and Barnes, who, via Mike’s local, the Plough at Blackbrook, had donated a lot of English ale to celebrate the occasion. Mike had it with him. The day was suitably celebrated. The local staff were thrilled. Well done Mike and thanks to Robin Squire the landlord of the Plough.

      The day ended on a high. The next day ended in disaster.

      The airlift was running as usual. Zagreb informed us by satphone of the take-off of the aircraft, the tower in Sarajevo told us of the arrival time. A well-established procedure after more than a thousand flights. Mike informed us of the take-off of the Italian plane and of the flight following it. The later plane arrived first. Unusual, but it had happened before. We waited for the Italian. No news. Both UNHCR and the tower contacted Zagreb. No news. The aircraft was posted as missing. Eerily we kept looking into the sky. But it never came. In the early afternoon, the rumours began that an aircraft had been shot down in the hills close to Sarajevo. Eric de Stabenrath took a group of marines out to investigate. UNHCR sent with him Ed Bishop, our immensely bright and energetic American Programme Officer whose qualifications included holding a pilot’s licence. Tony Land was visiting the Croat headquarters in Kiseljak on his journey back to Zagreb. The Croats told him of the downing of an aircraft and the discovery of wreckage. He set off to find it.

      He met Eric and Ed at the crash site. The Hercules was carrying bales of blankets. It came down on a wooded hillside. The wreckage was spread over a small area. It had destroyed trees; small fires were smouldering, the smoke curling up to the roof of trees bedecked in blankets. Blankets were strewn for miles. The bodies of the crew were brought back to Sarajevo. The airlift was suspended. The Italian Government announced that the aircraft had been shot down by a missile. The Croats were unofficially blamed.

      The next day, with no airlift, we had little aid to distribute but we decided to empty the stocks at the airport. We chose a bad day. Whilst unloading in the city, heavy shelling began, and our warehouse received seven shells. One vehicle was destroyed, but there were no casualties. We adjourned and returned the following day when fifteen rounds of sniper fire zinged around the trucks.

      There was a narrow escape for Ed Bishop in the hangar. I was near my bedspace, Ed was on the satphone and Seyo the driver was standing close to him. One single machine gun round came flying through the hangar window above me on a downward trajectory. It missed Ed by an inch and hit a desk. Splinters from the desk injured the Seyo.

      Not a good week.

       Three

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