Aid Memoir. Larry Hollingworth

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      The enthusiasm of the aircrews was matched only by their bravery. Each and every landing, halt, and take off in Sarajevo was threatened. Many aircraft were to be pockmarked by shrapnel, penetrated by bullets and tracked by missiles. One aircraft, from Italy, was to pay the highest price. It was shot down with the loss of the crew.

      After I had spent only a few days in Zagreb, it was decided that I could be replaced and sent to Sarajevo. On my last day in charge at the Zagreb end of the operation Madame Ogata, the High Commissioner for Refugees, arrived on her way to pay her first visit to Sarajevo. As her plane landed from Geneva, President Izetbegovic arrived from Sarajevo. Madame Ogata, whom I had seen in action on many previous occasions was, as usual, bright, incisive and caring. As ever, she knew who we all were and what we were doing.

      The President I immediately liked. He looked a kindly but tired man. We talked about the aid, the need and the international response. On the tarmac, a few yards from where he had landed in a British Hercules C 130, was parked the executive jet of President Tudjman of Croatia—a symbol of the trappings of power of a neighbouring President. I wondered if he looked at it and asked himself: “Why me? Why my country?”

      I called on the British RAF contingent who were living in a small hangar in the United Nations Protection Force (UNPROFOR) camp adjacent to Zagreb Airport in primitive conditions. The senior Brit was Wing Commander Bryan Warsnap, with longer than regulation length hair, a ruddy lined face, a voice with a gentle burr, the ideal man to send to a front-line task. Unflappable and genuine, able to smooth the feathers of ruffled pilots, to command and control by example, to appear calm almost to the point of being unaware. He was briefing Squadron Leader Steve Potter who was to fly into Sarajevo to liaise with UNHCR and the French. I envied Steve—he was going in a day before me.

      My next call was to the Royal Engineers. More specifically to the quartermaster stores.

      – Any chance of the loan of a British Army sleeping bag?

      – Who are you?

      – UNHCR.

      – Where are you going?

      – Sarajevo.

      – OK, but you will have to sign for it.

      The sleeping bag became a close friend. Thank you, RQMS.

      The next day I handed over my airport responsibilities to a young UNHCR lawyer who soon handed them over to Mike Aitcheson, a veteran professional airline man. From his arrival onwards, there was no queue jumping by any nation, no disorderly behaviour, no nonsense. The airlift ran smoothly and efficiently.

      Bryan Warsnap came to see me off. Steve had contacted him from Sarajevo. Last night there was heavy firing across the airport—he said. Damn—I thought—I will arrive and it will be all over. I hitched a lift with the British plane and had my first Khe Sanh experience. The flight from Zagreb to Sarajevo is dangerous for most of the way. A slow moving fully laden transport aircraft is an easy target to track and hit in a war zone where bored, trigger happy, unaccountable brigands roam the hills. But the descent to land is the most vulnerable manoeuvre. The RAF crews adapted the descent procedure used by the Americans as they landed in Khe Sanh during the Vietnam War. This involves an extremely high approach with tight turns and then an almost vertical angle of descent with a sharp pull out at what seems feet from the runway. It is a spectacular sight to watch from the ground, but to be honoured by the crew with an invitation to travel in the cockpit and to stand behind the pilot’s seat during the flight and descent is a truly exhilarating experience. You feel that you can touch the sides of the hills. The navigator indicates that it is time to put on flak jackets. The pilot, Chris Tingay, a Boys Own Paper image of a pilot, bright blue eyes, hero handsome, with a tight tough smile, points out, with his yellow chamois gloved hand, Sarajevo in the valley ahead.

      Then the descent begins. Chris pushes the stick forward; the nose goes down. It is as if someone has taken away the floor you are standing on. Your ears block, your blood rushes to your head, your knees buckle. Your stomach, intestines, liver, kidneys, all never before felt, are now individual items and floating within your body. The airport is rushing towards us, surely we will penetrate the runway, not land on it. Chris pulls back on the stick, conversations pass over the headphones, the aircraft levels, the body regroups itself. The aircraft wheels hit the ground, we bounce, Chris and his co-pilot have their hands on the central controls, the aircraft is shaking, vibrating, the noise is deafening and penetrating, the huge tyres again contact the ground, the aircraft races along the centre of the runway, then the engines are reversed, the cargo lurches forward in the hold, straining against the bolts and straps. You, yourself, are holding on, knuckle white to the back of the pilot’s seat. The noise and the speed subside. The great overweight bird is now a slow-moving land vehicle controlled by a ridiculously small primitive wheel which is in the corner of the cockpit below the side window. It is parallel to the deck, not angled and is controlled by the left hand of the pilot as if his craft were a trolleybus or a tram. You realise that your eyes are wide open, your face grinning ecstatically. The crew are folding maps, flicking switches, clearing up, closing down. They have entered the most dangerous airport in the world, they have parked their winged chariot on a pockmarked tarmac. They have made themselves the biggest target for miles. They sit and wait whilst they are unloaded, already preparing for an equally spectacular Khe Sanh take-off.

      Chris was later awarded the Air Force Cross for his bravery, the first medal to be given for former Yugoslavia. It’s a collective award for all the crews in the operation—he modestly and generously said on hearing of his award.

      I thanked him and his crew, collected my bags, and left the aircraft through the side door and took my first steps in Sarajevo. My initial view was of the damaged Air Traffic Control Tower. Sheets of glass looking as if they would fall to the floor to impale all below. The first person I met was Amra. Red hair, beautiful eyes, and a warm smile. She took me to the UNHCR hangar. Outside were parked two Canadian APCs. The whole of the front of the hangar was open, in the top right-hand corner was the office. It was very make-shift and untidy. The rest of the hangar was either storage space or living accommodation. I walked up to the office area and saw Rick Garlock, UNHCR, American, ex-military and a man whom I had known when he was in Turkey.

      – Hi—I said. His head was over the laptop computer.

      – What do you want?—he replied.

      – Nothing.

      – Well, what are you here for then?

      – Rick, it’s me, Larry. The length of the beard had thrown him, the constant stream of journalists had tired him. He introduced me to the team. I was told to find myself a place to sleep. I found a large wooden table and placed my sleeping bag underneath it.

      Fabrizio Hochschild then arrived. He had been in Sarajevo since before the war began. He was in charge of the office. He and I had last seen each other in Addis Ababa. He is a young, extremely bright Oxbridge graduate, a polyglot, a thinker, and a man deservedly earmarked for the top. He welcomed me, told me to settle in, and outlined my tasks. I was to run the airport and the airlift. He was moving Rick from the airport to the city to supervise the distribution of aid.

      The RAF invited me into the area of the hangar that they had curtained off as an officers’ mess. Steve Potter shared it with Flight Lieutenant Lee Doherty, a London Irish workhorse. Lee had made himself responsible for the loading and unloading of aircraft. He was unbelievable. He could do every task, from driving the most enormous forklift truck to cleaning his shoes, quicker and better than anyone else. The French, the Canadian, and the Norwegian teams who worked with him were overwhelmed СКАЧАТЬ