Aid Memoir. Larry Hollingworth

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      No man was more responsible for establishing the system of loading and unloading the aircraft at sufficient speed to ensure that the aircraft were on the ground for the least possible time and thus least exposed to danger from shell, mortar, and small arms fire, than Lee. He was awarded the MBE for his efforts.

      Recently, I met a Sarajevo driver and we talked about Lee. I remember three things about him—he said—hard work, cold showers, and Jack Daniels whisky. Lee, if ever you are looking for an epitaph that is not a bad one! Ron Bagnolo was the RAF communications king and a general Mr. Fixit, a very open, kind, and courteous man.

      The team told me about the previous evening. There had been heavy firing across the airfield as the Serb-held Airport Settlement had fired on Government dominated Dobrinja. The boys told me exciting tales of the sky lit up by tracer fire, they pointed out from where shells had come and where they had landed.

      I have to confess that I secretly hoped it would last at least one night more. I hoped that I would see some action myself.

      The night was quiet, the firing was subdued. I spent a little time talking to my fellow occupants of the hangar. But I very much felt that I was the new boy, even though no one had been there for more than a week. So I decided that I would wait until the next day before trying to get to know everybody. I went to bed at about nine. I opened out my sleeping bag and discovered a bonus. The previous occupant had left a Maglite torch in it. I had learned that inside the hangar there was one toilet and two washbasins—to be shared between thirty people at night and maybe fifty by day. I established that most people got up at six thirty. I set my alarm for a quarter to six. I wanted to have used the facilities before the others awoke.

      I slept well. I was out of the sleeping bag before six. Only one other person was up. Nonjo the cook. Whilst I washed, he made me a cup of tea. The next person up was no surprise. It was Lee.

      I went across and talked to Nonjo. He is a tall, heavy, generous man with a warm sincere personality. He is employed as a driver. He is a typical well-educated, streetwise city boy. He has a great sense of humour. Nonjo had as one of his many party pieces a monologue about an old lady learning to drive an armoured vehicle. His timing is as good as Bob Newhart’s and the story is as funny with each retelling. Nonjo was to become one of my barometers. I was able to measure the morale of our staff by the mood of Nonjo and their reaction to him.

      After breakfast, we were visited by the senior French officer who was in charge of the advance party of the French Marines. Lt. Col. Erik de Stabenrath and I were to become very good friends.

      I then was taken to see the commander of Sector Sarajevo, General Lewis Mackenzie. If ever a man looked the part he was playing, it was him. He is a tall, broad, film star handsome man. He is tough physically and cerebrally. A fluent speaker with an enviable vocabulary he was, without a doubt, “in charge.” He exuded command and confidence. A brilliant choice. I learned that his hobby is racing cars. If I had to guess his hobby, racing cars would have been alongside sky diving or big game hunting as my first choices for him.

      I took my inaugural trip into the city to visit the UNHCR warehouse at the Zetra Olympic stadium and to see the city authorities. It was an opportunity to view the devastation already suffered in the opening days of the war. The newspaper office of Oslobodjenje with the core of its tower still standing, defying the Serb gunners who can see it but whose skills are not sufficient to demolish it and symbolising to the world the spirit of the Oslobodjenje staff bowed, battered but not beaten. Daily, they produce a newspaper, regardless of the intensity of the shelling, the appalling conditions, or even the lack of proper “news.” It had a multi-ethnic staff. Sadly, it could not avoid single side propaganda which, on occasions, demeaned its excellence. Next to Oslobodjenje is the garish building, known as the “Rainbow Hotel,” built to house old people but taken over by the UN as an accommodation block. The location of one of its first ignominies. It flew the UN flag but was shelled. The UN vehicles in the car park were destroyed, the patches of white on the shattered and burned vehicles were to remind generations of UN soldiers of the first insult. We passed by the PTT building, which was the headquarters of UNPROFOR, the turning marked by an abandoned tram. On the left is the TV building. A concrete monstrosity which, pre-war, attracted tremendous criticism for its prison-like exterior. In war, it was to prove a gold medal winner. Its windowless walls, its solid exterior, its construction, rejected the Serb calling cards. It became office and studio to many international journalists and home to some.

      Our first port of call was to the Municipality, a dark brown stone building next to the Presidency, to pay a courtesy call on Mr. Pamuk the director of the city. His title initially confused me, but he explained that he was the senior civil servant in the city and the district of Sarajevo. A powerful post. He was pleased to see me. My grey hairs pleased him. So far, he had been told how to run his city by men the age of his sons. We had an immediate empathy. I had neither youth nor solution. He is maybe forty-five, on a bad day he looks a little like Brezhnev, on a good day like Lord Healey. He has a craggy face, dark thick hair, prominent eyebrows, eyes which laugh a lot, and a voice honed and trained on rough tobacco. He wears a dark grey party suit. He is a product of the party but has a mind which has easily adapted to the circumstances of today. I liked him, I knew that we could work together. I promised to return later in the week when he would have in his office the committee for the distribution of aid.

      We then moved to the Holiday Inn hotel, home of many journalists. We were to meet Minister Martin Raguz who was responsible for Refugee Affairs. The Holiday Inn Hotel is a magnet for Serb shells, in truth its hideous yellow outer walls would be the target of many a brickbat in times of peace. We were driven to the main entrance, made a quick dash to the front door. It was part glass, part fresh air. To the right of the entrance is the reception desk where bored staff deal with tired journalists. A notice board near the door attempts to answer the most routine enquiries. We crossed the reception hall. Our presence was noted by the cabals of media men pocketed about the bar area. We climbed the large but clumsy central staircase and turned to the right. The Minister was waiting for us in a private dining room. Martin Raguz is a young man, perhaps thirty. He is a Croat, tall, dark and presumably attractive to women. As it turned out, he was accompanied by two very attractive secretaries.

      We were served a meal. My first meal away from the hangar. It was called burek, a pie with meat inside it. They were war economy portions but it was more than I expected. The Holiday Inn survives because of its clientele. The journalists are paid well, many have a generous expense account. They pay in hard currency. The hotel management is therefore able to do deals with checkpoints to bring in food to satisfy customers as voracious at table as they are on the streets.

      This meeting was very important to me. It was the first time that I realised the significance of working in Sarajevo. Mr. Pamuk and I had been talking about the needs of Sarajevo. Minister Raguz was talking about the needs of Bosnia Herzegovina (BiH). The UNHCR man in Sarajevo was thus double hatted. Talking to the local authorities on Sarajevo and to the government on BiH. Martin Raguz wanted to talk about aid to his nation. He wanted us to support computer links to the principal towns, he wanted to know how much aid had been delivered to each region, how much was planned. He talked as if there was not a war raging around us, as if communications were normal. I realised that he thought that we, the UN, were better organised than we were. He was presuming that we had a great plan and a system to match. He talked about aid to those areas which were isolated. He mentioned Gorazde, the first time I ever heard the name. He asked if we could send a convoy there urgently. I left the table realising that I had a lot to learn. Feeding Sarajevo looked as if it was only half of the job.

      I returned to the airport and sat with the drivers and a map. They showed me where Gorazde was. They explained that it was in Eastern Bosnia. It had been a multi-ethnic town with a Muslim majority but was now surrounded by territory which had fallen into Bosnian Serb hands. They patiently explained that to get there I would need Serb approval СКАЧАТЬ