Aid Memoir. Larry Hollingworth

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СКАЧАТЬ to permit aid to enter Gorazde. The Serbs wished to starve the Muslims into submission, then to move them out to Central Bosnia, releasing the whole of Eastern Bosnia to the Serbs. My drivers showed me two other places also besieged, Zepa and Srebrenica. Gorazde was enough for me in one night.

      Now that I was aware of the dual role of UNHCR, I needed to know who was who in the government as well as in the city. I began to do battle with the names. The President of Bosnia Herzegovina, Alija Izetbegovic, I could manage. The mayor of Sarajevo, Mr. Kresevljakovic was going to take some time.

      My second evening was noisy. I stood with the RAF boys and the drivers outside the hangar and watched a battle begin. A tank on the Serb held hill began firing into Butmir. Government-held Dobrinja replied from behind us, Serb held Lukavica joined in over our heads, and Butmir replied. Serb held Airport settlements then fired on Butmir. The rounds flew above our heads, low enough to hear their passage, high enough to avoid frightening us. As darkness fell the tracer rounds flew like rockets across the sky. Following tracer shell is fascinating but macabre. The trace disappears at the end of the trajectory of the round, there is a delay, then an increasing rumble, and slowly flames flicker into the sky. It is at first easy to be taken in by the event and to forget the reality of the action. Perhaps at first we see it as we see a movie film. Later, when I was close enough to see the action and to hear the screams, the fascination had gone, replaced by the horror of the result and my hatred of the perpetrators.

      On this second night in Sarajevo, we were reminded of our own vulnerability as a rocket exploded close to us. Its multi-head spitting shrapnel close to where we stood. Steve Potter decided that the priority for tomorrow was the building of a bunker. I went to bed tired but excited, my head reeling with “ic’s.”

      Each day started with a conference at seven thirty. It was chaired by the military commander of the airport, a French officer, and attended by the heads of each of the units. UNHCR and UN Civilian Police were the “civilian” units. The runway was swept every morning before the conference by a road sweeper vehicle. The shrapnel, and the rounds, the debris from the previous night’s battle were collected and weighed. The weight was solemnly announced at the conference and the more interesting items were handed around. A light night was one sandbag full of malicious metal. The French battalion commander or his deputy, usually my friend Eric, would then brief us on the activity as seen from his positions on the roof aided by infrared night sights and the reports of his sentries and liaison officers.

      Whilst we slept, the airport, like the desert and the jungle, came to life. Men, women and children from all sides would attempt to cross the airport to the “safety” of the other side. The majority of the traffic was from the city to Mount Igman. The French who were responsible for the safety and the neutrality of the airport would turn a blind eye to some attempts but were compelled to challenge the majority. The IR or heat-seeking devices would locate a large group elbowing their way across the airport. The searchlight would be switched on and the people invited to stand up. They were then returned to their own side with no further action taken by the UN. Many were escaping never to return; some wore their best clothes. The sister of my driver Zlatan, a prominent psychiatrist, was twice unsuccessful because her high heels stuck in the mud! The UNHCR, boring by comparison, briefed the group on the previous day’s deliveries and the proposed schedule.

      On my first morning meeting, there were three sacks full of shrapnel and a very concerned Steve Potter who asked the Canadian senior NCO Marty, a small, stocky, blustery man with respect for no one, if he could assist in the building of a bunker.

      – I’ll give you some engineers and a container. That should be a start. He referred to no one. The decision made, he was as good as his word. Before the morning was out, he had delivered a twenty-foot-long container, and “Project Potter” was underway. The RAF team provided the supervision, the Norwegians in the adjacent hangar, under a tall movement controller, Ralph Iveson provided the sweat. The Canadians provided a mechanical digger.

      Steve was obviously good with Meccano sets as a child. I’ll bet he buys his children Legos. He was determined that “his” bunker would be the Hilton of bunkers. Steve did some reconnaissance for a site. He chose a spot near the perimeter fence, close to a manned observation bunker which could provide covering fire whilst we ran to the bunker. He decided that a seventy-metre dash was the furthest away from the hangar that we could risk. X marked the spot. The digging began, and a hole large enough for the container completed. Then the container was lowered into the ground. Logs were placed over the roof of it. The next task was to cover the logs on the roof with sandbags. Here we had a slight problem; we had no sandbags. The French did, but the platoon commander told us that they needed all they had to cover their own fortification which was beginning to rival the Maginot line. Ron and a senior UNHCR person liberated from the French a large quantity of the much-needed bags. It was my only contribution to “Project Potter.”

      At the end of the first day, we had protection; by the end of the second, we had protection plus lighting and emergency rations. The RAF Hercules crews decided that we should have a barbecue to celebrate its inauguration. They brought in food and beer from Zagreb.

      The Hercules crews deserve a very special mention. They did their job with great courage but always wanted to do more. They had a strict rotation pattern, crews and craft returning to Lyneham after a tour of four weeks. The new crews brought from the UK sufficient meat, sausages and beer for us—both international and local staff—to have a good relaxing party. We never paid for this, they did. They did many other small kindnesses. They made phone calls for refugees, they posted letters, they changed money. I particularly remember Chris Tingay and his crew once finding me looking especially tired. On the next flight he sent up two crates of Pot Noodles, with a little note: “You look weak. Take one twice a day with water.” Water we had. They were delicious, nourishing, and restored our strength. We did not always remember to say thanks at the time but a big thanks now may not be too late.

       Two

       Sarchapt

      The airlift was increasing by the day. We were soon up to fourteen flights a day. On a rough calculation, we reckoned that we needed to bring in about 4,500 tonnes of food a month for the city to survive. Fourteen flights a day brought in about 160. With a bit of luck, we may be able to win. The calculation, however, did not take into account medicine, fuel, and other essentials. We needed road convoys as well as an airlift. Furthermore, we were not allowed to concentrate solely on Sarajevo, pressure was increasing by the day for a convoy to Gorazde. The Government was whipping up enthusiasm amongst the journalists. They had become excited by the story line: “Large city in the middle of Serb held territory, tens of thousands of people besieged and starving.” The story was very similar to Sarajevo, but they had “done” Sarajevo. The Bosnian Government wanted action for the more altruistic reason that their people were dying.

      UNHCR was asked to visit President Izetbegovic. I had had the brief meeting at Zagreb airport but this would be my first official visit. The Presidency is in the centre of the city. Normally the entrance is around the back, but for official visits the front door is used. We went by French APC. Vesna Vukovic served as translator. We parked outside the main door on the pavement. The guards checked our identities. Not too difficult in my case, as there were very few Methusaleh look-alikes in Sarajevo.

      We were escorted up the wide staircase by the adviser to the President Mr. Somun, whom I felt I knew, as his daughter Leyla worked for us at the airport. She is a graduate in Arabic studies from Sarajevo. Mr. Somun had been an ambassador before the war.

      He took us to the great double doors leading to the room where the President met with dignitaries. We were not the only guests. We were ushered in and seated on a huge settee. The reception room was chosen well. It faced the front of the building and had two large windows which were open.

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