Читать книгу Aid Memoir - Larry Hollingworth - Страница 12

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.

The President arrived. He looked gentle, confused and exhausted. His daughter Sabine was with him. She acts as secretary and sometimes translator. He understands English and in a one to one conversation is prepared to use English, but he prefers to use a translator. He sat in the corner of one settee. The shelling began, and there were two loud bangs very close to where we were. The president appeared not to notice them. He never even paused in his speech. He wanted to discuss aid in general and aid to Gorazde in particular. He had with him a senior officer Hadzihasanovic. The Bosnian Government was not strong on military ranks, so it was safest to address them as “commander.” Enver Hadzihasanovic I was later to meet in Zenica and again back in Sarajevo. He is one of the ablest Bosnian leaders. Handsome, silver haired, and charming.

We were briefed on the reports coming out of Gorazde. They were horrendous. A hospital with no medicine. A population with no food. The commander discussed the options for getting aid into Gorazde. The Bosnian army had a mule route. But it could take very little and was frequently attacked by the Serbs.

I’ll bet it is—I thought to myself. It was an open secret that the mule route took in mainly ammunition for the defenders of the town.

The president was strong—There is not enough aid for Sarajevo, but Gorazde is of a higher priority. I could see that it was. Strategically the last thing the president wanted was major towns to fall to the Serbs. Also, he was testing the strength and will of the UN and its agencies. It was a short meeting.

The following day was my return visit to the office of Mr. Pamuk for a meeting with the five to discuss distribution. We had to pass through shelling, which was heavy and dangerously close. It was my first trip at the wheel of the car. Leyla Hrasnica was my translator and guide. She showed to me the “back route,” the quieter one. We arrived at the Municipality a few minutes late. The building had taken a few hits, and there was machine gun fire bouncing off the walls. As I parked the car under the direction of Leyla, I had two thoughts which I voiced.

– Leyla, if that was the quiet route, what would the other route have been like?

– The shelling would have been a little closer, but…—she added with a smile—we would have been a little quicker.

– Leyla, just as a point of interest, when are conditions considered to be too bad to cancel a meeting?

– When the other side cancels.

We passed the empty offices and arrived at Mr. Pamuk’s. He was there. He had two other people with him. Two of the five. He introduced them to me. One was Professor Kljic, an economist who was to be the architect of the distribution plan after consultation with us.

There was a tremendous bang as a mortar hit the base of the building. We waited a few minutes more for the other three to arrive. The professor and I began to talk. He was hoping that I would have a blueprint for feeding the city. He was not to know that I was as confused and as overwhelmed as he was. I explained that my own experience was with refugee camps where I had been responsible for almost one hundred thousand people—a little exaggeration, but I thought acceptable in the circumstances.

Mr. Pamuk wanted to know for how long the Sarajevo airlift was guaranteed. I was able to answer clearly and truthfully that it had been funded for one month. We began discussing the Berlin Airlift. There was a knock at the door and the secretary to Mr. Pamuk came in, we were not to wait for the others. They had been seriously injured in the shrapnel from the mortar that we had heard explode. I was disturbed by this. But the others were not. They were used to it. I needed more time there before I too accepted the macabre as commonplace.

The professor wanted us to give him the aid which we received as quickly as possible. Furthermore, he wished to sit on it until he had enough to be able to issue a little to everyone or at least a little to everyone in a district, “to issue by rings.” The first thoughts of UNHCR were to keep the aid in our possession until we knew the day of the issue, then to hand it over, so that we could see and monitor the issue. We wanted to see it issued to the most vulnerable, the widows and orphans, the elderly, the homeless. We also wanted to issue it rapidly. The people were starving now and they knew that aid was arriving. Given a little aid their morale would improve. Given no aid they may storm the warehouses.

Not only was there a difference of opinion on method of distribution, there was the age-old shadow boxing between donor and recipient. I hate this mutual mistrust. It happens with every operation. Basically, we believe that the only way to guarantee that all the aid will be distributed to the needy is if you yourself put the spoon into the mouth of the beneficiary. Clearly this we cannot do. We have to trust and use the local agents. Sarajevo was a Central European capital. The professor was a man of honour but I’ve been ripped off by foreign royalty with degrees from Oxbridge, so I am cautious. My first thoughts were that he had been told to get the aid quickly because his masters wanted some of it to go to the army. I could understand this. Every resident in Sarajevo was happy to see the defenders of the city fed first. They were their own sons and husbands.

If there was enough aid for everyone, I wanted every person in Sarajevo to get his or her share—be they doctors, dentists, pensioners, nurses, or soldiers. If there was not enough to go around, then I wanted the distribution to be to the most vulnerable, to the children, to the aged, to the homeless.

The professor I learned to like and respect. The job that he had been given was the worst in Sarajevo. He was criticised by everyone. The citizens never appreciated how little we were able to bring in and accused the professor of either stealing it or misappropriating it. The authorities accused him of being too honourable. We accused him of being too slow and weak. His task was Herculean and Solomonic. I was later to visit his home. He had far less than anyone else. His family suffered because of his position. Initially, I gave him a hard time. I did not accord to him the respect he deserved.

At the end of the meeting, whilst we were discussing the terrible plight of Sarajevo, both the professor and Mr. Pamuk requested that we divert aid to Gorazde. The citizens of Sarajevo who have little, wish to share that little with the citizens of Gorazde who have nothing. I reassured them that we were negotiating the entry of a convoy. But I knew that Fabrizio was having little success.

Having visited the Government side, it was time for me to see the Serb side, to discuss their needs and their wishes.

Fabrizio Hochschild had set the policy. He knew that aid to one side was morally wrong and practically impossible. There were many thousands of refugees in the Serb held territory around Sarajevo, mainly Serbs, but also some Croats and a few Muslims. All aid coming into Sarajevo passed through Serb territory. There was no way the Serbs would allow aid in to feed the population of Sarajevo without a share going to them. He was put under pressure to choose the suburb of Ilidza as the Serb side delivery and distribution centre but he chose the quieter area of Rajlovac. Hence a percentage of the aid arriving into Sarajevo was to be sent to the Rajlovac depot for distribution by the Serbs to the displaced and vulnerable in those parts of what had been the District of Sarajevo which was now in Serb hands. Both sides referred to these territories by the same names: “free Sarajevo” and “occupied Sarajevo,” but to each, of course, it had the opposite meaning.

So I took my first trip across the front line to Rajlovac, which is, as the crow flies, close to Sarajevo airport. The warehouse is next to a huge railway yard and a small aircraft landing strip. I was met at the warehouse by the man responsible for distribution and his assistant. Milivoje Unkovic is an artist by training, a painter by choice. He was wearing an army uniform, but as an artist. It did not restrict him. It was as if a Bohemian was wearing army surplus. He is a neat, gentle, and handsome man. His assistant, Ljerka Jeftic, is the power. She is dark haired with a commanding voice. Polite but firm. Also present was Ljubisa Vladusic, the Commissioner for Refugees for the Serb side, from Pale. He is young, very tall, heavy, with an open friendly face.

Ljerka ensured we wasted no time; we were off to a strong start. The Commissioner began—The Srpska Republika Government has set up this depot in coordination with the Serbian charity Dobrotvor, the Red Cross and UNHCR to supply aid to the municipalities and to stop its manipulation. He then added an important line—This is a civilian task. It has nothing to do with the Army.

He beamed as I nodded approval. Ljerka then took the floor—We would like a delivery of aid every two days, we are feeding 200,000 dependents. Forty-five per cent are refugees, women and children. Very professional. Then from Mr. Vladusic came a very sharp question, asked with no emphasis—What is the population of Sarajevo at the moment Mr. Larry? Nice one. I thought.

– I think they are talking about 340,000.

– Then we should get two thirds of what they get.

– I am not into numbers yet. I see the parallels and I see the tangents. Sarajevo is of course surrounded, besieged. You have access to rolling plains, open fields, woods, farms. So not all of your people are entirely dependent on what the agencies bring in. Sarajevo is.

– Why do you say Sarajevo is besieged?—Ljerka again.

– Because the roads to it are blocked by you.

– We have opened the airport and a road for you. Also, we have said that if the people want to leave, they can do so.

Both statements are true, but it is a Bosnian truth. The road was not open to commercial traffic and the airport would never bring in enough to satisfy the total needs of a city. As to her “also,” right again. The Serb side were very keen on opening the road out of Sarajevo and permitting the whole population to leave. The Sarajevo Government and UNHCR called this “ethnic cleansing.” Sarajevans have the right to live in their own homes in Sarajevo. I went onto the offensive—The removal of the rightful inhabitants of the city is not an option, nor is ‘Stay and starve and be shelled’ an option.

Ljerka ignored this comment. I then carefully and naively explained how I, a recent arrival, saw the situation. Emphasising how the Serbs were receiving a bad press for actions they could put right immediately. They were very polite and patient. Mr. Vladusic and I were to become good friends. I found him always to be fair and honest and professionally cunning.

I returned to the airport wiser.

A few days later we did bring in the first road convoy. It came from Split in Croatia. A team of British drivers pioneered the route. They were funded by the Overseas Development Administration (ODA). They were recruited and led by John Foster who is the Emergency Planning Officer for the Isle of Man Government who was on loan to ODA. Amongst his drivers was the colourful Peter Milne who arrived wearing his kilt. A character who later helped me to get into Tesanj and Maglaj.

The first deliveries into the city were for those people living in the Bosnian Government dominated area of the city. We were aware of the fact that the district of Grbavica was in Serb held territory and that it had a large population of starving people. Furthermore, it could not be reached by the Serbs themselves from Rajlovac.

I first spoke to Professor Kljic. He agreed that Grbavica needed aid. Painfully he told me that it was the area of the city where he had lived before the war. He had never had any trouble with his neighbours. He certainly felt it right and just that they should receive their share of the aid. This was a good start. He talked to his masters. They agreed. We therefore had approval to take aid out of the city into the Serb territory. We then approached the Serb side via the liaison officers. We agreed a date for a convoy. The Canadians agreed to escort it. It was to be UNHCR vehicles with UNHCR local drivers. At the last minute, the Serbs vetoed this; they would not permit Muslims into their territory. I should have given them an ultimatum—Aid food, aid drivers. My Bosnians were prepared to go. But I compromised, which I regret. So we had to borrow drivers from the Canadians.

It was a short trip, and we ended up only a few yards from where we had begun, but on the other side of the river. The organisation for our reception was chaotic. There was a lot of sniper fire from the Bosnian government side. They had approved the convoy but could not resist the chance of taking shots at the reception committee. No one seemed to know where we were going to unload. If in doubt, slivovica out. They plied us with offers of drink whilst they found the location and the keys. Meanwhile, we are parked out in the open with sniper fire only a few metres away. The man with most initiative was a small, feisty priest, Father Vojislav Carkic. He ran the local Serb charity, was a parish priest, and a military chaplain. He did a little shouting and a shell damaged supermarket was opened. Then came the next crisis, there was no enthusiasm to unload. More words from the priest and a group of men were found. I forbade the Canadians from unloading. It was not a precedent I wished to begin. The recipients of the aid must unload. It is difficult to restrain soldiers especially when they, rightly, want to dump and run in the face of sniper fire.

I had been asked by Professor Klaic if I could see if his precious books were still safe in his flat. I was assured that they were not. With a shortage of electricity, gas, wood, or oil for kitchen stoves, thick, heavy, economics books were especially useful. As we were leaving, Father Carkic gave me a holy picture. I will give you a different one every time you bring aid. We have started off with the apostles. We need eleven more convoys for you to have your first set. His toothless mouth stretched into a wide grin. His companions laughed.

With the success of Grbavica, Fabrizio was determined to spread our sphere of influence even further. Dobrinja is a large suburb of Sarajevo very close to the airport. It was cut off from the city, but under the influence of the Bosnian Government. The majority population are Muslim. Fabrizio decided to take aid to Dobrinja. Citing the Grbavica convoy as a precedent, he got Serb approval but took no chances. He took in a small convoy with a one hundred strong Canadian escort. It was successful. The irony of the day was that we succeeded in feeding Dobrinja but failed to get a single convoy into Sarajevo itself. “Somebody” shelled the Canadian barracks.

That evening, Eric de Stabenrath, the French Colonel, came to see me. He was impressed with the convoy to Dobrinja but believed that the key to our safety in the airport was for the combatants on all sides of the airport to see us and to know us and to know that we are impartial. He therefore proposed a “Hearts and Minds” programme. He intended to nominate a Liaison Officer for the peripheral districts of Nedzarici and the Airport Settlements held by the Serbs, and Dobrinja and Butmir held by the Government. The LOs would go into their territory every day and build up a close relationship with the community and its leaders.

– If they go in, why don’t they take in aid?—asked Eric.

– Eric, this is music to our ears. We will find the aid. Good luck in getting the approval of the local commanders. He succeeded and thus began a brilliant and vital programme.

Fabrizio was working non-stop on organising a convoy to Gorazde. Suddenly it seemed to fall into place. The Serbs agreed to give him approval to try, UNPROFOR agreed to provide an escort, UNHCR found the trucks and we diverted the aid from Sarajevo. Fabrizio was exhausted before he left. He had put so much effort into the convoy. Una Sekerez was the interpreter, Major Vanessa Lloyd of the British Royal Army Medical Corps and Sir Donald Acheson of World Health Organisation accompanied it.

It was a gallant attempt. It was mined, it came under fire, it almost reached Gorazde. It lost one APC and one ten-tonne truck. But it failed. On its return journey back to Sarajevo it encountered more gunfire. The team returned safely but some were badly shaken and Una had been lightly wounded.

I stayed behind and followed the progress of the convoy from the operations room. When they returned, I met them at the PTT building. They were so high on adrenaline. Fabrizio was pacing his office like a caged tiger. He wanted and needed a shower but could not relax. Could not stand still. He told me the whole story in short bursts as he paced and turned, paced and turned. Thanks to his debrief, the next attempt would succeed but not without incident.

Fabrizio was called to greater things; he was appointed special assistant to the Special Envoy. He left for Zagreb, and I moved into his office. I was sitting behind his desk when I was visited by Jeremy Brade, an Englishman, an ex-Ghurka officer, the recent head of the European Community Mission Monitors in Sarajevo, and now Lord Carrington’s man on the ground in former Yugoslavia. Jeremy knew everybody and everything. He knew the principal players, the splinter groups, the goodies and the baddies, and he knew the geography and the history of the place. By nodding wisely and listening intently, I was able to sketch in whole areas of deficiency in my knowledge. Jeremy is an excellent mimic. He is an expert at capturing the essence of the mannerisms of those whom he meets. His descriptions are accompanied by mini portrayals.

Before leaving, Jeremy warned me that there were two imminent visits from the UK. One from the Foreign Office and the other from a member of the cabinet. Jeremy ensured that I was part of the itinerary. The first visit was from Dr. Glynne Evans. She was accompanied by Andrew Pringle, a Brigadier, later of the Royal Green Jackets, then working within the cabinet office. Glynne is diminutive in stature, formidable in intellect, and gigantic in drive. Whatever a microchip processor does to a computer, Glynne does it to UN programmes. She is head of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office UN section.

To see her alight from the rear of a Hercules C130 aircraft with flak jacket, high heels and earrings is an experience. She strides across the bullet-scarred tarmac as if it were a military catwalk. She is imperious, compelling, and in charge. Her—Tell me Larry… in a clipped crystal-clear aristocratic accent commands undivided attention.

She risked the bullets and the shells to visit the warehouse, and then she left Sarajevo and crossed three front lines to travel to Kiseljak to meet one of the earliest road convoys into Sarajevo.

She fires penetrating, deadly, and accurate questions that demand a rapid response. All delivered with charm. Tricky pauses are defused with a smile and a steely glint from her eyes.

One Glynne story should sum up her abilities.

Larry—she said at the end of the long tiring day—what would most make life easier for you here in Sarajevo?” I had no hesitation. I was running into the centre of the city and crossing front lines every day. – An armoured vehicle of my own. At the moment, I either waste hours begging lifts from a French APC or I risk life and limb in a soft skinned vehicle.

Right—she said. The following morning she left. Three days later an armoured range rover rolled out of the back of a British Hercules. Glynne had located one in Madrid belonging to the Embassy and persuaded the Ambassador to loan it. She had it driven to London, serviced, and then flown to Sarajevo! And, remember, I am a UN employee, not a member of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, not even an employee of the ODA.

This was to be only a minor miracle. She was soon to have three thousand British troops on the ground, fully equipped and fully trained.

The cabinet minister proved to be the Foreign Secretary Mr. Douglas Hurd. He arrived on a very hot day. After a short meeting with General Mackenzie he came up to our hangar and had a guided tour. He had been well briefed by Glynne. He knew about the request for the armoured car, and he knew my background. At a lunch in the PTT building hosted by the French, he had a conversation with everyone. When it was my turn, I was, unusually for me, a little tongue tied and we had a “Mutt and Jeff” session. Later when I told my daughter that I could not think of anything to say, she reminded me—You could have asked him how his son was. He was at Exeter University with me and you met him there.

Next time!

Having visited President Izetbegovic, I wanted to visit Dr. Karadzic. All negotiation with the Serb side was done through the Serb Liaison officers. There were three. Brane was a professional soldier who had served at the airport prior to the war. He is my height with slightly greying hair, bright, warm, with moist, brown eyes. A neat toothbrush reddish brown moustache, a voice which is deep, friendly, and conspiratorial. A man of charm, humour, and honour. Misha Indjic, slightly smaller, losing his hair, lost some of his “smiley” teeth, eyes like olives, dark and bitter, with a brown moustache. Misha is intolerably Serb and pathologically anti-Muslim. Both men speak excellent English. The third, a professor of geology, Dr. Vlado Lukic. A Balkan intellectual who knows many subjects inside and out but can only argue from one standpoint. Bright but inflexible, a tall heavy man, shy to use his English, he was closest to my age. He was teased mercilessly by Brane. They lived in one room in the PTT building. They slept around the walls. Their job was incredibly difficult. They were four doors away from the Bosnian Government Liaison officers. Whenever there was shelling UNPROFOR would run to the Serb Liaison officers and demand they stopped it. The LO’s would then use an antique field phone to contact their Army headquarters in Lukavica on the outskirts of the airport in Serb held territory. In addition to stopping shelling, all patrols and convoys were cleared through the Liaison officers.

Dr. Lukic was the most conscientious, indeed the most pedantic. He would take ages to get a decision because he would progress the request meticulously. Brane would pressure his masters for an answer. Misha was the most sinister. I reckon he made a lot of the decisions himself. To those he had to refer, he built in a delay factor. Both Brane and Misha spent a lot of time translating for the top generals. They both know too much. Watch your backs boys!

When I eventually left the rigours of the airport for the comfort of the PTT building, I shared for many a month the next room to them. We sank quite a few jars together. Dr. Lukic was later elevated from the floor of the office to the position of Prime Minister of Srpska Republika.

Stopping shelling, clearing convoys and arranging interviews, all legitimate LO tasks. Hence—Brane, I would like to see your big white chief. Can you fix? If you asked Brane a rhetorical question, he answered not with words but with a smile.

He fixed me up with an appointment at midday the following Sunday. I have only ever seen photos of Dr. Karadzic, in which he is always wearing a double-breasted suit, so I thought I had better wear mine. When I put it on, the cheeky Leyla wolf-whistled. It was the first and, with only one other exception, the only time they saw me wear it. They cruelly nicknamed it my “Karadzic” suit.

I arrived at Lukavica on time. Serb television cameras were waiting to record the event. Not surprising, as the agency SRNA is a propaganda machine much favoured by the media happy Doctor. I was taken up the stairs and into the end room on the right. Dr. Karadzic was there on his own. There was a buffet type lunch on the table. He is an easy man to be with. He greeted me as if we were old friends. He asked me about the health of Jose Maria. He complained that Mrs. Ogata had recently seen Izetbegovic but not seen him. He asked me where I was from, and through all of this, he is helping himself and me to food.

– I’m from Liverpool. The inevitable happened—I get his favourite Liverpool line up. We talked about the Sarajevo football team to whom he was the team doctor.

– Why do they need a psychiatrist? Do they keep on losing?—I asked. Liverpool humour—he answered.

I gather you are a poet—I said as we ate. I was tucking in heartily. He had more food than we did. This changed the direction of the conversation completely.

– Do you like poetry?

– Very much.

– Who is your favourite poet?

– Matthew Arnold—I replied. Actually, it is Kipling, but he is after 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, in the dark, found my shoes, grabbed my towel and toothbrush—not for me the hassle of razor and brush. I clambered out of the bunker. I paused at the entrance and then made a dash for the hangar, hoping that the snipers were not looking for an early kill.

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.