Aid Memoir. Larry Hollingworth

      – 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