Aid Memoir. Larry Hollingworth

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.