The next day I handed over my airport responsibilities to a young UNHCR lawyer who soon handed them over to Mike Aitcheson, a veteran professional airline man. From his arrival onwards, there was no queue jumping by any nation, no disorderly behaviour, no nonsense. The airlift ran smoothly and efficiently.
Bryan Warsnap came to see me off. Steve had contacted him from Sarajevo. Last night there was heavy firing across the airport—he said. Damn—I thought—I will arrive and it will be all over. I hitched a lift with the British plane and had my first Khe Sanh experience. The flight from Zagreb to Sarajevo is dangerous for most of the way. A slow moving fully laden transport aircraft is an easy target to track and hit in a war zone where bored, trigger happy, unaccountable brigands roam the hills. But the descent to land is the most vulnerable manoeuvre. The RAF crews adapted the descent procedure used by the Americans as they landed in Khe Sanh during the Vietnam War. This involves an extremely high approach with tight turns and then an almost vertical angle of descent with a sharp pull out at what seems feet from the runway. It is a spectacular sight to watch from the ground, but to be honoured by the crew with an invitation to travel in the cockpit and to stand behind the pilot’s seat during the flight and descent is a truly exhilarating experience. You feel that you can touch the sides of the hills. The navigator indicates that it is time to put on flak jackets. The pilot, Chris Tingay, a Boys Own Paper image of a pilot, bright blue eyes, hero handsome, with a tight tough smile, points out, with his yellow chamois gloved hand, Sarajevo in the valley ahead.
Then the descent begins. Chris pushes the stick forward; the nose goes down. It is as if someone has taken away the floor you are standing on. Your ears block, your blood rushes to your head, your knees buckle. Your stomach, intestines, liver, kidneys, all never before felt, are now individual items and floating within your body. The airport is rushing towards us, surely we will penetrate the runway, not land on it. Chris pulls back on the stick, conversations pass over the headphones, the aircraft levels, the body regroups itself. The aircraft wheels hit the ground, we bounce, Chris and his co-pilot have their hands on the central controls, the aircraft is shaking, vibrating, the noise is deafening and penetrating, the huge tyres again contact the ground, the aircraft races along the centre of the runway, then the engines are reversed, the cargo lurches forward in the hold, straining against the bolts and straps. You, yourself, are holding on, knuckle white to the back of the pilot’s seat. The noise and the speed subside. The great overweight bird is now a slow-moving land vehicle controlled by a ridiculously small primitive wheel which is in the corner of the cockpit below the side window. It is parallel to the deck, not angled and is controlled by the left hand of the pilot as if his craft were a trolleybus or a tram. You realise that your eyes are wide open, your face grinning ecstatically. The crew are folding maps, flicking switches, clearing up, closing down. They have entered the most dangerous airport in the world, they have parked their winged chariot on a pockmarked tarmac. They have made themselves the biggest target for miles. They sit and wait whilst they are unloaded, already preparing for an equally spectacular Khe Sanh take-off.
Chris was later awarded the Air Force Cross for his bravery, the first medal to be given for former Yugoslavia. It’s a collective award for all the crews in the operation—he modestly and generously said on hearing of his award.
I thanked him and his crew, collected my bags, and left the aircraft through the side door and took my first steps in Sarajevo. My initial view was of the damaged Air Traffic Control Tower. Sheets of glass looking as if they would fall to the floor to impale all below. The first person I met was Amra. Red hair, beautiful eyes, and a warm smile. She took me to the UNHCR hangar. Outside were parked two Canadian APCs. The whole of the front of the hangar was open, in the top right-hand corner was the office. It was very make-shift and untidy. The rest of the hangar was either storage space or living accommodation. I walked up to the office area and saw Rick Garlock, UNHCR, American, ex-military and a man whom I had known when he was in Turkey.
– Hi—I said. His head was over the laptop computer.
– What do you want?—he replied.
– Nothing.
– Well, what are you here for then?
– Rick, it’s me, Larry. The length of the beard had thrown him, the constant stream of journalists had tired him. He introduced me to the team. I was told to find myself a place to sleep. I found a large wooden table and placed my sleeping bag underneath it.
Fabrizio Hochschild then arrived. He had been in Sarajevo since before the war began. He was in charge of the office. He and I had last seen each other in Addis Ababa. He is a young, extremely bright Oxbridge graduate, a polyglot, a thinker, and a man deservedly earmarked for the top. He welcomed me, told me to settle in, and outlined my tasks. I was to run the airport and the airlift. He was moving Rick from the airport to the city to supervise the distribution of aid.
The RAF invited me into the area of the hangar that they had curtained off as an officers’ mess. Steve Potter shared it with Flight Lieutenant Lee Doherty, a London Irish workhorse. Lee had made himself responsible for the loading and unloading of aircraft. He was unbelievable. He could do every task, from driving the most enormous forklift truck to cleaning his shoes, quicker and better than anyone else. The French, the Canadian, and the Norwegian teams who worked with him were overwhelmed by his energy. His French counterpart was a dozy pudding of a man.
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