LITMIR.BIZ

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involvement and maybe the whole course of the war. The Secretary General gave the task to UNHCR.

      A new task needed more staff. I was called to Geneva.

      The British Government, very quick off the mark, had agreed to send Wing Commander Angus Morris to set up an air operations cell in the headquarters of UNHCR.

      Angus is a dynamic, very switched on, silver haired, handsome RAF officer, with lots of professional charm. He is a Scot. He speaks with little or no accent, in short measured sentences. He is an officer who has perfected the art of giving orders as suggestions.

      Angus and I set up an office in a small room adjacent to the UNHCR communications centre. From there we could contact Zagreb, the UK Ministry of Defence, and the military headquarters of the proposed donor nations. America, France, Italy, as well as the UK had tentatively offered aircraft for the airlift. The Americans sent a team to Geneva to join us headed by Lt. Col. Larry Smith, whom I had worked with previously when getting aid into Turkey.

      The whole ex-Yugoslav operation was under the supervision of a senior UNHCR director, Eric Morris, a taciturn American. Bright, direct and reserved. Eric quickly realised that the Geneva end was becoming larger than the sharp end. He therefore decided that I should go to Zagreb and run the airlift. An excellent decision, as I knew the players in Geneva and they would know the man on the ground. It was also a great decision for me, as I am not a “corridor of power” warrior. Eric told me to contact the UNHCR Chief of Operations in Zagreb, Tony Land, an Englishman who had just returned from Afghanistan. In a short, sharp call, Tony made it clear that he was looking for—a man who will fight for refugees in the most difficult of circumstances. A man who will lie for them, cheat for them, and be a rogue for them. You are ex-army, aren’t you?—he concluded. You have the right background. I was not too sure if I was going to like Tony.

      I collected a satellite telephone from “comms,” a mark one edition, it weighed a tonne, came in an enormous grey box and bore a label demanding to be handled with care. I was given a quick lesson on assembling it and a handbook which was even less clear but had the benefit of being unclear in five different languages. I headed off to Geneva airport where I was to meet up with another recruit for ex-Yugoslavia, a journalist Peter Kessler, who was going out as Public Information Officer. My first minutes with Peter were not too successful. He was waiting for me and was a little irritable. I was late. The check-in desk was closing and we were in great danger of missing the flight. I was short with him. In addition to my own kit, I was struggling with this enormous and heavy satellite phone. The Swiss, to whom time is an obsession, are never happy with late arrivals, the Swiss, to whom money is an obsession, are very happy with excess baggage. Peter and plane left without me.

      I took the next flight, changed aircraft at Frankfurt, and sat next to Peter on the flight to Zagreb! Albeit he was cool and calm, I was hot and sticky. In Zagreb, I was briefed by Jose Maria and Tony. They gave me a rundown on the war so far. Jose Maria was anecdotal. He knew all the key players. Tony is like a housemaster who has a good brain but who prefers to run the school sports. He was academic and aggressive. His arms swept over the huge map on the wall. He prodded at place names, followed the course of rivers with his pen. Pointed at Corps headquarters, named Generals. I tried to take notes. But in truth, I knew where Zagreb was only because Angus Morris had pinpointed it on his map. To save my life I could not have placed my finger on Belgrade on this huge map which Tony knew so well.

      – What was the name of that man again?—I asked.

      – Prlic—replied Tony.

      – And the General?

      – Hadzihasanovic.

      – Can you point out on the map again Biljana Plavsic?

      – She is Vice President of the Serbska Republika.

      The housemaster was getting irritable. The pupil had not done his homework. I was in danger of getting detention. I decided to nod wisely, pretend to write and ask no more questions.

      Head reeling, I left the office and met Anders Levison who had set up the airport operation in Zagreb, met the first aircraft and effectively started the airlift. He is a very tall classic Swede who was eventually to wear himself out by his tireless devotion to the refugees in his charge in Zenica and Tuzla. He reluctantly handed the airlift over to me.

      We were operating from an office outside the airport. On the floor below us was Colonel Mark Cook who was in charge of the British military contingent. He was later to retire and to rebuild from its ashes the Children’s Home in Lipik, Croatia.

      I pestered the airport authorities and they offered us an office co-located with the airport fire brigade. It was on the tarmac, so it was easy to see each aircraft and to ensure that every pilot reported in, after landing. The airport operation was in two parts.

      Some aid arrived from donor countries by road and was stored at the airport for loading onto aircraft and flying into Sarajevo. Some aircraft arrived at the beginning of each day with aid loaded at their home airport. They reported into Zagreb, flew on to Sarajevo and then returned to Zagreb for further loads. Other nations parked their aircraft at Zagreb which were loaded from the ground stocks and then flown to Sarajevo.

      As the numbers of aircraft built up, so the numbers of sorties per aircraft diminished. Most of the crews were keen to fly and vied with each other for slots into Sarajevo. None were keener than the Brits. They would ensure that their aircraft were loaded faster than others, they would watch like hawks for any delay in another aircraft’s take off, and if there was the narrowest window of opportunity, they would rumble along the tarmac, slowly lose contact with the ground, and lumber into the sky. This tactic would throw out the plan and meant another nation losing a trip. The Brits were the worst for excessive zeal but they were not alone. The poor UNHCR representative on the ground would suffer the wrath of the pilot cheated out of his turn.

      The enthusiasm of the aircrews was matched only by their bravery. Each and every landing, halt, and take off in Sarajevo was threatened. Many aircraft were to be pockmarked by shrapnel, penetrated by bullets and tracked by missiles. One aircraft, from Italy, was to pay the highest price. It was shot down with the loss of the crew.

      After I had spent only a few days in Zagreb, it was decided that I could be replaced and sent to Sarajevo. On my last day in charge at the Zagreb end of the operation Madame Ogata, the High Commissioner for Refugees, arrived on her way to pay her first visit to Sarajevo. As her plane landed from Geneva, President Izetbegovic arrived from Sarajevo. Madame Ogata, whom I had seen in action on many previous occasions was, as usual, bright, incisive and caring. As ever, she knew who we all were and what we were doing.

      The President I immediately liked. He looked a kindly but tired man. We talked about the aid, the need and the international response. On the tarmac, a few yards from where he had landed in a British Hercules C 130, was parked the executive jet of President Tudjman of Croatia—a symbol of the trappings of power of a neighbouring President. I wondered if he looked at it and asked himself: “Why me? Why my country?”

      I called on the British RAF contingent who were living in a small hangar in the United Nations Protection Force (UNPROFOR) camp adjacent to Zagreb Airport in primitive conditions. The senior Brit was Wing Commander Bryan Warsnap, with longer than regulation length hair, a ruddy lined face, a voice with a gentle burr, the ideal man to send to a front-line task. Unflappable and genuine, able to smooth the feathers of ruffled pilots, to command and control by example, to appear calm almost to the point of being unaware. He was briefing Squadron Leader Steve Potter who was to fly into Sarajevo to liaise with UNHCR and the French. I envied Steve—he was going in a day before me.

      My next call was to the Royal Engineers. More specifically to the quartermaster stores.

      – Any chance of the loan of a British Army sleeping bag?

      – Who are you?

      – UNHCR.

      – Where are you going?

      – Sarajevo.

      – OK, but you will have to sign for it.

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