Chapter 2: The Holiday Inn

CHAPTER 2: The Holiday Inn

As Blaine drove our crowded little pickup away from the airport, I caught my first real, non-TV glimpses of what’s leftover after a three-year ethnic war. The burnt remains of homes demanded attention as we drove by. The words, “Welcome to Sarajevo” painted boldly on the front of one and, “Help Us Now” desperate on what was left of the next. I recognized the houses from images I saw repeatedly on TV, in the “Monterey Herald” back at my duty station in California, and in a recent issue of “Newsweek.”

Blaine flicked his Tootsie Pop stick out the window like a cigarette as we dodged mortar craters and the minimal, but insane traffic on the route from the airport to downtown Sarajevo. I tried to memorize every image I saw: The burned out homes, cafes with broken windows and rubble, and bombed mosques. . .blackened remains of vehicles on their sides, rotting garbage everywhere, piles of rubble and some signs of life. I saw skinny, barefoot children kicking a soccer ball on a side street sandwiched between Communist-style apartment buildings “decorated” by mortars and other weapons of war. I wondered what the kids ate that morning, if at all and if they’d ever view life with any childlike innocence again. Probably not, I decided.

An old woman was hanging laundry out on the cement balcony of one of the apartment buildings. She seemed oblivious that one-third of the balcony was missing; as if a giant hand swished down and grabbed it and threw it down below. Me, personally, I don’t think I could stand at that balcony with such ease. Flying in any type of aircraft doesn’t bother me. Roller coasters don’t bother me. Doing a tandem parachute jump last summer didn’t bother me. But, for some reason that I’m not consciously aware of, I freak when standing at the balcony of a tall building. The exception: tequila courage. I’ll explain that one later.

“That right there,” said Chief Barnes, pointing out his passenger side window to the crushed remains of a concrete building with a tall, modernish silver portion protruding from the middle. It reminded me of pre-World War II art deco. “That’s the Oslobođenje building, the daily newspaper. “It continued to publish papers even after gettin’ the shit knocked out of it and reduced to a mountain of rubble. The staff operated outtuva makeshift newsroom in a bomb shelter, and still managed to get a paper out every single day of the war.”

“Now that’s what I call dedicated journalism,” interrupted Dave as he leaned over me to get his head out the right cab window of the truck for a better view. I could tell he was just eating this up and on some macho-madman level, probably regretted that he was not personally involved in the experience. I could also tell that his morning dose of deoderant wasn’t working as a new wave of naseauousness threatened to eject the night-before’s tequila from my stomach. I sipped more of the Italian water and figured I could discreetly use the bottle as a vomit bag if needed. I turned the top back on and slipped it back into a roomy front pocket of my men’s-only-size BDU shirt.

One second later, my head thrashed forward into the back of Chief Barnes’ front seat as Blaine slammed the tiny pickup to a stop to avoid rear-ending a black Yugo that cut in front of us from the a sidestreet without stopping. He muttered a few foreign words and accompanied them with a gesture out the window. . .not “the bird” so popular by Americans, but that Italian hand movement you see stereotyped in commercials and movies; that prounounced open-handed one that looks like you’re offering an orange to the great gods in the sky.

The sudden stop cranked up my already throbbing head into stereo mode. allowing me to forget about the woozy gut. Hey, maybe my Naples hangover was wearing down? If only my bladder could make it until we got to the Coalition Press Information Centre, I’d be satisfied with my day’s accomplishments.

The road straightened into a divided four-lane divided roadway as we headed toward the center of the city. It was in pretty good shape; only a few gaping holes to dodge. Traffic picked up some, including the different sizes and shapes of armored personnel carriers representing Italy, France and Turkey. Each APC was decorated with “IFOR” and most had an armed soldier in complete battle gear sticking out the turret. I noticed a couple other U.S. made white pickup trucks, but instead of “IFOR” on the hoods and doors, they were tagged with “UNCHR” – the United Nations Commision on Human Rights. A few civilian cars zipped around us like pesky mosquitoes. Everyone seemed to drive at whatever speed they wished. Traffic rules were optional.

Chief Barnes twanged in his Texan charm that this main stretch of road was called Sniper Alley because Serbs in the surrounding hillsides and windows of the tallest buildings enjoyed picking off their targets from this unprotected asphalt that connected the people of Sarajevo.
“Didn’t matter if ya were a man, a woman . . . even if pregnant, a child. . . you were fair game. Hell, they even sniped paramedics retrievin’ the earlier victims,” he drawled. “Didn’t matter. Everyone’s a valid target to those scumbags. Sure would like to let ‘em loose on the road while me and some of the good ‘ole boys back home took turns shootin’.” He picked up an imaginary rifle and shot outside the window. “There, , got one! Yeehaw!”

Great, I thought. Just what this violence-overdosed country needs. A trigger-happy redneck itching for action. Perhaps it’s a good thing he leaves next week.

The buildings became less neighborhood looking and more business looking the closer we got to downtown. I don’ think a single building was untouched by the war. It was rare to see a building with all four walls and intact roof. Each wore brutal scars of war. Yet people lived in them.

I wondered what hell these people must have gone through. I couldn’t understand how the three ethnic groups – the Muslims, the Croats, and the Serbs – could all co-exist for decades in this city, being neighbors, going to school together, getting drunk together, and just plain ole enjoying life as much as they could under communist rule. Yet, as soon as that communist puppet-master ditches them, they all of a sudden become enemies with one another and seem to be in some sort of genocide contest. How did this cosmopolitan city of Sarajevo with its mix of happy faces that the world saw televised in the 1984 Winter Olympics become such a blackened, burned out mess?

I hope my six months here provides some answers.

A block later, up to the left was an ugly, mustard-yellow square building with windows, some with glass in them, mortar-made windows and part of a sign sporting the Olympic rings.
“Here we are folks! The Holiday Inn. . .the home of CPIC and your home away from home,” said Blaine as he turned the pickup truck into the overcrowded parking lot. “Be thankful you’re individual augmentees on temporary assignment here. You get the best accomodations in town.”
I wondered what he meant by that remark.

The guys easily carried their seabags and gear while I used the carry-stop-and-drag method. Mental note: chivalry does not exist in today’s military. When we reached the side of the 10+ story building, there was an attractive 40ish blonde in a swimsuit sunning her already California-tanned body on a beach chair. Next to her was a hunky, bronzed God wearing bright blue Speedos. No way they could be tourists. No way he was an American. . .unless he was gay. The blonde noticed us approaching, sat up, and shielded her eyes like a visor. “So, these must be the new guys,” then she noticed me lagging behind. “Or should I say guys and gal.” She stood up with her chest out and the bronzed God followed.

“Hi, I’m Lieutenant Colonel Linda Raines, the senior U.S. officer assigned to CPIC,” she said and offered her hand. Thumbing over to the bronzed God, she said, “This is Captain Gunther Braun, the German media liaison officer.”
Gunther the God smiled revealing a heart-breaking smile accompanied by dimples. Oh, my hangover feels so much better now.

“Gude Morning,” he said as he reached out to shake our hands.

Dave and the Senior Chief stretched out their hands and introduced themselves. It was my turn, but since I had just caught up to everyone because my stop-and-drag method isn’t the fastest, I was still holding my seabags and gear. I put my seabags on the ground and then discovered Gunther the God’s green eyes which knocked my brain into a stupid-induced coma. I dropped my helmet which landed on his right foot. Gunther yelped something in German which snapped my brain back. “I am so sorry,” I weakly offered. And then in the impossible moment of so much happening in just two seconds, things got worse. I bent over to retrieve my runaway helmet and my head collided with Senior Chief’s head who had the same idea. Included in that same exact milisecond of time, Gunther turned away to kneel down and check the damage on his helmet-impacted toes, and the water bottle in my oversized pocket tipped allowing the top to fall off and perfectly water the backside of the bright blue Speedos.

“Oh my God!” I cried in disbelief and shock as the mixed chorus of “Oww!” in English from Senior Chief and German cuss words, I’m sure, from Gunther. My hangover headache doubled its intensity and I felt really woozy. Then, it happened. The tequila wanted out, my stomach obliged and I threw up in my helmet. So much for using the water bottle vomit bag.
I think I stunned everyone.

“Now that, young lady, is a memorable entrance,” said the lieutenant colonel, who came to my rescue. She turned to the men and took control. “Petty Officer Blaine, take Petty Officer March and Senior Chief Hanson inside and get them checked in properly. Also, make sure Petty Officer Jones’ things are brought to her room.”

They obediently did as they were told.

“Now let’s get you all cleaned up,” said Lieutenant Colonel Raines as she ushered me into the dark glass double doors. “Don’t let this get to you. It could have happened to anyone. Ya’ll probably had to get up before the sun, just to sit on the hot tarmac for three hours. Then the flight over here. Plus, you probably didn’t eat anything proper, now did ya?” she asked without waiting for an answer. “No wonder you’re feeling a bit under the weather.”
We reached the darkened doors and one swung open as if on cue. I saw the silhouette of a large man holding the door open.

“Hvala, Pedrag,“said Raines thanking the beefy Bosnian. “Pedrag, this is Petty Officer Jones, one of the replacements. Jones, this is Pedrag, one of our hard-working security guards.” And then pointing to a pale, slender man with straight ebony hair pulled into a rock-n-roll ponytail, she said, “This is Slaven, also one of our security guards. He’s originally from Croatia.”

“Good morning,” I said accompanied with what I hoped was a cheery, American smile.



Come back to this chapter later. Notes from journal

I live and work in the Holiday Inn -- where six people were killed in the lobby at the onset of the war. The hotel takes pride in the fact that they never shut down because of the war. These same front doors were also the final resting place of others nailed randomly -- including international journalists -- by snipers roosting in the nearby hills or high-rise buildings. A few hundred people died on "Sniper Alley," the four-lane street running in front of the Holiday Inn -- the main transverse from the air port to downtown Sarajevo. Snipers, from what I've learned, loved to kill. No one of any age was spared, including infants. Serbs believed that by killing a mother or her infant, they were preventing a future generation from life. Shooting children stopped future generations. It's all so sickening.

The Serbs didn't care what or whom they fired mortars, missiles, grenades, rockets or sniper fire at. Sarajevo "rosebuds" remind pedestrians of the recent horrors because they have to step around the abrupt gouges in the sidewalks and streets.