From Njazi Xh. Nelaj
Part One
Memorie.al / Memories and recollections from the life of the talented and tragic pilot, Colonel of the Air Force, Niko Selman Hoxha, who fell in the line of duty on November 20, 1965, at the military airfield of Rinas, during a combat exercise with a ‘MIG’-17 F jet, in front of the regiment’s personnel and several military academy cadres. The memories and recollections were gathered by Njazi Xhevit Nelaj, in June–July 2012, in Vlora, Tirana, Voskopoja, etc., during meetings with people and phone conversations, even as far as Boston. Each meeting and conversation with Niko Hoxha’s contemporaries and close relatives has been faithfully and authentically reflected in this material. The monograph reflects only a part of the hero’s life, the part connected to aviation and flying, and does not extend to other spheres of the multifaceted life of the man who gave impetus to military and aerial discipline and training. Niko Selman Hoxha, as he was disciplined, orderly, and extremely correct in the regiment, also stood out for his exemplary lifestyle. He did not live in the regiment or eat in the pilots’ quality mess hall but, thanks to the dedication and good management of his wife, Jolanda, his lifestyle lacked nothing. This writing does not cover Niko’s family life, nor does it touch on his care for his sons, Valeri and Sasha, whom he left still young but whom he surrounded with much parental care and love while he was alive. Other writings that will follow will undoubtedly shed light on those aspects of Niko Hoxha’s life that remain somewhat in the shadows in this monograph.
The Author
It has been 48 years since the day when the talented pilot from Vlora, one of the founders and most dedicated organizers of the Albanian Air Force, a first-class pilot, Colonel of the Air Force, Niko Selman Hoxha, tragically and heroically passed away in the line of duty. On the last Saturday of November in the distant year of 1965, when the calendar marked the 20th, at 10 a.m., at the southern end of the military airfield of Rinas (now “Mother Teresa” Airport), in the presence of the regiment’s personnel and several officers of the “Mehmet Shehu” Military Academy, the unthinkable happened—a serious aerial incident that ended in catastrophe.
In that aerial catastrophe, the life of one of the pioneers of Albanian aviation, the bright hero, Niko Selman Hoxha, was extinguished. Many years have passed, and more will come. The long time that has passed, and some ill-intentioned people, has tried to cast oblivion over this human story, making the unknown seem forgotten. One thing must be acknowledged and said openly: If someone, worse for those who knew him or worked closely with the colonel, now raises their shoulders, hoping to bypass the event, I tell them: “You are wasting your time. Deep in the recesses of your conscience, somewhere, carefully and cautiously guarded, lies something from the life and deeds of that hero, with incomparable values and dimensions.”
I knew that “ace” of the Albanian Air Force only briefly. Together and under the direction of Niko Hoxha, I worked and flew for a total of three years. This time, though limited, was enough to inspire and move me, to put on paper everything I know and have heard about that “great” man, with immeasurable dimensions. I will write simply and honestly, as I knew him and what I know about that man, who from his formation until he gave his life in the line of duty, became the “locomotive” of our country’s aviation. The idea of writing something about the figure of Niko Hoxha has long stirred and haunted me, but it seems now the time has come to turn this drawer-dream into reality.
I am not a biographer, nor do I undertake to reflect every detail, thread by thread, as it unfolded in the life of that legendary man, the rare pilot, the born commander, the inquisitive yet deeply human individual. But I will write, certainly. I will write, not with the talent of a writer, which I do not possess, but with the stubbornness and determination of an elder, driven by a good purpose—to carve and immortalize the figure of that extraordinary man who came into our lives when we needed him but, alas, left us too soon, when he should not have. My resentment is great, and it does not come easily.
Not with the whole world, for I cannot manage that, but with a part of it. What troubles me more is the fact that some “pseudo-writers” or, as people say, “so-called writers,” in their paid writings, as if they had rented a bicycle, heap praise or unearned attributes upon themselves or their people. It’s even worse when some wretch tries to claim another’s achievements as their own! I have no choice but to console and pity these bread-seeking beggars.
I hope very much that on this journey, I will not be alone. A whole group of the colonel’s contemporaries—pilots, technicians, specialists, soldiers, and aviation workers—who are still alive, know something and surely want to share stories about our hero, as a unique individual, a rare soldier, and a talented pilot. The long time that has passed since Niko Hoxha’s departure from life cannot justify, much less honor, those who shrug and say, “Why should we deal with this distant event, why should we deal with the past, when we have so many problems?” It’s true that we have many problems and don’t always look for solutions, but, for their sake, we shouldn’t interfere in others’ affairs.
What belongs to Niko Hoxha, let us attribute to him, for it does not stick to others. Some, whose brains are dulled by health problems, may find it hard to care; but the same cannot be said for those who fear speaking publicly, worried about potential consequences. I am unshakably convinced that no one can set aside the shining figure of Niko Hoxha. The dust of oblivion may fall and cover anyone, but never that man.
Niko Hoxha carved his place in the history of Albanian aviation with his figure and his work. His unparalleled dedication to duty, his unprecedented initiative as a pilot, and finally, his heroic fall in the line of duty at a time when his life was so needed, are rare values and pinnacle moments those soldiers of any era will aspire to. I place great hope in the testimonies of my comrades and the commander, all those who lived and worked alongside him. There are many such people, and I believe they will come forward.
I feel indebted, perhaps even guilty, for not having spoken about the colonel sooner. I cannot excuse myself, but I will say that I waited my turn, as others who studied with him in the same school, participated in the war, and later in the great battle to build Albanian aviation from the ground up, have spoken. In any case, I am convinced that, even with the limited knowledge I have of that man who left us so suddenly when we needed him most, Niko Hoxha became our “yatak” (a term of endearment), “mother and father,” friend and brother, and a teacher like no other.
I learned so much from him, I “grew up” by his side, I took strength from his strength, I was inspired by his courage and bravery, I flew and played with him, I was happy and joyful when he was like that, seeing our successes. He surprised me with his sharp, salty humor and made me laugh until I cried with his stories about life in the regiment and beyond. I saw the colonel fly with unparalleled courage and bravery; and finally, I also saw how he “faded,” as heroes do, heroically and covered in glory.
For these and other inspiring human traits, I will write as I know how to write, and as that “spark” who came and left us so quickly, unexpectedly, and unbelievingly, comes to my mind. A special merit, which no one can dispute, Commander Niko Hoxha also has for the fact that he lived and served in our aviation during those difficult years, as rarely seen anywhere else, when our military aviation had to be put on its feet and pushed forward on uncharted paths.
The brave and legendary colonel, with courage and bravery, took this “child” by the hand, showed it the path of honor, and lifted it to those heights, which were perhaps the highest of the time, overcoming the difficulties of growth, which also stemmed from the lack of a native flying tradition. Devoted to his military duty at the highest possible level, with unwavering love for the army, the regiment, discipline, and order, and above all, for flying and the airplane, through leadership everywhere and always, by his example, traits that accompanied the colonel throughout his military career, until finally, he “sealed” it with his young life, not yet 39 years old.
Niko Hoxha fell in the line of duty, during a demonstration flight with live firing, at a time when his young life was so precious to the new generation of pilots and to all the personnel of the Albanian Air Force. The regiment commander was killed before our eyes, at the end of the airfield, while performing a combat demonstration flight, leading a formation of four ‘MIG’-17 F jet aircraft. As Beqir Balluku (then Minister of Defense) said at the time, “Niko, even with his death, taught us: how not to lose pilots.”
Niko Hoxha was and remains a hero. A special and deserving hero.
The colonel was highly honored and respected during his lifetime, and he remains just as remembered even after so many years have passed. I first saw Niko on a Saturday around mid-June 1963. I had just completed my pilot training in China, along with my comrades Dhori Zhezha, Adem Ceça, Andrea Toli, and Bashkim Agolli, and we had been appointed as “fighter-bomber pilots” in the aviation regiment at Rinas. The commander of the regiment was the unforgettable Colonel Niko Selman Hoxha. After a month-long leave with our families, we reported to the regiment.
We were not yet equipped with military uniforms, so we dressed in civilian clothes and wore light shoes; on our heads, we placed military caps with the aviation insignia. That Saturday, the Rinas regiment had organized various flights. The personnel participating in the flights were gathered in Zone No. 1, located at the northern end of the airfield. The aircraft were lined up side by side, ready to obey the pilots’ commands and take to the skies. A light rain was falling, enough to halt the flights. The personnel had come out to fly and were waiting for the weather to improve.
My comrades and I, dressed in civilian clothes and light shoes, with military caps on our heads, walked toward the area where the personnel had gathered. In front of the square where foreign civilian aircraft parked at the time, we joined a group of officers from the regiment who were heading the same way. In that group was also the chief of staff of the regiment, Lieutenant Colonel Peço Polena from Korça. Peço held the title of first-class military pilot, but due to health reasons, he had been stripped of his flying privileges and was serving as chief of staff. He was the first Albanian pilot to fly a military aircraft over the skies of Tirana on April 24, 1951.
This day was declared the founding day of the Albanian Air Force and was celebrated on this date for many years. The chief of staff of the regiment was short, thin, with reddish hair and a ruddy, freckled face. Peço was known in social circles as a regular consumer of alcoholic beverages and a cheerful, lively character. As a person and as an officer, Peço Polena was known as kind-hearted and fatherly. When he saw me with my umbrella open, dressed in civilian clothes, the lieutenant colonel put his hands on his hips and “burst into laughter.” He didn’t know my name but jokingly addressed me, saying, “Until today, I had never seen an officer with an open umbrella.” The chief of staff embarrassed me. The officers accompanying him and my comrades laughed at my appearance and the chief’s joke.
While the personnel were waiting for the weather to improve, Colonel Niko Hoxha was near the flight leader’s vehicle on the eastern side of the runway where the aircraft were stationed. He, too, was waiting for the weather to clear, ready to give instructions before the flight to familiarize the personnel with the specifics of the day’s flying tasks. With a ‘MIG’-17 F aircraft that day, the commander had made a “discovery of the times” and had fresh information to relay to the pilots. When the rain stopped and the weather cleared, the regiment’s personnel, officers, and soldiers lined up according to their subunits and services in front of the aircraft.
The aircraft scheduled to take off that day were a mix: ‘MIG’-19 PMs, ‘MIG’-17 Fs, and ‘MIG’-15 Bis trainers. All three types of aircraft were to fly on the same day. First, the most sophisticated aircraft, the supersonic fighter jets equipped with radar and air-to-air guided missiles, would take off. After them, the other types of aircraft would follow. It was there that I saw Colonel Niko Hoxha for the first time. The image of that extraordinary man was etched deeply into my mind and has never faded from my memory, even though many years have passed. Today, almost 50 years later, I remember his striking figure as if I had seen him just yesterday.
The colonel stood alone, facing the lined-up regiment, proud, disciplined, and quite elegant. He was 36 years old at the time, and to my 20-year-old self, he seemed “old.” I remember his tall, athletic build, broad shoulders, long legs, neatly trimmed mustache, and his flight suit (short boots, breeches, a leather jacket, and a pilot’s helmet on his head). Everything was made of dark brown leather. The helmet, with its net, was placed on the ground beside him. Two cords hung from it. One ended with a white metal head, which served as the connector for the helmet to the aircraft’s radio system.
The colonel, as the regiment commander, stood alone, facing the personnel under his command who were to participate in the day’s flights. Tall, with a lean, athletic build, he looked like a competent man who knew what he was talking about, with a sharp, eagle-like gaze, a friendly demeanor, and confident, agile movements. His elegant flight suit suited him perfectly. That was how I saw and remembered Niko Hoxha from our first meeting, and that is how he has remained in my mind even after all these years. The regiment was lined up according to its subunits, standing side by side.
We were not yet equipped with military uniforms, so we dressed in civilian clothes and wore light shoes; on our heads, we placed military caps with the aviation insignia. That Saturday, the Rinas regiment had organized various flights. The personnel participating in the flights were gathered in Zone No. 1, located at the northern end of the airfield. The aircraft were lined up side by side, ready to obey the pilots’ commands and take to the skies. A light rain was falling, enough to halt the flights. The personnel had come out to fly and were waiting for the weather to improve.
My comrades and I, dressed in civilian clothes and light shoes, with military caps on our heads, walked toward the area where the personnel had gathered. In front of the square where foreign civilian aircraft parked at the time, we joined a group of officers from the regiment who were heading the same way. In that group was also the chief of staff of the regiment, Lieutenant Colonel Peço Polena from Korça. Peço held the title of first-class military pilot, but due to health reasons, he had been stripped of his flying privileges and was serving as chief of staff. He was the first Albanian pilot to fly a military aircraft over the skies of Tirana on April 24, 1951.
This day was declared the founding day of the Albanian Air Force and was celebrated on this date for many years. The chief of staff of the regiment was short, thin, with reddish hair and a ruddy, freckled face. Peço was known in social circles as a regular consumer of alcoholic beverages and a cheerful, lively character. As a person and as an officer, Peço Polena was known as kind-hearted and fatherly. When he saw me with my umbrella open, dressed in civilian clothes, the lieutenant colonel put his hands on his hips and “burst into laughter.” He didn’t know my name but jokingly addressed me, saying, “Until today, I had never seen an officer with an open umbrella.” The chief of staff embarrassed me. The officers accompanying him and my comrades laughed at my appearance and the chief’s joke.
Behind the regiment’s staff stood the first flight (zvena), commanded by the commander of the second squadron, First Lieutenant Kosta Neço Dede, a talented pilot, quite intelligent, and very agile. After it was the second flight, commanded by the pilot from Progonat, Second Lieutenant Çobo Ibro Skënderi, and closing the squadron was the third flight, commanded by the pilot Bajazit Qani Jaho, Second Lieutenant from Dunavat in Gjirokastër. The flights were positioned next to each other, separately.
Among the pilots, technicians, and specialists of the same flight, there was no empty space. They were distinguished only by the uniforms they wore. The pilots were dressed in flight suits, like that of the regiment commander. On their heads, they wore officer caps with the distinctive insignia of the aviation branch, and in their hands, each carried a canvas bag containing their pilot’s helmet. The technicians and specialists were dressed in work overalls. The aircraft mechanics wore the same attire. Unlike the officers, they had different caps. At the end of the line stood the liaison personnel, followed by the radio and light operators, and closing the line were the support staff.
At the head of the formation stood a man dressed in an officer’s uniform, with the rank of major visible on his shoulders, and his cap was different from that of the aviation officers. This officer was from Vithkuq in Korça and was named Nasi Kita. He was neither a pilot, nor a technician, nor an aviation specialist, but had come from the infantry units. In our eyes, even though he was introduced as someone fulfilling a highly important party role—that of the regiment’s deputy commander for political affairs—this man didn’t “fit in.” His presence among the ranks of the aviators created a bad taste, as if a goat had wandered into a flock of sheep.
I can’t quite explain this feeling. Perhaps it was tied to our unique specialization, or it stemmed from the fact that pilots had a different status compared to officers who didn’t share our expertise. Somewhere in the staff, mingling among the ranks stood another officer, likely with the rank of major. This officer’s appearance was somewhat peculiar. Of average height and build, middle-aged, well-fed, and sharp, he was bald, seemingly jovial but cunning at heart. He moved like a shadow, approaching and retreating, making small talk with everyone, and everyone reported to him.
I don’t want to use any harsher words, even though this Security officer deserved them. When he met us, the new pilots, after shaking hands, his catchphrase was: “I’ve put in a good word for you.” His goal was to extract some careless remark. The function he served was fed by the State Security. Everyone tried to avoid him and not confront him directly. /Memorie.al
To be continued in the next issue
