Eastern Approaches (37 page)

But I was not the only person who was aware of Vivian’s value. When I told General Wilson that I had chosen him as my second in command, he said that he would rather have let me have anyone else, as he had earmarked him to command a battalion of his own regiment, the Rifle Brigade. However, he eventually agreed to let him
go, feeling, I suspect, that Jugoslavia would be all the better for a judicious sprinkling of ‘Black Buttons’.

Following up this train of thought, Vivian and I next proceeded to select another Rifleman, John Henniker-Major, who had passed into the Diplomatic Service a year or two before the war, but, like myself, had managed to get out of it again and join the Army. He had been shot through the chest while serving with the Rifle Brigade in the desert, but had now fully recovered and was ready for anything. We felt that this combination of military and diplomatic training should be very useful for our kind of job.

In all irregular warfare success depends to a great extent on the skilful use of high explosive, and one of our most important requirements was therefore a really good Sapper as C.R.E. One walked straight into our arms in the shape of Peter Moore, another regular soldier, who, after distinguishing himself during a long spell in the desert where he had won a good D.S.O. and M.C., had been sent to the Staff College and was now spending a few days’ leave in Cairo, looking out for something more active to do. His quest was brought to an end over a drink in the bar of Shepheard’s Hotel, and he was soon scouring the R.E. dumps and depots round Cairo in search of the latest infernal machines for us to take in with us. With him Peter brought Donald Knight, a promising young Sapper subaltern, who had served with him in the desert.

One of our most important tasks seemed likely to be equipping and supplying the Partisans by air. This meant that the post of D.A.Q.M.G., for which we had made room in our Establishment, would need to be particularly well filled. A careful search produced another Sapper, Mike Parker, in civilian life an electrical engineer, who had divided his time in the desert between taking up the latest and trickiest types of German mines and serving as D.A.Q.M.G., Seventh Armoured Division. This sounded the right type of man for the job. We also felt that anyone who had been good enough for Seventh Armoured Division and General John Harding would be good enough for us. We were quite right.

Then there was the question of Intelligence. As soon as it became known amongst the Intelligence experts of G.H.Q. and the War Office
that we were going to Jugoslavia, we were swamped with requests that we should keep various branches supplied with information about enemy order of battle. As we should be living right in amongst the enemy, they said, they reckoned that we should know everything there was to be known about them. To this, we replied, rather doubtfully that we supposed we should, and set about looking for an order of battle expert. This conjured up visions of spectacled intellectuals, admirably suited, no doubt, to poring over captured documents in G.H.Q., but a good deal less well equipped for the life of Balkan brigands which we were looking forward to. It was then that I thought of David Stirling’s Intelligence Officer, Gordon Alston, who has already appeared in these pages as a fairly regular visitor to Benghazi during its occupation by the enemy.

By the time he reached the age of twenty-five Gordon had managed to have a remarkably full life. Having got off to a flying start when he left Eton at seventeen to become a racing motorist in Italy, he had later tried his hand at journalism in France and brewing beer in Germany. Since early in the war he had served in Commandos or Commando-type units. This varied experience had left him with a taste for adventure, a knowledge of foreign languages, and, most conveniently for us, an altogether remarkable flair for military intelligence. In particular, he possessed the gift of being able to piece together a coherent picture of the enemy’s order of battle from half a dozen captured pay books, two or three hat badges, some buttons and a newspaper cutting. We signed him on without further ado, and sent him off on a tour of G.H.Q. collecting maps and other useful information.

Another of my original companions was Robin Whetherly, who had a first-class record as a fighting soldier in the K.D.G.s in the desert and whom, as our only cavalry officer, we promised to put in charge of the first horses, or alternatively armoured vehicles, that we captured.

These, with Duncan (promoted from Corporal to Sergeant for the occasion), Corporal Dickson of the Scots Guards, Corporal Kelly of the Seaforth Highlanders and two specially trained wireless operators, made up our party. At thirty-two, I was, I think, the oldest of them all.

We left behind David Satow, an extremely efficient young staff
officer, and Sergeant Charlie Button to follow on later. Satow was to act as our rear link with G.H.Q., while Button collected chocolate, bacon, marmalade and other delicacies, which we fondly hoped might eventually be dropped in after us.

A few days before we left, we were greeted one morning with the news that we were not a British Military Mission, after all, but had been converted overnight into an Allied one by the addition of an American officer, Major Linn Farish. I was glad of this, as, ever since I had shared a stable with my American colleagues in Moscow, I had had invariably agreeable experience of Anglo-American co-operation, and I also felt that, working as we were in a theatre of war commanded by a Supreme Allied Commander with an integrated Anglo-American staff, there was every advantage in securing American co-operation in the present venture.

We were even more pleased when we met Farish, a large rugged man like a bear, with an amiable grin. He was wearing, we noticed to our surprise, the uniform of a Major in the Royal Engineers. We asked him how this had happened. ‘Why,’ he said, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world, ‘Why, when the war started over in Europe, I felt I just had to get into it, so I joined the British Army; and I’ve never got around to quitting it since the States got into the war.’ ‘Now I’m coming on this job,’ he added, ‘I guess I’ll need to join the United States Army,’ and the next day appeared resplendent in the uniform of a Major in the United States Engineer Corps, but with British parachute wings still on his shoulder. ‘Call me Slim,’ he said, and we did, although the name was singularly inappropriate for one so robust.

We asked him what he could do. He said that he could build aerodromes, an answer that was greeted with loud acclamations. It was, we told him, the one thing that we needed most. The sooner he put an end to the present uncomfortable mode of entry into Jugoslavia the better, especially as it was confined to one-way traffic. He promised to see what he could do, and we told him to be sure that there was a comfortable waiting-room with a well-equipped bar.

From then on Slim Farish was one of us, and Anglo-American cooperation was of the closest. It continued so when, a year later, after
Slim himself had been killed, the Americans decided to send in a full-scale American Mission, and we reverted to our original status.

Our last days in Cairo were spent in feverishly collecting information, weapons, equipment, sleeping-bags, explosives, special portable wireless transmitting and receiving sets, batteries and charging engines; in marking maps and in making signal plans. Absolute secrecy was a most important consideration, as Cairo was known to be full of enemy agents and we had no wish to find the Germans waiting for us when we landed. Very few people, even at G.H.Q., knew our destination, and, for the most part we had to keep up an elaborate pretence of having nothing particular in view. I remembered the reception we had had from a forewarned and forearmed enemy on the occasion of our last visit to Benghazi, and hoped devoutly that this time our security was better.

At last we were ready. There had been a lull in the fighting in Jugoslavia, and a signal arrived to say that the situation was now sufficiently stable for the Partisans to be able to give a definite map reference to which we could be dropped without undue likelihood of finding the Germans there. The place suggested was a secluded valley in the mountains of Bosnia. We were glad to leave the sweltering heat of Cairo for the airfield in Tunisia from which we were to make our entry into Europe.

We went down to the airfield a little before midnight. Our aircraft was still being loaded and a beam of light shone out across the field from its open door. It was a Halifax bomber, and, as we came nearer, we could see the huge dark outline of its wings, four engines and elongated body looming above us against the starlit sky. An R.A.F. Sergeant with an agreeably reassuring manner fitted our parachutes, jerking and easing the webbing straps into position over our shoulders and between our legs. The Station Commander, who had come down to see us off, shook hands with us, his last words lost in the roar of the engines. We climbed in. The doors were shut. We could feel the wheels jolting over the uneven runway. The roaring of the engines grew louder and steadier. We felt the ground slip away from under us. We were airborne.

Inside the aircraft it was cold and dark and stuffy and there was hardly room to move. A gleam of light came from the crew’s cabin, forward. Every spare inch of space was filled with the long cylindrical containers which were to be dropped with us. As best we could, we disposed ourselves to sleep.

I was wakened by a hand on my shoulder. It was the ‘dispatcher’, a Flight-Sergeant with a flowing moustache. For a moment I could not think where I was. Then I remembered. I looked at my watch. It was half-past three. ‘Getting near now,’ the dispatcher shouted in my ear above the roar. ‘Ran into some flak as we were crossing the coast.’ Then he crawled on past us, picking his way through the containers, and we saw him stoop down and pull open the two halves of the trapdoor which covered the circular hole in the floor through which we were to make our exit. The aircraft was losing height rapidly. We readjusted our parachute harness. But it was not our turn yet. The containers had to go first. As they were rolled out, their static lines slapped against the sides of the hole with a noise like gunfire. It was nearly four by the time the last one had gone out. As it disappeared, the dispatcher beckoned to us and Vivian and I scrambled along to him, and made fast the static lines to the special hooks on the inside of the fuselage. I was to go first and Vivian was to follow. Slim Farish and Duncan were to go after that.

I sat on the edge of the hole waiting, with my legs dangling in space. A glance downwards showed some points of light twinkling a long way below — fire signals. Looking up again, I saw that the warning red light was showing. The dispatcher’s hand was raised. Slowly, deliberately, he started to lower it. Then, suddenly, the light turned to green and I jumped out and down, into the breath-taking tumult of the slipstream.

W
ITH
a jerk my parachute opened and I found myself dangling, as it were at the end of a string, high above a silent mountain valley, greenish-grey and misty in the light of the moon. It looked, I thought, invitingly cool and refreshing after the sand and glare of North Africa. Somewhere above me the aircraft, having completed its mission, was headed for home. The noise of its engines grew gradually fainter in the distance. A long way below me and some distance away I could see a number of fires burning. I hoped they were the right ones, for the Germans also lit fires at night at different points in the Balkans in the hope of diverting supplies and parachutists from their proper destinations. As I swung lower, I could hear a faint noise of shouting coming from the direction of the fires. I could still not see the ground immediately beneath me. We must, I reflected, have been dropped from a considerable height to take so long in coming down. Then, without further warning, there was a jolt and I was lying in a field of wet grass. There was no one in sight. I released myself from the harness, rolled my parachute into a bundle, and set out to look for the Partisans.

In the first field I crossed there was still no one. Then, scrambling through a hedge, I came face to face with a young man in German uniform carrying a sub-machine gun. I hoped the German uniform was second-hand. ‘
Zdravo!
’ I said hopefully, ‘
Ja sam engleski oficir!
’ At this the young man dropped the sub-machine gun and embraced me, shouting over his shoulder as he did so: ‘Našao sam generala!’ — ‘I have found the general.’ Other Partisans came running up to look at me. They were mostly very young, with high Slav cheek-bones and red stars stitched to their caps and wearing a strange assortment of civilian clothes and captured enemy uniform and equipment. The red star, sometimes embellished with a hammer and sickle, was the only thing common to all of them. Together we walked over towards the fires,
which I could now see flickering through the trees. The Partisans chattered excitedly as we went.

It was cold and I was glad to get near to the blaze. I found Vivian Street, Slim Farish and Sergeant Duncan there already, none the worse for their jump. Together we piled on more sticks and straw, for there was as yet no sign of the second aircraft in which the rest of the party had started from Bizerta a few minutes after us, and it was important to keep the fires up to guide them in.

Someone gave me an apple. As I was eating it a tall dark young Partisan, whose badges, well-cut uniform and equipment proclaimed him a person of some importance, came up and introduced himself as Major Velebit of Tito’s personal staff. He had, he said, been sent to welcome me and to escort me to Tito’s Headquarters. Having thus greeted me, Velebit lost no time in getting down to business. The Partisans, he said, were glad I had come. They hoped my arrival meant that they would get some supplies. Did the Allies realize that for two years they had been fighting desperately against overwhelming odds with no arms or equipment save what they had been able to capture from the enemy?

It was some time before I could get a word in. Then I told him that it was precisely because the British Government wanted to know more about the situation in Jugoslavia that I had been sent there. Their policy was a simple one. It was to give all possible help to those who were fighting the enemy. This seemed to reassure him, and soon we dropped into the tones of ordinary conversation.

Presently, as we talked, sitting round the fire, it began to get light. It was no longer any use waiting for the other aircraft. It would not come now. We could only hope that the others had not been dropped in the wrong place and were not now in German hands.

The Partisans had collected the supplies which had been dropped from our aircraft and, having loaded them on to peasant carts, were carrying them off to a place of safety. There were German troops in the nearby hills and German aircraft, too, in the neighbourhood, so that the open valley was no place to stay in by daylight. The fires were extinguished; horses were brought, and we set out, accompanied by several dozen Partisans, as escort.

Our way took us along the banks of a rushing mountain stream between high green hills. The sun was shining. From time to time we met peasants who greeted us cheerfully. Vlatko Velebit proved an agreeable companion. Before the war he had been a lawyer and a young man about town. By descent a Serb, he came of a distinguished military family. His father had been a general. He had read and travelled widely. In the early days of the resistance, before coming out to join them in the mountains, he had worked underground for the Partisans in Zagreb and other German-occupied towns — a singularly perilous occupation. In addition to his other qualities he possessed a quick brain and a well-developed sense of humour, both valuable assets in time of war. I was to see a lot of him during the next eighteen months.

After an hour or two’s ride we came to a tiny sunlit village, set high in the Bosnian hills. Its wooden houses clustered round a tree-shaded square. Above them rose the minaret of a mosque. Its name was Mrkonićgrad, or, as Sergeant Duncan called it, Maconachie-grad. In it were the Headquarters of the local Partisan commander, Slavko Rodic, with whom we were to breakfast.

Rodic, a dashing young man of about twenty-five, came out to meet us, riding an officer’s charger captured from the Germans. With him were his Chief of Staff and his Political Commissar, a big jovial Serb with a long flowing moustache. Together we repaired to a peasant’s house where breakfast was ready. At the door a robust sentry armed with a sub-machine gun saluted with his clenched fist. A pretty girl with a pistol and a cluster of murderous-looking hand-grenades at her belt, poured some water over my hands from a jug and dried them with a towel. Then we sat down to breakfast, some dry black bread washed down by round after round of pink vanilla brandy. We discussed all manner of topics, horses, parachuting and politics, but the conversation had, I found, a way of drifting back to the one subject which was uppermost in everyone’s mind: when were the Allies going to send the Partisans some arms?

While we sat there, messengers kept bringing in situation reports from nearby areas where operations were in progress. As they delivered their messages, they too gave the clenched-fist salute.
Somehow it all seemed strangely familiar: the peasant’s hut, the alert young Commander, the benign figure of the Political Commissar with his walrus moustache and the hammer and sickle badge on his cap, the girl with her pistol and hand-grenades, the general atmosphere of activity and expectation. At first I could not think where I had seen all this before. Then it came back to me. The whole scene might have been taken, as it stood, from one of the old Soviet films of the Civil War which I had seen in Paris seven or eight years earlier. In Russia I had only seen the Revolution twenty years after the event, when it was as rigid and pompous and firmly established as any regime in Europe. Now I was seeing the struggle in its initial stages, with the revolutionaries fighting for life and liberty against tremendous odds.

With enemy aircraft and troops patrolling the neighbourhood it was not, it appeared, advisable to continue our journey to the Headquarters until evening, and we for our part were glad of some rest. In a nearby orchard we lay down in the shadow of some plum trees. The sunlight, filtering through the leaves, made a shifting pattern on the grass. The last thing that I remember before going to sleep is the noise of a German aeroplane droning high overhead in blessed ignorance of our presence.

When I woke, the sun was down and it was time to start. The Partisans had a surprise in store for us. Drawn up in the village square was a captured German truck, riddled with bullet holes, but apparently still working. Two or three Partisans were pouring petrol and water into it and another was cranking energetically. A crowd of small children were climbing all over it. An immense red flag waved from the bonnet, though whether to denote danger or to indicate the political views of the driver was not clear. It was a great occasion. Feeling unpleasantly conspicuous, we piled in and drove off.

The track took us along the shores of a lake, with hills running steeply down to it on all sides. We followed it for some miles. Then all at once the valley narrowed and we found ourselves looking up at the dark shape of a ruined castle rising high above the road. Round it clustered some houses, while the lights of others showed from the other side of a mountain stream. From somewhere nearby came the roar of
a waterfall. Still at top speed our driver swerved across a shaky wooden bridge and jammed on his brakes. We had reached our destination: Jajce.

We had hardly stacked our kit in the house which had been allotted to us when Velebit, who had temporarily disappeared, came back to say that the Commander would be glad if I and my Chief of Staff would join him at supper. Clearly a Chief of Staff was a necessity; in fact, while I was about it, I might as well have two, one British and one American. Accordingly both Vivian and Slim Farish were raised to that position. Sergeant Duncan became my Personal Bodyguard, and we set out.

With Velebit leading the way, we re-crossed the river and climbed up to the ruined castle on the hill which we had noticed earlier. As we picked our way through the trees, a Partisan sentry, stepping from the shadows, challenged us, and then, on being given the password, guided us through the crumbling walls to an open space where a man was sitting under a tree studying a map by the light of a flickering lamp.