Next we visited the waterworks and power-station, stumbling upon them by mistake at the foot of the cliff behind the town where a spring of water gushed suddenly from the face of the rock. The plant and the shed that housed it were undamaged and working away merrily, dispensing water and light indiscriminately to Fascist and anti-Fascist alike. As the engineer in charge, who had worked for both sides, explained to us, the Germans had not bothered to demolish the installation when they were driven out, because they knew they would be back soon and wanted to find it in working order when they returned. In this they were disappointed, for some weeks later the retreating Partisans blew it sky high.
Livno was a notorious Ustaša stronghold and we found the population surly and ill-disposed to both Allies and Partisans. Even the cajolery of Sergeant Duncan, generally infallible, and backed with the offer of a golden sovereign, could not prevail on our landlady to provide us with food from her well-stocked larder. She remained aloof amongst the pictures of the Führer, the lace antimacassars and the religious oleographs in her prim little parlour, preparing for herself and eating enormous meals and twanging provocatively on a large shiny yellow mandolin, decorated with a bunch of ribbons in the colours of the independent State of Croatia. Clearly appeasement formed no part of her nature.
Looking back, I suppose that her conduct was in fact heroic and dignified. At the time and on an empty stomach, I must confess that I found it extremely irritating, which is doubtless just what it was intended to be. Later we discovered that, as soon as I left, she had sent a messenger to the nearest German Commander informing him of my movements. She was, at any rate, nothing if not consistent. We christened her The Little Ray of Sunshine.
Having failed to get anything to eat at home, we turned to the Partisans who, after a whispered discussion, at once made us members of their Town Major’s mess. This functionary turned out, somewhat surprisingly, to be an elderly general of immense distinction of manner. His career had been consistent in one respect only. Throughout his life he had remained a regular officer, though not always in the same army. He had held his first commission in the forces of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, in which he had fought against the Serbs and the Italians in the First World War. After the defeat of Austria in 1918 he had joined the Royal Jugoslav Army in which he had, during the twenty years between the wars, risen to be a general. On the dismemberment of Jugoslavia in 1941 he had thrown his lot in with Pavelić who had made him a general in the Domobran. Then on second thoughts, prompted perhaps once again by the course of events, he had gone over to the Partisans, who, with commendable caution, while leaving him his rank of general, by which, I suspect, they were not unimpressed, had given him an appointment where his actions were unlikely materially to affect the course of hostilities.
The general (he and I invariably addressed each other as Excellency) made a charming host. He was, he said, only sorry that he could not entertain us in a manner more worthy of such distinguished guests. His present establishment was a very squalid affair compared with the old days in Vienna before 1914. In his regiment they had had silver plate and champagne every night. Even in Belgrade, between the wars, things had not been too bad. Now, he missed all that. Indeed there was much about Partisan life that he actively disliked; sleeping out, or in bug-infested hovels, being constantly on the move, and the table-manners of his brother officers.
At the moment he had another cross to bear. After his long and varied military career he had retained strong feelings on at any rate one subject: he very much disliked the Italians. He had fought them on the Isonzo in 1917. He would like to have fought them over Fiume in 1921. They had come yapping and snapping into Jugoslavia at the heels of the Germans in 1941. They had, even from the point of view of the Domobran, been unsatisfactory to collaborate with. For an all too short period, after he first joined the Partisans, he had once again had the pleasure of fighting them. Now they had capitulated, and some Italian units had actually joined the Partisans. To his disgust they were once again his allies. On top of everything else, an Italian Colonel had now been quartered on him and was actually going to sit down to lunch with us. ‘Here he is — the swine,’ he added as the smartest Italian officer imaginable, complete with varnished boots and rows of medals for valore, bowed his way into the room and introduced himself all round as Colonel V … commanding the Garibaldi Brigade.
The meal that followed was highly diverting. The General and the Colonel had no language in common; but this did not prevent them from wishing to communicate, or rather argue, with each other, and my services were soon enlisted as an interpreter. Battle by battle, we re-fought, in Serb, Italian and sometimes German, the Isonzo campaign of 1917, in which, it now appeared, the Colonel had also taken part on what he called the Allied side, pointing proudly to the ribbon of the Military Cross which nestled snugly next to that of the Iron Cross on his much decorated chest.
Soon mutual accusations of cowardice, treachery and barbarity were flying freely back and forth, only partially mitigated in the process of translation. When we reached the present war, the fun became faster and more furious, for now the mess waiter, a gigantic, bewhiskered Serb who had been a Partisan ever since 1941, plunged into the dispute, feeling, no doubt, that he was able to put the Partisan case rather better than his General. ‘Here, hold this!’ he would say, handing the dish of stew to his assistant, a fair-haired, well-built Partisan girl, her shapely body straining the buttons of a very tight dark green captured German tunic, and the usual couple of hand-grenades dangling from her belt. ‘Hold this, while I explain to the Comrade General what really happened.’ Soon the discussion became general, more Partisans came in and sat down, the stew went out of circulation altogether and in the ensuing confusion we managed to slip away.
Dinner that night was a repetition of the midday meal and by next morning I had come to the conclusion that if I stayed in that mess for very much longer I should have a nervous breakdown. Besides, it was imperative that I should reach the coast before it was too late. We went round to see Milić, only to be told that he was away on a reconnaissance. There was nothing for it but to wait another day.
We walked out into the Livansko Poljc and looked at some ancient white Turkish tombs, topped with stone turbans. We made a tour of the defences and looked at the turf-covered ‘bunkers’ in which the Germans and Ustaše had made their last stand. We were shown the place where a twelve-year-old girl had dropped a hand-grenade into the turret of a German tank, killing the crew to a man. We talked to innumerable citizens of Livno, some of whom liked the Partisans, while some clearly preferred the Germans and others frankly didn’t care, but wished that both sides would go away and leave them to earn their living in peace.
I talked, too, at length, with the Italian Colonel. He was delighted at finding someone who could speak his own language, and to whom he could at last unburden himself freely and I was also glad to have an opportunity of talking Italian again after so many years. His chief concern, I soon found, was to get himself and his men back to Italy, whither their General, who evidently believed in leaving nothing to chance, had already preceded them in the first aeroplane he could find. The Colonel made no attempt to disguise his horror of the Partisans, or bolscevicchi as he called them. They had, he said, been terrible enemies, and now he had no wish to fight for them, or indeed for anyone else; he simply wanted to go home. I asked him if he had come across the Četniks of General Mihajlović. At this he brightened. He said that, although the rank and file were sometimes undisciplined and gave trouble, he had always found the Četnik leaders very civilized and easy to deal with. Indeed one of the best parties he remembered since the beginning of the war had been given at his General’s Headquarters to celebrate the award of the Karadjordje Star by King Peter to Pop Djuić, one of Mihajlović’s principal Commanders in Dalmatia. What had made it all the more enjoyable, he added, was that this high decoration had been bestowed upon Djuić for gallantry in the face of the enemy, and there he was in person
carousing at enemy Headquarters. That, the Colonel commented contemptuously, bursting with national pride, was the sort of thing that could only happen in the Balkans.
When we got back to our billet, we found that a signal had come in over the wireless from Cairo. I had arranged that only urgent and important messages should be passed to me while I was on my way down to the coast, and so we looked at it with some interest. As we read it, our interest turned to amazement. The message was largely corrupt, but one sentence was quite clear. ‘King now in Cairo,’ it read, ‘Will be dropped in to you at first opportunity.’
It could only mean one thing. For some time London had been concerned to effect a gradual rapprochement between King Peter and the Partisans. As a first step, I knew, the King was to move to Cairo, where it was felt, for some reason, that he would be better placed than in London to know what was going on in his own country. I had been kept informed, step by step, of the progress of these deliberations. But now, clearly, someone on a high level, Mr. Churchill perhaps, or possibly King Peter himself, had lost patience and decided to take the bull by the horns, and without more ado to precipitate the King headlong into the seething centre of the Jugoslav cauldron.
We were dumbfounded. The way had not been prepared at all. We had no means of telling how the Partisans would receive the King. In my conversations with Tito I had so far hardly touched on the extremely ticklish subject of the monarchy. My own guess was that if King Peter dropped without warning from a British aeroplane, the Partisans would simply hand him back to me and ask me to get rid of him again, which under existing circumstances would be easier said than done. Our minds boggled at the thought of the embarrassing situations which might arise.
My first thought was to get into touch with Cairo and find out what they really had in mind, but our wireless, temperamental as ever when most badly needed, now suddenly refused to emit a flicker. There was nothing for it but to wait and see.
Meanwhile Milić had returned from his reconnaissance and we went round to see him. He looked tired and worried. Once again the maps were brought out and we traced the progress of the German pincer movement. It had been all too rapid. The two claws had now joined up and the way to the coast was blocked. He himself had had a hard time getting back to his Headquarters. It would, he said, be out of the question for us to attempt the journey. The last courier from the coast had only just managed to get through.
I prepared for an argument. His last remark gave me the opening I wanted. If a courier could get through, I said, I could get through. He replied, with some justice, that it was not at all the same thing. The Germans were firmly established across our route and the only way of reaching the coast was to get through their lines at night. If we were taken prisoner or killed, he would get into trouble. At this I reminded him that my journey to the coast had been planned with Tito personally and that future supplies for the Partisans depended largely on my getting there. This seemed to shake him and I followed up my advantage. In the end he agreed that I should press on as far as Aržano which the Partisans were known to be still holding, and see for myself what arrangements I could make for my onward journey from there.
I was convinced that we should get through somehow and it seemed to me most important to maintain at all costs the principle of our freedom of movement. At the same time, even supposing that Milić had exaggerated the difficulties of the onward journey for our benefit, there was clearly a good chance of our running into an enemy patrol, in which case we should look very foolish if both Vivian and myself were taken prisoner. I accordingly decided to send Vivian back to Jajce with the bulk of the kit, and to go on to the coast myself, taking with me John Henniker-Major and Duncan. We left Livno in the early afternoon. With us came the Professor, a schoolmaster from Split with a remarkable talent for languages, whom I recruited at Livno and who was to be attached to one or other part of my Mission for the remainder of the war, covering immense distances on foot and enduring hazards and hardships most unusual in the career of a peace-loving man of letters.
Chapter V
Road to the Isles
WE were to travel by truck as far as Aržano. After we had gone a very short distance it became evident that our driver did not know the way. This was disturbing, for the situation was still extremely fluid and no one seemed very certain of the exact extent of the enemy’s advance.
The next village which we entered at full speed turned out to be still occupied by Italians. With the exception of the Colonel at Livno they were the first I had seen since the capitulation and for a moment the sight of their grey-green uniforms, so long the mark of an enemy, took me by surprise. Then they flocked forward, clenching their fists in the Communist salute and I remembered that we were amongst friends or at any rate co-belligerents.
I talked to several of them while the driver once again asked the way. They were the usual friendly peasants whose chief concern was to get out of Jugoslavia, with its unpleasant memories, and back to ‘la Mamma’ in Italy. I felt somehow that, despite the heroic echoes of their name, the Garibaldi Brigade which the Partisans were trying to form would not be an unqualified success from a military point of view. They had clearly not much enjoyed fighting for the Germans and the prospect of now fighting against them filled them with alarm and despondency.
Meanwhile the nature of the country through which we were passing had begun to change. The grey rocks and crags of Dalmatia were gradually taking the place of the wooded hills and green valleys of Bosnia. Everywhere there were traces of the recent fighting. The bridges were down and, scattered along the road and in the stony fields were burnt-out tanks and armoured cars with German, Italian and Croat markings. Towards evening, after a good deal of casting about, we came to Aržano, a few tiny white-washed houses, clinging to the side of a hill. Across the valley, dark against the setting sun, rose the first of the ranges of hills, which lay between us and the coast.
We were made welcome by the local Brigade Commander and his Political Commissar, two hilarious characters with heavy moustaches, almost indistinguishable the one from the other. Brigade Headquarters were sitting down to their evening meal. We pulled out our mess tins; they were filled with stew and black bread and a bottle of rakija was opened.
While we were eating, we explained who we were and what we were doing and broached the subject of our onward journey. To my relief the Brigade Commander seemed to take it as a matter of course that people with urgent business to transact should slip through the German lines at night. For the greater part of the way, he said, it was simply a question of knowing the lie of the land and dodging German patrols. There was only one place where we were likely to run into trouble. That was a road which we should have to cross and which was strongly held by the enemy.
We produced our map. He gave us in some detail an account of the latest fighting, and a plan was made without further ado. We were to be given two dozen men who would act as guides and escort during the first part of the march. When we reached the road, they would cause a diversion while we slipped across. Thereafter we would make our way by ourselves to a house in a certain village, where we would find reliable men who would put us on the right road to the coast.
This seemed a good plan in the best Fenimore Cooper tradition and before we set out a good many healths were drunk to the success of our venture. Then some songs were sung; plaintive Dalmatian folk songs, rousing Partisan marching songs, bitter Communist political songs, and, in our special honour, ‘Tipperary’ in Serbo-Croat by an old gentleman who remembered (rather dimly) hearing it sung on the Salonika front in 1917.
The last chorus was still ringing out as our little party wound down the hillside in the gathering dusk. From the west, where the daylight was dying away behind the hills for which we were making, came the flash and boom of some fairly large guns. The fighting was flaring up again.
At first our way lay through the cultivated land of the valley. Then we started climbing, still through muddy fields, up the long slope oppo
site. At the top we had our first halt. We had been going for about three hours and from now onwards we would have to march as silently as possible. Hitherto a couple of pack-ponies had carried our kit and the wireless set. Now, to avoid making more noise than was essential, we sent these back and divided the load amongst the members of our own party. After we had started on our way, we could still hear for some time the gradually fading sound of hoof-beats in the distance.
Soon we were over the crest and picking our way down a precipitous track towards the next valley. Somewhere beneath us lay the road with its German patrols. Under foot the loose jagged stones clattered noisily against each other. There was no moon and in the dark there could have been no worse surface to walk on for heavily laden men trying not to be heard. In single file the long procession wound its way painfully downwards in the pitch darkness, stopping from time to time to listen.
After several false alarms of enemy to the front, to the rear and on both sides, and many whispered confabulations, we reached the bottom, and there parted with our escort who filed off to create their diversion.
How they fared, we never knew. After some time had elapsed, there were ‘noises off’ from which those of us who remained concluded that the attention of the enemy was fully engaged elsewhere, and, taking advantage of the opportunity thus offered us, slipped down to the road and across its broad white dusty surface.
Once we were all safely on the other side, we mustered our diminished force and continued on our way, this time through dense bushes and scrub. All of a sudden a new obstacle blocked the way; a fast flowing river, too wide and too deep to be fordable. By now we had been marching for six or seven hours over rough country in the dark, and we were glad to sit down while someone was sent to look for a means of getting across. But waiting was a cold business, and we were not sorry when, half an hour later, our scout returned to say that further down-stream there was an old man who would put us across on a raft.
Eastern Approaches Page 40