Eastern Approaches

by Fitzroy MacLean

  These were ideas which, if they were to come to anything, must be followed up at once. First I must see Tito. Then I must come out of Jugoslavia to report. My signals, it is true, had produced results. But before we could go any further there was still much that needed saying, many points that needed clearing up, the question of the islands among them. And the sooner they were cleared up the better.

  That night we left for the mainland.

  Chapter VII

  Back and Forth

  THE Padre and his friends from the Odbor came down to the harbour to see us off. The news that the German advance was being held had cheered them up, but they were still worried about the future, knowing full well what a German occupation would mean for a civilian population which had sided so whole-heartedly with the Partisans.

  I felt mean to be leaving them at such a time and tried to reassure them by saying that I would do what I could to help. They wished us God speed. It was beginning to get dark. We fitted ourselves into our little boat. The engine spluttered and chugged. We were off.

  Baška Voda, the point from which we had crossed to Korčula, was now in German hands, and this time our destination was Podgora, another little port further to the north. At first we hugged the coast of the island. Then, when it was quite dark, changed our course and made straight for the mainland. Clearly the visit of the M.L. and the events which followed it had put the enemy on their guard, for now their patrol-boats were more active than ever. One of the Partisans had brought a concertina, which he played in a disjointed sort of way, the tune tailing off uneasily as the roving eye of a searchlight came swinging across the water in our direction. We were all suffering, I suppose, from the sensation which it is so difficult to escape on such occasions, and which leads so many fugitives from justice to betray themselves unnecessarily; the unpleasant feeling that you have no business where you are, that everyone is looking for you and that you are immensely conspicuous.

  What, I remember wondering, would happen if they spotted us? Would they hail us and come and investigate? Or would they simply open fire down the beam of the searchlight? It would depend, I supposed, on how much they could see from where they were. Neither prospect was at all agreeable. But fortunately we seemed to be getting out of the stretch of water where the patrol-boats were most active.

  Then, all at once I became aware of the chugging of a powerful engine unpleasantly close on our port bow. Simultaneously the accordion player, who had been in the middle of a spirited rendering of ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’, broke off abruptly. With startling suddenness, the searchlight was switched on and, from quite close to us, a broad white beam started methodically to explore the surface of the sea. In a matter of seconds it caught us, and then, instead of continuing its search, stopped dead and held us dazzlingly illuminated while our little boat bobbed pathetically up and down in the choppy water.

  Never have I had the feeling of being so utterly, so hideously conspicuous. Everyone, I felt, for miles round could see me, and I could see no one, except my immediate companions, also brilliantly illuminated: the accordion player, clutching his instrument as if his life depended on it, John Henniker-Major, looking faintly sheepish, and David Satow, looking, as he always looked, however unpromising the circumstances, every inch a professional soldier.

  There was clearly nothing that we could usefully do except sit still, and so we sat still, counting the seconds and enduring the leisurely scrutiny of the anonymous German sailors at the other end of the beam. Would they, I wondered, notice my Balmoral, and David’s very English and very military-looking hat and the Partisan flag fluttering so unnecessarily at the stern. Seen from close to, we did not look at all like fishermen.

  But I suppose that a guilty conscience made us feel more noticeable than we really were, for, after examining us for what seemed an eternity, the patrol boat switched off its searchlight and chugged off busily to look for evildoers elsewhere. Once again darkness enveloped us; the accordionist struck up a new tune, and we continued on our way, shaken but thankful. The outcome had been an anticlimax, but it was an extremely welcome one.

  We took as a matter of course the usual burst of machine-gun fire which greeted us as we entered the harbour of Podgora and flashed our little lantern what our steersman insisted was the prescribed number of times. Amid a string of oaths, followed by an animated discussion as to the merits and validity of different types of ‘signals’ we scrambled out of our boat and announced that we wished to continue our journey inland that night. We were told that this was inadvisable. At the moment a battle was in progress with a mixed force of Germans and Ustaše from Makarska, a village about a mile up the coast; the situation was confused; the exact position of the enemy was uncertain, and we should do much better to wait until morning before trying to move. As he spoke, the rattle of machine guns and the crash of mortar bombs from further up the road lent force to his words.

  We still had some chocolate brought over by the M.L. and with this we decided to make some hot cocoa, before going on. Having repaired for this purpose to a nearby house, we were about to open the door of the living-room when we were stopped by a worried-looking peasant. There were some very important foreign officers inside, he said. They must on no account be disturbed. Clearly the situation had all kinds of fascinating possibilities and, ignoring the owner’s panic-stricken protests, we pushed past him into the room.

  Two prostrate figures, muffled in German-type sleeping-bags and snoring loudly, were stretched on the floor. We prodded the nearest one gently. It grunted resentfully and, on receiving a further prod, sat up, revealing the tousled head and unshaven chin of Gordon Alston. The other bag contained his wireless operator.

  Gordon had, it appeared, just arrived from Jajce on his way to the islands, bringing me another wireless set and the latest news. He had completed the greater part of this journey in a one-horse shay, driven by a Bosnian Moslem, wearing a tarboosh and looking for all the world like a Cairo gharri-driver. He had had the greatest difficulty in communicating with this strange character and to this day is not sure whether the route they followed led them through country occupied by Partisans or not. As they drove along the inhabitants could be seen peering at them through the cracks of their doors. Nothing he could say or do would make the driver stop in a village for the night. To all Gordon’s entreaties his only reply was to wink broadly, point at the village, and draw his hand meaningly across his throat, at the same time emitting an unpleasant guttural sound. Then he would whip up the horse and they would jolt relentlessly onwards. By the time they reached Podgora both Gordon and the horse were completely exhausted. It had, he said, been a very Balkan journey.

  With them they had brought some mail from home which had been dropped in by parachute. They were the first letters to reach us and soon we were sitting round the stove drinking cocoa and reading them, while outside the sounds of the fighting up the road alternately receded and drew near again. The scenes and memories they evoked seemed somehow very remote.

  Meanwhile there was one problem which needed clearing up immediately. ‘What,’ I asked, ‘about the King?’ ‘What King?’ said Gordon. ‘King Peter,’ I said. ‘Have they dropped him in yet?’ Gordon looked at me as if I had gone mad. Then I told him about the telegram. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that wasn’t about King Peter. That was about your new signal officer. His name is King.’ I felt foolish, but relieved.

  When we set out next morning, the fighting had died down and the enemy had withdrawn to Makarska, which we could see from the road, lying below us in the pale morning sunshine. A little further along we found some Partisans, lobbing shells into it with a captured 150-mm. gun, while from time to time the enemy rather half-heartedly returned the compliment from somewhere below. The remainder of our journey was by Partisan standards uneventful, though enlivened by the usual doubts as to where exactly the enemy was, whether we were on the right road and whether or not we should be able to get through.

  As soon as we arrived at
Jajce I went to see Tito to give him the latest news from the coast and to find out how the Partisans were faring elsewhere. He was fully alive to the threat to the islands and we discussed at length how it could best be countered. The conclusions we reached were not particularly encouraging. Clearly it would be a mistake for the Partisans to attempt more than a series of delaying actions, and this meant that sooner or later first the coastal strip and then the islands would fall into the hands of the enemy. Thus the only hope lay in direct and immediate Allied intervention, which, from all I knew, it would be no easy matter to secure.

  I told Tito of my plan to return to Cairo to report, explaining that this would give me an opportunity of finding out for myself what prospect there was of securing effective Allied support in Dalmatia. I added that I would return as soon as possible. He agreed that this was a good idea and asked whether I would like to take two Partisan officers with me as emissaries of good will. I replied that I should be glad to, provided my twin masters, the Commander-in-Chief and the Foreign Office, agreed. After some discussion, two delegates were chosen, Lola Ribar and Miloje Milojević, and that night Tito brought them round himself to share our evening meal. When they had gone, we agreed that Tito’s choice of delegates had been a good one.

  Miloje Milojević was a fighting soldier. A regular officer in the old Jugoslav Army, he had joined the Partisans at the outset. In the years that followed he had lost an eye and been wounded in almost every part of his body. In recognition of repeated acts of gallantry, he had been made, in an army of brave men, the first and (at that time) only People’s Hero, an award equivalent to our own Victoria Cross. A fierce little man, with a black patch over his eye and a scar on his face, he lived, as far as I could judge, only for fighting. No one who met him could doubt for long that the Partisans meant business.

  Lola Ribar, whom I had met on my way down to the coast, was a different type. He, too, had had his full share of fighting. But his role in the Partisan movement had been primarily political, and, still in his twenties, he was one of the handful of men round Tito who seemed clearly marked out for fame in the new Jugoslavia. His father, Dr. Ivan Ribar, a venerable-looking elder statesman with a fine head of white hair, was one of the Movement’s few links with the old regime. But Lola was an out and out Communist, and now, in a tattered German tunic, with his burning intensity of manner, his bronzed features and his characteristically Slav cast of countenance, he might have served as model for the portrait of a soldier of the Revolution. Once again I welcomed the choice. Young Ribar enjoyed Tito’s confidence and was near enough to the centre of things to know the Party line on any given subject instinctively. He would be able to speak for the Partisans with assurance and authority. At the same time, his personal charm, which was great, and his knowledge of affairs would help to fit him for the task of emissary to the outside world which was totally strange and unfamiliar to most other Partisans, who were only at home in their own forests and villages.

  Next morning I dispatched a signal asking for permission to come out to report, bringing two Partisan representatives with me. I added that it seemed likely that before long we should be completely cut off from the coast and that I hoped that it would be possible to send me a very early reply.

  This, I realized from the start, was a pious hope. Politically, the decision which I had asked the Government to take was not an easy one. For the British authorities to receive Partisan representatives, although in a sense it was the logical sequel of the dispatch of my own Mission, was a step which would arouse the fiercest opposition on the part of the Royal Jugoslav Government, who were our allies and with whom we were in official relations. I pictured to myself the embarrassment which my signal would cause at home, did my best to explain it to Tito and settled down resignedly to a long wait.

  As the days went by, the news from Dalmatia became more and more depressing. The Germans were steadily consolidating their position in the coastal strip and pushing along Pelješac in preparation for an invasion of the islands. Even our carefully prepared but never used landing-strip at Glamoć seemed unlikely to remain in Partisan hands much longer. Soon we should be completely cut off from the outside world. And still there was no reply to my signal.

  In the end I decided to go back to the islands and await developments. Once there, I could easily make my way across the Adriatic by light naval craft or by Partisan schooner to Italy, and, in the meantime, while I was waiting for an answer, I could at any rate watch the military situation from close to. Ribar and Milojević stayed behind, ready to follow as soon as they knew they were wanted.

  I started back to the coast in the first light of a chilly autumn morning. Of the journey I have no special recollection and therefore assume it to have been uneventful. In this I was lucky, for by now the German occupation in strength of this whole area was far advanced and we were fortunate to slip through with so little trouble.

  This time our ultimate destination was the island of Hvar. We reached it after the usual midnight crossing in a fishing boat, landing just before dawn at the town of the same name at the western end of the island. The eastern end was occupied by a small force of the enemy, who had landed there from the mainland and whom it had so far proved impossible to dislodge.

  Hvar was a pleasant enough place. On a hill overlooking the harbour the Spanish fort, a romantic looking castle built by Charles V, stood guard over the town. At its foot clustered crumbling palaces and churches, an arsenal and an ancient theatre — small, but of a magnificence recalling the splendours of Venice and surprising in what is now only a fishing village. Across the bay stretched a chain of small islands and black jagged rocks, sheltering the harbour from the westerly gales and squalls of the Adriatic. It was warm and sunny, a Mediterranean day, typical of Dalmatia and very different from the bleak, wintry weather which we had left inland.

  Just as I had waited on Korčula for news of the Navy, now I waited on Hvar to know whether or not I was to come out and bring the Partisans with me. This time, at least, my wireless was working. We hitched our aerial to a convenient tree and soon a series of plaintive reminders were winging their way to Cairo and London. Would the answer come in time for Ribar and Milojević to reach the coast before it was too late?

  The people of Hvar did their best to make my stay agreeable. Speeches were made, healths drunk and bouquets presented by small, squeaky anti-Fascist children, and there was much talk of victory and liberation. But the military situation scarcely justified much rejoicing, and through all the celebrations there ran an undercurrent of anxiety.

  The last courier from the mainland, though travelling light and by himself, had narrowly escaped capture on his way down to the coast. According to his report, the large-scale German troop movements already in progress would soon make further communications between the coast and the interior practically impossible. The fighting on Pelješac, too, had flared up again, and the improvised hospital on Hvar was filling with fresh wounded, many of them boys and girls of twelve or thirteen, some with their arms and legs crudely amputated, a result of heavy and accurate German mortar-fire. Meanwhile, the enemy force which had landed at the other end of our own island, only a few miles away, though quiescent, were a constant reminder of what was to be expected. In fact, we now heard, it had already happened on the neighbouring island of Mljet, which for some days had been in German hands. The policy of the Germans was clear enough; to consolidate their position on the mainland and then pick off the islands at their leisure one by one. Nor could the Partisans muster locally a sufficient weight of men or equipment to resist this piecemeal encroachment.

  The outlook was far from cheerful.

  Finally the answer to my signal arrived. I was to come out to report forthwith. There was, it appeared, a special reason why I should come to Cairo immediately. Nothing had been decided about the Partisan delegation, who, the signal added nonchalantly, could follow later if required.

  Reading it, I could not help wondering whether the offic
ial who, no doubt after leisurely reflection, had drafted it and placed it in his ‘out’ tray for dispatch, quite realized the difficulties of travel in German-occupied Europe. Already the journey down to the coast was extremely risky and in a matter of days it was likely to become quite impossible. The chances of Milojević and Ribar being able to follow when required seemed poor. I sent off a message to Tito, explaining as tactfully as possible that his delegation would have to mark time for a bit, and then set about making arrangements for my own journey.

  The Navy, I had ascertained, were not prepared to come to Hvar to fetch me; the nearest that they would now venture to the coast being Vis, the most outlying of the whole group of islands. The journey from Hvar to Vis would accordingly have to be made by fishing boat.

  A boat was produced, and at dawn on the following morning, after a night of buffeting on a rather choppy sea, I reached Vis. The M.L. that was to fetch me was not due until the following night, and I had the whole day in which to inspect the island.

  The little town of Vis is built round a fine natural harbour at the northern end of the island. Commanding the entrance to the harbour, perched on rocks, one on each side of its mouth, stand two old forts. Climbing up to one, I found it decorated, surprisingly, with the crown and royal cipher of King George III of England. Its name, they told me, was Fort Wellington, while its companion, across the bay, was called Fort St. George. Both dated from the island’s occupation by the British, who, I now learnt for the first time, had held it for several years during the Napoleonic wars, as had also, strangely enough, the Russians.