Eastern Approaches

by Fitzroy MacLean

  The weather was fine when we started, and we skimmed across the Adriatic, just above the crests of the waves, keeping well out of the way of marauding enemy fighters. As we approached the coast, we began to climb, leaving Vis, Korčula, Hvar and the other islands far below us. There was cloud over the coast, but this time it was not so thick, and through the gaps we could see the town and harbour of Split, with its dockyards and shipping spread out beneath us. Evidently we, too, could be seen from the ground, for almost immediately shells from the city’s anti-aircraft batteries began to burst round us in white puffs of smoke.

  Soon we had left the coast behind us and were in the hills, flying over the same barren, rocky country through which I had tramped on my way down to the coast in the autumn. From the air the mountain tracks were discernible as thin lines winding across the grey rock face. But as we flew inland, the cloud grew thicker and patches of snow began to show on the hillsides. Caught in sudden air currents, the little bomber lurched and jolted sickeningly. For several minutes at a time we would be flying through dense white cloud, then, with unnerving suddenness, a dark hill-top would plunge into view alarmingly near, and the pilot would swing the aircraft upwards or sideways to avoid it. I held on tight.

  Peering first out of the side window and then, rather gingerly, through the gaping hole in the floor, I tried to make out where we were. I could see nothing but a blanket of mist, with, projecting from it, half a dozen nondescript mountain spurs. I was contemplating these gloomily, when a buzzing from the intercom, indicated that the pilot wanted to talk to me. I put on the headphones.

  ‘We’re over the place now,’ he shouted. ‘Hold on tight, I am going to try to get under the cloud.’

  I held on tighter than ever. There followed some minutes of plunging and swerving through white obscurity. Then the intercom, buzzed again.

  ‘It’s no good,’ the pilot said. ‘I can’t make it. We may as well go home.’

  It was maddening to think of the Partisans with Robin Whetherly and Bill Deakin standing in the snow a few hundred feet beneath us, listening to the sound of our engines as we circled round and peering upwards through the mist. I was wearing a parachute and for a moment I considered an impromptu jump. But, apart from the pleasure which it would have given me to see my friends again, this would clearly have served no useful purpose, for the Partisan Mission would have been as far from Cairo as ever. So, reluctantly, I signified my agreement to the pilot, and once again we turned for home.

  Even now our troubles were not at an end. Crossing the Adriatic we found the whole of southern Italy enveloped in a vast thunderstorm. The rain streamed down in torrents and great mountains of dark cloud, shot with lightning, towered over the coast. At Lecce we found we could not land because of low cloud. From the ground they suggested that we might try Foggia, a hundred and fifty miles to the north. There, we found visibility no better than at Lecce. Meanwhile it was getting dark and our petrol was running out. There was nothing for it but to make the best landing we could and trust to luck. As we finally skidded to rest on a waterlogged airfield, after prolonged circling through successive layers of cloud and rain, I felt that I had had enough flying for one day.

  The next forty-eight hours we spent grounded at Foggia in a downpour of rain, vainly trying to communicate with the outside world over a singularly shaky field telephone. When, two days later, we finally reached Bari, events had taken a new and surprising turn. A signal had been received from Robin Whetherly to say that the Partisans had succeeded in capturing a small German aeroplane intact and were proposing to fly the party out in it at once. There was barely time to warn the R.A.F. and the anti-aircraft batteries not to shoot down a small aircraft with German markings, coming from the direction of Jugoslavia. Then we settled down to wait for news of the party’s arrival in Italy.

  The signal, when it came, was from Bill Deakin, still in Jugoslavia. The news it brought was bad.

  The captured aircraft had duly been brought to the landing-strip outside Glamoć at dusk on the evening before the day fixed for the flight. There, it had been filled with enough petrol, it was hoped, to carry it across the Adriatic. Everything had been done to keep the move secret and to avoid attracting attention.

  At first light on the appointed day the party had assembled on the bleak windswept plain. It was bitterly cold and the engine took some time to start. As the pilot, a deserter from the Croat Air Force, was warming it up, the passengers and those who had come to see them off had gathered round the aircraft, for there was no time to be lost.

  It was at this moment that, looking up, the little group round the aircraft saw, coming over the crest of the nearest hill, a small German observation plane. Before they could move, it was over them, only a few dozen feet above their heads, and, as they watched, fascinated, two small bombs came tumbling out. One fell near where Robin Whetherly and Bill Deakin were standing and without exploding, came trundling over the ground towards them like a football. Robin, who saw it first, clutched at Bill’s arm to warn him and they both threw themselves to the ground. As they did so, the bomb exploded, killing Robin who had not been quick enough. The other bomb burst full on the aircraft, destroying it completely and killing Donald Knight and Lola Ribar, and wounding Miloje Milojević. Then, having dropped his bombs, the German flew off, machine-gunning the survivors as he went. Afterwards we learned that a traitor had warned the enemy, whose nearest outposts were only a few miles away, of what was afoot.

  It was sad news indeed. In Robin Whetherly and Donald Knight I had lost two good friends and two of my best officers. In Lola Ribar the Partisans had lost yet another of their outstanding younger leaders and one who had seemed destined to play a great part in building the new Jugoslavia. For his old father, too, whose other son had been killed in action a few weeks before, it would, I knew, be a crushing blow. We had paid heavily for the two or three weeks which it had taken to reach a decision as to the movements of the delegation. Now one of them was dead and the other wounded and Cairo as far away as ever.

  But the Jugoslavs had not given up the idea of dispatching representatives to Cairo. Velebit, our liaison officer, who had been standing by the aircraft at the time of the bombing, but had somehow escaped injury, was appointed to take Ribar’s place, while Milojević was to go to Cairo, too, wounds or no wounds. Once again I set about trying to find an aeroplane and an escort. Meanwhile, fierce fighting was in progress in Bosnia and the landing-strip at Glamoć seemed unlikely to remain in Partisan hands for much longer.

  This time the operation was given a higher priority, and on the first fine day I set out for Glamoć in a troop-carrying Dakota, lumbering along massively, while half a squadron of Lightnings circled and twisted round us, suiting their pace to ours. John Selby, on his way in to join my Headquarters, was amusing himself by flying the aircraft, while the pilot, who had no doubt heard of his exploits in night fighters and Mosquitoes, looked on in awe.

  The flight, under John Selby’s expert guidance, was uneventful, and presently, having circled the plain of Glamoć and located the signal fires, our Dakota was jolting to a standstill on the uneven turf of the landing-strip, as if it was the simplest thing in the world to land in the middle of an enemy-occupied country in broad daylight.

  The doors were opened and we scrambled out. Snow lay on the surrounding hills and a cold, blustering wind was blowing across the plain. Bill Deakin and Vlatko Velebit came running towards us. Above us the Lightnings circled, on the look out for the enemy. There was no time to be lost. Miloje Milojević, wrapped in a blanket and lying on a roughly made stretcher was hoisted gently into the aircraft and after him Vlado Dedjer, another leading Partisan, who had been dangerously wounded in the head and whose life, it was thought, might be saved by an operation. Next followed Anthony Hunter, who had been with the Croatian Partisans and was coming out to report.

  Finally, at the point of Sergeant Duncan’s tommy-gun, came Captain Meyer of the German Abwehr, who had had the ill chance to b
e captured by the Partisans while on his way to visit a neighbouring Četnik commander, and was now being sent to Italy for expert interrogation.

  On his face was a look of blank amazement, which was perhaps scarcely to be wondered at if you considered his recent experiences. First, the ambush as he was driving peaceably along the road in his car; next his few hours of captivity with the Partisans, with, in the back of his mind, the certainty that death was imminent; then the journey with his hands tied and under escort, to this lonely spot, so well suited for an execution; and finally, when he was convinced that his last moment had come, the sudden appearance in broad daylight of an Allied aeroplane, by which he was evidently going to be removed to an unknown destination. To complete his bewilderment came a cordial handshake from one of the new arrivals who was anxious to make a favourable impression on everyone and had in the confusion taken him for a Partisan.

  As soon as all those who were remaining behind were out and all those who were leaving were inside, the doors were shut, the engines, which had been kept running all the time, roared and we jolted off again in a successful, but somewhat unorthodox take-off. As we rose abruptly into the air, we could see John Henniker-Major, who had come to take charge of the newcomers, striding off at the head of his little party. The first landing operation to be carried out in enemy-occupied Jugoslavia had been successfully completed.

  At Bari, where we landed, feeling rather pleased with ourselves, there was no one to meet us and one or two explosive telephone calls elicited the information that no one had heard of us, that no arrangements had been made for our onward journey and that no aircraft was available to take us to Egypt, where we were due next day.

  This was deplorable. Clearly someone had blundered. I was particularly anxious that the Partisans should be impressed by the smoothness and efficiency of the arrangements which had been made for their reception and it was only too clear that this result was not being achieved. Velebit, restored to civilization for the first time for three years, was looking about him without enthusiasm. Milojević was evidently suffering great pain from his wounds. Dedjer, lying unconscious on his stretcher, his head wrapped in bloodstained bandages, his face a greyish green, his breathing stertorous, seemed on the point of death. The Abwehr man, with Sergeant Duncan’s tommy-gun still in the small of his back and with no one to take him away was still looking bewildered. The pilot and crew of the aeroplane, having done what was required of them, had packed up and were preparing to go off duty.

  Clearly, if we were going to get anywhere, something would have to be done quickly. I put our problem to the captain of the Dakota. He explained that his orders had been to bring us back to Bari and no further. ‘But,’ he added with a broad grin, ‘if you were to give me a direct order to fly you on to Alexandria, it would be impossible for me to refuse. There will probably be a row afterwards, but that will be your look out.’

  This was good enough. The direct order was given with alacrity, and the crew, who clearly fancied the idea of a trip to Egypt, immediately set about filling up with petrol and finding out whether Malta, where we would have to come down, was equipped for night landings. There only remained our German prisoner to dispose of. Eventually, after much searching, two military policemen, resplendent in their red caps, pipe-clayed belts and shining brass, were found to take charge of him, and with these he went off, glad to see the last of Sergeant Duncan and finally convinced, I think, that he was not going to be shot. Then the rest of us, wounded and all, bundled back into the plane; the engines started up; soon we were far out over the Mediterranean.

  Chapter IX

  Turning Point

  AT Alexandria, where we landed at dawn next morning, everything was ready for us. An agreeable villa had been set aside for the Partisans and, as we drove up to the gate, a guard of Riflemen turned out and presented arms with a rattle and crash. An ambulance swept off the two wounded men to hospital. I recognized the work of my old friends Mark Chapman Walker and Hermione Ranfurly, the Commander-in-Chief’s highly efficient Military Assistant and Private Secretary.

  An operation was needed to extract the fragments of the bomb from Miloje’s much scarred body and it would be some days before he would be able to do any work. Vlatko, too, clearly required time to recover from the stress and strain of the last few days and the sudden plunge back into civilization after the long months and years of guerrilla life. Leaving them to settle into their new surroundings, I went up to Cairo to report, taking Bill Deakin with me.

  Cairo was buzzing. In spite of the most elaborate security arrangements, everyone knew that Mr. Churchill and the President of the United States were there. They had arrived a few days before from Teheran, where according to the latest Press releases, there had been a conference with Marshal Stalin. Now, it appeared, a further conference was in progress at which Generalissimo Chiang-Kai-shek would also be present. The whole place was swarming with high officials, admirals, generals and air-marshals. All Whitehall seemed to be there. If we did not get our particular problem cleared up now, we never should.

  The first thing was to see the Prime Minister. We found him installed in a villa out by the Pyramids. He was in bed when we arrived, smoking a cigar and wearing an embroidered dressing-gown. He started by telling us some anecdotes about the Teheran Conference and his meeting with Stalin. This, it appeared, had been a success.

  Then he asked me whether I wore a kilt when I was dropped out of an aeroplane, and from this promising point of departure, we slid into a general discussion of the situation in Jugoslavia. He had read my report, and in its light and in the light of all other available information, had talked over the Jugoslav problem with Stalin and Roosevelt at Teheran. As a result of these talks, it had been decided to give all-out support to the Partisans.

  There remained the question of the Četniks of General Mihajlović, to whom up to then we had been giving rather more help than to the Partisans and to whom a British Military Mission was still accredited. It appeared that evidence from a number of sources, and notably the reports of British officers attached to Četnik formations, confirmed the impression which I myself had gained, namely, that General Mihajlović had for some time past been anything but whole-hearted in his resistance to the Germans; that discipline amongst his forces was poor, and that many of his commanders were collaborating more or less openly with the enemy. In short, his contribution to the Allied cause was by now little or nothing, such operations as were performed being largely the work of the small number of British officers who were attached to the Četnik forces. In the circumstances, it was proposed to give Mihajlović a last chance. He was to be requested through the British Mission attached to his Headquarters, to blow up a certain railway bridge of considerable strategic importance on the Belgrade-Salonika railway. If he failed to carry out this operation by a certain date, the Mission would be withdrawn and supplies to the Četniks would cease. This seemed fair enough.

  I now emphasized to Mr. Churchill the other points which I had already made in my report, namely, that in my view the Partisans, whether we helped them or not, would be the decisive political factor in Jugoslavia after the war and, secondly, that Tito and the other leaders of the Movement were openly and avowedly Communist and that the system which they would establish would inevitably be on Soviet lines and, in all probability, strongly orientated towards the Soviet Union.

  The Prime Minister’s reply resolved my doubts.

  ‘Do you intend,’ he asked, ‘to make Jugoslavia your home after the war?’

  ‘No, Sir,’ I replied.

  ‘Neither do I,’ he said. ‘And, that being so, the less you and I worry about the form of Government they set up, the better. That is for them to decide. What interests us is, which of them is doing most harm to the Germans?’

  Thinking our conversation over afterwards, I felt convinced that this was the right decision. In 1943, the turning-point of the war had been reached, but this was by no means as clear then as it is now. In Italy our
armies were still south of Rome and making but slow progress. The Normandy landings were only a remote project. On the Eastern Front, the Germans still stood at the gates of Leningrad and Moscow. The American war effort was as yet only beginning to get into its stride. In the Far East the Japanese were still undefeated. If we were to make certain of achieving ultimate victory and of achieving it without unnecessarily prolonging the bloodshed and destruction, we could not afford to neglect any potential ally. In 1941, when we stood alone, we had thankfully accepted Russia as an ally, without examining too closely her political system or the circumstances which had brought her into the war on our side. Ever since, we had done everything in our power to bolster up her war effort. Having once taken this major decision of principle, to refuse help to the Jugoslav Partisans on ideological grounds would have been scarcely logical. Nor would it have been an easy decision to defend on any grounds, for we should have been abandoning to their fate, on the basis of a long-term political calculation, brave men, who, whatever their motives, were fighting well and effectively on our side in a desperate struggle against a common enemy. Besides, taking a long view, it seemed just conceivable that in the end nationalism might triumph over Communism. Stranger things had happened in the Balkans.

  But there was one aspect of the situation which was still disturbing Mr. Churchill. In 1941, after Prince Paul had come to terms with the Germans, King Peter of Jugoslavia, still in his teens, had headed the revolt which threw out the Regent and his Government and brought the country into the war on the side of Great Britain, at that time fighting alone against the Axis. Then, when the German invasion and occupation had forced him to fly, he had taken refuge in Great Britain where he had formed a Government in Exile. This Government had from the outset backed Mihajlović and shown a corresponding hostility towards Tito, whom they regarded as a dangerous revolutionary upstart.