Eastern Approaches

by Fitzroy MacLean

  The Prime Minister was installed in an agreeable villa in the Moorish style on the outskirts of Marrakech. He was wearing a bright blue boiler-suit, and, considering how ill he had been a week or two before, appeared remarkably well. It soon became abundantly clear that he had lost none of his old energy or resilience.

  I took no part in the formal meetings of the conference. Indeed I made a special point of not being told more about the proceedings than was absolutely necessary, for in a few days’ time I was due to be dropped back into an enemy-occupied country, where the possibility of being taken prisoner could never be excluded, and, with the Gestapo’s methods of interrogation as good as they were known to be, it was inadvisable for anyone who ran any risk of falling into their hands to know more about the future conduct of the war than was absolutely necessary. The project under discussion was, I gathered, an ‘aquatic hook’ which was to be carried out on the west coast of Italy, not far from Rome, with the object of breaking the deadlock which had set in in the Italian campaign. The operation in question was to become famous not long after as the Anzio landing, but, at that time, my chief concern was to discover how it would affect the employment of Tom Churchill’s Commando Brigade.

  On this point I eventually succeeded in obtaining the assurance I needed. Even if the whole Brigade could not be made available immediately, a token force would be sent to Vis at once and other troops would follow later.

  Soon the conference, having made their plans for an aquatic hook, dispersed, leaving Mr. Churchill to convalesce in peace, though it was a peace that was continually interrupted by the arrival of dispatches and telegrams requiring immediate decisions. He now turned his attention once again to Jugoslav affairs.

  We had just heard that Jajce had fallen to the Germans and that Tito was again on the move. The Partisans, Mr. Churchill felt, needed some encouragement in their time of trouble, and he accordingly sat down and wrote a personal letter to Tito, congratulating him on his past achievements and holding out the hope of future help. This he entrusted to me, with instructions to deliver it personally without delay. In order to expedite my return, he lent me his own aircraft for the first part of the journey, and Randolph and I were soon soaring above the Atlas Mountains on our way to Bari.

  At Bari we found that, although the enemy offensive was still in progress, the military situation was sufficiently stable for it to be possible to fix a map-reference to which we could be dropped. The point chosen was near Bosanski Petrovac, in Bosnia. At this time of year the weather over Jugoslavia was so bad that weeks might pass without there being an opportunity for a night drop, and by then the military situation might again have deteriorated. I was in a hurry to get back and it was accordingly decided that we should go in at once by day with a fighter escort. For this purpose we were allotted a Dakota troop-carrying aircraft and an escort of a dozen Thunderbolts. With me came Randolph, Sergeant Duncan, my new wireless operator, Sergeant Campbell, another signaller, Corporal Iles, and Slim Farish, who had just returned from a lightning visit to the United States.

  This time our drop lacked the feeling of plunging into the unknown which had lent such zest to my original venture. It was a fine morning and we ate a large breakfast of bacon and eggs before taking off from Bari airfield. Soon we had crossed the by now familiar Adriatic and were over the Jugoslav mainland, but there were no signs of life from the anti-aircraft batteries and no enemy fighters ventured to try conclusions with the Thunderbolts. Then came the mountains, and some cloud. By now we were not far from our destination and it was time to adjust our parachutes. I felt for the Prime Minister’s letter. It was there, securely buttoned inside my tunic. Then the doors were opened and the dispatcher signed to us to get into position.

  I had decided to jump first with the others following in a ‘stick’, and I now took my place at the open door with Randolph next to me. Looking down, I could see the houses of a village, with, near them, an open expanse of green grass. A number of figures were running about, and, as I watched, the signal fires were lit and smoke billowed up from them. It all looked very close and I could not help wondering whether we were high enough for our parachutes to open before we reached the ground. Then the light turned from red to green; the dispatcher touched me on the shoulder, and I fell forwards and downwards into space.

  Chapter X

  Back to Bosnia

  I WAS right: we had been dropped from very low indeed; no sooner had my parachute opened, than I hit the ground with considerably more force than was comfortable. Looking up, I saw Randolph coming down almost on top of me. The expression of satisfaction which dawned on his face as he realized that his parachute had opened rapidly gave way to one of disgust as he glanced down to see the ground rushing up to meet him. Then, narrowly missing a telegraph pole, he came to rest with a sudden bump in a patch of melting snow and mud. A little further away Slim Farish and the rest of the ‘stick’ were landing at intervals of a few yards from one another — a neat bit of grouping on the part of the pilot, though personally I should not have minded if we had had a little more height to spare.

  But we were not left long to reflect on such technicalities. Already John Selby, in the role of master of ceremonies, was upon us. Six weeks with the Partisans, which had included several forced marches, had, I noticed, made him a good deal less portly, and changed him in appearance from an immaculate Wing-Commander to something between a brigand and a dispatch rider. But his salute was as spectacular and his manner as urbane and soothing as ever. With him came Slavko Rodić, tall, pale and elegant with a neat dark moustache. His troops had provided the reception party for my first drop at Mrkonicgrad and were now performing the same service again.

  They had not greatly changed. Weather-beaten and battle-stained, they wore the usual medley of captured enemy equipment and uniforms, only now there was here and there a suit of British battle-dress, a pair of boots, a Mills grenade or a Sten gun as a token of our aid. No sooner had my feet touched the ground, than a guard of honour was formed, ready for me to inspect. From the violence of their ceremonial drill it was clear that they more than made up in keenness for anything they might lack in orthodoxy of appearance.

  Then horses were brought and Rodić and I, having played our part in the ceremony, sprang into the saddle and set off at a gallop up the road to the village, followed by the rest of the party, while the guard of honour turned to the task of collecting the containers of supplies which had been dropped at the same time as we had.

  Bosanski Petrovac lies on the verge of one of the rare stretches of flat grassland in the highlands of Bosnia. On the far side, perhaps two or three miles away, was a range of dark hills, and in front of us, as we rode, the ground rose again, sloping gently up towards the village, which itself was built on the side of a hill, a typical Bosnian hamlet with its wood and plaster cottages.

  In the upper room of one of these a meal had been prepared. It was a good meal, though not so good, our hosts explained with engaging frankness, as the one they had prepared the day before and then eaten themselves when they found we were not coming. At any rate we were hungry and did justice both to the stew which they gave us and to the local slivovica.

  As we ate, I discussed plans with Slavko Rodić. The military situation was still fluid, and Tito and his staff were living in the woods until they could find somewhere to re-establish their H.Q. I wanted to see Tito as soon as possible, and Rodić said that he would take me to him himself. After Slim Farish, Randolph and the others had been installed in a peasant’s house with instructions to stay where they were until further notice, we set out. It was getting dark as we rode down the village street and lights were beginning to twinkle in some of the windows.

  Slavko had always prided himself on having good horses, and the two which we rode were admirable. The escort, which accompanied us, were also well mounted and we pushed along at a brisk pace. It was getting dark when we left, and, as we reached higher ground it grew colder and the snow lay deep on the track
we were following through the forest. The snow deadened the sound of our horses’ hooves, and, in the darkness, you could only dimly discern the form of the horse and rider in front of you. As I rode, muffled in the warm privacy of my greatcoat, I turned over in my mind the various points which I had to discuss with Tito. Then Slavko, who had been riding with the rearguard, caught up with me, and we fell to talking of our lives before the war and of what we hoped to make of them when the war was over. In peace time he had been some kind of engineer or surveyor; now, still in his twenties, he was a Partisan leader; when the war was over, if he survived, there would be work of some kind for him to do in the new Jugoslavia. That this new Jugoslavia would emerge triumphant, whatever the obstacles to be overcome, was for him, as for them all, a certainty, and had so been from the first.

  We had a long way to go, and, even though we rode fast, it was after midnight when, in the thickest part of the forest, we were suddenly challenged by an unseen sentry. We gave the password and our names and, having done so, were allowed to proceed. It was still snowing and, as we rode on, we could make out lights dimmed by the falling snow, shining among the trees, and, going towards these, came on a group of wooden huts. A Partisan took our horses, and another, recognizing me, came forward and said that Tito was waiting up and wanted to see me as soon as I arrived. If I would come he would take me to him.

  Picking our way through the trees, we came to a small, roughly built hut of freshly sawn planks. Inside, a light was burning. A sentry, on guard at the door, made way for me, and I went in.

  As he came forward to meet me, I saw that Tito no longer had on the plain dark tunic and breeches which he used to favour, but was wearing instead a kind of uniform with, on his sleeve, a roughly embroidered laurel leaf encircling a star. Since our last meeting, the Anti-Fascist Council, meeting at Jajce, had bestowed on him the specially created rank of Marshal of Jugoslavia, at the same time setting up a ‘provisional Government’ in which he occupied the dominant position. When I congratulated him on this honour he seemed slightly embarrassed. ‘They would do it,’ he said, and smiled deprecatingly. For a moment it occurred to me that, while characteristically enjoying the magnificence of his new title, he perhaps at the same time rather regretted the days when, holding no other office save that of Military Commander of the Partisan forces, he had been known to all by an unadorned nickname. Then we sat down; food and drink were brought, and we started to talk.

  We had much to tell each other. As a start, I handed. Tito the letter which I had brought him from the Prime Minister. He had had no warning of it, and I watched his face closely to see how he liked it, as one watches a child with a new toy.

  There could be no doubt of the effect. As he broke open the seal, and, unfolding the crisp sheet of heavy paper within, saw the address of 10 Downing Street at the top and the Prime Minister’s signature at the foot, a broad smile of unaffected delight spread slowly over his face, which became broader still when he found a large signed photograph of Mr. Churchill in a separate envelope. I offered to translate the letter for him, but he insisted on trying to make it out on his own, turning to me for help over the more complicated passages, and giving way to fresh demonstrations of pleasure as he came to complimentary references to the prowess of the Partisans and promises of Allied assistance. He was clearly very much pleased.

  He had reason to be. Tito’s career up to now had taken him underground, behind the scenes. He had been perpetually in conflict with the established order. Despite this, perhaps because of this, he attached great importance to outward appearances. Already the revolutionary process which he had set in motion was carrying him, the revolutionary, upwards and onwards towards a new established order which, ultimately, would take the place of that which was being overthrown. The high-sounding title of Marshal of Jugoslavia which had been bestowed on him by his own people was an outward and visible sign of this, even though its recipient might still be hiding in the mountains and forests. But, hitherto, he had received but little recognition from the outside world. The Germans, it is true, had put a price, and a very high one, on his head, but the Great Powers, whose ally he was, had been slow to discern in him and his Movement a force to be taken into account; even the Russians showed little active interest in him. Now, at last, with the arrival of Mr. Churchill’s letter, he was beginning to come into his own internationally. He was in direct and formal communication with one of the Big Three, with the Prime Minister of a Great Power. Mr. Churchill made it clear that he regarded him as an ally and as such promised him all possible help. Moreover he invited him to correspond with him through me on all matters of importance. This was no longer so very far removed from official recognition. It was at any rate a very big step forward.

  Next I gave Tito some account of the greatly increased assistance which he was now to receive. I told him in detail of the steps which were being taken to improve the existing system of air supplies and air support; of the scheme for training his men as pilots and tank-crews. He was delighted and said that he would immediately set about collecting good men from all over the country to be trained. These he would then have smuggled down to the coast and shipped across the Adriatic by schooner.

  Then I asked what progress the German offensive was making. He replied that the first fury of the German attack had spent itself without the enemy being able to win a decisive success.’ Now the Partisans, having once again successfully denied the enemy a target, were beginning to hit back all over the country, and the Germans were getting as good as they gave. The trouble was that his men lacked everything: food, clothing, boots, ammunition. He could only hope that the promised supplies would come before it was too late. Meanwhile the situation had to some extent been stabilized locally, and he expected to be able to move his Headquarters before long to the neighbourhood of Drvar, a part of Bosnia which had long been outstandingly faithful to the Partisan cause.

  Finally we talked of the islands and of the prospect of converting Vis into a firm base from which we could harass the enemy and smuggle across supplies to the mainland. The other islands had by now all been occupied by the Germans, and we agreed that we should need to act quickly if we were to be in time to save Vis from their fate.

  We talked till the early hours of the morning. Then, bidding Tito good night, I followed one of the guards through the snow to the hut which had been allotted me. Gordon Alston and Hilary King, my new signals officer, were lying asleep in some straw which was spread on a kind of shelf stretching the whole length of the hut. Waking, they told me of their adventures since their hurried departure from Jajce. A Partisan with immense moustaches was sitting by an improvised stove, stoking it from time to time, and in the intervals inspecting by its light the recesses of his shirt, which he had taken off and was examining with meticulous care. ‘Uši’, he said resignedly. ‘Lice.’ I took the canvas Foreign Office bag in which I had brought the Prime Minister’s letter, filled it with straw to make a pillow, wrapped myself in my greatcoat and was soon asleep.

  Next morning we were wakened with a mug of captured ersatz coffee and a mess tin of yellow maize porridge by the bewhiskered Partisan, who, in addition to being my bodyguard also fulfilled the roles of cook and batman. Having eaten my breakfast, I cleaned out my mess tin and used it for boiling some snow-water on the stove, to shave in. It was an agreeably compact mode of life, with no time, space or energy wasted on unnecessary frills.

  The days that followed were uneventful. We led a patriarchal existence in our huts in the forest. All round, the snow lay deep. I ate with Tito and his staff, several of whom had now blossomed out as Cabinet Ministers. Kardelj was Vice-Premier; Father Vlado, Minister of the Interior; and so on. After much drafting and re-drafting, a reply to Mr. Churchill’s letter was composed and sent off over my wireless.

  Then, one evening, with the suddenness which always characterized such moves, it was announced that we were leaving the same night for the new Headquarters. The message added that the Marshal would be gla
d if I would travel in his special coach — an invitation which I was at a loss to understand until, on making inquiries, I discovered that my old friend the Partisan Express had somehow survived the offensive and been brought to a nearby siding and that it was in this that we were going to travel.

  Sure enough, when the time came, there it was, the same as ever, whistling gaily and puffing out clouds of sparks, but with the addition of a large specially built wooden box-wagon, which looked exactly like one of our huts on wheels. Into this we all bundled: Tito, the dog Tigger, several members of the Cabinet, Olga, Alston and King, Tito’s bodyguard and myself.

  Our short train journey had an improbable, dreamlike quality, which even while it was actually in progress, made it hard to believe that it was really happening. From the inside, Tito’s special coach was even more like a hut than from the outside, with an open stove in the middle and benches round the wall. The stifling heat of the stove induced sleep. The benches on the other hand were just too narrow to sleep on with any security. On the floor lay Tigger, in a bad temper and snapping at everyone’s ankles. At last, after a great deal of fussing and settling down, he went to sleep, only to be woken again almost immediately by a Cabinet Minister falling off one of the benches on top of him, whereupon pandemonium broke loose. It was not a restful journey, but, as Tito pointed out, it was the only train in Jugoslavia in which you could travel with reasonable certainty of not being blown up.

  Eventually, some hours before dawn, we arrived, and, detraining, set out with a guide to look for our new quarters. After what seemed a long walk in the dark through muddy half-frozen fields, we found them; a little cluster of wooden houses on the side of a hill. In one of these had been installed a system of double-decked wooden sleeping-shelves, sufficient to accommodate the whole Mission. The owner of the house, an elderly peasant, announced with considerable pride that the whole contraption was ‘specially reserved for President Churchill himself’, who was shortly expected on a State visit to Marshal Tito — presumably a garbled reference to Randolph’s impending arrival. But we were too tired to argue with him and, undeterred by his warnings, we stretched ourselves out in a row on the bottom shelf and were soon heavily asleep.