I remember arriving at nightfall on the outskirts of a little village which I think was called Dobrovo. We had been travelling since early morning. Part of the time John and I had ridden our two horses and some of the time we had walked and given Duncan and Campbell a spell — a proceeding which struck the good Communist Brko, with his strictly hierarchical ideas, as highly improper. In the end, to salve his conscience, he had got off and walked too, leading Draža after him. It had been a blazing hot day and by evening we were all five tired and hungry.
We did not go right into the village, but camped in a little clearing just outside, amongst the trees. Immediately the news got round that we were there and soon we saw the welcome sight of a procession of peasant women arriving with an array of bowls, baskets, jars and bottles. From these they produced eggs and sour milk and fresh bread and a couple of chickens and a roast sucking-pig and cream cheese and pastry and wine and peaches and grapes, which they laid out on the ground. Then they squatted round to watch us eat, plying us meanwhile with innumerable questions: Were the Allies winning the war? Had we come for good, or would the Germans come back again?
Most of them were rosy-cheeked, stolid-looking creatures, broad in the beam, with thick arms and legs, but amongst them, I noticed, was one exceptionally pretty girl, slim and dark, with classical features and a clear, pale skin, holding a little curly-haired child by the hand. I asked her where she came from. She told me Belgrade, and then, pleased at being paid attention, launched into her life history, a typical Balkan story: a husband who had disappeared, who might have been killed or might just be hiding (from whom was not clear); friends who had advised her to leave Belgrade to escape from the bombing; Četniks, Partisans, Germans; collaboration which was not really collaboration; spies, traitors, assassins; financial difficulties; political difficulties; religious difficulties; matrimonial and sentimental difficulties. And what did I advise? And was I really a General? All this with much fluttering of long black eyelashes.
As I went to sleep under the stars, with the horses crunching their oats nearby, I reflected that I had not enjoyed an evening so much for a long time. Feminine wiles and good food and drink were luxuries of which we had almost forgotten the existence.
I recall, too, without being able to place them in the general plan of our journey, numerous isolated scenes and incidents which have somehow stuck in my memory; cold clear water spurting from a pump on the hillside under the trees in a village where we stopped in the blazing heat of midday, one working the pump while the others put their heads under it; a vast meal of milk and scrambled eggs eaten ravenously by the open window of a low, cool, upper room overlooking a valley; sleeping on the grass in an orchard by a little stream and waking suddenly in the dark to find Sergeant Duncan’s hand on my shoulder: ‘They’re moving off, sir; they say the Germans are coming’; and then shouts of ‘Pokret!’ ‘Get going!’ and confusion and plunging horses and ‘What’s happened to the wireless set?’; long dismal tramps in pitch darkness through pouring rain; discussions whether to push on or to stop in a village with a population reputed to be pro-German or riddled with typhus; speculating as to the meaning of black flags hung outside peasants’ houses; knocking and being told that they mean that one of the family has just died of typhus; hoping this is bluff and sleeping there all the same, all crowded into one room; waking next morning to find the rain stopped and the house, where we had arrived in the middle of the night, surrounded by orchards laden with ripe plums; arriving in a village to find a wedding in progress and being swept, before we know where we are, into a kolo, twisting and whirling in the sunshine on the green with the village maidens; lying at night out on the hillside in our sleeping-bags and listening to the wireless: the B.B.C., the nine o’clock news, Tommy Handley.
Then, at ten o’clock, loud and clear, Radio Belgrade; Lili Marlene, sweet, insidious, melancholy,
Unter der Laterne,
Vor dem grossen Tor …
‘Not much longer now,’ we would say, as we switched it off. It was a stock joke but one that at last began to look like coming true.
Sometimes, in villages, when we asked where all the men were, we were told: with Nedić or, with Draža; and there was a faint air of embarrassment. In one house I was asked whether I knew Colonel Bailey, the former Head of our Mission to Mihajlović (‘Ah, he was a merry fellow!’).
Then there was the house where John had lived some weeks before and which in the interval had, it seemed, been occupied by the Bulgars. Knowing the Bulgars’ reputation, we looked shocked. ‘Did they know,’ we asked anxiously of the owner, ‘that you had had a British officer living here?’ ‘Of course they did,’ came the reply, ‘the neighbours betrayed me. But it was all right,’ he went on. ‘I told them that you had terrorized me into letting you live here; that you had behaved with unimaginable ferocity. They were most sympathetic.’ And we all laughed at the simplicity of the Bulgars. Thinking it over afterwards, I wondered whether a good many Balkan stories did not perhaps originate in this way.
Finally one evening we clattered into a village a few miles south of Prokuplje to find that Koča and his staff were there. We had caught up at last.
But we still get no rest. Almost immediately the whole party starts off again. The Partisans, it appears, are advancing in the wake of the retreating Germans. What is more, the Bulgars have capitulated. This means that the Partisans may be able to gain possession of the towns of Niš and Prokuplje. Then comes confirmation over the wireless that Bulgar representatives are in Cairo, negotiating armistice terms with the British and Americans. Then the news that the Soviet Government, in order not to be left out of the peace negotiations, have somewhat belatedly declared war on the Bulgars with whom they had up to then maintained normal diplomatic relations. Our jokes about this somewhat transparent manœuvre on the part of our Soviet allies are not very well received. Then almost immediately we hear that the Bulgars have entered the war on our side. There is a tendency to refer to them as Slav Brothers. But this goes against the grain with a good many people, for the atrocities committed by the Bulgars are still fresh in their minds. The Bulgars, for their part, do not seem to care very much which side they are on. Having hitherto fought for the Germans with efficiency and brutality, they now fight against them in exactly the same fashion, still wearing their German-type helmets and uniforms.
Prokuplje is liberated, and we enter it in triumph, a typical Serbian market town, at the end of a branch line of the railway, consisting of a single wide straggling sun-baked street of low houses, which at one point widens out into a market square. A group of statuary in the centre celebrates a previous liberation from some earlier oppressor. Outside the municipal building a notice has been posted proclaiming an amnesty for certain categories of collaborators provided that they join the Partisans before a certain date. A little crowd of citizens are looking at it dubiously.
A Liberation dinner follows a Liberation luncheon. Photographs are taken, speeches made, songs sung and healths drunk. I am presented with a bouquet by a schoolgirl. In the intervals we go shopping. It is the first time we have been in a town of this size since we arrived in Jugoslavia and it rather goes to our head. The shops are full of German-made goods and local produce and we buy all kinds of things we do not really want. Just as we are leaving I catch sight of a full-sized enamel bath outside a junk-shop and buy it for a pound.
There is talk of establishing our Headquarters in Prokuplje itself, but for the moment we continue to camp outside. I sleep in a barn which I share with an owl and some largish animal which I hear but never quite see — a stoat, possibly, or a polecat. My bath arrives on an ox-cart and we decide to have a hot bath — the first for weeks. The bath is erected in an orchard and a cauldron of water put on to boil. The Partisans and the local peasants watch the whole proceeding from a distance, now convinced that we must be quite mad.
But at this moment a messenger gallops up on a horse, shouting ‘Pokret!’ The Germans, it appears, have cou
nter-attacked, not unsuccessfully, and we are on the move once more. Reluctantly abandoning our bath, we stuff our few belongings into our rucksacks, or as we have come to call them, pokret-bags, and set out.
From Prokuplje we headed for the Radan, always a relatively safe refuge in case of trouble. On the way Koča and I, keeping in touch with Balkan Air Force, planned further operations in continuation of RATWEEK. The enemy’s counter-attack might temporarily relieve their situation, but, once it had spent itself, they would still be faced with the problem of getting the bulk of their troops out by one or two main routes which were open to attack for the whole of their length. The RATWEEK operations undertaken up to now had already sufficiently demonstrated what could be done in this way.
For the next two or three days we kept on the move. It was the same agreeable existence which I had led ever since my arrival in Serbia. The long early morning marches through the green, sunlit countryside; the halt at midday on the grass under the fruit-laden trees of some wayside orchard; the search, as night approached, for a good place to camp and the arrival of extravagantly hospitable villagers with grapes and peaches, bottles of wine and sucking-pigs, fresh eggs and butter; the evening meal and the brief period of tranquillity in the half-light before it grew quite dark. Then either a night of alarms and excursions, of attacks and counter-attacks, of marches and countermarches, of rumours and counter-rumours; or else, all the more peaceful by contrast, a long sleep under the stars with the wind on one’s face and the trees rustling overhead, until the sun rose and it was time to start. And, bubbling again up within one all the time, a feeling of elation which came from the knowledge that victory, complete and overwhelming, was at last at hand.
Living this life, I looked back with heightened distaste on my existence on Vis; reflected that the political negotiations were, through force of circumstances, likely to remain for some time in a state of suspended animation, that there were no other outstanding questions of any importance, and wondered whether it might not after all be possible for me to stay in Serbia until such time as Koča Popović, having cleared the enemy from the south and centre, swept on into the north for the final encounter before Belgrade. For, as far as one could tell, it seemed likely that it was to him that the distinction of driving the Germans from the capital would now fall; and that was a battle at which I was determined to be present.
Then, one evening, in the second half of September, I received a personal signal from General Wilson. I could tell from Sergeant Campbell’s face, as he handed me the crumpled half sheet of paper, that it contained something out of the ordinary, something, that is to say, that would probably mean a change of plan, and I took it without enthusiasm.
It was quite short. It told me, in a dozen words, that Tito had mysteriously disappeared from Vis and that I was to come out at once and find him. It added that B.A.F. would land an aircraft at Bojnik to pick me up at the first opportunity. Mentally consigning B.A.F., Tito, General Wilson and everyone else concerned to perdition, I stuffed such kit as I had into my pack and, after saying goodbye to John Henniker-Major and sending a farewell message to Koča Popović, set out on a dreary all-night march to the landing-strip.
Chapter XVI
Grand Finale
THERE could be no doubt about it. Tito had gone. As an indignant telegram from Mr. Churchill put it, he had ‘levanted’. One morning Vivian Street, who, in my absence, was in charge on Vis, had gone to visit him with a message from General Wilson, only to find that he had disappeared from the island without leaving a trace. Inquiries as to his whereabouts only elicited evasive replies. It was the old story, so familiar from Moscow days: he is sick, he is busy, he has gone for a walk. The more responsible members of the Marshal’s entourage seemed to have gone too; the others, if they knew anything, were too nervous to reveal it. On further investigation, it was discovered that an unidentified Russian aircraft had landed on Vis and taken off again, presumably with Tito on board.
This sudden, unexplained departure did considerable harm to our relations with the Partisans. In London and at Caserta it was felt, not unnaturally, that such secretiveness was highly offensive, especially when it was considered that without our support Tito would never have been able to remain on Vis, and that the present phase of the war called for the closest co-operation between allies. Moreover, in Tito’s absence, there was no one from whom decisions could be obtained or with whom the day to day business of liaison could be conducted in a normal friendly way. As a result, the causes of friction multiplied and relations deteriorated.
Clearly the first thing was to find him again. There was no point in my going to Vis, let alone staying there. From what Tito had told me before I had left Vis, it seemed to me that the most probable explanation of his departure was that he had gone inland to co-ordinate the final phases of the struggle for Belgrade. The best place to look for him seemed to be Serbia, and I accordingly decided to go back there. Once again my hopes of being in at the fall of Belgrade revived.
Before leaving Bari, I made, with the help of our Intelligence Staff, a careful review of the military situation in Serbia, and, as a result of this arrived at the conclusion that Peko Dapčević, now thrusting northeastwards through western Serbia, was on the whole likely to reach Belgrade before Koča Popović. The big marked map at my Rear Headquarters, brought up to date in accordance with the latest situation reports, showed that his forward troops had just reached the town of Valjevo, in central Serbia and it was here that, a couple of nights later, I was landed by Balkan Air Force complete with a jeep and a wireless set.
I was met by Freddie Cole of the Durham Light Infantry, my liaison officer with Peko Dapčević, who had been dropped in some considerable time before and had accompanied First Corps on their epic march eastwards, taking an active part in the heavy fighting which had marked those eventful months. With Dapčević, never an easy man, and with his officers, he had established cordial relations and now his popularity had been further increased by the very timely air support which he had been able to call to the aid of the Partisans.
First Corps found Valjevo a tough nut to crack. The retreating Germans, for whom it was a key point, had decided to hold it at all costs and the garrison had settled down to a last man, last round stand, centred on the fortress-like barracks, round which they had built up a well-planned system of defence. In the ensuing battle the Partisans suffered heavy casualties and did not succeed in dislodging the enemy until a pair of rocket-carrying Beaufighters, summoned from Italy, administered the coup de grace to the beleaguered garrison by swooping down and discharging their rockets at point-blank range into the barrack buildings.
For the crew of one of the Beaufighters this was their last operation, for, as they started to pull out of their dive, they ran into a final burst of anti-aircraft fire from the Germans, which sent them spinning to destruction a few hundred yards away. Their bodies were recovered from the wreck of their aircraft and we buried them with full military honours in the graveyard of a little Orthodox church near the spot where they had met their death.
The sudden fall of Valjevo took by surprise many of the local inhabitants who had come to terms with the enemy and now had not time in which to make good their escape. They included followers of Nedić, the quisling Prime Minister, and Ljotić, the leader of the Serbian Fascist Party, as well as some Četniks. The façade of one man’s house was still decorated with the inscription in yard-high letters: ‘Long live Ljotić. Death to the Bolshevik Rabble’, which, despite frenzied last-minute efforts, he had not succeeded in erasing. The house in which we ourselves were quartered belonged to a leading Četnik, who, while expressing the warmest attachment for the Allied cause, clearly found the departure of the Germans and the arrival of the Partisans somewhat disconcerting. After we had been there a day or two, he disappeared and we concluded that we should not see him again. A few days later, however, he reappeared, still nervous, but considerably relieved, having been tried as a collaborator, condemned to pa
y a fine to Partisan funds, and then set free.
At this time in Valjevo there were numerous other arrests and trials on charges of collaboration with the enemy, but, as far as we could ascertain, the sentences passed were on the whole light and there were relatively few death sentences. To the population, after all they had heard, such moderation on the part of the Partisans seemed too good to be true, and, there was, not unnaturally, much speculation as to how long it would last.
Valjevo was a sizable market town, far larger than any of the villages we had seen so far. The shops were well stocked with local produce and German-made goods, and there was a restaurant where we could get our meals. Our Četnik landlord, whatever his political record, was a man of good taste and education, and his house, with its wide windows opening on to a sun-drenched courtyard trellised with vines, was filled with readable books and pleasant pictures and furniture. Clumping about in our hob-nailed boots on his well-polished floors, and gaping into the well-stocked shop-windows, we hardly recognized ourselves in our new role of town dwellers.
We had not been in Valjevo long when it started to fill up. Daily more members of Tito’s military and political entourage kept arriving, presumably ready to move into Belgrade at the first opportunity. Familiar faces began to make their appearance in the little inn where we had our meals, and one day I found myself face to face with Crni.
Hitherto I had not thought it worth while to raise with any of the Partisans with whom I had come into contact the question of Tito’s whereabouts, but this encounter gave me the opportunity I needed. Crni, I knew, had sufficient grasp of the situation to appreciate, if it were explained to him, the resentment which was being caused in London and Caserta by Tito’s disappearance and, if he chose, sufficiently sure of himself to help me clear the matter up.
Eastern Approaches Page 56