by Lee Trimble
What Robert couldn’t reconcile was the contradiction. On one hand there was the moral urge, the sense of loyalty and brotherhood that had made his superiors bring him here and send him out to rescue his compatriots; on the other was their willingness to sacrifice innocent people to the Soviets now – not just these three officers but the men and women left behind in Poland. Robert didn’t understand politics, and maybe never would.
EVERYTHING WAS COMING to an end.
At 19:00 hours Poltava time on 7 May 1945, the BBC, broadcasting from London, announced that the war in Europe was over. They were a tad premature, as the final surrender would not be signed until the following day. Nonetheless, the pent-up emotions among the Americans at Poltava, and the natural joy at the end of the conflict, produced an explosion of celebration.24 They danced and sang in the streets, firing their weapons in the air.
Russian soldiers watched the display with surprise and puzzlement. When told the reason, they refused to believe it; the end of the war had not been announced by Moscow, so it could not be true. The next day, there was still no word from the Kremlin. Finally, in the early hours of 9 May, the word came through: the Great Patriotic War was officially over – the Germans were beaten. The Russian contingent at Poltava erupted in a display of jubilation even greater than their American counterparts’. Later that day, a joint parade was held in the city. Once again Eastern Command marched in pride behind the colors of the United States. Soon, they believed, their job would be done and they would be able to pack up and go home.
Everything was coming to an end. Everything except the ghosts and the memories that would linger for decades among the men and women who had served.
A RECEPTION WAS held at the US Embassy in Moscow to celebrate Victory in Europe, and as CO of Eastern Command, Captain Robert Trimble was invited.
He arrived in Moscow filled with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. Robert would be mingling with the very topmost of the top brass, and he had mixed feelings about them, and the contradiction that he would never be able to reconcile. It was they who had foreseen the cruelty of Soviet conduct in Poland and had conceived the humane covert mission that had brought him to Russia. They had, in effect, risked all for the sake of American servicemen. That made them noble and honorable, didn’t it? He couldn’t have done what he had in Poland if they hadn’t put the means in his hands and provided him with cover. But when it came to the final diplomatic horse-trading, those same men had sold their own officers, and the entire nation of Poland, to the Soviets. Or their masters in London and Washington had, and they had helped enact the bargain.
What would happen to Józef now, or that delightful lady who ran the Hotel George, or the Kratke family on their farm at Staszów? Would the young girl’s brother, Tadeusz, ever be able to return home? Would the citizens ever be safe after dark on the streets of Lwów?
Robert took a cab from the airport and was driven to the US Embassy. It stood on Novinskiy Boulevard, one of the grand thoroughfares encircling the heart of the Russian capital. The embassy was even bigger and more impressive than the one in London, a glorious, palatial building in honey-colored stone and white stucco.25 Remembering what had happened to him the last time he entered an American embassy, Robert felt a little uneasy. And the idea of lavish parties when there were so many people suffering made him uncomfortable. Perhaps he could at least talk to someone in power, and get them to put pressure on the Russians to alleviate the situation at Poltava. Morale was still low, with the Soviets still being awkward about American flights. And mail was still not getting through.
He was greeted by a young attaché from the Military Mission, who escorted him to the ballroom. The place was brimming over with gold braid and satin gowns. Senior officers of the armies, air forces, and navies of the three allies mingled with civilians of the diplomatic corps, nibbling canapés and guzzling wine, and gossiping at the tops of their voices under the crystal chandeliers.
As he was escorted around the room and introduced to people, Robert was warned sotto voce by his companion that half the Russian women present were employed by the NKVD. There really was no escaping them – from the streets of Lwów to the heart of the diplomatic mission, the Soviets got their spies and informers everywhere. In a culture so obsessed with spying, it was hardly surprising that you ended up with the kind of mean-spirited paranoia that treated ex-prisoners of war like potential partisans, and men like King, Bridge and Shenderoff like terrorists.
The attaché steered Robert toward a little group of very senior-looking people. He recognized General Deane. Standing beside him was a thin man with a cheerfully gaunt face, as if someone had given Abe Lincoln a shave and told him a really good joke.
Deane drew Robert into the group. ‘Averell,’ he said to the thin man, ‘this is Captain Trimble, our excellent new commanding officer at Poltava.’
So this was Ambassador Harriman. He offered his hand. ‘Delighted to meet you, Captain. So you’re the interim commander I’ve heard about?’
Robert balked a little at ‘interim’, but pressed on. ‘Sir, I was very excited to receive your invitation. I hope we can find time to talk about a few matters. There are some problems still at—’
General Deane tensed beside him, but Harriman was already talking over Robert. ‘Captain, it’s been great meeting you, and I hear you’re doing a superb job. I have a lot of ground to cover this evening, so you’ll forgive me if I circulate. Enjoy yourself, and take care!’
Robert was introduced to more people, and General Deane chatted with him a little, carefully steering the conversation away from shop talk. After a while Robert found himself alone again with the attaché.
‘Are the brass always this offhand with their soldiers?’ he asked.
The attaché laughed. ‘Oh, always. I hardly ever know what’s going on – until my superiors want something, and then I can’t do it fast enough for them.’
‘My command at Poltava is being undermined by the Soviets, and my people are depressed. I’ve asked for help, but all I get is instructions to do whatever the Russians want.’
The attaché drew Robert to one side, away from some Russians who were standing within hearing distance. ‘Well, we are guests in their country. Over the past year we’ve had constant complaints from the Soviet authorities about American misbehavior at Poltava – road accidents, GIs exploiting the black market, local women being harassed.26 You name it, we’ve been accused of it, and some of the claims are true.’ Robert didn’t need to be told – handling such complaints was part of his daily round as CO. ‘As guests,’ the attaché went on, ‘we have the obligation to behave impeccably. If we hope to maintain good relations with the USSR, we have to do what they want.’
During his evening in Moscow, Robert came to the conclusion – as if he’d needed any prompting – that he wasn’t cut out for politics.
There were other things too that were outside his area of competence. A little later, as he was wondering whether it was okay to up and leave the party, he was approached by a glamorous lady with movie-star looks – the most beautiful woman he’d seen since the queen of Iran. She didn’t bother introducing herself, and already seemed to know who he was. ‘Do you smoke, Captain?’ she asked. He admitted that he liked an occasional cigar. She took his arm in hers and guided him out to a balcony.
In the chill air and a haze of perfume and cigarette smoke, she plied him with conversation and questions. She was fascinated by his experiences as a pilot and very keen to learn about the condition of American flyers who had been forced down in enemy territory and how they were rescued.
Robert sighed. He had been here before, just a few days ago. On the evening after the VE Day celebrations, there had been a show put on at Poltava’s theater and a party afterwards. Robert had met a pretty Ukrainian performer who called herself Lydia. He wasn’t proud of what had followed. Having taken on board far more booze than was good for him, and with his innate susceptibility to female charm, he allowed himself to be persuaded to
go back with her into the city to meet her parents; strangely, they turned out to be an old couple who didn’t seem to know Lydia any more than they knew Robert. More vodka was drunk. Lydia took him up to her room.
Breathing perfume and alcohol over each other, they ended up on the bed. Gazing hungrily into his eyes, Lydia slid her hand along Robert’s thigh … and asked him about his parents. And his schooling, and his religion. In a pie-eyed stupor, Robert wondered what was going on. Lydia, continuing the seduction with her eyes and hands, questioned him intimately about his mission in the USSR.
When he returned to the base next morning with a hangover that would split tree trunks, all he could recall was Lydia’s questioning, together with a vague memory of passing out. He didn’t believe he’d answered her questions (not coherently, anyway) but couldn’t swear to it.
The drink hadn’t flowed nearly as freely at the embassy reception, and when the beautiful lady stumbled and asked Robert to put his arm around her to steady her, he instantly recalled Lydia. ‘Captain, you’re so handsome,’ the lady breathed, looking up at him with Rita Hayworth eyes. She really was unbelievably beautiful. But he wasn’t plastered this time, and knew perfectly well that all she was interested in was the information locked up inside his head.
With profound reluctance, and fighting against every masculine urge, Robert made an excuse, disengaged himself gently from the lady’s hold, and retreated back inside the building.
It had been a narrow escape. He was just a small-town boy at the mercy of these professionals. He had no training in espionage, and missing home and Eleanor the way he did, he lacked the strength to resist this kind of seduction for long.
In the taxi on the way to his hotel, he thought over the evening he’d had and wondered how long he could keep up this business of politics and leadership. Was it all just a game to these people? The soldiers and civilians on the front line – were they just pieces to be played for and sacrificed in the winning of power?
The next morning, he went back to the embassy, hoping to secure a meeting with Ambassador Harriman or General Deane. He felt he couldn’t go back to Poltava empty-handed; just a personal message that the gods in Moscow were thinking of their people and doing all they could to look after their interests would suffice. Neither Harriman nor Deane was available. Instead Robert was given a tour of the embassy. The facilities for the staff were amazing. In the recreation center there were senior officials enjoying a rousing game of indoor tennis. Some folks in the diplomatic corps, he realized, had had themselves a pretty nice war.
Poland had been sacrificed. The government in exile had been cut off over the Katyn dispute and supplanted by a Soviet puppet. And now Russia wanted a slice of Polish territory.27 Lwów, with its mix of Poles and Ukrainians, had become a gaming chip. Stalin had demanded it on the grounds that it was part of the historic territory of medieval Russia. In time it would be granted to him, renamed Lviv, and a thick strip of eastern Poland would be torn off with it, becoming part of Ukraine.
Robert Trimble couldn’t stomach it. He really wasn’t cut out for politics. Or so he believed. He wasn’t to know that this was how politics felt to many of those who lived their lives inside it.
Looking back on this era, Winston Churchill would reflect sadly, ‘I have always been astonished, having seen the end of these two wars, how difficult it is to make people understand the Roman wisdom, “Spare the conquered and confront the proud.” … The modern practice has too often been, “Punish the defeated and grovel to the strong.”’28
General Deane disliked the way he was forced to bow to the Russians, just as much as Captain Trimble did, especially over the evacuation of American prisoners of war.29 So did Ambassador Harriman. Even speaking as a pragmatic politician, General Deane would come to regret the appeasement of the Soviet Union by America. ‘Whenever we did take a firm stand,’ he would recall, ‘our relations took a turn for the better.’ He came to the same conclusion that both Captain Trimble and Colonel Wilmeth had discovered during their time at the sharp end in Poland: ‘Soviet officials are much happier, more amenable, and less suspicious when an adversary drives a hard bargain than when he succumbs easily to Soviet demands.’30
Back in 1941, Adolf Hitler had made a grave error about the United States; looking at their democracy, their personal liberties, and their decadent jazz culture, he had concluded that Americans were weak. He heard the soft voice, and failed to notice the big stick. Germany had paid a heavy price for that mistake. Now it seemed that Stalin might be thinking the same way. He saw the generosity and openness of America – the Lend-Lease supplies, the ready sharing of intelligence, the soft-footed diplomacy – and believed that this was a nation that could be bullied.
But as the war drew to a close and the Iron Curtain began to fall, the British and the Americans were playing a delicate, dangerous game. As Churchill would reflect, ‘Appeasement from weakness and fear is alike futile and fatal. Appeasement from strength is magnanimous and noble and might be the surest and perhaps the only path to world peace.’31
What Robert Trimble lacked that Deane, Harriman, Churchill, and Roosevelt all had was the ability to reconcile morals and politics. Or maybe he just lacked the experience. The small-town boy, the ordinary American who had become a decorated combat veteran, the combat veteran who had become a secret agent and diplomat, was too low down the ladder to have a clear view of the landscape. He believed that he was no longer doing any good. The stress and the anger were growing, and the cracks were beginning to show.
Chapter 19
THE LONG WAY HOME
23 JUNE 1945: POLTAVA AIR BASE
IT WAS EASTERN Command’s last day. The war in Europe was well and truly over, and their job was done.
Four transport planes, warming up and idling, stood on the steelmat taxiway, fluttering the grass with their propeller wash. Nearby a small group of officers stood ready to board. During the past week, daily flights of C-46 Commandos had been moving out supplies, equipment and personnel, and now all that remained was this core group. The few dozen enlisted men had boarded the last two C-46s, and the officers were waiting to embark in the two C-47s.
Their leaders were conducting a final look-see around the base, and taking their time over it. Finally a jeep came speeding from the direction of the headquarters site and pulled up near the planes. In it were Captain Trimble and Brigadier General Ritchie, chief of staff from the Military Mission in Moscow, who had come down the day before to oversee the final checks.
The closing down had been stretched over more than a month, fraught with constant bureaucratic delays. The postal service had been shut down prematurely, nobody had had any mail for weeks, and everyone was on edge. Eastern Command’s vast stores – built up for a big command hosting huge numbers of shuttle bombing crews – had to be inventoried and shipped out. Thousands of tons of surplus supplies were handed over to the Soviets on Lend-Lease.1 They nitpicked every item, claiming things were in poor condition, so as to reduce the recorded value. Even machine guns that had never been removed from their sealed packaging were claimed to be ‘dirty’. Candy bars and packs of cigarettes were stolen in their thousands, and ended up being sold by urchins on the streets of Poltava.
It wasn’t a period that Robert Trimble would look back on with any fondness. The strain of keeping the place running and being diplomatic with the Soviets, constantly reining in his annoyance and impatience, added to the stresses that were slowly pulling him apart inside.
He’d made some good friends, and there were happy memories along with the bad and the sad. In April, at the height of the flying ban, when tensions were high, Bill Kaluta, a young Corps of Engineers lieutenant, had married his girlfriend, Lieutenant Clotilde Govoni, a nurse in the base hospital. Kaluta was a lively soul, a beautiful accordion player, and a Poltava veteran who’d been with Eastern Command since its early days.2 For a day, everyone’s spirits were lifted. As commanding officer, Robert acted as substitute father of the bride. Th
e ceremony took place in the city hall, with a congregation of Russians and Americans. Outside, an audience of bemused Ukrainian citizens looked on as the happy swarm of uniforms filed in and out, laughing, joking, and distributing candy to the local children. When called on to kiss the bride, Robert gave Clotilde a quite unfatherly smackeroo on the lips that left her giggling. That one day of laughter and goodwill between Russians and Americans was a bright spot in those dark weeks.
Kaluta was waiting now, as the jeep pulled up beside the idling planes. Robert would be taking one C-47 to Moscow, en route to USSTAF headquarters in Paris, while Kaluta was going with the other C-47 via Cairo. He had charge of all Eastern Command’s records, which the Soviets would have given a lot to get their hands on. The packages of documents, which were to be destroyed if necessary, were leaving Russia by the shortest route, and avoiding Moscow. A story went around that the last item of American property to be taken care of had been a previously undiscovered cache of secret weapons and equipment belonging to the OSS, found by General Ritchie in a warehouse. It was apparently a relic of the aborted OSS/NKVD cooperation. To prevent it falling into Soviet hands, Ritchie had the gear loaded aboard a truck in the dead of night, then personally drove it to a nearby lake and dumped it all in.3
The officers said their farewells and boarded their planes. After General Ritchie had gone aboard, Robert stepped up into the doorway of the C-47 and glanced back. A midsummer sun shone down on the ruined buildings and the barracks blocks and glittered on the steel-mat runways. It was all very different from the first view he’d had; the mellow warmth a world away from the lacerating cold that had hit him on that February day. Robert marveled at how little time had elapsed since he’d arrived, primed with false promises of an easy racket that would see him through the rest of the war. He’d never believed that he could accomplish the task that he’d been sent into Poland for, but he’d done his best. Hundreds of men and women had been brought from perdition to safety.