Eastern Approaches (47 page)

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 official 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.

Not far away, as I strolled idly back to the town, I came upon an old walled garden, long since overgrown and fallen into decay. In the middle stood a marble obelisk, with on it an inscription in English celebrating a British naval victory won in 1811 over the French off Vis. Then, looking more closely, I found, hidden in the high grass and amongst the shrubs and undergrowth a dozen or so tombstones, commemorating British naval officers and seamen who had lost their lives in the battle, their names, good English names, almost obliterated by moss and weather.

Nearby, another monument, more flamboyant in style, proclaimed a later naval victory, that won here by the Austrians over the Italians in 1866, and somewhere in the back of my mind I seemed to remember, too, learning that Vis — the Issa of the ancients — had been the scene of a great battle in classical times.

But even without the reminders of history, a glance at the map shows clearly enough the strategical importance of Vis in any war fought round the Adriatic and in its waters. Lying, as it does, within striking distance of the coast and the other islands, yet far enough out to sea for it to be reasonably easy to hold and at the same time, easy of access from Italy, it makes an ideal base for an enemy wanting a foothold in the eastern Adriatic, particularly if he has a taste for piracy, a pursuit for which those waters have always been famous. Here, it seemed to me, was the base for which we were looking — if only help could be obtained in time.

The M.L. arrived that night and I went on board, as excited as a schoolboy going home for his first holidays. I felt as though I was
going from one world to another. The wardroom of the M.L., with its framed photographs of wives and girl-friends, paper-backed novels, illustrated papers and cups of tea, seemed the height of civilization. The officers and crew treated us as though we were visitors from another planet and we were well on our way across the Adriatic before we turned in.

T
HE
sun was up when I woke, and the coast of Italy was in sight. We had come straight across the Adriatic and were now sailing southwards along the Italian coast. I had spread my sleeping-bag on deck by one of the guns, and, propped on my elbow, I could see the church towers and white-washed houses of the little towns which stretch almost continuously along the east coast of southern Italy. In another hour we would reach our destination, Bari, which had been captured by Eighth Army not long before. I got up, rolled up my sleeping-bag, and went below to shave in preparation for my return to the outside world.

I had not been in Italy since 1939. Before the war, I had known it well. Since my last visit the Italians had become first our enemies and now, by another swing of the pendulum, our co-belligerents. It seemed strange to be going back. Vaguely I wondered what it would be like.

It was, needless to say, much the same.

The sun was shining and the Italians were busy basking in it. At every street corner good-looking young men, some in uniform, loafed with their hands in their pockets and cigarettes hanging out of the corner of their mouths. On the walls of the harbour, in letters a yard high, the Duce’s inscriptions still proclaimed;
VINCEREMO — VICTORY WILL BE OURS
. Clearly it would have been a waste of energy to rub them out. They were the kind of inscriptions which did equally well whichever side you happened to be on.

In the Hotel Imperiale, which the Army, I was glad to find, had not yet had time to take over, there were hot baths and plenty of food and wine and officers on leave from the front dancing with nursing sisters to the animated strains of an Italian jazz band. ‘Lili Marlene!’ they shouted, and ‘Lili Marlene’ the Italians played, just as they must have played it for the Luftwaffe and Wehrmacht officers a few weeks before.

But, I had hardly had time to take it all in before I had been swept on board an aeroplane and was far out over the Mediterranean on my way to Cairo. At Malta we came down, circling low over the stony little fields and the bomb-scarred houses of Valetta. Lord Gort, the Governor, wanted to see us and we went to have a drink with him, a reassuringly solid figure amidst the Italianate magnificence of Government House.

Then we took off again and, falling asleep, I woke to find myself high above Libya, flying eastwards along the coast towards Egypt. Looking down, I could make out Benghazi, then Derna, then Tobruk and Sollum and the Qattara Depression. Here and there clusters of burnt-out tanks, planes, trucks and guns together with a myriad tracks, still scarring the desert, showed where one, two or three years before the fighting had been heaviest.

We reached Cairo in time for dinner. I accepted gratefully an invitation to stay with Kit Steel, in whose comfortable house in Zamalek I had spent the last week before leaving for Jugoslavia, in the days when we were still debating whether Tito existed at all, and, if so, whether he was a woman or a committee. I had left all my kit there, and so, when I went up to my room I found clean linen and a spotless tunic laid out for me, with highly polished buttons. My filthy battle-dress was discarded and I emerged a perfect ‘Gaberdine Swine’, as the leaders of military fashion in Cairo were known.

From Steel I heard why I had been so urgently summoned to Cairo. Mr. Eden, Sir Alexander Cadogan, William Strang, Oliver Harvey and half a dozen other Foreign Office officials were there on their way back from Moscow where they had been conferring with Molotov. Moreover it appeared that an even higher-powered conference was going to take place somewhere in the Middle East, which the Big Three themselves would attend, and Cairo, in those days of roundabout communications, lay on the road to almost everywhere. If I was ever to get a decision on our policy in Jugoslavia, now was the time and here was the place.

We were to have dinner that night with Cadogan. As I lay in my bath, I reflected that the last time I had seen him had been in his room in the Foreign Office when I had handed him my resignation from the
Diplomatic Service. It seemed a long time ago. Looking back on the few but crowded years between, it occurred to me forcibly how fortunate I had been in my decision and how lucky not to miss the experiences which had fallen to my lot in the intervening space of time. To me, it was not disagreeable to look forward to a future full of uncertainty and insecurity, with none of the slow inevitability of a career in the Government service; to feel myself, in however small a way, the master of my destiny. With my left foot I turned the hot-water tap full on and wallowed contentedly.

We dined under the stars on the roof of the Mohammed Ali Club, eating and drinking, under the supervision of Costi, that truly great
maître d’hôtel
, all the things that I had dreamt about in my hungrier and thirstier moments for months past, perfectly cooked and perfectly served. Round us at the other tables sat the collection of Egyptian pashas, Greek millionaires, exiled Princes, high-ranking British officers and cosmopolitan beauties that constituted Cairene society during the war. They gave an impression of great wealth and considerable elegance. It all seemed faintly improbable, but none the less agreeable. Contrasts, as I have said before, have always appealed to me and this after the life we had been leading was one with a vengeance.

Next day I saw Mr. Eden and gave him a written report on the situation in Jugoslavia which he undertook to pass on to the Prime Minister in time for his forthcoming meeting with Stalin and with the President of the United States, at the same time sending a copy to the Chief of the Imperial General Staff. Verbally, I repeated my main conclusions: that the Partisan Movement was of infinitely greater importance than was generally realized outside Jugoslavia; that it was very definitely under Communist leadership and firmly orientated towards Moscow; that as a resistance movement it was highly effective and that its effectiveness could be considerably increased by Allied help; but that, whether we gave such assistance or not, Tito and his followers would exercise decisive influence in Jugoslavia after the liberation.

When I flew back to Italy, nothing had been decided, but my report had caused something of a stir, and I was under instructions to return
to Cairo in a few weeks, when, I gathered, Mr. Churchill himself would be there. In the meanwhile I was to go and fetch the Partisan delegation and bring them back with me.

This was easier said than done.

At Bari the news that greeted me was bad. The German offensive was in full swing in Bosnia and Dalmatia and the way to the coast definitely blocked. Not even single couriers were getting through. If Ribar and Milojević were to come out, an aeroplane would have to be landed to pick them up.

I sent a signal to Jajce, asking whether our carefully prepared landing-strip at Glamoć was still in Partisan hands. The answer came back that it was, but was unlikely to remain so very much longer. There was no time to be lost. The reluctance of the R.A.F. to let us have one of their aircraft for a fancy job of this kind must be overcome and an attempt made before it was too late.

The high-powered instructions which I had brought back with me from Cairo were a help. I went down to the H.Q. Tactical Air Force to see Air Vice-Marshal Broadhurst and came back with the promise, in principle, of an aircraft. The question now was, what sort of an aircraft? If the operation was to be carried out at night, it would have to be something that did not require too elaborate landing arrangements, for at Glamoć there would be no lights except a few bonfires, and the runway, to the best of my recollection, was distinctly undulating. If, on the other hand, we were to go in by day, we should need something that could hold its own against enemy fighters, which at that stage of the war were fairly thick over Jugoslavia.

I explained this, diffidently and, I felt, rather amateurishly to T.A.F.

They were not impressed. They had, they said, plenty of far better uses for their aircraft than smashing them up in futile attempts to bring futile foreigners out of the Balkans. Nothing they had could land at night under the conditions described except a Lysander, and that was too small and would probably never get there. As to a landing by day, any aircraft that could carry passengers would almost certainly be shot down by the first enemy fighter it met.

It was at this stage of the proceedings that an entirely new character appeared on the scene. Realizing the importance to us of air operations,
I had asked the Air Officer Commander-in-Chief, Middle East, Air-Marshal Sholto Douglas, for a good air liaison officer, someone, I specified, with plenty of ordinary operational experience, and at the same time with a taste for irregular activities of the kind in which we were engaged. The result was Wing-Commander John Selby,
D.S.O., D.F.C.
It had taken some time to find him, but, when in the end he arrived, we agreed that he had been well worth waiting for.

John Selby’s principal characteristic was his overwhelming enthusiasm. A large, plump, jolly man, he threw himself into whatever he was doing with an exuberance that at times was positively alarming. Before the war he had been an announcer on the B.B.C. Now, within a comparatively short time of joining the R.A.F., he had become a spectacularly successful pilot of night fighters and Mosquitoes. It appeared that he needed a rest from serious operations and was coming to us for a change. As a first step he had taken a course in parachuting and demolitions and bought himself a grammar of the German language, which he spoke with vividness rather than accuracy of expression. He arrived at T.A.F. H.Q. in a small and dangerous-looking aeroplane which he landed with unnerving suddenness. Vivian Street, who had accompanied him, got out of it looking rather green. I sympathized and decided to keep out of it at all costs.

I told Selby of my plans and of the difficulties which we were encountering. ‘Leave that to me!’ he said reassuringly, and went off to see a friend of his (every R.A.F. Headquarters abounded with long-lost friends of John Selby).

From these consultations he returned shortly after with the promise of a Baltimore, a fast light bomber, which, he assured me, was ‘just the kite for the job’. All we now needed, he said, was a fighter escort, and I could then go in by day.

A fighter escort, however, was not so easy to come by. Glamoć was out of range of all but long-range fighters and nobody had any of these except the Americans. After some preliminary telephoning I accordingly set out, complete with Baltimore, for American 82nd Fighter Group, then situated at Lecce, to see what I could pick up from our American allies.

82nd Fighter Group had Lightnings. With their twin tails and bristling
cannon, they were formidable-looking aircraft, like something out of H. G. Wells. They possessed sufficient range to do the round trip easily. It only remained to borrow half a dozen for an afternoon.

The Commanding Officer, on being approached said, Sure, I could have them. He was a tall, dark, rather saturnine young man in his twenties, with a full colonel’s eagle badges and fine crop of decorations. His name was MacNichol and he had a great many German aircraft to his credit.

We fixed a date for the operation a couple of days later, and I at once sent a signal to Robin Whetherly and Bill Deakin, whom I had left in charge at Jajce, telling them to move the party down to Glamoć at once and stand by there for our arrival. In addition to Ribar and Milojević, the party for evacuation included Robin Whetherly himself, who, as an experienced regular soldier, would, I had decided, be a good man to watch developments on the islands, and Bill Deakin, who was going back to Cairo to act as my rear link with G.H.Q. With them to Glamoć went our liaison officer, Vlatko Velebit, and Donald Knight, the Sapper, whose job it was to get a landing-strip ready for us.

Next day a signal arrived from Robin to say that they had all arrived at Glamoć and would be ready to receive us there the day after. They would set fire to piles of damp straw, when they heard our engines, so as to guide us in by the smoke. ‘Very cold here,’ he added, ‘please bring rum ration.’

While we were waiting to start I lived in the American mess, sharing a room with MacNichol and his second in command, Major Litten, another ace fighter-pilot. We had our meals in a vast mess room, all ranks eating together. The food was delicious once you got over the shock of finding a sly dab of jam amongst your sausages, or a cube of pineapple with the meat. It included such delicacies as tinned grapefruit and Frankfurter sausages and seemed unendingly varied after the monotony of our own rations. But the Americans grumbled about it. What they liked, they said, was that wonderful bully beef and meat and vegetable stew the British had.

At supper, while we were eating our corned-beef hash, MacNichol would walk round the tables picking pilots for the next day’s missions.
Then next morning after breakfast there would be briefing; one would hear the roaring of the engines, as they warmed up, and then the Lightnings would take off. In the evening at supper they would be back, talking of their experiences, escorting the heavy bombers over Austria or northern Italy. Once or twice there were gaps at the tables, where someone had not come back. After supper there was usually a film. In bed at night, as I dropped off to sleep inside a vast American Army sleeping-bag, I could hear MacNichol and Litten talking over the day’s operations and the prospects for the morrow. Some weeks later I heard that MacNichol had been shot down and killed.

The day appointed for my own venture dawned fine and bright. After breakfast there was briefing. At the request of MacNichol, who was flying one of the Lightnings himself, I gave a short account of the situation in Jugoslavia for the benefit of any of our escort who might be forced to crash-land or bale out, at the same time extending a cordial invitation to anyone who might find himself in such a predicament to come and stay at my Headquarters in the hills for as long as he liked. Then we went down to the airfield. My pilot and I (the rest of the crew had been eliminated to make room for the passengers we were to pick up), clambered up through the belly of the Baltimore; he showed me how the rear cannon fired, and how the intercom worked; I fitted myself in as best I could; the engine roared, and we took off. Soon we were flying eastwards across the Adriatic, with the Lightnings wheeling and plunging round us till the sunlit sky seemed full of them. All was well that ended well. By the evening, I calculated, Ribar and Milojević would be safely out of Jugoslavia and we should all be on our way to Egypt.