Eastern Approaches (53 page)

Such was the gap to be bridged. True, the end of the war and the liberation of Jugoslavia still seemed relatively remote contingencies, and, under the terms of the Atlantic Charter, the issue would in the ultimate analysis have to be decided by the people of Jugoslavia, but events, both inside the country and out, were by now moving so rapidly that a continued refusal on our part to face up to the problem could only have made matters worse.

Accordingly, very discreetly at first and without any noticeable measure of success, both parties were sounded out as to the possibility of a compromise. Of the proceedings in London, whither King Peter and his Government had now returned after six months in Cairo, I had no direct knowledge. But Tito, I found, had, as usual, a very clear appreciation of the situation. He knew that when the Germans were finally driven out of Jugoslavia, he would find himself a popular hero, at the head of a
de facto
administration and of a very considerable armed force, which, as a convinced Communist, he would, if necessary, be ready to use for the purpose of achieving his political ends. This put him in a very strong position when it came to bargaining, for in the ultimate analysis nothing short of superior force could turn him out. On the other hand, it was clear that he attached importance to keeping up appearances and to securing, if possible, the recognition of the Allies for his administration; first of all because such a policy would facilitate his task internally and secondly because he had no wish at this
stage to cut off his principal source of supplies. His response to our soundings was accordingly not entirely negative, and in return some hope was held out to him that he might ultimately obtain an increased measure of political recognition.

By the spring these mutual soundings, for it would be too much to call them negotiations, had been carried as far as they could be by the somewhat precarious medium of my mobile wireless set in its suitcase container. Simultaneously, a number of other questions had arisen, which, it seemed, could best be settled by my visiting London, possibly in company with a representative of Tito. As usual, the question of supply loomed large. Supplies to the Partisans were by now on such a scale that a change in the administrative arrangements at base was being considered and it was clearly desirable that I should take part in the discussions.

I was accordingly not altogether surprised to receive early in April instructions to stand by to be evacuated and authority to bring with me Vlatko Velebit, whom Tito had once again wisely chosen as his delegate.

I
T
was a fine, gusty, spring day when Duncan and I set out for Bosanski Petrovac. The snow was still lying on the hills, but in the valley the sun was quite hot. Marching was thirsty work and from time to time we stopped to drink from a mountain stream. The track took us up the cliff face, across a stretch of open moorland, and then, climbing again, into thick pine forests, ankle-deep in snow. German aircraft were in the habit of patrolling the track, and we kept a sharp look out for them while we were crossing the open moorland, where several bomb-craters and the shattered carcasses of two pack-ponies, showed what happened to you if you were caught in the open. But we were lucky, and it was not until we had reached the cover of the woods and had stopped to eat our rations, that the first enemy plane made its appearance, circling harmlessly high above the trees.

Late in the afternoon we emerged from the woods and found ourselves overlooking the flat country round Petrovac, where I had dropped some months before. More recently we had contrived a landing-strip two or three miles from the village and it was from this that we were to be picked up that night by an aircraft from Italy. As we were making our way down to the plain, we fell in with Vlatko Velebit, who had come by a different route. Together we walked on into the village, where we were to rest until it was time to go out and wait for the arrival of the aircraft.

We had a long wait that night in the cold, mist-laden darkness out on the landing-strip, and we had almost given up hope, when we heard the noise of an aeroplane, first faint in the distance, and then louder as it came nearer. Was it a friend or an enemy? That was the first thing to find out. Corporal Price, my wireless operator, came running up to say he had made contact with it and that it was one of ours. A week or two later Price was badly wounded by a bomb from a German plane within a few hundred yards of the same spot.

But this time all was well and by now our aircraft was circling overhead. We hurried to light flares along the improvised runway to guide it in. At the same time, we started to get ready for evacuation a group of badly wounded Partisans who were to be taken out in the same aircraft, bringing them as near the landing-strip as possible, for the pilot would not want to spend more than a few minutes on the ground and there would be no time to be lost.

It made a strange scene, in the flickering light of the flares with the darkness surrounding us like a curtain: the muffled shapes of the wounded, stretched out on the ground or sagging limply in the arms of their comrades, here and there a greyish-white face and a bloodstained bandage, momentarily illumined. Then, suddenly, the pilot, circling ever lower, switched on his searchlight as he touched down and, for a few moments, everything was bathed in dazzling radiance. We saw the wheels bump over the uneven surface of the grass until they finally came to a stop. Then, while the engines were kept running, the doors opened and we started hauling and hoisting the wounded up into the body of the plane. When they were all inside, we followed them; the doors were shut; the engines roared and we jolted off again over the turf to the take-off. Another few seconds and we were airborne. Finding a vacant space among the wounded Partisans on the Dakota’s crowded floor, I lay down and, using my pack as a pillow, was soon asleep.

As we came in from the sea, Algiers lay bright and inviting in the sunshine, its red-roofed white-washed houses and green trees spread over a natural amphitheatre of hills rising steeply from the sparkling waters of the bay. We were met at the aerodrome by Mark Chapman Walker, with an invitation to stay from the Supreme Allied Commander and a programme of staff talks which were to begin at once. Soon, in a magnificently tiled bathroom in General Wilson’s villa overlooking the harbour, I was wallowing in the first bath I had had for months and Sergeant Duncan was negotiating for some clean khaki drill with his friend the mess Sergeant. Shortly afterwards we sat down to a copious and deliciously cooked meal.

The next few days were full enough. Velebit was by now an old
hand at negotiating with the Allied High Command and the staff talks went more smoothly than those at Alexandria. Moreover the decisions of principle had already been taken, as far as material help was concerned. It was our established policy to give the Partisans all the material help in our power and aircraft and supplies were becoming every month more plentiful. It now only remained to perfect the administrative machinery and the proposed changes designed to meet this need were already far advanced, including the establishment at Bari of a Rear Headquarters to my Mission under one of my own officers, and the creation of a new air formation to be known as the Balkan Air Force, which would be responsible for the planning, coordination and, to a large extent, execution of air operations in the Balkans.

Meanwhile, the political problem, arising inevitably out of our military policy, remained in the background, unsolved, a constant source of uncertainty and embarrassment. And this, if a solution was to be attempted, would have to be solved in London.

But any doubts as to the next step were shortly to be resolved. Hardly had I reached Algiers when I received a message to stand by for a long-distance wireless telephone conversation with Mr. Churchill, who was going to ring me up from 10 Downing Street at a specified time.

I have never liked the telephone as a means of communication, and this particular conversation seemed likely to prove an exceptionally alarming ordeal. In a state of some apprehension, I repaired to the brightly lighted and heavily guarded underground room containing the Algiers end of the apparatus. First of all, the technicalities involved were explained to me by an officer of the United States Army Signal Corps, while a pretty W.A.C. Sergeant prepared to take a recording of what was said. The best link with London was, it appeared, for some obscure reason via New York and Washington and what we said would somehow be rendered incomprehensible to enemy listeners-in by a ‘scrambling’ process, thus obviating the necessity of using code. All this struck me as far from reassuring and I continued to view the whole proceeding with the innate alarm and despondency of one who hates telephones.

Finally the appointed time arrived and, after a series of infinitely
disturbing clicks and buzzes, Mr. Churchill’s well-known voice came booming and rasping over the ether. Closely following the instructions at the beginning of the London telephone book, I began by announcing my own identity. At this, the Prime Minister seemed unaccountably annoyed and told me to shut up. A bad start, I felt. Then he inquired hurriedly and surprisingly, whether I had talked to the Pumpkin. On my asking politely what he meant, he replied in a loud whisper, after hesitating a moment, ‘Why that great big General of mine, of course, but look it up, look it up,’ and then went on to inquire what I had done with the Pippin.

I was in despair. It was clear to me that one of us was off his head. I hoped that it was not me; on the other hand it was most disturbing to think that at this vital juncture of the war Mr. Churchill should have been overcome by insanity. Clearly there was nothing for it but to admit that I had no idea what he was talking about or how all these vegetables came into it. I did so in some trepidation.

There was a pause, during which nothing could be heard save the inhuman wailing and crackling of the ether. Then, projected over the air, first of all across the Atlantic from Downing Street to Washington, then back again from New York to the north coast of Africa, came, quite distinctly, an exclamation of horror and disgust. ‘Good God,’ I heard him say, ‘they haven’t got the code.’

Not a moment too soon, the technicians came to our rescue, breaking in hurriedly on the conversation from either end and arguing it out amongst themselves as to whether it was necessary for us to use a code or not.

Evidently my American won the day, for, when we resumed our conversation, the Prime Minister was off on a new tack. ‘Shall we scramble?’ he said gaily. I replied that I thought I was scrambled. There was a rumbling noise, followed by a silence, and Mr. Churchill’s voice came on the air once more. ‘So am I,’ he announced.

Then, in ordinary unadorned English, though continuing to refer to the Supreme Allied Commander-in-Chief as Pumpkin, and to his son Randolph as Pippin, two pseudonyms which seemed to delight him, he gave me my instructions. I was to come to London at once and bring Velebit with me.

Having laid down the receiver with relief, I started off to find Velebit and tell him to get ready to leave. On the way I remembered that I had left something downstairs and went back to get it. As I opened the door, I was startled to hear my own voice coming out of it. ‘Pumpkin, Sir?’ I was saying, ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.’

I looked in. The pretty W.A.C. Sergeant was playing a record of the conversation back to herself. I have seldom seen anyone more genuinely amused. ‘And an English accent too,’ I heard her say delightedly. I decided not to disturb her.

Next day Velebit and I flew to London.

In England, in that spring of 1944, the feeling of suspense dominated everything. Arriving, we found the whole of the southern counties one immense armed camp. Every country lane was crowded with trucks, armoured vehicles and guns; everywhere there were aerodromes and all day long the sky was black with bombers, fighters and transport planes. The restaurants and night clubs were full of young men in uniform having a last fling before plunging into Armageddon. In the streets, American and Allied troops seemed to outnumber our own. London was full of rumours. Everyone knew for certain when the invasion was going to be, and everyone knew different.

I did not expect people to take much interest in Jugoslavia. But they did. They were, I suppose, glad of an excuse to turn their minds to something else, to escape temporarily from the subject of the invasion. The Press descended on us as only the Press can, telegraphing, ringing up and hovering on the doorstep with batteries of cameras. All kinds of people in all kinds of departments wanted to see me and hear about Tito. We were taken to see the Chief of the Imperial General Staff and officers of almost equally exalted rank at the Admiralty and Air Ministry. We were sent for by General Eisenhower, at that time engaged in putting the finishing touches to the preparations for D-Day. Finally we were summoned to No. 10 Downing Street and there received by Mr. Churchill, a formidable figure sitting smoking his cigar at the long table in the Cabinet Room.

Velebit was, I think, well pleased with the results of his visit. He
had been able to put his point of view to Mr. Churchill personally; he had been received officially by various other important people and he had also made a number of useful unofficial contacts with the Press, who could henceforward be counted on to keep Tito and the Partisan Movement before the mind of the public. He now returned to report to Tito on the results of his visit. Vivian Street had flown back some days earlier to take charge of the Mission in my absence. I stayed on, as Mr. Churchill needed me for further discussions and there were a number of other people who wanted to see me.

The people to be seen and the matters to be discussed were numerous and varied. First of all there were the Joint Planners. In an electrically lit, air-conditioned subterranean vault, reached by a network of underground passages far below Whitehall, I found a soldier, a sailor and an airman, planning the future course of the war. With them I discussed at length Yugoslavia’s relation to the other theatres of operations and the best way to help the Partisans and increase their contribution to the war effort as a whole.

On the political side, it was harder than ever to see a way out. I was sent for by King Peter, now back in London, and had with him a friendly enough conversation, which ended in a discussion of the relative merits of various brands of motor cars. In the course of it I told the King how things were shaping in his country and mentioned that Tito had agreed that he should be a pilot in the new Jugoslav squadron which was now being trained in North Africa and would eventually operate over Jugoslavia. It was a one in a thousand chance, but, for King Peter, it seemed to offer the only hope, however remote, of recovering the position which he had gained by his conduct in 1941 and since lost by his absence from his country during the past three years. To Peter himself, who was a trained pilot, the idea clearly appealed, but, from the reception which it received in other quarters it was obvious to me that nothing was likely to come of it.

Meanwhile, the Foreign Office was doing what it could to bridge the gap between Tito and the Royal Jugoslav Government in London. It was no easy task. The gap was one not only of space, but of time, a difference not only of outlook, but of experience. King Peter, it is true, had, as a gesture, publicly broken with Mihajlović and called
upon his people to support Tito. But, coming when it did, this
volte-face
only served to antagonize one faction without impressing the other. Moreover his Government, on the whole, were strongly opposed to such a course of action.

The next thing was to find one that wasn’t. And now, in the strangely unreal limbo of exiled politicians which existed in London during the war, there started once again the gropings and shufflings which heralded the formation of a new Allied Government in Exile.

This time the object of the manœuvre was to find a Cabinet which could somehow or other come to terms with Tito before it was too late. At a luncheon party in London I met one of the promoters of the new idea, Dr. Ivan Šubašić, a former Governor of Croatia. He asked me what I thought of their prospects of success. I told him that in my opinion any bargain with Tito at this stage was likely to be a very one-sided one. Dr. Šubašić did not seem unduly disturbed by this. He was a rather flabby-looking man of medium size with his hair
en brosse
and small uneasy eyes. His yellowish skin hung loosely, as though it were too big for him. He looked every inch a politician. He would, I reflected, need to be one, if he were to save anything from this particular wreck.