Unconditional surrender (24 page)

‘You wouldn’t call communism a sect?’

‘No,’ said de Souza. He began to say more and then stopped. All he did was to repeat ‘No’ with absolute assurance.

The battle prepared for the visiting general was to be an assault on a little block-house some twenty miles to the west, the nearest ‘enemy’ post to Begoy, on a secondary road to the coast. There were no Germans near. The garrison was a company of Croat nationalists, whose duty it was to send out patrols along the ill-defined frontiers of the ‘liberated’ territory and to find sentries for bridges in that area. They were not the ferocious
ustachi
but pacific
domobrans
, the local home-guard. It was in every way a convenient objective for the exercise; also well placed for spectators, in an open little valley with wooded slopes on either side.

The General pointed out that frontal assault in daylight was not normal partisan tactics. ‘We shall need air support.’

De Souza composed a long signal on the subject. It was a measure of the new prestige of the partisans that the RAF agreed to devote two fighter-bombers to this insignificant target. Two brigades of the Army of National Liberation were entrusted with the attack. They numbered a hundred men each.

‘I think,’ said de Souza, ‘we had better call them companies. Will the brigadiers mind being reduced to captain for a day or two?’

‘In the Peoples’ Forces of Anti-fascism we attach little importance to such things,’ said the Commissar.

The General was more doubtful. ‘They earned their rank in the field,’ he said. ‘It is only because of the great sacrifices we have made that the brigades have been so reduced in numbers. Also because the supply of arms from our allies has been so scanty.’

‘Yes,’ said de Souza, ‘
I
understand all that of course but what we have to consider is how it will affect our distinguished observers. They are going to send journalists too. It will be the first eye-witness report of Jugoslavia to appear in the press. It would not read well to say we employed two brigades against one company.’

That must be considered,’ said the Commissar.

‘I suggest,’ said de Souza, ‘the brigadiers should keep their rank and their units be called “a striking force”. I think that could be made impressive. “The survivors of the Sixth Offensive”.’

De Souza had come with credentials which the General and Commissar recognized. They trusted him and treated his advice with a respect they would not have accorded to Guy or even Brigadier Cape; or for that matter to General Alexander or Mr Winston Churchill.

Guy was never admitted to these conferences which were held in Serbo-Croat without an interpreter. Nor was he informed of the negotiations with Bari. De Souza had all signals brought to him in cipher. The later hours of his mornings in bed were spent reading them and himself enciphering the answers. To Guy were relegated the domestic duties of preparing for the coming visit. As de Souza had predicted he found the partisans unusually amenable. They revealed secret stores of loot taken from the houses of the fugitive bourgeoisie, furniture of monstrous modern German design but solid construction. Sturdy girls bore the loads. The rooms of the farmhouse .were transformed in a way which brought deep depression to Guy but exultation to the widows who polished and dusted with the zeal of sacristans. The former Minister of the Interior had been made master of the revels. He proposed a
Vin d’Honneur
and concert.

‘He want to know,’ explained Bakic, ‘English American anti-fascist songs. He want words and music so the girls can learn them.’

‘I don’t know any,’ said Guy.

‘He want to know what songs you teach your soldiers?’

‘We don’t
teach
them any. Sometimes they sing about drink, “Roll out the barrel” and “Show me the way to go home”.’

‘He says not those songs. We are having such songs also under the fascists. All stopped now. He says Commissar orders American songs to honour American general.’

‘American songs are all about love.’

‘He says love is not anti-fascist.’

Later de Souza emerged from his bedroom with a sheaf of signals.

‘I’ve a surprise for you, uncle. We are sending a high observing officer too. Apparently it’s the rule at Caserta that our VIPs always travel in pairs, the Yank being just one star above his British companion. Just you wait and see who we’re getting. I’ll keep it as a treat for you, uncle.’

IAN
Kilbannock’s first day in Bari was similar to Guy’s. He was briefed by Joe Cattermole and Brigadier Cape. Nothing was said about the impending battle, much about the achievements of the partisans, the failure of Mihajlovic’s
cetnics
, the inclusive, national character of the new government, and the personal qualities of Marshal Tito, who was at that moment in Capri awaiting the British Prime Minister.

Ian was the first journalist to be admitted to Jugoslavia. Sir Ralph Brompton had vouched for him to Cattermole, not as one fully committed to the cause, but as a man without prejudice. Cape had an unexpressed, indeed unrecognized, belief that a peer and a member of Bellamy’s was likely to be trustworthy. Ian listened to all that was told him, asked a few intelligent questions, and made no comment other than: ‘I see this as a job that will take time. Impossible to send spot news. If it suits you, I shall just look about, talk to people, and then return here and write a series of articles.’

He intended to establish himself now and for the future as a political commentator, of the kind who had enjoyed such prestige in the late thirties.

He was taken to dinner at the club by the Halberdier major. More direct than Guy, he said: ‘I’m afraid I didn’t get your name.’

‘Marchpole. Grace-Groundling-Marchpole to be precise. I dare say you know my brother in London. He’s a big bug.’

‘No.’

‘He’s a secret big bug. I’m just a cog in the machine. How was London?’ Ian described the flying bombs. ‘My brother won’t like that.’

While they were at dinner, Brigadier Cape came into the room politely propelling a man in the uniform of a major-general, a lean, grey-faced, stiff old man, whose single eye was lustreless, whose maimed hand reached out to a chair-back to steady him as he limped and shuffled to his table.

‘Good God,’ said Ian, ‘a ghost.’

He had sailed with this man to the Isle of Mugg in the yacht
Cleopatra
in December 1941; a man given to ferocious jokes and bloody ambitions, an exultant, unpredictable man whom Ian had taken pains to avoid.

‘Ben Ritchie-Hook,’ said Major Marchpole, ‘one of the great characters of the Corps. He hadn’t much use for me though. We parted company.’

‘But what’s happened to him?’

‘He’s on the shelf,’ said Major Marchpole. ‘All they can find for him to do is play second fiddle as an observer. He’ll be in your party going across tomorrow night.’

Ostensibly the party which was assembled at the airfield next evening, was paying a call on the new Praesidium. It had grown since the simple project of sending an independent observer had first been raised and accepted.

General Spitz, the American, was still the principal. He had a round stern face under a capacious helmet. He was much harnessed with plastic straps and hung about with weapons and instruments and haversacks. He was attended by an ADC of less militant appearance, who had been chosen for his ability to speak Serbo-Croat, and by his personal photographer, a very young, very lively manikin whom he addressed as ‘Mr Sneiffel’. Ritchie-Hook wore shorts, a bush-shirt, and a red-banded forage cap. His Halberdier servant guarded his meagre baggage, the same man, Dawkins, war-worn now like his master, who had served him at Southsands and Penkirk, in Central Africa and in the desert, wherever Ritchie-Hook’s strides had taken him; strides which had grown shorter and slower, faltered and almost come to a halt. Lieutenant Padfield was there with his conductor who, it was thought, might help the partisans with their concert. The Free French had insinuated a representative. Other nondescript figures, American, British, and Jugoslav, made a full complement for the aeroplane. Gilpin was there with a watching brief for Cattermole, and an Air Force observer to report the promised cooperation of the fighter-bombers. He and the two generals specifically, and Gilpin vaguely, were alone in the know about the promised assault.

The Air Commodore in command turned out to see the party on board. The American General instructed Sneiffel to take snapshots of the pair of them. He called Ritchie-Hook to join them. ‘Come along, General, just for the record.’ Ritchie-Hook looked in a bewildered way at the little figure who squatted with his flash-light apparatus at the General’s feet; then with a ghastly grin said: ‘Not me. My ugly mug would break the camera.’

Lieutenant Padfield saluted General Spitz and said: ‘Sir, I don’t think you’ve met Sir Almeric Griffiths who is coming with us. He is a very prominent orchestral conductor as no doubt you know.’

‘Bring him up. Bring him in,’ said the General. ‘Come, Griffiths, stand with me.’

The bulb flashed.

Gilpin said: ‘He ought to get security clearance before taking photographs on our airfield.’

Ian resolved to make himself agreeable to this photographer and get prints of all his films. They might serve to illustrate a book.

As the last glow of sunset faded they boarded the aeroplane in inverse order of seniority beginning with the Halberdier servant and ending after some lingering exchanges of politeness with General Spitz. A machine had been provided that was luxurious for these parts, fitted with seats as though for paying passengers in peace-time. Little lights glowed along the roof. The doors were shut. The lights went out. It was completely dark. What had once been windows were painted out. The roar of the engines imposed silence on the party. Ian, who had put himself next to Sneiffel, longed for a forbidden cigarette and tried to compose himself for sleep. It was far from his normal bedtime. He had worn the same shirt all day without a chance of changing. In the hot afternoon it had been damp with sweat. Now in the chill upper air it clung to him and set him shivering. It had not occurred to him to bring his greatcoat. It had been an unsatisfactory day. He had wandered about the streets of the old town with Lieutenant Padfield and Griffiths. They had lunched at the club and had been ordered to report at the airfield two hours before they were needed. He had not dined and saw no hope of doing so. He sat in black boredom and discomfort until, after an hour, sleep came.

The aeroplane flew high over the Adriatic and the lightless, enemy-held coast of Dalmatia. All the passengers were sleeping when at last the little lights went up and the American General who had been travelling in the cockpit returned to his place in the tail saying: ‘All right, fellows. We’re there.’ Everyone began groping for equipment. The photographer next to Ian tenderly nursed his camera. Ian heard the change of speed in the engines and felt the rapid descent, the list as they banked, then straightened for the run-in. Then unexpectedly the engines burst up in full throat; the machine suddenly rose precipitously, throwing the passengers hard back in their seats; then as suddenly dived, throwing them violently forward. The last thing Ian heard was a yelp of alarm from Sneiffel. Then a great door slammed in his mind.

He was standing in the open beside a fire. London, he thought; Turtle’s Club going up in flames. But why was maize growing in St James’s Street? Other figures were moving around him, unrecognizable against the fierce light. One seemed familiar. ‘Loot,’ he said, ‘what are
you
doing here?’ and then added: ‘Job says the gutters are running with wine.’

Always polite Lieutenant Padfield said: ‘Is that so?’

A more distinctly American, more authoritative voice was shouting: ‘Is everyone out?’

Another familiar figure came close to him. A single eye glittered terribly in the flames. ‘You there,’ said Ritchie-Hook, ‘were you driving that thing?’

As though coming round from gas in the dentist’s chair Ian saw that ‘that thing’ was an aeroplane, shorn of its undercarriage, part buried in the great furrow it had ploughed for itself, burning furiously in the bows, with flames trickling back along the fuselage like the wines of Turtle’s. Ian remembered he had left Bari in an aeroplane and that he had been bound for Jugoslavia.

Then he was aware of the gaunt figure confronting him and of a single eye which caught the blaze. ‘Are you the pilot?’ demanded Ritchie-Hook. ‘Pure bad driving. Why can’t you look where you’re going.’ The concussion which had dazed his companions had momentarily awakened Ritchie-Hook. ‘You’re under arrest,’ he roared above the sound of the fire.

‘Who’s missing?’ demanded the American General.

Ian then saw a man leave the group and trot to the pyre and deliberately climb back through the escape-hatch.

‘What the devil does that idiot think he’s doing?’ cried Ritchie-Hook. ‘Come back. You’re under arrest.’

Ian’s senses were clearer now. He still seemed to be in a dream but in a very vivid one. ‘It’s like the croquet match in Alice in Wonderland,’ he heard himself say to Lieutenant Padfield.

‘That’s a very, very gallant act,’ said the Lieutenant.

The figure emerged again in the aperture, jumped, and dragged out behind him not, as first appeared, an insensible fellow passenger but, it transpired, a bulky cylindrical object; he staggered clear with it and then proceeded to roll on the ground.

‘Good God, it’s Dawkins,’ said Ritchie-Hook. ‘What the devil are you doing?’

‘Trousers on fire, sir,’ said Dawkins. ‘Permission to take them off, sir?’ Without waiting for orders he did so, pulling them down, then with difficulty unfastening his anklets and kicking the smouldering garment clear of his burden. He stood thus in shirt, tunic, and boots gazing curiously at his bare legs. ‘Fair roasted,’ he said.

The American General asked: ‘Were there any men left inside?’

‘Yes, sir. I think there was, sir. They didn’t look like moving. Too hot to stay and talk. Had to get the General’s valise out.’

‘Are you hurt.’

‘Yes, sir. I think so, sir. But I don’t seem to feel it.’

‘Shock,’ said the General. ‘You will later.’

The flames had now taken hold of the tail. ‘No one is to attempt any further rescue operations.’ No one had shown any inclination to do so. ‘Who’s missing?’ he said to his aide. ‘Count and find out.’

‘I don’t see Almeric,’ said Lieutenant Padfield.

‘How did any of us get out?’ Ian asked.

‘The General, our General Spitz. He got both the hatches open before anyone else moved.’

‘Something to be said for technological training.’

Gilpin was loudly complaining of burned fingers. No one heeded him. The little group was behaving in an orderly, mechanical manner. They spoke at random and did not listen. Each seemed alone, isolated by his recent shock. Someone said: ‘I wonder where the hell we are.’ No one answered. Ritchie-Hook said to Ian: ‘You were not in any way responsible for that intolerable exhibition of incompetence?’

‘I’m a press-officer, sir.’

‘Oh, I thought you were the pilot. You need not consider yourself under arrest. But be careful in future. This is the second time this has happened to me. They tried it on before in Africa.’

The two generals stood side by side. ‘Neat trick of yours that,’ Ritchie-Hook conceded, ‘getting the door open. I was slow off the mark. Didn’t really know what was happening for a moment. Might have been in there still.’

The aide came to report to General Spitz: ‘All the crew are missing.’

‘Ha,’ said Ritchie-Hook. ‘The dog it was that died.’

‘And six from the rest of the party. I’m afraid Sneiffel is one of them.’

‘Too bad, too bad,’ said General Spitz; ‘he was a fine boy.’

‘And the civilian musician.’

‘Too bad.’

‘And the French liaison officer.’

General Spitz was not listening to the casualty list. An epoch seemed to have passed since the disaster. General Spitz looked at his watch. ‘Eight minutes,’ he said. ‘Someone ought to be here soon.’

The place where the aeroplane had fallen was pasture. The maize field lay astern of it, tall, ripe for reaping, glowing golden in the firelight. These stalks now parted and through them came running the first of the reception party from the airfield, partisans and the British Mission. There were greetings and anxious inquiries. Ian lost all interest in the scene. He found himself uncontrollably yawning and sat on the ground with his head on his knees while behind him the chatter of solicitude and translation faded to silence.

Another great space of time, two minutes by a watch, was broken by someone saying: ‘Are you hurt?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Can you walk?’

‘I suppose so. I’d sooner stay here.’

‘Come on, it’s not far.’

Someone helped him to his feet. He noticed without surprise that it was Guy. Guy, he remembered, was an inhabitant of this strange land. There was something he ought to say to Guy. It came to him. ‘Very sorry about Virginia,’ he said.

‘Thank you. Have you got any belongings?’

‘Burned. Damn fool thing to have happened. I never trusted the Air Force ever since they accepted
me
. Must be something wrong with people who’d accept
me
.’

‘Are you sure nothing hit you on the head in that crash?’ said Guy.

‘Not sure. I think I’m just sleepy.’

A partisan doctor went round the survivors. No one except Halberdier Dawkins and Gilpin had any visible injuries; the doctor made light of Gilpin’s burnt fingers. Dawkins was suffering from surface burns which had rapidly swelled into enormous blisters covering his legs and thighs. He prodded  them with detached curiosity. ‘It’s a rum go,’ he said; ‘spill a kettle on your toe and you’re fair dancing. Boil you in oil like a heathen and you don’t feel a thing.’

The doctor gave him morphia and two partisan girls bore him off on a stretcher.

The unsteady little procession followed the path the rescuers had trodden through the maize. The flames cast deep shadows before their feet. At the edge of the field grew a big chestnut. ‘Do you see what I see?’ asked Ian. Something like a monkey was perched in the branches gibbering at them. It was Sneiffel with his camera.

‘Lovely pictures,’ he said. ‘Sensational if they come out.’

When Ian woke next morning it was as though from a debauch; all the symptoms of alcoholic hangover, such as he had not experienced since adolescence, overwhelmed him. As in those days, he had no memory of going to bed. As in those days, he received an early call from the man who had put him there.