‘Who’ll make rings round whom?’
‘Tito round Winston of course. The old boy is being briefed to meet a Garibaldi. He doesn’t know Tito’s a highly trained politician.’
‘Well, isn’t Winston Churchill?’
‘He’s an orator and a parliamentarian, uncle. Something quite different.
‘All we have to do now is to square the Yanks. Some of them are still a bit shy of left-wing parties. Not the President, of course, but the military. But we’ve persuaded them at this stage of the war the only relevant question is: who is doing the fighting? Mihajlovic’s boys were given a test – told to blow a bridge by a certain date. They did nothing. Too squeamish about reprisals. That’s never worried our side. The more the Nazis make themselves hated, the better for us. So Mihajlovic is definitely out. But the Yanks don’t like taking our intelligence reports on trust. Want to see for themselves. So they’re sending a general here to report back how hard the partisans are fighting.’
‘As far as I know, they aren’t.’
‘They will when the Yanks come. Just you wait and see.’
Guy said, ‘The thing that’s been worrying me most is the refugee problem.’
‘Oh yes, the Jews. I saw a file about them.’
‘Two went out last night. I hope they get proper attention in Bari.’
‘You can be sure they will. The Zionists have their own funds and their own contacts with UNRRA and allied headquarters. It isn’t really any business of ours.’
‘You talk like a partisan.’
‘I am a partisan, uncle. We have more important things to think about than these sectarian troubles. Don’t forget, I’m a Jew myself; so are three of the brighter members of the Praesidium. Jews have been valuable anti-fascist propaganda in America. Now’s the time to forget we’re Jews and simply remember we are anti-fascist. You might just as well start agitating Auchinleck about Scottish nationalism.’
‘I can’t feel like that about Catholics.’
‘Can’t you, uncle? Try.’
When Guy went to church next morning at seven there were two partisans on watch. The priest in his black chasuble was inaudible at the altar. The partisans watched Guy. When he went up to communion they followed and stood at the side, their sten guns slung from their shoulders. When they were sure that nothing but the host passed between Guy and the priest, they returned to their places, watched Guy saying his prayers for Virginia, and followed him back to the mission headquarters.
At luncheon that day de Souza’s first words were: ‘Uncle, what’s all this about you and the priest?’
‘I went to Mass this morning.’
‘Did you? That won’t be any help. You’ve upset the Commissar seriously, you know. They made a formal complaint last night saying you had been guilty of “incorrect” behaviour. They say you were seen yesterday giving the priest rations.’
‘That’s quite true.’
‘And passing a note.’
‘I simply gave him the name of someone who’s dead – what we call a “mass intention”.’
‘Yes, that’s what the priest told them. They’ve had the priest up and examined him. The old boy’s lucky not to be under arrest or worse. How could you be such an ass? He produced a bit of paper he said was your message. It had your name on it and nothing else.’
‘Not mine. Someone in my family.’
‘Well you can’t expect the Commissar to distinguish, can you? He naturally thought the priest was trying to put something over on them. They searched the presbytery but couldn’t find anything incriminating, except some chocolate. They confiscated that of course. But they’re suspicious still. You must have realized what the situation is here. If it wasn’t for our American guests they might have made real trouble. I had to point out to them that the general was not only going to report back about the fighting. He would also be asked what Begoy was like now it’s for the moment the capital of the country. If he found the church shut and cottoned on to the fact that the priest had just been removed, he might, I told them, just possibly get it into his noodle that this wasn’t exactly the liberal democracy he’s been led to expect. They saw the point in the end, but they took some persuading. They’re serious fellows our comrades. Don’t for goodness’ sake try anything like that again. As I said yesterday, this is no time for sectarian loyalties.’
‘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 th
em 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.’
4
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?’
Anoth
er 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.