Guerrilla Warfare
From Eastern Approaches
by Fitzroy Maclean
[Editor’s note: The following observations concerning guerrilla operations in Jugoslavia during the Second World War are reminiscent of the guerrilla phase of the Anglo-Boer War (1899-1902). In Commando – Of Horses and Men, Deneys Reitz says the following: ‘My father said that guerrilla war was better suited to the genius of the Boer people than regular field operations. He spoke of George Washington and Valley Forge, and of other seemingly lost causes that had triumphed in the end, and although we did not altogether share his optimism (for we had the memory of demoralised men and flying columns fresh in our minds), yet his faith cheered us tremendously.’
Think of the heroic guerrilla-war achievements of De la Rey and De Wet, and of Smuts during his incursion into the Cape Colony; think of the intensity of the resistance of the civilian Boer population in the face of the enemy’s ‘methods of barbarism’; and the similarities with what follows will be readily apparent.]
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Strategically the situation was well suited to irregular operations. Everything in Jugoslavia favoured the guerrilla: the enemy’s long drawn-out lines of communication, his isolated garrisons and installations. The terrain, too, was well-suited to the purpose. In the hills and woods the Partisans had a background for their operations which could be made to serve at will as a base, as a jumping-off point, as space in which to manoeuvre, as a place in which to hide. It was an element as essential to their kind of warfare as the sea to naval warfare. By emerging unexpectedly from it they were able to achieve the surprise which is the essence of irregular operations. By fading back into it, once their immediate task was completed, they could deny the enemy any solid target at which to strike back. They enjoyed, too, the support of a civilian population deeply imbued with the tradition of resistance to the foreign invader, Teuton or Latin, Magyar or Turk.
But it was perhaps in the character of their leaders that resided the ultimate reason for the Partisans’ success. These leaders were Communists. In guerrilla war, ideas matter more than material reserves. Few ideas equal Communism in strength, in persistence, in insidiousness, in its power over the individual. Their Communist leaders furnished the Partisans with the singleness of purpose, the ruthless determination, the merciless discipline, without which they could not have survived, still less succeeded, in their object. They possessed themselves and inspired in those about them a spirit of absolute devotion which led them to count as nothing either their own lives or the lives of others; they neither gave nor expected quarter. They endowed the Movement with an oracle: the Party line. They brought it a ready-made intelligence system, a well-tried, widespread, old-established underground network. To what had started as a war they gave the character of a revolution. Finally – and this was perhaps their most notable achievement – they succeeded in influencing their followers to forget the old internecine feuds and hatreds and, by throwing together Serbs, Croats, Slovenes, Montenegrins and the rest in the fight against the common enemy, produced within their own ranks a new sense of national unity.
By 1943, the Partisans numbered, so far as it was possible to ascertain, about 150 000, perhaps more. This force, composed of formations of varying strength, was distributed over the whole of Jugoslavia, being based for the most part in the mountains and forests. Each Partisan formation had its own Headquarters, and these subordinate headquarters were directly or indirectly responsible to Tito’s General Headquarters, which thus exercised effective operational control over the whole force. Communications were by wireless, use being made of captured enemy sets, or by couriers who travelled precariously from one part of the country to another across the intervening enemy lines.
The war waged by the Partisans was a strange one. There was no fixed front. Fighting for the most part with small arms only and limited stocks of ammunition, against a well-trained, well-armed, well-equipped, well-supplied and motorised enemy, supported by armour, artillery and aircraft, it was necessary for them to avoid pitched battles in which they would invariably have come off worst. If they were to succeed, it was essential that they should retain the initiative themselves, and not allow it to pass into the hands of their opponents. Their aim must be to attack the enemy where he presented the richest target, where he was weakest, and, above all, where he least expected it. It was equally important that, having attained their purpose, they should not linger but should fade once again into the background of hills and woods, where pursuit could not reach them. This necessitated a high degree of mobility. Their human resources, like their material resources, were precious. Any engagement in which enemy losses did not outnumber their own losses by at least five to one the Partisans reckoned a defeat.
If guerrillas are to survive in conditions comparable to those in which the Partisans were fighting, they must at all costs deny the enemy a target at which he can strike back. As their numbers and the scale of their activities increased, this became harder. They had to resist the temptation to follow up and consolidate their successes. All gains had to be regarded as temporary. Villages and small towns captured by sudden attacks had to be abandoned again when the enemy counter-attacked in force. For the Partisans to allow themselves to be forced into the role of a beleaguered garrison would have been a fatal mistake, as individual Commanders were to learn on occasion by bitter experience. And so towns and villages changed hands time after time with their inhabitants, and each time became more battered and lost more inhabitants in the process.
For the support which they gave the Partisans the population suffered atrociously. In addition to famine and want, which swept the ravaged country, the Germans, the Italians, the Bulgars and the various local Quislings inflicted savage reprisals on the people of the country in revenge for the damage done by the Partisans. But neither the Partisans nor their civilian supporters allowed anything to deter them from resistance to the enemy. And, in fact, the enemy, by their barbarity, defeated their own object, for such were the hatred and bitterness that it engendered, that the violence and intensity of the national resistance were redoubled.
Guerilla-Oorlogvoering
Uit Eastern Approaches
deur Fitzroy Maclean
[Redakteur se nota: Die volgende waarnemings aangaande guerrilla-gevegsoptrede in Jugoslawië gedurende die Tweede Wêreldoorlog, roep die guerrilla-fase van die Anglo Boere-oorlog (1899-1902) in gedagte terug. In Kommando – Van Perde en Manne, het Deneys Reitz die volgende geskryf: “My pa het gesê dat guerrilla-oorlogvoering meer geskik was vir die geniale vernuf van die Boere as gewone veldoperasies. Hy het George Washington en Valley Forge genoem, en ander skynbaar verlore sake wat uiteindelik geseëvier het, en hoewel ons nie sy optimisme heeltemal gedeel het nie (want ons kon nog steeds die gedemoraliseerde en vlugtende kommando’s in ons geestesoog sien) het sy vertroue ons geweldig opgebeur.”
Dink aan die heroïese guerrilla-oorlogkordaatstukke van De la Rey en De Wet, en van Smuts tydens sy inval in die Kaapkolonie; dink aan die kragdadigheid van die weerstand van die burgerlike Boeregemeenskap in die aangesig van die vyand se “metodes van barbarisme”; en die ooreenkomste met wat volg sal duidelik onmiskenbaar wees.]
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Die situasie was strategies besonder geskik vir guerrillastryd-operasies. Alles in Jugoslawië het die guerrillas bevoordeel: die vyand se verbindingsweë met sy geïsoleerde garnisoene en installasies, asook die terrein wat uiters geskik was vir die doel. Die Partisans het in die heuwels en woude ’n agtergrond vir hulle ondernemings gehad wat na willekeur as ’n basis kon dien, as ’n vastrapplek, as ’n spasie waarin rondbeweeg kon word, asook ’n wegkruipplek. Dit was net so ’n noodsaaklike element vir hulle tipe oorlogvoering soos die see vir mariene-oorlogsvoering. Deur onverwags uit hulle landskap op te doem, was dit vir hulle moontlik om verrassings – die kern van guerrilla-oorlogvoering – te bewerkstellig. Deur weer daarin terug te smelt nadat hulle hul onmiddellikste taak afgehandel het, kon hulle die vyand ’n identifiseerbare teiken, waarop hulle kon terugslaan, ontsê. Hulle het ook die ondersteuning van die burgerlike gemeenskap geniet – mense wat diep besiel was met ’n tradisie van weerstand teen die buitelandse invallers – Duits of Romaans, Hongaars of Turks.
Miskien het die fundamentele rede vir die Partisans se sukses in die karakter van hul leiers gelê. Hulle was kommuniste. In guerrilla-oorlogvoering is idees baie belangriker as materiële reserwes. Daar is min idees wat met kommunisme vergelyk kan word wat betref sterkte, volharding, geslepenheid en sy mag oor die indiwidu. Hulle kommunistiese leiers het die Partisans met doelgerigtheid, meedoënlose vasberadenheid en genadelose dissipline voorsien – waarsonder hulle nie sou kon oorleef nie en, nog minder, suksesvol in hulle doelwit sou kon gewees het. Hulle het hulself en dié om hulle vervul en geïnspireer met ’n gees van absolute toewyding, wat tot gevolg gehad het dat hulle hul eie lewens en die van ander as van geen belang beskou het nie. Hulle het geen genade gevra of gegee nie. Hulle het aan die beweging ’n orakel geskenk – die gedragslyn van die Party. Hulle het ’n gevestigde intelligensiestelsel, ’n dikwels beproefde, wydvertakte en ervare ondergrondse netwerk gehad. Aan wat as ’n oorlog begin het, het hulle die karakter van ’n rewolusie gegee. Ten laaste – en dit was miskien hulle merkwaardigste prestasie – het hulle daarin geslaag om hulle volgelinge te beïnvloed om die ou onderlinge vetes en haat te vergeet en, deur die samevoeging van Serwiërs, Kroate, Slowene, Montenegryne en die res in die geveg teen die gemeenskaplike vyand, het hulle ’n nuwe sin van nasionale eenheid onder hul eie geledere geskep.
Teen 1943 was daar, sover as wat vasgestel kon word, omtrent 150 000 of meer Partisans. Hierdie mag, saamgestel uit strukture van wisselende sterkte, was oor die hele Jugoslawië versprei, meestal in bergagtige, beboste areas. Elke Partisan-formasie het sy eie hoofkwartier gehad en hierdie ondergeskikte hoofkwartiere was direk of indirek verantwoordelik aan Tito se algemene hoofkwartier, wat sodoende doeltreffende operasionele beheer oor die hele mag uitgeoefen het. Kommunikasie is deur middel van radio gedoen – gebuite vyandelike stelle is gebruik – of deur koeriers wat onder gevaarlike omstandighede van een deel van die land na ’n ander deur tussenliggende vyandelike linies beweeg het.
Die oorlog wat die Partisans gevoer het, was vreemd. Daar was geen vasgestelde front nie. Die grootste gedeelte van die gevegte was slegs met kleingewere en beperkte voorrade ammunisie gevoer, teen ’n goed geleerde, goed bewapende, goed toegeruste, goed voorsien van voorrade en ’n gemotoriseerde vyand, ondersteun deur pantservoertuie, grofgeskut en vliegtuie. Dit was vir hulle noodsaaklik om vaste veldslae waar hulle sonder uitsondering tweede beste daarvan sou afkom, te vermy. As hulle sukses sou kon behaal, was dit noodsaaklik dat hulle die inisiatief moes behou, en nie moes toelaat dat dit in die hande van die teenstanders beland nie. Hulle doel moes wees om die vyand aan te val daar waar die rykste teiken aangebied is, waar hy op sy swakste was, en, bowenal, waar hy dit die minste verwag het. Dit was net so belangrik dat na hulle hul doel bereik het, hulle nie daar sou talm en draal nie, maar dadelik moes wegsmeld in die agtergrond van heuwels en bosse, daar waar agtervolging hulle nie sou kon opspoor nie. Dit het ’n hoë graad van beweeglikheid benodig. Hulle menslike hulpbronne, soos hulle materiële hulpbronne, was kosbaar. Enige skermutseling waar die vyand se gesneuweldes nie ten minste vyf maal meer as hulle s’n was nie, het die Partisans as ’n nederlaag beskou.
Vir guerrillavegters om te oorleef in omstandighede soos dié waarin die Partisans geveg het, moet hulle ten alle koste verhoed dat die vyand ’n teiken kan kry om teen terug te slaan. Soos hulle getalle en die omvang van hulle aktiwiteite vermeerder het, het dit moeiliker geword. Hulle moes die versoeking weerstaan om op te volg en hulle suksesse te konsolideer. Alle voordele moes as tydelik beskou word. Dorpe, groot en klein, wat hulle met onverwagte, skielike aanvalle verower het, moes van afstand gedoen word wanneer die vyand met mag en krag teenaanvalle uitgevoer het. Vir die Partisans om toe te gelaat het om die rol te speel van ’n beleërde garnisoen, sou ’n fatale fout gewees het, soos indiwiduele bevelvoerders by geleentheid tot hulle bittere ervaring moes leer. En soos die dorpe keer op keer met hulle inwoners van veroweraar verwissel het, het die plekke elkers meer toegetakel daar uitgesien en in die proses meer inwoners afgestaan.
As gevolg van die ondersteuning wat hulle aan die Partisans gegee het, het die bevolking gruwelik gely. Behalwe die hongersnood en gebrek wat die verwoeste land geteister het, het die Duitsers, Italianers, die Bulgare en die verskillende plaaslike landsverraaiers barbaarse vergeldingsoptrede teen die mense van die land toegepas uit weerwraak vir die skade wat die Partisans hulle aangedoen het. Maar nóg die Partisans nóg die burgerlike ondersteuners het toegelaat dat enigiets hulle laat afsien het van hul weerstand teen die vyand. En, in werklikheid, het die vyand deur hulle barbarisme, hulle eie doelwit gedwarsboom, want so erg was die haat en die bitterheid wat dit voortgebring het, dat dit die geweld en die intensiteit van die nasionale weerstand eintlik versterk het.
Tito – A Call to Action
As we entered, Tito came forward to meet us. I looked at him carefully, for here, it seemed to me, was one of the keys to our problem. ‘In war,’ Napoleon had said, ‘it is not men, but the man who counts.’
He was of medium height, clean-shaven, with tanned regular features and iron-grey hair. He had a very firm mouth and alert blue eyes. He was wearing a dark semi-military tunic and breeches, without any badges; a neat spotted tie added the only touch of colour. We shook hands and sat down.
How, I wondered, would he compare with the Communists I had encountered in Russia? From the members of the Politburo to the NKVD spies who followed me about, all had had one thing in common: their terror of responsibility, their reluctance to think for themselves, their blind unquestioning obedience to a Party line dictated by higher authority, the terrible atmosphere of fear and suspicion which pervaded their lives. Was Tito going to be that sort of Communist?
A sentry with a Schmeisser sub-machine gun slung across his back brought a bottle of plum brandy and poured it out. We emptied our glasses. There was a pause.
The first thing, clearly, was to find a common language. This, I found, presented no difficulty. Tito spoke fluent German and Russian, and was also very ready to help me out in my first attempts at Serbo-Croat. After a couple of rounds of plum brandy, we were deep in conversation.
One thing struck me immediately: Tito’s readiness to discuss any question on its merits and, if necessary, to take a decision there and then. He seemed perfectly sure of himself; a principal, not a subordinate. To find such assurance, such independence, in a Communist was for me a new experience.
I began by telling him the purpose of my mission. The British Government, I said, had received reports of Partisan resistance and were anxious to help. But they were still without accurate information as to the extent and nature of the Partisan movement. I had now been sent in with a team of military experts to make a full report and advise the Commander-in-Chief how help could best be given.
Tito replied that he was glad to hear this. The Partisans had now been fighting alone and unaided for two years against overwhelming odds. For supplies they had depended on what they captured from the enemy. The Italian capitulation had helped them enormously. But outside help was what they needed most of all. It was true that, from time to time during the past few weeks, an occasional parachute load had been dropped at random, but the small quantity of supplies that had reached them in this way, though gratefully received, was of little practical use when distributed among over 100 000 Partisans.
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As the night wore on, our talk drifted away from the immediate military problems which we had been discussing, and Tito, whose initial shyness had long since worn off, told me something of his past. The gaps in his narrative I filled in later.
The son of a Croat peasant, he had fought in the First World War in the ranks of the Imperial Austro-Hungary Army. He had been sent to the Russian front, where he was wounded and taken prisoner by the armies of the Tsar. Thus in 1917, at the time of the Bolshevik Revolution, he had found himself in Russia. All prisoners of war were set free, and he himself volunteered for the newly formed Red Army. He served in it throughout the Civil War. It was his first taste of the new ideas. He returned to his own country a convinced Communist.
The life which now began for Tito, or Josip Broz, to give him his true name, was that of a professional revolutionary, of a loyal servant of the Communist International. Of that he made no secret. In the new kingdom of Jugoslavia, of which he was now a citizen, the Communist Party was declared illegal almost as soon as it was formed, and severely repressive measures taken against its members. And so he spent the next twenty years in and out of prison; in hiding; in exile. Proudly, he showed me a photograph of himself which the Partisans had found in an old police register and which he kept as a memento of this period of his existence.
Then, in 1937, a new phase opened in his career. The Communist International were purging the foreign Communist Parties. In Jugoslavia they found that the Party had become badly disorganised and had fallen into grave heresies. A key point in south-eastern Europe was endangered. A reliable, determined man was needed to put matters right. Gorkić, the Secretary-General of the Jugoslav Communist Party, was liquidated, and Josip Broz appointed in his place.
He was a good organiser. In his underground army he made new appointments, allotted new tasks and established a new discipline. He would send for people and tell them what to do. ‘You,’ he said to them, ‘will do this; and you, that,’ in Serbo-Croat, ‘Ti, to; ti, to.’ He did this so often that his friends began to call him Tito. The name stuck. It grew to be more than a nickname. It became a call to action, a rallying point.
Tito – ’n Roepstem Tot Aksie
deur Fitzroy Maclean
Toe ons ingestap het, het Tito vorentoe gekom om ons te ontmoet. Ek het hom sorgvuldig bekyk, want hier, so het dit vir my gelyk, was een van die sleutels tot ons probleem. “Gedurende oorlog,” het Napoleon gesê, “is dit nie die mense nie, maar die man wat tel.”
Hy was van gemiddelde lengte, skoon geskeer, met songebrande onberispelike gelaatstrekke en ysterkleurige hare. Hy het ’n ferm mond en op en wakker blou oë gehad. Hy het ’n donker semimilitêre baadjie en kortbroek gedra, sonder enige kentekens; ’n netjiese das met kolle was die enigste toevoeging tot kleur. Ons het hande geskud en gaan sit.
Hoe, het ek gewonder, sou hy vergelyk met die kommuniste wat ek in Rusland teëgekom het? Almal, van die lede van die Politburo af tot die NKVD-spioene wat my dopgehou en agtervolg het, het een ding in gemeen gehad, hulle angs vir verantwoordelikheid, hulle teensinnigheid om vir hulself te kon dink, hulle blinde onvoorwaardelike gehoorsaamheid aan ’n Party-gedragslyn wat deur ’n hoër gesag gedikteer is, die verskriklike atmosfeer van vrees en agterdog wat hulle lewens deurdring en beheer het. Sou Tito een van daardie soort kommuniste wees?
’n Skildwag met ’n Schmeisser-handmasjiengeweer wat oor sy rug geswaai was, het ’n bottel pruimbrandewyn gebring en vir ons ingeskink. Ons het ons glase geledig. Daar was ’n verposing.
Dit was duidelik dat ons in die eerste plek ’n gemeenskaplike taal moes vind. Ek het gevind dat dit geen probleem was nie. Tito het Duits en Russies vlot gepraat, en hy was ook heeltemal gereed om my by te staan in my eerste poging om Serbo-Croat te praat. Na ’n paar rondtes pruimbrandewyn, was ons druk in gesprek met mekaar.
Een ding het my dadelik opgeval: Tito se gewilligheid om enige vraag op sy meriete te bespreek en, indien nodig, daar en dan ’n besluit te neem. Hy het geheel en al selfversekerd voorgekom; ’n hoof, nie ’n ondergeskikte nie. Om sulke selfvertroue, sulke onafhanklikheid in ’n kommunis te vind, was vir my ’n nuwe ervaring.
Ek het begin deur hom te vertel wat die doelwit van my sending was. Die Britse regering, het ek gesê, het verslae oor Partisan-weerstand ontvang en was gretig om te help. Hulle was egter steeds sonder akkurate inligting wat betref die omvang en aard van die Partisan-beweging. Saam met ’n span militêre deskundiges is ek gestuur om ’n volledige verslag op te stel en ook om die opperbevelhebber van raad te bedien oor hoe hulp die beste verleen kon word.
Tito het geantwoord dat hy bly was om dit te hoor. Die Partisans was toe besig om alleen te veg, en was vir twee jaar al sonder hulp betrokke teen ’n oorweldigende oormag. Vir voorrade was hulle afhanklik van wat hulle van die vyand kon buit. Die Italiaanse kapitulasie was vir hulle van enorme hulp. Maar hulp van buite was wat hulle die meeste nodig gehad het. Dit was waar dat daar af en toe in die voorafgaande weke vragte voorrade per valskerm laat val is, maar die klein bietjie wat hulle op hierdie manier bereik het, hoewel met dankbaarheid ontvang, was maar van min praktiese nut wanneer dit tussen meer as 100 000 Partisans uitgedeel moes word.
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Soos dit later in die aand geword het, het ons geselskap afgedwaal van die dringende militêre probleme waaroor ons gepraat het, en Tito, wie se aanvanklike beskroomdheid lankal vervaag en verdwyn het, het my toe so ietwat aangaande sy verlede vertel. Die uitgelate gedeeltes in sy verhaal het ek later bygevoeg.
As die seun van ’n Kroatiese kleinboer, het hy in die Eerste Wêreldoorlog in die geledere van die keiserlike Oostenryk-Hongaarse weermag geveg. Hy is na die Russiese front gestuur waar hy deur die tsaar se magte gewond en gevange geneem is. Sodoende, in 1917, ten tyde van die Bolsjewistiese rewolusie, het hy homself in Rusland bevind. Al die oorlogsprisoniers is vrygelaat en hy het vrywillig aangesluit by die nuutgevormde Rooi Weermag. Hy het regdeur die burgeroorlog daarin diens gedoen. Dit was sy eerste kennismaking met die nuwe idees, en hy het na sy eie land teruggekeer as ’n oortuigte kommunis.
Die lewe wat toe begin het vir Tito, of Josip Broz, om sy regte naam te gebruik, was dié van ’n professionele rewolusionêr, van ’n lojale dienaar van Kommunisme Internasionaal. Daarvan het hy geen geheim gemaak nie. In die nuwe koninkryk van Jugoslawië, waarvan hy toe ’n burger was, is die kommunistiese party amper net ná dit gestig is, onwettig verklaar, en verskeie dwangmaatreëls is teen hulle lede ingestel. En so het hy toe die daaropvolgende twintig jaar binne en buite die tronk deurgebring, asook om weg te kruip of om in ballingskap te verkeer. Ewe trots het hy my ’n foto van homself gewys wat die Partisans in ’n ou polisieregister raakgeloop het, en wat hy toe as ’n aandenking aangehou het van dié tydperk in sy lewe.
Toe het daar in 1937 ’n nuwe fase in sy loopbaan begin. Kommunisme Internasionaal het die buitelandse kommunistiese partye gesuiwer. In Jugoslawië het hulle gevind dat die party erg gedisorganiseerd was en ernstig afgedwaal het. ’n Sleutelstreek in Suid-Oos Europa is bedreig. ’n Betroubare, vasberade man is benodig om sake weer reg te stel. Gorkić, die sekretaris-generaal van die Jugoslaafse kommunistiese party, is gelikwideer en Jossip Broz is in sy pos aangestel.
Hy was ’n goeie organiseerder. In sy ondergrondse weermag het hy nuwe aanstellings gemaak, nuwe take is toegewys en ’n nuwe dissipline is op die been gebring. Hy het mense laat kom en hulle vertel wat hulle moes doen. “Jy,” het hy aan hulle in Serbo-Croat gesê, “sal dit doen; en jy, dat” – “Ti, to; ti, to.” Hy het dit so gereeld gedoen dat sy vriende begin het om hom Tito te noem. Die naam het geklou. Dit het gegroei tot meer as net ’n bynaam. Dit het ’n roepstem tot aksie geword, ’n saamtrekpunt.
By the Light of a Flickering Lamp
From Eastern Approaches
by Fitzroy Maclean
With a jerk my parachute opened and I found myself dangling, as it were at the end of a string, high above a silent mountain valley, greenish-grey and misty in the light of the moon. It looked, I thought, invitingly cool and refreshing after the sand and glare of North Africa. Somewhere above me the aircraft, having completed its mission, was headed for home. The noise of its engines grew gradually fainter in the distance.
A long way below me and some distance away, I could see a number of fires burning. I hoped they were the right ones, for the Germans also lit fires at night at different points in the Balkans in the hope of diverting supplies and parachutists from their proper destinations. As I swung lower, I could hear a faint noise of shouting coming from the direction of the fires. I could still not see the ground immediately beneath me. We must, I reflected, have been dropped from a considerable height to take so long in coming down.
Then, without further warning, there was a jolt, and I was lying in a field of wet grass. There was no one in sight. I released myself from the harnass, rolled my parachute into a bundle, and set out to look for the Partisans.
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After an hour or two’s ride we came to a tiny sunlit village, set high in the Bosnian hills. Its wooden houses clustered round a tree-shaded square. Above them rose the minaret of a mosque. Its name was Mrkonićgrad, or, as Sergeant Duncan called it, Maconochie-grad. In it were the Headquarters of the local Partisan commander, Slavko Rodić, with whom we were to have breakfast.
Rodić, a dashing young man of about twenty-five, came out to meet us, riding an officer’s charger captured from the Germans. With him were his Chief of Staff and his Political Commissar, a big jovial Serb with a long flowing moustache. Together we repaired to a peasant’s house where breakfast was ready. At the door a robust sentry armed with a sub-machine gun saluted with his clenched fist. A pretty girl, with a pistol and a cluster of murderous-looking hand-grenades at her belt, poured some water over my hands from a jug and dried them with a towel. Then we sat down to breakfast, some dry black bread washed down by round after round of pink vanilla brandy. We discussed all manner of topics, horses, parachuting and politics, but the conversation had, I found, a way of drifting back to the one subject which was uppermost in everyone’s mind: when were the Allies going to send the Partisans some arms?
While we sat there, messengers kept bringing in situation reports from nearby areas where operations were in progress. As they delivered their messages, they too gave the clenched-fist salute. Somehow it all seemed strangely familiar: the peasant’s hut, the alert young Commander, the benign figure of the Political Commissar with his walrus moustache and the hammer and sickle badge on his cap, the girl with her pistol and hand-grenades, the general atmosphere of activity and expectation.
At first I could not think where I had seen all this before. Then it came back to me. The whole scene might have been taken, as it stood, from one of the old Soviet films of the Civil War which I had seen in Paris seven or eight years earlier. In Russia I had only seen the Revolution twenty years after the event, when it was as rigid and pompous and firmly established as any regime in Europe. Now I was seeing the struggle in its initial stages, with the revolutionaries fighting for life and liberty against tremendous odds.
~
With enemy aircraft and troops patrolling the neighbourhood it was not, it appeared, advisable to continue our journey to the Headquarters until evening, and we for our part were glad of some rest. In a nearby orchard we lay down in the shadow of some plum trees. The sunlight, filtering through the leaves, made a shifting pattern on the grass. The last thing that I remember before going to sleep is the noise of a German aeroplane droning high overhead in blessed ignorance of our presence.
When I woke up, the sun was down and it was time to start. The Partisans had a surprise in store for us. Drawn up in the village square was a captured German truck, riddled with bullet holes, but apparently still working. Two or three Partisans were pouring petrol and water into it, and another was cranking energetically. A crowd of small children were climbing all over it. An immense red flag waved from the bonnet, though whether to denote danger or to indicate the political views of the driver was not clear. It was a great occasion. Feeling unpleasantly conspicuous, we piled in and drove off.
The track took us along the shores of a lake, with hills running steeply down to it on all sides. We followed it for some miles. Then, all at once, the valley narrowed and we found ourselves looking up at the dark shape of a ruined castle rising high above the road. Round it clustered some houses, while the lights of others showed from the other side of a mountain stream. From somewhere nearby came the roar of a waterfall. Still at top speed our driver swerved across a shaky wooden bridge and jammed on his brakes. We had reached our destination: Jajce.
We had hardly stacked our kit in the house which had been allotted to us when Velebit, who had temporarily disappeared, came back to say that the Commander would be glad if I and my Chief of Staff would join him at supper. Clearly a Chief of Staff was a necessity; in fact, while I was about it, I might as well have two, one British and one American. Accordingly both Vivian and Slim Farish were raised to that position. Sergeant Duncan became my Personal Bodyguard, and we set out.
With Velebit leading the way, we re-crossed the river and climbed up to the ruined castle on the hill which we had noticed earlier. As we picked our way through the trees, a Partisan sentry, stepping from the shadows, challenged us, and then, on being given the password, guided us through the crumbling walls to an open space where a man was sitting under a tree studying a map by the light of a flickering lamp.
By die Lig van ’n Flikkerende Lamp
Uit Eastern Approaches
deur Fitzroy Maclean
Met ’n ruk het my valskerm oopgevou en het ek daar geswaaihang, asof aan die einde van ’n tou, hoog bokant ’n stille bergvallei, groengrys en mistig in die lig van die maan. Dit het, so het ek gedink, aanloklik koel en verfrissend gelyk na die sand en felle songloed van Noord-Afrika. Êrens bokant my het die vliegtuig, wat toe sy sending voltooi het, die lugpad huis toe gevat. Die geluid van die motore het geleidelik in die verte verflou.
Ver onderkant my en ’n hele entjie weg, kon ek ’n aantal vure sien brand. Ek het gehoop hulle was die regte vure, want die Duitsers het ook vure op verskillende plekke in die nag in die Balkans aangesteek met die hoop dat hulle voorrade en valskermspringers van hulle doelwitte, waarheen hulle op pad was, kon laat afwyk. Soos ek laer afgedaal het, kon ek ’n vae skreeugeluid uit die rigting van die vure hoor. Ek kon steeds nie die aarde reg onder my sien nie. Ek het gedink dat ons besonder hoog moes gevlieg het omdat dit so lank gevat het om neer te daal.
Toe, sonder enige verdere waarskuwing, was daar ’n stampval, en het ek in nat gras in die veld gelê. Daar was niemand sigbaar nie. Ek het die harnas losgemaak, my valskerm in ’n bondel opgerol, en begin met my soektog na die Partisans.
~
Na ons vir ’n uur of twee gery het, het ons by ’n klein sonverligte dorpie, hoog in die heuwels van Bosnië, aangekom. Die houthuisies daar was na aanmekaar om ’n vierkant vol skaduryke bome. Bokant hulle het die minaret van ’n moskee uitgerys. Die naam daarvan was Mrkonićgrad, of, soos sersant Duncan dit genoem het, Maconochie-grad. En hier in dié plek was die hoofkwartier van die plaaslike Partisan-bevelvoerder, Slavko Rodić, saam met wie ons ontbyt sou gaan nuttig.
Rodić, ’n vurige en lewenslustige jongman van omtrent twintig, het, op ’n offisier se strydros, gebuit van die Duitsers, uitgekom om ons te ontmoet. Saam met hom was sy stafhoof en sy politieke kommissaris, ’n groot joviale Serwiër met ’n lang welige snor. Ons het saam na ’n boerehuisie gegaan waar ontbyt op ons gewag het. By die deur het ’n frisgeboude skildwag met ’n handmasjiengeweer ons met sy gebalde vuis gesalueer. ’n Mooi meisie met ’n pistool en ’n tros moorddadig lykende handgranate aan haar gordel, het ’n bietjie water uit ’n kruik oor my hande uitgegooi en dit toe met ’n handdoek afgedroog. Ons het gaan aansit vir ontbyt van droë swart brood en ronde na ronde pienk vanilla brandewyn waarmee ons dit afgesluk het. Ons het verskeie onderwerpe bespreek soos perde, valskermspring en politiek, maar die geselskap het, so het ek agtergekom, telkens weer teruggekom na die een onderwerp wat bo aan in almal se gedagtes was: wanneer gaan die geallieerdes die Partisans wapens laat kry?
Terwyl ons daar gesit het, het boodskappers deurentyd situasieverslae van nabygeleë areas waar operasies in swang was, afgelewer. Op ’n manier het dit alles vreemd maar bekend voorgekom: die boerehuisie, die jong op en wakker bevelvoerder, die gawe persoonlikheid van die politieke kommissaris met sy walrussnor en die hamer en sekelkenteken op sy pet, die meisie met die pistool en handgranate, die algemene atmosfeer van aktiwiteit en verwagting.
Aanvanklik kon ek nie dink waar ek dit alles van tevore gesien het nie. Toe het ek onthou. Die hele toneel, net soos dit daar ontvou het, kon van een van die ou Sowjet-films van die burgeroorlog wat ek sewe of agt jaar vroeër gesien het, geneem gewees het. In Rusland het ek die rewolusie eers twintig jaar na die gebeurtenis gesien, toe dit verkramp, pretensieus en stewig gevestig was soos enige ander regeringstelsel in Europa. Hier het ek toe die worsteling in sy aanvangstadium gesien, met die rewolusionêres wat vir hulle voortbestaan en vryheid teen ’n geweldige oormag geveg het.
~
Met vyandelike vliegtuie en troepe wat die omgewing gepatrolleer het, het dit geblyk, was dit nie raadsaam om ons reis na die hoofkwartier voort te sit voor dit aand was nie, en wat ons betref, was ’n ruskans baie welkom. In ’n nabygeleë boord het ons in die skadu van ’n paar pruimbome gaan lê. Die sonlig wat deur die blare gefiltreer het, het veranderlike patrone op die gras gemaak. Die laaste ding wat ek kon onthou voor ek aan die slaap geraak het, was die geluid van ’n Duitse vliegtuig wat hoog bokant ons gedreun het, salig onbewus van ons teenwoordigheid.
Toe ek wakker geword het, het die son al gesak en was dit tyd om aanstaltes te maak. Die Partisans het ’n verrassing vir ons gehad. Daar staande in die dorpsplein was ’n gekaapte Duitse trok, vol gate geskiet, maar skynbaar nog in ’n werkende toestand. Twee of drie Partisans het petrol en water daarin gegooi en ’n ander was besig om die slinger met mening te draai. ’n Hele klomp kinders het oor die trok geswerm. ’n Enorme rooi vlag het oor die masjienkap gewapper. Of dit ’n aanduiding van gevaar was en of dit die politieke sienswyse van die drywer aangedui het, was nie duidelik nie. Dit was ’n groot geleentheid. Met ’n gevoel dat ons onaangenaam opsigtelik was, het ons ingeklim en weggery.
Die motorpaadjie het ons al langs die oewer van ’n meer geneem, met steil heuwels aan alle kante. Ons het die paadjie ’n paar myl gevolg. Maar skielik het die vallei vernou en ons het opgekyk na die donker vorm van ’n kasteelruïne sigbaar hoog bokant die pad. Om die kasteel was daar ’n klompie huise terwyl nog ligte uit ander huise aan die anderkant van die bergstroom sigbaar was. Êrens naby ons af was die gedreun van ’n waterval hoorbaar. Nog steeds teen volle spoed het ons drywer afgeswenk en oor ’n wankelrige brug gery en toe die remme aangeslaan. Ons het ons bestemming bereik: Jajce.
Ons het skaars ons benodigdhede in die huis wat vir ons aangewys is, uitgepak toe Velebit, wat vir ’n rukkie afwesig was, teruggekom het om te sê dat die bevelvoerder bly sou wees as ek en my stafhoof saam met hom aandete kon kom nuttig. Dit was duidelik dat ’n stafhoof noodsaaklik was; inderdaad, terwyl ek daarmee besig was, kon ek maar net sowel twee hê, een Brit en nog een Amerikaans. Dienooreenkomstig is beide Vivian en Slim Farish tot daardie posisies bevorder. Sersant Duncan het my persoonlike lyfwag geword en ons het vertrek.
Met Velebit wat voor geloop het, het ons weer die brug oorgesteek en opgeklim na die ruïne van die kasteel op die heuwel waarna ons vroeër gekyk het. Terwyl ons ons pad deur die bome gebaan het, het ’n Partisan-skildwag uit die skaduwee gestap, ons aangeroep, en na ons die wagwoord gegee het, ons deur die verbrokkelende mure na ’n oop ruimte geneem waar daar ’n man onder ’n boom gesit en ’n landkaart by ’n flikkerende lamp bestudeer het.
Mr Churchill’s Reply Left Me in No Doubt
From Eastern Approaches
by Fitzroy Maclean
I was to fly to London forthwith and report to the Prime Minister himself, who would tell me what was required of me.
~
Once I reached London, I was soon put in the picture. Information reaching the British government from a variety of sources had caused them to doubt whether the resistance of General Mihajlović and his Ćetniks to the enemy was all that it was made out to be. There were indications that at least as much was being done by armed bands bearing the name of Partisans and led by a shadowy figure known as Tito. Hitherto such support as we had been able to give had gone exclusively to Mihajlović. Now doubts as to the wisdom of this policy were beginning to creep in, and the task which I had been allotted was to form an estimate on the spot of the relative value of the Partisans’ contribution to the Allied cause and the best means of helping them to increase it. For this purpose I was to be dropped into Jugoslavia by parachute as head of a Military Mission accredited to Tito, or whoever I found to be in command of the Partisans.
My inquiries revealed that in fact little or nothing was known of the Partisans in Whitehall. Three or four British officers had been dropped in to them by parachute a few weeks before, but there had been fierce fighting in Jugoslavia since their arrival and, through no fault of theirs, no comprehensive report of the situation from them had reached London. It was, however, believed that the Partisans were under Communist leadership and that they were causing the Germans considerable inconvenience (an impression that was principally derived from German sources). Their principal sphere of activity was thought to be in Bosnia, and it was there that I was to be dropped.
As to Tito, there were various theories concerning his identity. One school of thought refused to believe that he existed at all. The name, they said, stood for Tajna Internacionalna Teroristička Organizacija, or Secret International Terrorist Organisation, and not for any individual leader. Another theory was that it was simply an appointment, and that a new Tito was nominated at frequent intervals. Finally, the more romantically inclined claimed that Tito was not a man, but a young woman of startling beauty and great force of character.
A day or two after I arrived in England I was rung up from No 10 Downing Street and told that Mr Churchill wanted me to come down to Chequers for the weekend so that he could explain to me what he had in mind.
~
Towards midnight, in the middle of a Mickey Mouse cartoon, a memorable interruption took place. A message was brought in to Mr Churchill, who gave an exclamation of surprise. Then there was a scuffle and the film was stopped. As the squawking of Donald Duck and the baying of Pluto died away, the Prime Minister rose to his feet. ‘I have just,’ he said, ‘received some vey important news. Signor Mussolini has resigned.’ Then the film was switched on again.
As we went downstairs, I reflected that in view of this startling new development it was now more unlikely than ever that the Prime Minister would find time to attend to my affairs. But I was mistaken. ‘This,’ he said, turning to me, ‘makes your job more important than ever. The German position in Italy is crumbling. We must now put all the pressure we can on them on the other side of the Adriatic. You must go in without delay.’ Mr Churchill then went on to give me a splendidly lucid and at the same time vivid account of the strategic situation and of what he wanted me to try and do in Jugoslavia. I was amazed, as so often afterwards I was to be amazed, by his extraordinary grasp of detail in regard to what was, after all, only one of the innumerable problems confronting him.
After he had finished, there was only one point which, it seemed to me, still required clearing up. The years that I had spent in the Soviet Union had made me deeply and lastingly conscious of the expansionist tendencies of international Communism and of its immediate connection with Soviet foreign policy … If, as I had been told, the Partisans were under Communist leadership, they might easily be fighting very well for the Allied cause, but their ultimate aim would undoubtedly be to establish in Jugoslavia a Communist regime closely linked to Moscow. How did His Majesty’s Government view such an eventuality? Was it at this stage their policy to obstruct Soviet expansion in the Balkans? If so, my task looked like being a ticklish one.
Mr Churchill’s reply left me in no doubt as to the answer to my problem. So long, he said, as the whole of Western civilisation was threatened by the Nazi menace, we could not afford to let our attention be diverted from the immediate issue by considerations of long-term policy. We were as loyal to our Soviet Allies as we hoped they were to us. My task was simply to help find out who was killing the most Germans and suggest means by which we could help them to kill more. Politics must be a secondary consideration.
I was relieved at this. Although, as a Conservative, I had no liking for Communists or Communism, I had not fancied the idea of having to intrigue politically against men with whom I was co-operating militarily. Now, in the light of what the Prime Minister had told me, my position was clear.
