CHAPTER 15

Eager hands helped us down from the deck of the Gull. The little town before us tumbled from the lower slopes of the hillside to the water's edge; a broad roadway, paved with gravel, lay between the sea-wall and the first buildings. I scuffed my shoes on it—Jugoslavia under foot at last! and the gesture reminded me of my Scotch wife coming off the Clipper at La Guardia Field two years before. She had done that very thing as she came up the gang-plank to set foot on the American continent for the first time.

"We'll call this operation—the movement of supplies across the Adriatic to the Partisans—after her," I thought. " 'Audrey' will be our code name for the show."

And this is the name, unpronounceable for Jugoslavs, by which it came to be known to Tito and his gallant followers.

Steve's friends pressed around. A wild babble of voices overwhelmed us. I shook hands with hundreds of guerrillas, met dozens of drugitzas (comradesses) most of whom kissed Steve, and then we were swept away, in the heart of the little crowd, to Headquarters, a small building overlooking the port not far from where we landed.

Vis, from what I could see in that first glance, was a picture postcard town. It snuggled against the lower slopes of great ambient hills that rose from the harbor on all sides. Its streets were too narrow for vehicles. They were built for pedestrians and donkeys. They were clean and fresh and attractive, like the houses, stacked tier upon tier, one above the other; and beyond were vineyards as far as the eye could see, terraced in the rocky hillside.

Steve's friends thought the Gull would be safer if she moored in the "Baie des Anglais," a little basin around on the eastern side of the harbor. Anchored there, she would attract less attention when the patrols came over, so I hurried back to suggest that the shift be made at once. The first planes would be along at any time. Taylor was just getting tied up but he cast off at once when I told him what had been said and started his engines—just in time, for he had scarcely dropped anchor in the crystal-clear water of the "Baie" when the Germans came over in a Dornier and treated the port to a minute inspection.

We were at Headquarters when it arrived, flying less than a thousand feet above the little town, and stepped out on the balcony overlooking the harbor to watch it sail slowly by. The aircraft circled once to take a second look at the Gull, flying very low. I held my breath. Were they coming back to bomb? But they passed over and swept out to sea, flying south toward Hvar.

Headquarters was a rambling old building. The commander's office was the front room in which we had gathered. A cacophony of voices' shook the walls. New faces arrived constantly and every arrival brought cries of greeting and exuberant demonstrations of joy. Arms clattered—everyone was armed to the teeth—and glasses clinked to cries of Zivijo!" as we breakfasted on rakpa and grapes. Joyful pandemonium! I was ravenous and wished there were some more solid food than the delicious grapes, brandy and coffee to start the day, but we were there at last, in Jugoslavia, and the infectious high spirits of the company carried me along.

These Partisans looked much like those I already knew on the Italian shore. They wore oddly assorted uniforms made up of bits and pieces from those of various invading armies, Italian, German and Bulgarian, and the inevitable blue caps with a red star sewn to the front. Most of the men wore two or three days' beard; some were bare-footed; all had hand grenades hanging from their belts.

From one of them, who spoke a little French, I learned that they were more heavily armed than usual. Our arrival in port aboard an unknown vessel had alerted the community and every man and woman who could bear arms had been turned out with all the martial equipment at their disposal, ready to murder us to the last man.

Even the women wore pistols and grenades. They appeared to live in the back of the building where they doubtless presided over something resembling a kitchen from which they were now able to produce grapes and the fiery white brandy. No doubt they kept their rifles and sub-machine guns in the corner there, behind the stove. . . .

I was still thinking of bacon and eggs and a cup of steaming coffee when, to my amazement, those very dishes were brought in and set before us. Nor was that all: there was good black bread, as well, and a big bowl of fragrant honey. It was a breakfast never to be forgotten.

"They don't do so badly here," I said to Steve.

"It's a feast—in your honor," he answered. "The only people who ever have bread in Jugoslavia are the soldiers, and as for these other items . . . the coffee is the last few ounces of someone's pre-war treasure—and there aren't six hens on the island."

I was ashamed of my comment but I understood the spirit in which he set me right. He wanted me to understand his countrymen. I looked at their animated faces and felt that I was beginning to understand them. There was eagerness and joy in them all. At first glance they might look like pirates: on serious examination they looked more cavalier. There was chivalry and inspiration in the best of them. A stubble of beard may be misleading but it hides nothing from the critical gaze ... it means nothing in itself.

We were only eight at breakfast. The others who filled the room during the rakjia drinking ceremony had melted away or were now busying themselves with the routine work of the headquarters. Slowly, I began to identify those at the table, the commander of the island garrison, Bogdan Nikic, a splendid looking lad of massive stature, his assistant, three company commanders and the commander of the garrison on the adjacent island of Hvar. All had interesting faces and hung on every word Steve spoke as he told them of his adventures in Italy and Africa. I could follow the story in part by recognizing the names of places and persons whose position I knew in the chronology. Steve's words about me must have been very gallant, for when he came to my part in his tale they all looked at me with candid admiration, smiling and exclaiming.

"What fairy tales are you telling them?" I asked Steve, somewhat embarrassed. He translated my question and they all laughed, leaning over to clap me on the back. Steve never answered, but I remember thinking I would do my best to be as good as his word, whatever it was. These were men one could be proud to help.

It was eleven o'clock before we finished coffee and cigarettes and conversation. I was eager to get down to work. A hundred unanswered questions burned on the tip of my tongue. There was no time to be lost if we were to work our way through the list. But Steve protested. First, he said, we must go and rest. A messenger had been sent across the open sea in a launch to Starigrad on the island of Hvar to fetch an officer from the headquarters of Coastal Command on the mainland who happened to be there. He would be qualified to tell me what I wanted to know and we could get to work as soon as he arrived, probably about two o'clock; meanwhile, we should sleep. We left Headquarters then and set off afoot toward the old section of the town, half a mile west along the waterfront.

It seemed folly to devote any time to sleeping when there was so much to do, but sooner or later we would be driven to it. I had had no more than two hours' sleep during the night, I would probably have no more on the voyage home: we would be in the port of Bari at nine or ten o'clock in the morning and there would certainly be no opportunity to sleep until late that night. . . . Two hours' sleep now was probably a good idea. I remembered my admonition to Tim. I too would have to keep going until some of the others could arrive from Cairo and take over a share of the work.

Our way led along a fine concrete walk beside the harbor after we had passed through the narrow streets of the new section of the town. It linked the old and new sections of Vis to one another. Orchards and vineyards lay on our right, the beautiful little harbor to the left. Fishing boats were beached carefully on the clean shore. It was all dazzlingly beautiful in the morning light.

The house to which Steve took me was a tiny dwelling facing the only street the old town boasts. It stood between the street and the harbor, its back windows looking across the water, the waves lapping gently against its very walls. The

occupants, a middle-aged man named Dusan and his wife Marica, met Steve with cries of joy, Marica embracing him as though he were her son. They had given him hospitality before—at the risk of their lives. Both wrung my hand and stared at me with admiration and affection as Steve told them some romantic story of my doings, and we were escorted at once to the living quarters of the house on the second floor to drink the inevitable glass of rakjia. They prepared two rooms for us at once, but it was not until half an hour later that we were able to retire to our beds.

I can't remember sleeping, though I do recall lying down. There was a rap on the door before I could close my eyes and Steve came in to say that it was half past two. Commander Radicic had arrived from Hvar and would be down with Bogdan Nikic to see us in a few minutes. He had sent a messenger ahead, thoughtfully, to give us time to get up. Dusan brought a jar of hot water to each of us and by the time we had finished shaving Marica had two hot cups of tea ready and served. The little house was wonderfully clean and pleasant and as soon as we were ready we wandered across to its main room which was modestly furnished with a central table, six chairs and a small sideboard. The table was set and once more I was struck by the items of our fare. The village had been searched again for that meal. Someone had produced a few pinches of tea. There were sardines from Comisa, ten miles across the island, there was at least an ounce of sugar in a little dish, there was more honey, a peculiar paste made of crushed figs, and fresh bread specially baked for us by the women at headquarters. Both white and red wine were on the table, and, of course, a decanter of rakjia. Marica and Dusan were busy with final details, coming back again and again to be sure that nothing was amiss on this banquet board, wonderfully happy in their hospitality. Their two children arrived and were introduced to me—Steve knew them well. One was a tall girl just entering adolescence, the other a stripling lad of about the same age, very proud in his Partisan uniform, a gun on his hip and a hand grenade dangling from his belt.

As I watched them all I resolved never to return to the island without two cargoes—one in the hold for the National Army of Liberation, for Tito, and the other in the ship's stores to be used as gifts for our civilian friends. We all kept that resolution in the weeks that followed. The latter category of supplies we called "the Santa Claus cargo" and we never sailed without it.

Dusan and Marica felt honored by Commander Radicic's presence and conferred upon him their unabashed, wide-eyed admiration. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with piercing eyes. His voice was hearty. He moved boldly and freely, a man without inhibitions, sure of himself and gay. His manners with them were charming and gentle; with Steve he was direct and boisterous; with me, perfectly at ease. We seated ourselves at the table. Marica took up her position in the kitchen. Dusan unobtrusively functioned as waiter. The two children, after a brief call, disappeared. And the three of us settled down to a very good lunch.

Like Steve, Radicic spoke French. This was a great boon to me. It is difficult to make friends through an interpreter, and I was eager to know this man well and understand his problems; I was eager that we should be friends. We understood one another instinctively; with a common language at our disposal the rest was easy and before lunch was over the three of us were one in purpose and method. We were three with a common goal in a dangerous line of business—and there's nothing better in the world!

"How long would it take you to camouflage the Bog s Noma so that the reconnaissance planes couldn't find her?" I asked him. Steve had already assured me that it could be done in two hours, but I was afraid he had let his enthusiasm—of which he had plenty—carry him away.

Radicic answered: "Not more than thirty minutes—if we were expecting her."

"If we sail her in here in the night how long would it take your men to get two hundred tons of cargo off of her?" I asked. He consulted Nikic briefly before answering.

"About two hours," was the astonishing reply.

"How many men would you use?"

"Two or three hundred."

"And could you get her to sheltered water and camouflaged before daybreak?"

Radicic made a disparaging gesture, looked at Steve and laughed.

"Why not?" he answered simply. "Get her in here by four in the morning and there's nothing to it."

Steve had been astonished by the speed at which we worked in our headquarters. It was my turn to be astonished y the speed and efficiency of Partisan operations. In Cairo

had been told that it was impossible to disguise even an

lTB—a ship exactly like our PT's—from aerial reconnaissance. Apparently the problem had been studied by the camouflage experts but the best methods they devised had proven useless. The boats that had attempted to lay over for a day on the coast of Greece under that camouflage had been blown to bits. I had seen the patrol come over that morning at a thousand feet or less. It seemed inconceivable that a passenger vessel, a steamer, with at least forty feet of freeboard could be hidden so effectively.

"Then you should have no trouble hiding any motor torpedo boats we might send over to raid German shipping along the coast," I suggested.

Radicic turned to Steve for a precise knowledge of the type of craft I had in mind. Steve had seen one of them in the port of Bari and answered in Serbo-Croat.

Radicic laughed, "Of course not, it's the infancy of the art," he answered in good idiomatic French.

"If we brought such boats over would they have anything to fight?" I asked. The question made his eyes shine and caused him to lean forward across the table. "Plenty," was his answer. "Plenty! There is the Rab, a little steamer that carries food to the Germans in the mouth of the Neretva River—an ideal target for a torpedo-carrier, and there are the patrol boats, too small to be sunk by torpedoes but ideal for anything with plenty of automatic weapons aboard." They were "fairly screaming to be sunk," he said, adding that occasionally the Germans moved big ships along the coast, usually between Vis and Hvar. . . . Could we really get the MTB's to come over?

I had a hunch we could and told him so and let it go at that, but I was planning a new campaign against the resources under the command of our infallible admiral at Taranto. . . .

We covered lots of ground before we left the table. I asked a number of questions that were indiscreet about Tito's strength and the disposition of his forces, and some were left unanswered, but all the questions I asked about the enemy's forces were answered punctiliously.

"We were not expecting you," Radicic apologized. "If we had known you were coming we would have gotten a message through to Headquarters and obtained permission to answer all your questions. Next time you come I'll put you in touch with my chief and he'll give you all the information you desire."

"Are you in direct communication with Tito from here?" I asked.

"No," he answered. "We must communicate with him in a roundabout way from the coast, but the service is fast. Runners cross the mountains, passing through the region the Germans think they hold, then telephone from the other side. But it will not be necessary for us to get a message through to him: it will suffice for us to communicate with our own Headquarters in the interior—the Headquarters commanding the entire coastal area."

I had enough from Radicic to facilitate our second trip, enough to warrant clearing the Bog s Noma, enough—I hoped —to warrant the Admiral's ordering well-armed small ships into these waters to attack the Germans. I knew where the mine-fields were and how to get through them without being fired upon by the Partisans that guarded the channels . . . the data was all inscribed on the naval charts I had brought with me.

"On your next trip you must meet Colonel Ilic, our commanding officer," Radicic said. "He will give you all the information you want. When will you be back:1"

That day was Wednesday, October 13, 1943. Eight days had passed since Tim and I left Cairo. I would be back in Bari the next day, Thursday, and we could sail the Bog s Nama that night or the next. If it sailed Friday—allowing twentyfour hours' latitude, just to be sure—it would arrive in the night of Friday to Saturday. I wanted to be back myself to check on the unloading and camouflaging operations.

"I'll be back in the night of Saturday to Sunday," I answered. "Where will I meet your commander, here or on the coast?"

"Probably on the coast," Radicic said. "And you may have to go in to his headquarters. They're a good way from the sea." His smile implied that the trip might prove adventurous. I looked at Steve. "We'll go together, eh?" I said to him. He nodded eagerly. Steve was a big man on his island but he had found few opportunities to meet the chiefs of the Partisan movement. A trip to one of the principal headquarters to meet the officer commanding appealed to him. He was not ambitious, but he had a consuming curiosity about the leaders of the People's Army as well as a great sense of adventure. And there was one other element in the problem: he was still worried about his trip to Algiers and feared it might be misunderstood. Radicic, under whose orders he had gone there, reassured him, but he remained concerned. An opportunity to meet a man who actually knew Tito and even saw him from time to time in the routine discharge of his duties, might help, if anything should go wrong.

In that he had a sure intuition—a perception more accurate than that of the impulsive Radicic. The latter assured him that all he had to do was write an account of his mission, which would be sent on by the next courier. The rest would be up to Commander Hie, who was in charge of all the Partisan armies on the coast and in the islands. He was a very big man, having been at Tito's headquarters before taking his present command in the field.

"One of our great heroes," Nikic said proudly.

Marica performed another miracle and served us coffee, immensely proud of her resourcefulness. From time to time during the meal she had emerged from the kitchen and fluttered around the table, patting us affectionately on the shoulder and encouraging us to eat heartily or refilling our wine-classes. We insisted upon having her join us now—her and Dusan—to drink a glass of wine. Our work was done for the moment, and we were all in high spirits. Dusan said to me: "Next time—you see—ich spik Inglish . . ." pointing at himself and nodding and laughing. "Can count," he said. "One, two, three, four . . ." and so on, to "tzehn," which he pronounced as though it were the German word.

"Where did you learn?" I asked. Steve interpreted. He left the table and returned with a very frayed old book which purported to teach a conversion of Serbo-Croat into English words. As I examined it he explained to Steve, who translated, that he had learned to count while we were having our lunch, while he was waiting on us—between dishes. He was certainly losing no time!