CHAPTER 16

A LITTLE AFTER FOUR O'CLOCK OUR PARTY BROKE UP. STEVE went to Headquarters to write a report on his adventures in the big world beyond the Adriatic; Radicic and Nikic went with him. Radicic planned to stay for dinner with us at Headquarters, see us off sometime before midnight, then return to Starigrad. I set out alone with Ivo's dirty clothes and the letter which I had promised to take to his wife. The trans-Adriatic laundry company was about to complete its first operation!

I found her in a little house near Headquarters. Donkeys brayed in the narrow street on one side of the dwelling and the sea washed against the other. She was a handsome woman of about thirty-five, fair-haired, and well preserved, living among pillows and knick-knacks and chintzes in over-furnished little rooms. She was ravenous for news of Ivo. After devouring his letter she asked countless questions about his present way of life in Bari, when he was likely to return, what sort of work he did. I had promised Ivo that if conditions were too difficult on Vis or if the Germans were pressing the Partisans too hard in that region I would bring her back aboard the Gull, but I refrained from mentioning that bargain. Everything was normal on the island and it would be better for her to remain there. We talked a while and I promised to send a Partisan for the suitcase he requested in his letter, then I left her to hurry to the newly established hospital. I wanted to see what they needed there and get acquainted with the doctors.

That visit was one of the most moving experiences of my first visit to the land of the Jugoslavs. An old building which must once have been a convent, situated, like most of the buildings in the town, on the edge of the water, had been taken over by three young doctors and converted to their purpose. Their work had been more or less completed only a day or two before and their first patients were already installed.

It is difficult to describe that building and the men who worked in it. It was made of stone and had fallen into a state of mild dilapidation. The three doctors had moved in and mobilized all the manpower they could find—some twenty or thirty Partisans—and rolled up their sleeves. They were the foremen of the three gangs that cleaned up the building, washed and repaired the windows, whitewashed the walls, scrubbed the floors. Every room in the building fairly gleamed. The three indefatigable doctors were still devoting their spare time to plain sweaty toil, building themselves an operating room. They were gaunt with fatigue and radiant with enthusiasm. Bobin, Zucalo and Biacic! Three symbols of the indomitable spirit of their race.

Bobin spoke shaky French, Zucalo appalling English, Biacic German. There were thirty-five good beds in the hospital and plenty of good linen for all of them.

"From town people who now sleep on floor," said Zucalo. "Plenty beds." He was short and stalwart, wore very thick glasses and had an engaging smile. "Very good, yes?" The rooms were large with three beds on either side. Sunshine poured into them and ricocheted off the white walls, sparkled on the immaculate linen, danced in the dustless air. Very good indeed! Girls in clean white shirts open at the throat, sleeves rolled up, attended the patients in the two little wards that were occupied.

"It is so unfortunate," said Bobin, "that we have no medicine. Our therapy is almost entirely kindness and rest. It is terrible to see suffering and know exactly how to stop it, how to cure the ailment that causes it, and to lack the simple material required. We have nothing, almost nothing."

I inquired about the patients, individually. Several were recovering slowly from bullet wounds; one was dying of a wound in the thigh that grew and spread instead of healing; one, very white and drawn, was recovering from an amputation of his left leg—without anaesthetics.

"He will live, I think," Bobin said, pointing at him, smiling and nodding encouragingly into the wan face. "Shock. It was shock that nearly killed him."

"Amputations without anaesthetics is hard, both for patient and doctor," said Zucalo. "Very hard!" He peered at me through his thick glasses, his eyes enormously magnified, and smiled cheerfully.

The half-built operating room was a marvel of ingenuity. Old window panes had been fitted into a break high in the wall on the north side to admit a flood of white light. Biacic had been working there with plaster and trowel when I arrived. Every crack in the old masonry had been sealed up with plaster so that the room could be kept free of dust. In an anteroom running water had been made available in a kitchen sink from the house of some generous citizen. An oil stove had been installed to boil water.

"Have you any instruments?" I inquired.

"A few," said Bobin. "Enough, perhaps. But we need an autoclave to sterilize them."

They were in business, those three followers of the great profession, caring for the wounded and the sick with love and gentle hands and a passionate will to make them whole again —and virtually nothing else.

They were uncomplaining. They were proud of what they had, of what they had made. Their entire pharmacy and all their instruments and equipment—everything they possessed to care for the wounded and the dying that would presently fill their beds—could have been loaded and carried off along the narrow water-front street on the back of a little donkey.

As they needed everything the request seemed absurd, but I asked: "Write down for me the things you need the most, the things you must have right away, keeping your list short and limited to small quantities. I'll bring those things to you on Saturday. And between now and Saturday make out a full list of everything you need. Everything! It may not be possible to get it all immediately but most of it should be here within a week and the rest will follow as soon as possible."

This proposal struck them dumb. They stared at me in silence for a long moment before breaking into voluble Serbo-Croat among themselves, then they turned to me, too deeply moved to do more than stammer, half incredulous. Bobin, the most demonstrative, embraced me. The others wrung my hands. I found the scene embarrassing and felt unworthy of the honor of their gratitude, pedestrian and small in their presence. My task was so easy compared to theirs. As soon as I could I said good-bye and hurried away toward headquarters.

Everyone on the island was in the town of Vis that day and there was a greeting to exchange with every citizen one met along the street. I was the first Allied officer they had seen in that community, the first foreign friend to set foot on their shore, and an American officer in the bargain. Jugoslavs have a deep love for Americans and our arrival, long awaited, presaged great events for them, liberation at last, food, help and a renewed contact with the outside world from which they had so long been cut off. Everyone on the island was resolved to get a look at the "Mister Major" and at the British sailors dressed like fishermen who had brought him over. "Zdravo!" ("Health to you!") was the greeting. The Partisans offered it with the Communist salute, clenched fist to the temple. "Zdravo!" was the reply I used, with the American army salute; and there were two hundred Zdravos to the block.

Half way to Headquarters I passed a vintner's shop with wide double doors open to the sunshine and a great fragrance of grapes flooding the street. A familiar voice hailed me from its shadowy depths. It was Blake.

"Come on in, Major," he called, "and have a glass of wine."

The owner of the shop rushed to the door, accompanied by his broad-shouldered wife, bowing and smiling and inviting me with gestures to accept their hospitality. I stepped into the cool depths of the shop and discovered a primitive wine press in the back of the room. It was an integral part of the masonry of the floor and the hewn beams of the ceiling. The good couple, stained purple from the grapes, were toiling with its old wooden machinery; the nectar stood in vats and flowed crimson across the scrubbed stone floor.

With the exception of the captain, the entire crew of the Gull were huddled together in the shadows at the rear of the shop, near the press, every man with a cup in his hand.

"Look out for that new wine," I cautioned them. "It'll make you sick as a dog if you drink much of it. You'd better stick to the stuff that's already fermented and botded."

"Everywhere we go," Blake answered, "we are invited to have a drink of that white fire-water. You can't refuse it either. This is the first place where we have been able to Zhuvjio without taking aboard any more alcohol."

I had a sip of the new wine to please my host, but I drank only a few drops; after tasting it I asked for last year's wine and was given a glass of some noble old vintage.

Blake told me the sailors had all gone swimming from the deck of the Gull soon after the Dornier had passed over and that they had enjoyed the most delightful day ashore. He was bewitched by the beauty and grace of the little town and its old harbor, utterly charmed by its guileless and hospitable citizens.

"I hope it won't be long before you bring us here again," he said. "I'd like to stay a month. When the war is over I'm going to come back here and stay until I know every man and woman and child on the island, and every brick in every house."

A crowd had gathered in the doorway to watch us and listen to our talk. They had edged their way in slowly as others joined their ranks and pressed forward. After a few minutes they filled the shop. Most of them were old peasants, a few were Partisans, a few were young women with children in their arms. All bowed and smiled warmly and said "Zdravo" very politely whenever they would catch the eye of one of us. The shopkeepers were delighted and served wine to them all; even the babies were given a sip.

"It's like this all the time," Blake said delightedly. "I've never seen such people."

Before I left, I cautioned him again about the new wine and reminded him that we were scheduled to clear for Bari after dark. The trip back should prove uneventful, but it would need a sober crew.

"I'll look after them, sir," he assured me. "Don't worry."

Lieutenant Taylor and Captain Sterns were at Headquarters with Steve and Commander Radicic and the island garrison authorities when I got there. Steve had just finished his report. Radicic and Taylor were talking about the weather. It had been perfect all day but there were indications that the wind might blow at hurricane velocity that night.

"How's the Gull in big seas?" I asked.

"She's all right in a long swell but she doesn't like choppy water," Taylor answered. "She's got too shallow a draft to be a good boat for rough water. But if you think we ought to go back I have no doubt we can ride it out, no matter how hard it blows."

Captain Stems took no part in the conversation. He had decided to remain on the island for a while and would not return with us, in any event.

"How bad is it likely to be?" I asked.

Radicic laughed and cocked his head on one side. "As bad as you like," he answered. "We get some awful big seas at this season."

I knew he was eager to get back to Starigrad that night and thought we might get some indication of his feelings about the weather by finding out whether he still intended to make the trip.

"Not me," he answered firmly. "Not unless the skies change. The water between here and Hvar is the roughest in the Adriatic."

I said to Taylor: "If it's not too bad at ten o'clock let's try it anyway."

"Righto!" he answered. "If you want to go, we'll go."

The drone of an aeroplane motor brought that conversation to an end. Taylor and I stepped out on the balcony and watched the speck grow in the sky, coming straight toward us. He was worried about his ship. "They say the Germans never attack fishing boats, but they certainly took a good look at mine this morning," he said. "Maybe they noticed something odd. There's got to be a first time for everything."

The Partisans had talked about the patrols as though they were nothing at all, but I noticed a growing tension in the room behind us as the crescendo of the motors rose. The Dornier was hardly five hundred feet above the water, headed straight for the Gull. Taylor grew tense. But the plane swept by without firing a shot or dropping anything and came on toward us. I stepped into the room. They were low enough to notice my American uniform. Radicic, who was in the window, nodded approval, reading my thoughts. The plane banked, passing within pistol-shot of where we stood, then headed south across the harbor and soon disappeared below the horizon. Everyone in the room relaxed visibly.

There was nothing "dangerous" about these visits—but no one knew when the bombs would fall, when the machine guns would rake the streets. . . . Words have different values in different lands. "Dangerous" is a word a Partisan might use to describe a burst of fire from the muzzle of an enemy's gun—when it's pointed into his face. They understand anxiety, not fear. A Jugoslav with fear in his heart—and I've known several of them—is not considered a reprehensible character, a coward. They have no opprobrious term for him. He is simplv

considered absurd and pathetic, a creature to be treated like a child and kept well away from danger. If he should prove cowardly in combat he would be shot out of hand, but not vindictively; simply because he had committed the gross blunder of jeopardizing his fellow soldiers unnecessarily.

The wind came as we sat down to dinner. It sighed and moaned around the corners of the building as the women served the dinner—a great bowl of lamb stew and potatoes, hot bread and superb red wine.

"That's just the beginning," Radicic said, pointing through the roof at the weather and grinning broadly. "How do you like it?"

"I've heard worse," said Taylor, game and smiling.

The "Jugs"—as Tim would have called them—liked his spirit and slapped him on the back.

"If we can get away before the seas are big enough to make the harbor entrance impassable," Steve said, "we'll be all right."

We got away soon after nine o'clock, advancing our departure to get clear of the reefs at the harbor entrance before the weather could confine us. The whole island was at the sea-wall to see us off. My friends from the hospital were there with their first list. The vintner and his wife were there. Marica and Dusan were there with a present for us, a fine cake of pressed figs! They, who had not enough to eat, had sweets to spare to cheer us on our journey back. The whole Partisan army of the island of Vis was there. The wife of Ivo Radic was there with Ivo's suitcase, which weighed a ton. (When we got to Bari he opened it proudly and presented me with two bottles of Scotch and six bottles of rare French Champagne which he had been hoarding carefully to celebrate the end of the war, victorv and peace. "I still have six bottles for that," he said. "Now is also a time to celebrate.")

To a great chorus of Zdravos we cast off. The big engines came to life and pushed us gently into the harbor as the wind howled through the rigging and drowned the voices of our friends. For a moment we could see them waving and shouting still, then darkness engulfed the shore and we settled down to the serious business of finding our way out through the narrows into the open sea where mountainous waves, foaming at the crest, waited to welcome us. Driving rain suddenly descended upon us, reducing visibility to a few yards, and the first half hour of our return voyage was filled with imminent disaster.

"Can we make it?" I roared at Steve, as we stood in the gale before the wheel-house, directing the helmsman (I was the translator).

"I think so, if ... A gauche!" he shouted, as the shore loomed up suddenly, scarcely a stone's throw from where we pitched and wallowed.

"Hard aport!" I bellowed at the helmsman.

Taylor, who was leaning out of the window in the wheel-house, just over my ear, said softly to himself: "Jesus Christ!"

"Steady now—on the course," Steve called. I passed the order on and we could feel the Gull answer the helm.

Twice again before we reached open water we found ourselves floundering in the big swells within a few yards of damnation, then we were clear. The seas tossed us higher and higher as we held a course into the east. Steve stayed on deck watchfully. I went below with Taylor for a look at the charts and the electric log to see where we had gotten to. We were safely clear of the island. In his pleasant English voice he called the new course to the helmsman. "Ay ay sir," came the answer as he put the wheel over and headed us for home.