CHAPTER 17

For a time we pitched and tossed in choppy rough water. The seas were building on that side of the Adriatic and had close, craggy peaks. The little Gull hated them and bucked her way along resentfully. She would get her- bows high in the air, roll wearily, then slap them down with a crash that would almost tear the rivets out of her bottom. It was not until we were two hours out that we began to assume an easier motion. The wind was on our starboard quarter and that was bad too.

But long before we were two hours out the crew began to remember my warnings about the new wine. The engineer was the first to hang his head over the rail and most of the others followed soon after. They were deathly seasick. Steve and Taylor and I were the only good sailors aboard that night —and as far as I was concerned that was true by only a narrow margin before the first light of the new day came to illuminate our miseries. By this time the Gull was riding a long precipitous swell very sweetly, rolling through a wide arc and nodding her pretty bows without ever a shock or a bump, but the swells were gigantic. The wind was down, but we dared not try to enter Bari harbor until the seas should have subsided.

It was a little before noon when we finally tied up behind the Bog s Nama. There had been a record gale in the night and streets along the water-front were piled deep with seaweed—a vivid testament of the storm's fury. The Port, as we had rightly supposed, had been closed during the early hours of the morning, such big seas riding in that the boom had been left in position between the piers that marked the harbor mouth. The full moon had been no trouble to us on that crossing! There had been a solid overcast during the early hours of the night when we were in waters patrolled by the enemy; after that we were unconcerned with its brilliance.

Although we had no suspicion of it then, we were to know the fury and violence of the Adriatic still more intimately within the next few days. Strange winds blow there with great force. Cold air from the mountains on the Jugoslav coast pours down upon the warm and narrow sea, setting up currents that churn and torment its blue waters. There is a famous wind which the fishermen dread that blows from the northeast. It is called the Bora. Even big ships seldom survive its rage unscarred by the contest, yet when it has blown half way across to Italy it dies. The Bora thunders on the eastern coast and sends the big swells on to Italy where they crash and resound against the rocks in sunshine and windless air.

Tim was on the dock when we got in. His face was a little drawn and there were circles under his eyes.

"You haven't been chasing those floosies in the lobby of the hotel?" I ragged him in greeting.

"I haven't had a chance," he complained. "How did it go?"

"Fine. Everything's set over there. We can clear the Bog s Nama whenever she's ready to go. How did you get along?"

"We had a little trouble with NOIC," he answered. "He insisted upon having written authorizations of various kinds

from us, so Ivo and I went to Taranto yesterday and got them from the Admiral. We stopped in Brindisi on the way back to look for the S. S. Brittany and stayed the night with NOIC there, who's a great guy."

Tim was full of news as we made our way back to the hotel. Steve was burning to see his wife. My clothes were drenched with sea-water and I needed a shave and some breakfast. We talked while I was getting cleaned up.

HMS Brittany with the four hundred tons of cargo we had been fortunate enough to obtain in Algiers from Jerry Bensom was lost somewhere in the port of Brindisi, Tim had been told in Taranto. She was not sunk—simply misplaced in some way. That was the reason he had been obliged to go there the night before after finishing his business in Taranto. NOIC—not our Bari friend but his opposite number in the port of Brindisi—had been exceedingly helpful, furnishing a launch aboard which Ivo and Tim had set out for a tour of the waterfront. They had hailed every ship they saw until they found the one they were looking for. Her skipper had a message instructing him to turn his cargo over to me and Brindisi's NOIC had kindly issued Naval Orders for her to proceed the next day; she would be in Bari in the course of the afternoon.

"I met General Taylor while I was down there," Tim said. "What a nice guy he is! Ivo and I looked in at the Allied Military Mission's Headquarters to send a message back to Cairo reporting on our movements and ran into him. There was a message there for you, by the way, asking that you arrange to be in Algiers on the fourteenth—tomorrow—for a C-in-C's (Command-in-Chief's) meeting. Apparently the big wheels are still turning down there. I took the liberty of

cabling back that you were in Jugoslavia and would not be able to attend."

This, together with the fact that there was still no word from Cairo, was slightly disconcerting news. I found myself hoping that our messages were getting through promptly and that Cairo understood, at least in a general way, what had happened. When you get the ball, in a game like this, you have to run with it.

"Did you tell the General how things were going up here?" I asked Tim.

"Sure. He wanted to know all about our operations. I gave him a full account of what we were doing—and trying to do. He said we should call on him if he could help us."

"How did you get along with the Admiral?" I asked.

"He could not have been nicer," Tim answered enthusiastically. "He had the authorizations and documents we needed drawn for us at once and said the man who will help us fix the legal position of the ships will probably get in here sometime today. He has brought him over from North Africa somewhere. Thank God for the British Navy."

"And how about Olga's putative assassin?"

"Nothing further about him, and no shooting . . . yet. Security is looking for him and doing a good job of covering every likely angle. Olga's room is still being watched by plainclothes men. By the way, I think that poor girl is seriously ill. The doctors want to look at her lungs as soon as she's well enough to get up."

And so it went, our conversation ranging over all the problems of our complicated life in port. Tim said the Bog s Noma would be ready to sail the next afternoon—Friday. I gave him a full account of our arrival at Vis and the day we had spent ashore. He listened with his eyes shining. When I told him of the rendezvous with the commander of the coastal area he jumped up, unable to contain himself any longer.

"This time there's no reason why we shouldn't both go," he pleaded. "That's no trip to make alone."

"Oh, I wouldn't be alone," I teased. "Steve will be there with me. . . ." His reproachful glance made me laugh.

"But I can get everything finished here by Saturday," he argued. "There's no reason why I shouldn't go, is there?"

"Not if we have everything under control at the dock. We'll see how we stand Saturday."

While we were lunching in the dining room, a few minutes later, the Admiral's emissary arrived. He was Ian Campbell, chief representative of the North African Shipping Board, and he was accompanied by a Colonel of the Italian army. We persuaded them to join us for lunch and the ever attentive maestro fluttered up with a menu, impressed by the Colonel's uniform and eager to help us. Lunch consisted of a very primitive antipasto and an appalling macaroni dish—and nothing else. That's all there was in the kitchen, but the menu-presenting ceremony was carried out faithfully as usual —just as an Englishman might dress for dinner on a desert island, even if he had no dinner to eat.

Mr. Campbell was a tall, fair Scot. He looked the sort of a high-powered British business executive one might have met in London lunching in the Savoy Grill before the war. His clothes were well-made and carelessly worn; his long hands, naked of any rings, were shapely and adroit; an easy, genial air suggested authority. His companion, the Italian Colonel, was immaculate in his much decorated uniform. He was nervous at the table and said very little. An impression that the errand which brought him there was loathsome to him was inescapable. Of this Campbell seemed aware in a slightly amused, indifferent way.

We proceeded to the harbor after lunch and went directly aboard the Bog s Noma, whose colors fluttered at her stern.

"That flag worries me," Campbell confided in my ear as we lowered ourselves down the companionway. "That red star makes it a special emblem; it's no longer—or perhaps I should say not yet—the official Jugoslav device." He grinned engagingly in a way that left me feeling sure it would take more than that to prevent him from completing his mission.

We found Steve and Petrinovic, the latter with his head still bandaged, below in the little cabin we used for an office and introduced our visitors. Steve produced a list of the ships at Bari in Partisan hands—ships already flying the flag that worried Mr. Campbell—and a second list of ships still held by the Italians, ships still under the Italian colors although they had formerly been of Jugoslav registry. There were five of the former and eleven of the latter, two having been discovered down the coast at Monopoli the day before. Those in the first category, we told him, were already being used as floating warehouses for the cargo that had been received by rail from Bari and Taranto; those in the second category had still not been approached. He approved of that and after a while he and I left to call on NOIC, leaving the Colonel to wait for us aboard Bog s Nama, very ill at ease and miserable in its grimy little cabin, a guest of the Partisans his country had tried so long and unsuccessfully to subdue.

The problem was a thorny one and NOIC did nothing to make it any easier. After a little conversation with him Campbell and I withdrew.

"I've got a hunch that I can work it out with a piece of

paper and a pencil," he grinned. "Stand by. I'm going to have a try."

The "try" lasted about live minutes and was devoted to furious scribbling. When it was over, Campbell said:

"I'm going to give you this letter authorizing you to seize and operate all the ships that formerly belonged to Jugoslavia. It's an odd transaction, but I think I have gotten around the legal difficulties by wording the letter carefully. There is also a second letter to the Italian Merchant Marine telling them what has been done and requesting that they co-operate by releasing the vessels now in their hands. How's that?"

"Magnificent," I answered. "Absolutely magnificent."

"I'll leave a copy of both letters with NOIC so that you will have no trouble clearing the ships," Campbell added, "and we'll have him cable the text of both letters back to Admiral Power."

The letter to the Merchant Marine was simply a notification of the transaction. The director was ordered to comply with the arrangements in the name of the Commander-in-Chief. The letter to me was a strange document and read as follows:

The Representative North African Shipping Board Taranto
14th October, 1943
Major Huot, U.S.A.
Imperial Hotel, Bari . .

I enclose herewith a copy of a letter to the Director General of the Italian Merchant Marine which is self-explanatory. Also attached is the entry which must be made in the logbooks of the vessels concerned.

The ships must remain under the control of the Allied Commander-in-Chief.

As masters will require to be appointed on behalf of the Allied Commander-in-Chief this will authorize you to make such appointments on his behalf and continue the vessels' use in their present employment.

Ian Campbell Representative,
N.A.S.B.O.

The entries to be made in the ships' log-books constituted a delegation of authority from me to the skippers, who agreed to accept responsibility for the vessels. I remained free to remove any skipper who failed to acquit himself of his duties properly and replace him by another. The phrase, "continue the vessels' use in their present employment" was vague indeed, but we all knew what it meant, and that was good enough. No ship-owner ever disposed of fuller rights over his sea-going property: the right to appoint the captain and operate the vessel is all that ownership can imply. There was nothing specious in the arrangement.

When Campbell handed me my copies of those letters I knew our last real barrier had been crossed. Before us there lay only the routine difficulties of clandestine maritime operations. We were really in business now and all set to operate on a substantial scale, gun runners de luxe with a fleet of sixteen ships and the blessings of the British Navy! I remembered Tim's words in Algiers when I told him we were going on at once to Italy, "Tito, here we come!" As I wrung Campbell's hand in gratitude I knew we were really on the way.

We went back then to the Bog s Nama and rescued the unhappy Colonel, then we set off for a tour of the port to have a look at some of our prizes. The ships under Partisan command were all lying together near our berth, but the others were scattered throughout the port, the Italian colors flying from the stern of every one of them.

"Do you think you need our help to take them over?" Campbell wanted to know.

"I doubt it," I answered. "Armed as we are by these letters it should be easy enough. And it would be more charitable to board the vessels and serve notice quietly on their captains. Some of them won't like pulling their colors down and will want to make a ceremony of it."

We boarded one or two ships, nevertheless, and left the rest until the next day. NOIC had a list of the ships we wanted and they would not be able to leave port; but we took the precaution of placing a Partisan guard at the foot of the gang-plank beside those we had boarded to prevent the crew from any further looting aboard, having observed that everything removable had already been carried away from the bridge of one of them. Campbell and the Colonel left then and I went back to the office to report the good news and show the letters to Tim and Mladineo.

Ivo Radic, it will be remembered, was an old ship-owner and a lawyer. Indeed, in Zagreb he was Dr. Radic—doctor of law. I called a little conference in Bog s Noma's smoky cabin, and when we were all there, Steve—and Olga who had just turned up, being tired of lying abed—Petrinovic, "Doctor" Radic, Tim and I, I laid the letters before the assembled company and explained the transaction. Ivo studied them with great care before pronouncing his verdict:

"They're perfect! I am three ways satisfied—as a Partisan, as a lawyer, and as a ship-owner," he said.

Steve and Olga were reassured by his opinion. They were pleased to know we would now be able to seize the eleven Jugoslav ships, some of which were pretty big, but they were not sure this solution which placed effective control of the fleet in my hands would seem ideal to their Partisan commanders back home. On that point Ivo and I reassured them. AH merchant vessels in belligerent waters must be under control of the Commander-in-Chief unless they are owned by a neutral power. That control could only be vested in an Allied officer, the Partisans having as yet no legal status as a belligerent nation—except in Germany.

(A few days later, at Partisan Headquarters deep in the interior of Bosnia, Marshal Tito referred to the fact that only Germany had recognized the Partisans. He was proud that they had, for it showed that he held enough of their prisoners to make them toe the line.)

Once their fears were allayed their spirits soared. What mattered was that we now had sixteen ships! One of Ivo's bottles of Johnny Walker Black Label was brought out for the celebration, and the effect was good on the palate. Rakjia has its place in the world, its function in life, particularly in the Adriatic, but whiskey is the friend of man and the best guest at any banquet.