Page 26 of A Call to Home (Women of the Resistance #3)
Jajce
September 1943
In the British mission, arrangements to travel to Split were being made.
‘I shall go with Popovic and his men,’ Deakin said, ‘if only to act as a witness. Benny, you’d better come too to provide the American perspective. Walter, I want you with me to keep in touch with base and so we can get the news of the surrender out as soon as possible.’ He turned to Lieutenant Thompson, who acted as his second in command. ‘Tommy, I’m putting you in charge of the reception committee for Brigadier Maclean. If he arrives before I get back, give him my apologies and say I’ll be back to brief him as soon as I can make it. Understood?’
There was a murmur of agreement and then Steve took his opportunity. ‘I’d like to come with you, if I may, sir. I expect Wally can do with a hand.’
Deakin looked at Wroughton and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘I’d be glad to have him along, sir. That radio equipment is a lot to carry on my own if we’ve got to move fast.’
‘Very well,’ Deakin agreed. ‘You have my permission.’
Steve prepared for the journey with a thrill of anticipation. He was about to see history in the making. It was all wonderful material for the book he intended to write as soon as the war was over.
Deakin and Benson set off for Bugojno in a captured German car next morning, but Steve and Walter were instructed to follow in the train, which ran an irregular service between the two towns. On Tito’s instructions this service had been carefully maintained to underline the sense of business as usual. It even carried mail, now franked with the symbol of the National Liberation Army. Walter immediately nicknamed it the Partisan Express.
Arriving at the little town they found that the First Proletarian Brigade was drawn up and ready to move out. A mule had been procured to carry the equipment, so they loaded it up and fell in behind Deakin and Benson.
Steve had grown used to moving swiftly through mountainous country with the Chetniks but he had never experienced the kind of forced march the Partisans were accustomed to. That day and all through the night and well into the next day they marched, stopping occasionally for a brief few minutes of rest before moving on again. Sleep was out of the question. By evening they had covered, according to the map that Walter Wroughton carried, just over seventy kilometres. At dawn on the second day they came out of the forest and found themselves at the edge of a deserted village, looking down at a wide plain. They had not encountered any Italian outposts but the word was passed round that many of the local settlements were under Ustashe control so they might expect some opposition. When the order came to fall out Steve followed the others into one of the empty houses. There were two rooms with beds in them. Deakin and Benson took one and Steve and Walter threw themselves thankfully onto the beds in the other.
Steve sank immediately into a deep sleep but within seconds, or so it seemed, he was jerked back to wakefulness by the sound of gunfire. Scrambling out into the open air he saw that a convoy of trucks led by a man on a motorbike was passing along a road below them. The black uniforms of the men proclaimed them as Ustashe. Already a company of Partisans was advancing towards them and it was their gunfire that had woken Steve. The convoy halted and was swiftly overrun, except for the man on the motorbike who opened the throttle and roared away. He was pursued by shots but disappeared round a bend in the road.
The convoy was carrying useful supplies which the Partisans gleefully appropriated, but Koca Popovic was disappointed. The man who had escaped had been recognised as the officer who commanded the notorious Black Legion, which had been responsible for some of the worst atrocities carried out by the Ustashe.
Steve and the others returned to the house to share a breakfast provided by the captured convoy but once again they were interrupted by the sound of firing. It became clear that the supplies had been intended for a Ustashe force moving through the forest just north of them. Obviously alerted by the attack on the convoy they were now advancing on the village. Koca Popovic was shouting orders and the Partisans rapidly assumed defensive positions on the perimeter of the village. Neither Steve nor Walter was armed so they could only sit the battle out and hope. Steve felt a shudder of fear. He was well aware of the reputation for brutality that surrounded all the Ustashe’s activities and the prospect of being captured by them was chilling.
Walter was trying to establish a connection so that he could radio back to their base to tell them what was happening. It was impossible, but Steve was impressed by his unflappable courage under fire. Eventually, almost incredibly, he found his head nodding and moments later he was fast asleep.
When he woke everything was quiet and Walter was dozing on the other bed but they were not allowed to rest for long. Deakin put his head through the door.
‘On your feet! We’re moving.’
Dawn was breaking and the columns of men had formed up ready to march. Steve dragged himself outside and untethered the mule while Walter brought out the radio and loaded it up. They fell in and plodded off behind Deakin and Benson. It was another forced march, another day and another night of relentless movement punctuated by snatches of rest. Then, as dawn came up the next morning, they found themselves looking down a bare, treeless hillside to where in the distance they could just make out the sea.
‘That must be Split, down there,’ Walter said, pointing.
Steve scanned the plain below them. He could see the town and the road leading to it, but there seemed to be no sign of movement.
‘I believe we’ve done it!’ he said. ‘There’s no sign of German forces advancing.’
‘No sign of the Ities either,’ Walter added. ‘Where the hell are they?’
‘Run? Got themselves taken off by sea and gone back to Italy?’ Steve suggested.
‘Or sitting behind their defences waiting for us,’ Walter suggested grimly.
Koca Popovic called Deakin and Benson forward. ‘We will go down with an escort to find out what is going on.’ He turned to his second in command. ‘Branko, deploy the men to defend all approaches to the city. My escort company can follow me.’
They headed downhill until they came to a road and as they reached it, to everyone’s astonishment, a small red car appeared coming up hill towards them. Koca waved it down and a small, tubby man with a red face jumped out.
‘Partisans?’ he asked eagerly. ‘We have been waiting for you. The city is yours.’
‘How do you mean, ours?’ Koca asked. ‘Where are the Italians?’
‘Shut up in their barracks,’ the man said. ‘The local Partisans and the students from the high school have disarmed them and are waiting for you to take charge.’
Steve looked at Walter. He felt suddenly deflated. He had been imagining a dramatic surrender. Now it seemed they had been forestalled by a few local men and a bunch of school kids. ‘Looks like we’re not needed.’
Walter shrugged. ‘You heard the man. They want us to take charge. At least we haven’t got to fight the bastards.’
After a brief discussion Popovic, Deakin and Benson squeezed themselves into the little car, which performed a rapid u-turn and disappeared in the direction of the city. Steve and Walter plodded after them with the rest of the escort. Before long they began to pass through the small villages on the outskirts. Everywhere the streets were lined with cheering people. Young girls handed roses to the men as they passed, women pressed bunches of grapes into their hands, and men held out bottles of wine. They were hailed as liberators and Steve’s mood quickly improved. This was more like what he had imagined.
Later, he wrote in his diary:
13th September
Arrived in Split today. Nearly didn’t make it. Attacked by flight
of Fieseler Storch planes as we got to the outskirts and machine gunned.
Took cover with Walter behind a low wall and avoided injury. Some men
wounded but no fatalities. Greeted by a scene of great rejoicing when we
reached the city, streets thronged with people, flags and bunting
hanging from balconies, showered with flowers and offers of wine and
fruit. Split is beautiful. From a tree-lined promenade along the harbour
the town rises to the ruins of the palace of the Roman Emperor
Diocletian and the tower of the Sveti Duje cathedral. We have been
allocated a house in Kastela, on the outskirts, right on the beach.
First thing Deakin said was, ‘I’m going to have a swim,’ so we all
stripped off and ran into the sea. What bliss to lie back in the cool
water and let it soothe away the aches and blisters of the march! Then
Walter decided to duck me and within minutes we were all splashing and
playing like a bunch of school kids. Fun abruptly brought to an end by
the arrival of a flight of German Stukkas, which started bombing what
turned out to be the barracks where the Italian soldiers were
imprisoned. Hard to believe they could turn against their former allies
so viciously! Climbed back to the house to find a woman had been sent to
cook for us – small, plump, dark hair streaked with grey. She had made a
meal of grilled fresh sardines with tomatoes and fresh bread followed by
cheese and a bowl full of grapes and figs, all washed down with the
local wine. Wonderful! Even Walter was satisfied, though he would have
preferred a Lancashire hotpot followed by apple pie and
custard.
Next morning it was down to work and Walter and Steve were kept busy sending and decoding incoming messages, including one from Cairo ordering Deakin to meet the expected brigadier without delay. It suddenly occurred to Steve that he had not contacted his own boss since he lost his set at Kolasin. He asked to be allowed to use Walter’s set and when given permission he quickly encoded a message and tuned the set to the special frequency he had been given.
In London an aide handed the decoded message to Brigadier Gubbins, the head of SOE.
‘Signal from Falcon, sir.’
‘Falcon? Thank god! We haven’t heard from him for months. I thought he’d had it. Are we sure it’s genuine?’
‘It wasn’t sent from his own set, but the recognition codes were all correct. I’m pretty sure it’s him.’
‘Let’s see. Have been abandoned by Mihailovic. Now with Partisans, liberating Split. ’ Gubbins sat back with a chuckle. ‘Well, it seems our man has not only survived but ended up on the winning team. Good luck to him! Send this in reply. Pleased to hear from you. Any news of countess’s daughter? ’
Meanwhile in Split Deakin returned to the villa hot and frustrated.
‘The officer in charge of the Italian garrison is General Becuzzi. He regards the Partisans as bandits and because I’m a British officer he wants to surrender to me, to somehow regularise the situation here. I’ve told him I can do nothing without the consent and involvement of General Popovic. I’ve reminded him that in the terms of the armistice signed by General Badoglio he and his men are obliged from now on to fight alongside the Allies, and I’ve suggested they all join Popovic, but he won’t hear of it. He wants a formal surrender so they can be prisoners of war – and he doesn’t want it to be obvious that they laid down their arms without a struggle.’
‘What does Koca say?’ Steve asked.
‘He’s not interested in recruiting the Italians en masse. All he cares about is getting the arms and equipment out of the city before the Germans arrive. I’ve pointed out to Becuzzi that there is no way we are going to defend the city when that happens, so either he and his men join us or they will be taken prisoner – or worse – by their former allies.’
Already long columns were leaving the city, mules loaded with arms and ammunition, bullock teams dragging field guns and other heavy weapons. Deakin reckoned there was enough materiel to equip another Partisan division.
The negotiations went on all the next day until Deakin was able to report, ‘I’ve persuaded Koca that we need to sign a formal surrender document to regularise the situation. We are meeting with Becuzzi this evening and Benson, you and I will witness it as representatives of our respective countries.’
‘Is this going to be okay with your superiors?’ Benson asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ was the response, ‘but in the absence of instructions I’m doing my best. And I can’t hang about. We’ve got to get back to meet Brigadier Maclean.’
The surrender document was signed the following day and it was decided that there should be some kind of public celebration. That evening Steve and Walter stood with an excited crowd in the main square, looking up at the balcony of the Town Hall, an elegant Venetian building, where stood Deakin and Benson together with Koca Popovic, plus the commander of the local Partisans, the local authorities who had taken over the running of the city and Lola Ribar, who had arrived unexpectedly the previous day.
‘Oh, if only I had a camera!’ Steve breathed.
‘Yes, pity,’ Walter agreed. ‘It’s not an occasion either of us will forget, though.’
‘Certainly not.’ Steve was already scribbling in his diary.
To his surprise Deakin stepped forward and made an impromptu speech, translated by Lola Ribar.
‘The Italian surrender has changed the course of this war. The Allies are already occupying cities and ports along the Adriatic coast. Very soon decisive aid will be forthcoming to liberate the whole of Yugoslavia from the Nazi thrall.’
The cheers echoed around the ancient walls and reverberated around the peristyle of the Roman palace of Diocletian. Steve found he had tears in his eyes.
‘This really is the beginning of the end, isn’t it?’ he asked Walter.
‘I bloody well hope so,’ was the robust response.