Page 7 of A Call to Home (Women of the Resistance #3)
Jablanica
February 1943
Alix stared down into the gorge of the Neretva. Below her, spanning the fast-running current, was the bridge that the pioneers had managed to construct in the space of a few hours. The sight of it sent a tremor of fear through her body. The original bridge had been designed to span the river from the top of the cliffs on one side to the top on the far side, but on Tito’s instructions, one end of the bridge, the end nearest to where she stood, had been blown up. Now the remains hung down at a crazy angle until they reached the water. The pioneers had built a wooden bridge from the riverbank to meet the existing structure, but to complete the crossing it would be necessary to walk up the steeply sloping remains of the original bridge with nothing on either side but the drop to the river.
‘So.’ Tito was standing beside her. ‘It will be impossible to take wheeled vehicles across. All the tanks and armoured cars must be dumped in the river, to deny them to the enemy. Those are my orders.’ He scanned the opposite bank. ‘There are no Chetniks left up there?’
‘Vucovic assures me that his men in the Second Dalmatian Brigade drove them back until they broke and scattered,’ General Popovic said. ‘There has been no sign of any opposition since then.’
‘Good. My ruse has succeeded with the Germans and they have redeployed their troops to prevent us from breaking through to the north. But it will not be long before their spies tell them they have been fooled. We must move quickly. Let us go back to the command post and finalise our plans.’
Jablanica was thronged with people. Most of the Partisan army was encamped around the city and in the middle were the huddled cohorts of the Central Hospital.
‘Our first priority is to get the wounded across,’ Tito said. ‘We cannot take the trucks, so those who are unable to walk will have to be carried. Two companies of the Second Proletarian Brigade will cross first, to make sure the way is clear. Then the wounded will be taken over and after that the rest of the army. The Escort Brigade will be the last to cross. Let’s move!’
In orderly ranks the soldiers began to leave the city, heading for the riverbank. After the vanguard, the seemingly unending line of wounded men and women, accompanied by their doctors and nurses, limped or were carried towards the bridge. Alix watched with her heart in her mouth. The men of the vanguard crossed the wooden bridge and began the climb up to the far bank. Then the first of the wounded followed, many of them on their hands and knees. Then came the stretcher bearers, struggling to heave and push their cargoes upwards.
Suddenly all attention turned to the sky. A squadron of Dornier bombers came screaming out of the clouds; seconds later bombs began to explode in the river and on the banks. Yells of alarm and imprecations echoed across the canyon and for a moment the line of men wavered and came to a standstill. But on either side the river was flanked by rugged mountains and the planes were unable to dive low enough to make their aim accurate. Miraculously, though bombs fell on either side, the bridge was not hit and the line of wounded men and women continued to crawl up.
At last, all of them had crossed and the signal was given for the rest of the army to follow. Waiting at the top of the bank with the Escort Battalion Alix felt her stomach turn to water. Unlike most of the army, they were mounted. She looked round; Nikola sat at the head of the column with Dragomir close behind him. Tito gave the signal and began to ride Swallow down to the improvised wooden bridge. Alix followed, leaning down to pat her horse’s neck in reassurance. Behind her she could hear Nikola and the rest of the battalion.
Just as they reached the bridge, Alix heard the planes returning – and soon after came deafening explosions to either side of them. Plumes of water rose into the air as bombs fell into the river and the fragile bridge shook alarmingly. Tito quickly dismounted Swallow, leading his horse onto the wooden pontoon. Alix got down too and followed, her head bowed in an attempt to shut out the cacophony of noises. As she reached the end of the pontoon, ready to climb up the old bridge, she heard a horse scream behind her. She jerked round in the direction of the noise and saw Nikola’s horse throwing up its head and prancing sideways, refusing to set foot on the bridge. Nikola remained mounted, struggling to keep control.
Above her she heard Tito shout, ‘Dismount, you fool!’ But it was too late. Nikola gave the horse a cut with his whip. It reared and then bucked, throwing Nikola over its head into the turbulent waters of the river below. Alix watched, terror stricken, for him to surface. But there was no sign. Though it was mere seconds, it felt as if she was frozen in place forever. Then she heard the sound of another body entering the water. Drago had been close behind her but now she realised he was missing. Paralysed with fear, she looked down at the rushing waters below her. A few more seconds passed and then Drago reappeared, holding Nikola under the arms. Three men of the Escort Battalion had dismounted, scrambling down to the river’s edge to help drag them out of the water.
‘Oh, thank god! Thank god!’ Alix gasped. But she had hardly spoken before there was another explosion. A bomb fell into the river yards from the group on the bank. They were briefly hidden from view by a curtain of water, but when it subsided, she saw that two figures now lay side by side on the bank, with others bending over them.
Alix let go of her horse and struggled back along the pontoon to join them.
‘What’s happened? Who is it?’
One of the men looked up. ‘It was a bit of shrapnel, a splinter from the bomb.’
‘Who? Who is it?’ she repeated. Then she saw that Drago was lying beside Nikola, blood pumping from a wound in his thigh. Beside him Nikola was beginning to struggle into a sitting position, choking and gasping as he regained his breath. Alix fell to her knees beside Drago.
‘Somebody do something!’ She pressed her hand on the wound, trying to stop the blood, but it continued to spurt from under her hand. ‘It’s all right, my dear! You’ll be all right,’ she gasped. ‘Just hold on.’
His eyes opened. ‘Cold,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so cold.’
Alix abandoned the vain attempt to staunch the blood and clasped him in her arms, pressing her cheek to his. ‘It’s all right, my dearest. I’m here. I’ve got you.’
Dimly she was aware of people around her shouting for bandages. Against her ear she heard him whisper, ‘Little sister! Take care.’ Then his head fell back, and his body sagged in her grasp. Someone leaned over her and put a hand to his throat. She looked up into the face of one of the medics. He shook his head. ‘No good, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you mean, no good?’ she yelled. ‘Do something. Don’t just stand there!’
‘I’m sorry,’ the man said. ‘He’s gone. The shrapnel must have severed an artery.’
‘He can’t have! He can’t die. You can’t let him die!’
She heard the scream of an aircraft engine and the whistle of a falling bomb and darkness claimed her.
Alix was being carried, head down over someone’s shoulder. ‘Drago!’ she gasped.
‘It’s not Drago,’ said Nikola’s voice. ‘It’s me. Keep still.’
His voice was hoarse, and he was panting. She couldn’t understand what was going on. A moment ago she had been standing on the cliff above the river, looking down at the bridge. No, there had been something after that. They had started to cross the bridge. Her head was hurting and she felt sick. They were moving upwards. Her mind was clearing. They were climbing the bridge. That’s why Nikola was panting. But why was she being carried?
She felt Nikola stumble forwards and then hands grasped her and lifted her off his back. Someone said, ‘It’s okay. We’ve got her. You did a bloody good job carrying her all the way up.’
She was laid on something with a blanket over it… her muddled brain registered a stretcher. She opened her eyes. Nikola was bending over her. Why was he all wet? Then the memory came back.
‘Drago!’ she tried to sit up but his hand on her shoulder gently pushed her back.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Drago didn’t make it.’ Then, as she began to shake her head, ‘Drago’s dead, Alix.’
Her stretcher was lifted and someone said, ‘You’d better go and find some dry clothes, comrade, before you catch your death.’
Nikola’s face disappeared and the stretcher bearers stared to move. Alix closed her eyes and sank into a dark void where two words echoed. Drago’s dead!