The German patrol – not, as the partisan scouts had reported, an armoured column, but two scout cars summoned by telephone when the first shots were fired – arrived at the block-house to find the scars of the rockets and the body of Ritchie-Hook. They did not move from the road. A section of domobrans investigated the wood where the first aeroplane had misplaced its missiles. They found some smouldering timber and the bodies of four partisans. A puzzled German captain composed his report of the incident which circulated through appropriate files of the Intelligence Service attracting incredulous minutes as long as the Balkan branch continued to function. The single-handed attack on a fortified position by a British major-general, attended in one account by a small boy, in another by a midget, had no precedent in Clausewitz. There must be some deep underlying motive, German Intelligence agreed, which was obscure to them. Perhaps the body was not really Ritchie-Hook’s – they had his full biography – but that of a sacrificial victim. Ritchie-Hook was being preserved for some secret enterprise. Warning orders were issued throughout the whole ‘Fortress of Europe’ to be vigilant for one-eyed men.
Lieutenant Padfield had not spent an agreeable morning in Begoy. His only company had been Gilpin and he had been troubled by a deputation of Jews who, hearing that an American was among them, had come to inquire about the arrangement UNRRA was making for their relief. The Lieutenant was no linguist. Bakic was surly. The conversation had been a strain on his spirits already subdued by the aeroplane crash. It was with great pleasure that, earlier than expected, the observers came driving into the town.
The death of Ritchie-Hook had changed the events of the day from fiasco to tragic drama. There was ample material for recriminations but in the face of this death even the Commissar was constrained to silence.
Sneiffel was jubilant. He had secured a scoop which would fill half a dozen pages of an illustrated weekly, the full photographic record of a unique event.
Ian was soberly confident. ‘You didn’t miss much, Loot,’ he said, ‘but the object of the exercise has been attained. General Spitz is satisfied that the partisans mean business and are skilled in guerrilla tactics. He was rather sceptical at one moment but Ritchie-Hook changed all that. A decision of the heart rather than of the head perhaps.
‘It’s an odd thing. In all this war I’ve only twice had any part in an operation. Both have afforded classic stories of heroism. You wouldn’t have thought, would you, that Trimmer and Ritchie-Hook had a great deal in common?’
Guy took it on himself to inform Halberdier Dawkins of his master’s death.
The much blistered man displayed no extremity of bereavement. ‘So that’s how it was,’ he said and added with awe at the benevolent operation of Providence: ‘Hadn’t been for going sick, like enough I’d be with him. He’s led me into some sticky places I can tell you, sir, these last three years. He was fair asking to cop one. As you’ll remember, sir, he always spoke very straight and more than once he’s said to me right out: “Dawkins, I wish those bastards would shoot better. I don’t want to go home.” One thing for him; different for me that’s got a wife and kids and was twenty years younger. Of course I’d go anywhere with the General. Had to really, and he was a fine man, no getting away from that. So it’s turned out the best for both parties the way things are. I don’t know how I’ll do about his gear. Ought to ship it back to the base. Maybe your orderly would lend a hand when they send to fetch us. It’s a shame we couldn’t bury him proper, but you can trust the jerries to do what’s right, he always said. He wasn’t a strictly religious man. Just so as he has his grave marked, he wouldn’t want more.’
The partisans dug a deep common grave for the bodies in the aeroplane. They, too, were anxious to do what was right and offered the services of the village priest but since little was known about the beliefs of any of the dead, except Sir Almeric Griffiths who, Lieutenant Padfield said, was of Wesleyan origin and sceptical temper, a firing-party and a bugler performed the last office.
Later the Air Force made a daylight sortie with fighter cover to collect General Spitz and the remnants of his party. When Guy and de Souza returned from the airfield to their quarters they found the partisan girls already removing the bourgeois furniture.
‘The captains and the kings depart,’ said de Souza. ‘What do we do now, uncle, to keep ourselves amused?’
There was not work for two liaison officers. There was barely enough for one. As the result of General Spitz’s recommendations supplies came almost nightly in great profusion. The Squadron Leader arranged for them, the partisans collected them, Guy and de Souza were spectators. Throughout the last weeks of August and the first weeks of September the Commissar and the General were uncomplaining, even comradely. De Souza drove Guy in the jeep round the ‘liberated’ area visiting partisan camps.
‘It seems to me,’ said Guy, ‘that they’ve got all they can use at the moment. If they’re going to mount a summer offensive they’d better get on with it.’
‘There’s not going to be a summer offensive here in Croatia,’ said de Souza. ‘You might have noticed that we’re moving troops out, as soon as they’re equipped. They’re going into Montenegro and Bosnia. They’ll keep on the heels of the Germans and move into Serbia before the cetnics can take over. That’s the important thing now. Begoy has served its purpose. They’ll just leave enough men to deal with the local fascists. I have the feeling I shan’t be staying long myself. Can you face the winter alone, uncle? Once the snow comes the landing strip will be out of service, you know.’
‘I’d like to do something about the Jews.’
‘Oh, yes. Your Jews. I’ll make a signal.’
He got in reply: Plans well advanced evacuation all Jews your area before snow.
‘I hope that’s cheered you up, uncle.’
That was in the middle of the third week in September. In the middle of the fourth week de Souza came into their common-room with his file of signals and said: ‘I shall be leaving you tonight, uncle. I’ve been recalled to Bari. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you there.’
‘Remind them about the Jews.’
‘You know, uncle, I’m beginning to doubt if you’re fit to be left. You’ve an idée fixe. I hope you aren’t going to become a psychiatrist’s case like your predecessor here.’
It was not until dinner that de Souza said: ‘I dare say you ought to know what’s happening. Tito has left Vis and gone to join the Russians. He might have done it more politely. He never said a word to anyone. Just took off while everyone was asleep. Some of our chaps are rather annoyed about it, I gather. I bet Winston is. I told you he’d make rings round the old boy. Winston imagined he’d worked the same big magic with Tito he did with the British Labour leaders in 1940. There were to be British landings in Dalmatia and a nice coalition government set up in Belgrade. That’s what Winston thought. From now on any help Tito needs is coming from Russia and Bulgaria.’
‘Bulgaria? The Jugoslavs hate their guts.’
‘Not any more, uncle. You don’t follow modern politics any more than poor Winston does. The Bulgarians have, as our Prime Minister might have put it, “found their souls”.’
‘I don’t think you’ll have a very busy winter. There won’t be so much Anglo-American interest as there’s been in the last few months. In fact they might close this Mission down before Christmas.’
‘Any suggestion of how we’re supposed to get out?’
‘I’ll leave you the jeep, uncle. You might get through to Split.’
It seemed to Guy then that he had never really liked Frank de Souza.
The officer in Bari who distributed educational matter had sent a huge bundle of illustrated American magazines, mostly of distant date. In the long hours of early October Guy read them, slowly, straight through, like a Protestant nanny with her Bible.
Days passed without his receiving any summons to general headquarters. Bakic did not like walking. Guy got some pleasure from tramping the autumnal coun
tryside with the spy limping behind hirn. The church was locked up; the priest had left. Three members of the Praesidium were installed in the presbytery.
‘What’s become of him?’ Guy asked Bakic.
‘He gone some other place. Little village more quiet than here. He was old. Too big a house for one old man.’
On Guy’s 41st birthday he received a present; a signal reading : Receive special flight four Dakotas tomorrow night 29th dispatch all Jews.
He went joyfully to the Commissar, who, as before, had received confirmation from his own source of authority, and coldly gave his assent to the proposal.
It seemed to Guy, in the fanciful mood that his lonely state engendered, that he was playing an ancient, historic role as he went with Bakic to inform the Jews of their approaching exodus. He was Moses leading a people out of captivity.
He was not well versed in Old Testament history. The bull-rushes, the burning bush, the plagues of Egypt belonged in his mind to very early memories, barely distinguishable from Grimm and Hans Andersen, but the image of Moses stood plain before his eyes, preposterously striking water from rock near the Grand Hotel in Rome, majestically laying down the law in St Peter-in-Chains. That day Guy’s cuckold’s horns shone like the patriarch’s, when he came down from the awful cloud on Sinai.
But there was no divine intervention to help the Jews of Begoy, no opening of the sea, no inundation of chariots. Guy was informed that no further assistance was required from him. A partisan security company was detailed to muster the refugees and examine their scant baggage. At dusk they were marched out of their ghetto along the road to the airfield. Guy saw them pass from the corner of the lane. It was the season of mists and Guy felt the chill of anticipated failure. Silent and shadowy the procession trailed past him. One or two had somehow borrowed peasants’ hand carts. The oldest and feeblest rode in them. Most were on foot bowed under their shabby little bundles.
At ten o’clock when Guy and the Squadron Leader went out the ground-mist was so thick that they could hardly find the familiar way. The Jews were huddled on the embankment, mostly sleeping.
Guy said to the Squadron Leader: ‘Is this going to lift?’
‘It’s been getting thicker for the last two hours.’
‘Will they be able to land?’
‘Not a chance. I’m just sending the cancellation order now.’
Guy could not bear to wait. He walked back alone but could not rest; hours later, he went out and waited in the mist at the junction of lane and road until the weary people hobbled past into the town.
Twice in the next three weeks the grim scene was repeated. On the second occasion the fires were lit, the aeroplanes were overhead and could be heard circling, recircling, and at length heading west again. That evening Guy prayed: ‘Please God make it all right. You’ve done things like that before. Just send a wind. Please God send a wind.’ But the sound of the engines dwindled and died away, and the hopeless Jews stirred themselves and set off again on the way they had come.
That week there was the first heavy fall of snow. There would be no more landing until the Spring.
Guy despaired, but powerful forces were at work in Bari. He soon received a signal: Expect special drop shortly relief supplies for Jews stop Explain partisan HQ these supplies only repeat only for distribution Jews.
He called on the General with this communication.
‘What supplies?’
‘I presume food and clothing and medicine.’
‘For three months I have been asking for these things for my men. The Third Corps have no boots. In the hospital they are operating without anaesthetics. Last week we had to withdraw from two forward positions because there were no rations.’
‘I know. I have signalled about it repeatedly.’
‘Why is there food and clothes for the Jews and not for my men?’
‘I cannot explain. All I have come to ask is whether you can guarantee distribution.’
‘I will see.’
Guy signalled: Respectfully submit most injudicious discriminate in favour of Jews stop Will endeavour secure proportionate share for them of general relief supplies, and received in answer: Three aircraft will drop Jewish supplies point C 1130 hrs 21st stop. These supplies from private source not military stop Distribute according previous signal.
On the afternoon of the 21st the Squadron Leader came to see Guy.
‘What’s the idea?’ he said. ‘I’ve just been having the hell of a schemozzle with the Air Liaison comrade about tonight’s drop. He wants the stuff put in bond or something till he gets orders from higher up. He’s a reasonable sort of chap usually. I’ve never seen him on such a high horse. Wanted everything checked in the presence of the Minister of the Interior and put under joint guard. Never heard of such a lot of rot. I suppose someone at Bari has been playing politics as usual.’
That night the air was full of parachutes and of ‘free-drops’ whistling down like bombs. The anti-fascist youth retrieved them. They were loaded on carts, taken to a barn near the General’s headquarters and formally impounded.
Belgrade fell to the Russians, Bulgarians, and partisans. A day of rejoicing was declared in Begoy by the Praesidium. The concert and the Vin d’Honneur, postponed in mourning, were held in triumph. On order from high authority a Te Deum was sung in the church, re-opened for that day and served by a new priest whom the partisans had collected during their expansion into Dalmatia. At nightfall the anti-fascist choir sang. The anti-fascist theatre group staged a kind of pageant of liberation. Wine and slivovic were copiously drunk and Guy through the interpreter made a formal little acknowledgement of the toast to Winston Churchill. And next day, perhaps, as part of the celebrations – Guy could never discern by what process the partisans from time to time were moved to acts of generosity – the Jews received their supplies.
Bakic greeted him with: ‘De Jews again,’ and going into the yard he found it full of his former visitors, but now transformed into a kind of farcical army. All of them, men and women, wore military greatcoats, Balaclava helmets, and knitted woollen gloves. Orders had been received from Belgrade, and distribution of the stores had suddenly taken place and here were the recipients to thank him. The spokesmen were different on this occasion. The grocer and lawyer had gone ahead into the promised land. Madame Kanyi kept away for reasons of her own; an old man made a longish speech which Bakic rendered ‘Dis guy say dey’s all very happy.’
For the next few days a deplorable kind of ostentation seemed to possess the Jews. A curse seemed to have been lifted. They appeared everywhere, trailing the skirts of their greatcoats in the snow, stamping their huge new boots, gesticulating with their gloved hands. Their faces shone with soap, they were full of Spam and dehydrated fruits. They were a living psalm. And then, as suddenly, they disappeared.
‘What has happened to them?’
‘I guess dey been moved some other place,’ said Bakic.
‘Why?’
‘People make trouble for them.’
‘Who?’
‘Partisan people dat hadn’t got no coats and boots. Dey make trouble wid de Commissar so de Commissar move dem on last night.’
Guy had business that day with the Commissar. When it was ended Guy said: ‘I see the Jews have moved.’
Without consulting his chief the intellectual young interpreter answered: ‘Their house was required for the Ministry of Rural Economy. New quarters have been found for them a few miles away.’
The Commissar asked what was being said, grunted, and rose. Guy saluted and the interview was at an end. On the steps the interpreter joined him.
‘The question of the Jews, Captain Crouchback. It was necessary for them to go. Our people could not understand why they should have special treatment. We have partisan women who work all day and have no boots or overcoats. How are we to explain that these old people who are doing nothing for our cause, should have such things?’
‘Perhaps by saying that they are old and ha
ve no cause. Their need is greater than a young enthusiast’s.’
‘Besides, Captain Crouchback, they were trying to make business. They were bartering the things they had been given. My parents are Jewish and I understand these people. They want always to make some trade.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’
‘War is not a time for trade.’
‘Well, anyway, I hope they have decent quarters.’
‘They have what is suitable.’
The gardens in winter seemed smaller than in full leaf. From fence to fence the snow-obliterated lawns and beds lay open; the paths were only traceable by boot-prints. Guy daily took a handful of broken biscuits to the squirrel and fed him through the bars. One day while he was thus engaged, watching the little creature go through the motions of concealment, cautiously return, grasp the food, jump away, and once more perform the mime of digging and covering, he saw Mme Kanyi approach down the path. She was carrying a load of brushwood, stooping under it, so that she did not see him until she was quite close.