WHOSE SIDE ARE these Brits on anyway? Petrovich wondered as he replayed his most recent conversation with Red.
“Mihailovich can’t be trusted. That was plain as day as he disobeyed British orders to destroy the two bridges on the Ibar and Morava rivers. It was made perfectly clear to him that those railways needed to be disrupted to prevent the Nazis from using them,” Red argued.
“But he DID destroy those bridges!” Petrovich argued back. “Just because he didn’t destroy them at the specific points London designated doesn’t mean he failed at the mission. Or that he disobeyed. The end result was still the same!”
“Why do you think he chose different points? Isn’t it obvious?”
“Are you serious? Red, the bridges were destroyed. The Nazis couldn’t get through. We both know damn well that if he would have used the points London chose, he would have stranded thousands of people in Bosnia, which, by the way, were mostly women and children. They would have been sitting ducks for the Nazis. No doubt slaughtered and tortured too.”
“That’s what Mihailovich claims. Our intelligence thinks otherwise. Mihailovich is a nuisance.”
“If I didn’t know better,” Petrovich stepped closer to Red and looked down at him, “I’d think that you tried and convicted Mihailovic before the war even began. Why are you so gung-ho for that commie and hell bent against Mihailovich?”
Red raised his eyebrow in just the slightest way, but enough to show Petrovich that the word “commie” struck a chord with Red.
“Petrovich, you have a vivid imagination, that is quite evident. Regardless of what you or I think of Tito’s political views, he is our ally. And Mihailovich is our enemy. It seems that, unlike you, I respect the judgment of my superiors in London and don’t question their authority. You would be wise to do the same for Washington.”
“Oh, I listen to my guys back in D.C. Don’t you think otherwise. It’s your guys that I’m questioning. Tell me this. Mihailovich destroyed those bridges AND saved thousands of innocent people. What hurts Churchill more?” He paused as he leaned within inches of Red’s face. “The fact that he disobeyed the almighty Churchill? Or that Mihailovich’s way was better?”
“I won’t even dignify that with a response,” Red shot back, stumbling backwards.
“Of course not. Because if you did, you’d have to admit that Mihailovich isn’t the enemy your guys want him to be.”
Red stalked off towards the bunkhouses. Petrovich watched as he stopped to speak to a group of men that Petrovich was sure were both OSS and SOE agents. They were gathered in front of the bunkhouse, listening to Red. An agent would occasionally look over Red’s shoulder, make eye contact with Petrovich, and then revert his attention back to Red. Petrovich had no doubt what they were talking about.
Suddenly, they dispersed. Some went into the bunkhouse, others left with Red. Where were they going? Petrovich decided to give them a small head start before following them. Red was a bit too Tito friendly for Petrovich.
Petrovich followed closely behind, careful to duck behind walls to avoid their watchful eyes as they occasionally glanced over their shoulders. Eventually, they found a table at the far end of the base and sat. Petrovich doubled back around the building and snuck towards the corner, just within earshot. He leaned against the wall, put his hands in his pockets, and listened.
Fifteen minutes passed with nothing but random chitchat. Petrovich had his fill of nonsense and gave up. Maybe he was paranoid, after all. Feeling ridiculous he pushed himself away from the wall and started to walk away. As if on cue, the conversation turned. Petrovich stopped and leaned towards the edge of the corner and listened.
“Vujnovich has been trying to get Roosevelt to approve a rescue mission in Yugoslavia. Seems that he is convinced that Mihailovich is telling the truth.” said an OSS agent.
“He is the last person we would want to go there. Who knows the extent he would take to sabotage our efforts. He has made it clear that he is against our cause.” replied one of the SOE agents.
Red lowered his voice. “This could cause a major problem. It’s imperative that we do whatever is necessary to prevent any assistance from reaching Mihailovic.”
The OSS agent explained that Vujnovich, a fellow OSS agent, had been diligent in trying to overcome the barriers to going into Mihailovich’s camp. Vujnovich felt that the real reason that Mihailovich’s pleas were being ignored was that if they did go in, and actually found the rescued airmen, the British and the Americans would have to eat crow. How could the Chetniks be Nazi collaborators while at the same time rescuing Allied Airmen and keeping them safe from the Nazis?
Petrovich considered this new piece of information. His gut never let him down in the past, and again it was right on target.
“He could ruin everything if he succeeds. We cannot allow that to happen. Is Klugman aware of this? He could use his connections to prevent Vujnovich from getting his way on this.” Red responded.
James Klugman? Petrovich was now convinced that the SOE was infiltrated with communist moles. Petrovich had never met Klugman, but he had heard of him. He knew that he had worked for the SOE in Bari for over two years. Interestingly enough, Petrovich was fairly certain that he was the intelligence officer for the Yugoslav section. And, he had also heard that Klugman was instrumental in switching British support from Mihailovich to Tito.
If Red was willing to go to such lengths to keep British support with Tito, he had a different goal. And saving O’Donnell and the others was not a part of it.
* * *
“SOS . . . SOS . . . One hundred and fifty American crewmembers in need of rescue . . . many sick and wounded . . . advise . . . SOS . . . SOS.”
For the last two months, the British had received transmissions indicating downed airmen in Yugoslavia. OSS Agent George Musulin paced. Why was no one taking these seriously?
“It has to be a trap,” replied a British Agent.
Musulin, who had spent time in the Mihailovich camp, looked at Vujnovich and shook his head. They were at their wits end with British insistence that Mihailovich was a Nazi collaborator. If anyone knew that was a false accusation, it was Musulin. He had personally witnessed numerous Chetnik attacks against the Nazis. He didn’t need any so-called British intelligence to tell him otherwise.
“We cannot jeopardize any of our men. This is obviously a ploy to lure us into Yugoslavia. At which time, Mihailovich would turn us over to the Nazis,” the British agent argued. “I will not authorize any such mission. It would be suicide.”
“What if you’re wrong?” countered Musulin. “Can you live with abandoning them there for the Nazis to find? Our boys deserve better than that.”
“And if I am right? And we send ‘our boys’ to their demise? Then what?”
“I know Mihailovich. I know him better than any of you. I believe him. Send me in. I’m willing to take that risk.”
“Absolutely not. At this point, it is our belief that these transmissions are Nazi generated and we cannot risk sending anyone, not even you, into Yugoslavia. Until there is evidence to the contrary, there will be no such mission.” With that, the British agent left the room.
Musulin was pissed. Those were American men stranded in Yugoslavia! They should be going in! The Brits had no right to prevent a rescue mission. What was their problem?
Oh, he knew what their problem was. They were fooled into thinking that the Partisans only wanted to liberate Yugoslavia from the Nazis. But Musulin knew better. He knew what Tito was doing over there. He was sabotaging Allied efforts in Yugoslavia by attacking the Chetniks at every opportunity. The Chetniks were forced to fight Tito nearly as often as they were fighting the Nazis.
Tito was smart, thought Musulin. He had the Soviets helping him with his propaganda. Tito’s Partisans took credit for each battle the Chetniks won. Every Chetnik-sabotaged train that blew up, Tito said was Partisan work. Oh yeah, Tito knew what he was doing. And if you asked Musulin, it wasn’t to win the war for the Allies. And the worst part was that he didn’t care how many of his own people he sacrificed to achieve his goals.
Musulin had personally witnessed how little the Chetniks had. Their weapons and ammunition levels were dangerously low, their food supply even lower. The peasants had hardly enough to feed their families, yet they did what they could to ensure that the soldiers were fed. They did not have much in the way of military clothing or shoes for that matter. And now they had even less, since the Allies had switched their support from Mihailovic to Tito.
But they did have something more valuable than any of the ammunition and supplies the Allies gave to Tito and his Partisans. They had heart. They were determined to keep their country from falling under Nazi control and they would take all measures necessary to kick them the hell out.
Mihailovic was not setting a trap. Musulin knew that with his entire being. He also knew that Vujnovich was just as sure. Vujnovich’s contacts in Washington told him that the Mihailovic camp was sending Washington the names of the Airmen as they were rescued so that their families wouldn’t worry.
Musulin didn’t get it. Both the Americans and the British wanted to stop Hitler and to free Europe of his claws.
But on days like today, it felt like they were on opposing sides of this mess.
* * *
Mihailovic was certain that the British were intercepting the messages and not communicating them to the Americans. And that pissed him off. So he arranged for a combined group of Serbian and American soldiers to work together. They were desperately trying to develop a code that only the Americans in Italy would understand. Mihailovich tapped his fingers on the table as he thought of them sitting in their tent with piles of crumbled papers scattered on the floor around them-desperation and frustration evident in each tightly formed ball on the ground.
He no longer trusted the British. The Communists had moles everywhere. And he was sure that they had made their way into British intelligence. If he could just get the information directly to the Americans, in a way that only they could understand, he was confident that he could coordinate a rescue. He just had to get the message to them. In his frustration to get the message out and to get a response, he sent his last message in the clear.
“Please advise the American Air Ministry that there are more than one hundred American aviators in our midst . . . We notified the English Supreme Command for the Mediterranean . . . The English replied that they would send an officer to take care of the evacuation.
Meanwhile, to date this has not been done . . . It would be better still if the Americans, and not the British, take part in the evacuation.”
Mihailovic knew the last sentence sounded like a rip on the British, but at this point he didn’t care. The British had abandoned him and his men. Abandoned his people. He still tried to work with them but they tested his patience day in and day out. He had no other choice than to go directly to the Americans if their men were ever going to see their families again.
The transmission had to be good enough to grab their attention. Something they couldn’t ignore.
Shuffling though the paperwork on the table, he shoved his hands through his hair in frustration. He didn’t know how much longer her could hide the growing number of downed airmen. As that number increased so did the chances of being discovered by the Nazis. Desperate for a breakthrough, he crossed himself and prayed for God to give him guidance.
* * *
At the camp at Pranjane, several American officers were gathered inside one of the village homes. As they strategized about the upcoming sabotage mission with the Chetniks, the door flew open and an American soldier ran in.
“Sirs, they need you at the radio.”
In another tent nearby, they found the Americans charged with developing the code, grinning from ear to ear.
“We think we’ve done it. It’ll confuse both the Germans and the British, but our guys should be able to decode it. We think it’s our best shot.” One of the officers read the intended message aloud. The others scratched their heads and smiled.
At their approval, the airman sat in front of the radio. He said a silent prayer then sent the transmission. Now all they had to do was sit back and hope that the Americans in Italy would decipher it and rescue them. And fast.