Monday, April 23
Independent State of Croatia
Peter, Jamie, and Krzysztof had been guests of the Partisans for over a month. With the exception of one week when they’d been afflicted with dysentery, each day they asked Andro Pavlović and his superiors for permission to leave. Andro dutifully made his inquiries and unfailingly passed on the excuses his officers made. They always said they’d consider it, that they’d no doubt work something out in a few days or after they’d achieved a specific military objective. But days had stretched into weeks. The Partisans didn’t trust their guests and didn’t want to let them go, either because Peter and his men knew their plans or because they hoped to gain something from working with British and American agents.
Peter had volunteered to fight alongside the Partisans, as had Jamie and Krzysztof, preferring combat to incarceration. But they’d been kept in the rear instead. They’d contemplated escape, but the Partisans controlled the countryside. The only places they could escape to were the German garrisons the Partisans were taking one by one, siege by siege, brutal battle by brutal battle.
They were told to wait and observe. Peter had thought the Partisans would give them their radio so Krzysztof could report their battlefield successes to the British and Americans who supplied them, but whenever Krzysztof asked to use the radio, the answer was no.
Today, when Andro made his daily round, he had a friend with him. They seemed in high spirits, which Peter assumed was the result of another battlefield win. He let Jamie ask the usual questions: Could they please have their radio back? Could they please set out for the coast? If not today, when?
After the Partisans walked off, Jamie motioned Peter closer. Over the last month, they’d figured out which Partisan guards spoke which languages other than Serbo-Croat. Jamie and Krzysztof could speak Polish whenever they wanted without fear of anyone else understanding. Peter and Jamie switched between French and English, depending on which guards were nearby.
“They were joking about taking Rijeka,” Jamie said in English. That wasn’t anything new. Rijeka lay on the other side of the heavily defended Ingrid Line, and the Partisans had begun their assault on the line a few days before. The Germans were dug in, but Peter figured it was just a matter of time before the Partisans breached the massive fortifications. “Then they joked about taking Trieste.”
“Do they really plan to make it all the way to Trieste?”
Jamie nodded. “That may be why they won’t let us leave. They plan to race the Allied army for as much territory as possible. They don’t want us to report their progress; they would rather sneak as far west as they can without anyone but the Germans knowing it.”
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Peter said.
“You say that every day,” Krzysztof whispered as a pair of Partisan soldiers passed by.
“I know.” Peter thought about Rijeka. They hoped to find Marija there, and then they planned to slip away into Italy. Peter had made a promise to Miloš, and he intended to keep it. And Peter wondered what had happened to Moretti. He was unlikely to find much information about POWs in Yugoslavia, but maybe more information would be available in Italy.
Telling the Partisans their true plans wouldn’t gain their cooperation, but what if Peter’s getting past the Ingrid Line could somehow benefit the Partisans? Then would they let them go? “We need to make a deal with them.”
“What type of deal?” Jamie asked.
“Intelligence on the Ingrid Line in exchange for our freedom.”
Jamie smiled. “Gathering intelligence on the Ingrid Line is likely to result in our collective deaths.”
“Can’t be much worse than being a Partisan prisoner.” If Peter had to stay where he was much longer, he was going to do something crazy—or was that what this idea was?
“I’ll find Andro,” Krzysztof said. “I’m ready to get back to England, even if I have to take a dangerous route.”
Peter was shocked when a Partisan pukovnik called on them a few hours later. “You offer us intelligence?”
Peter nodded. “Let us sneak behind the Ingrid Line. Arm us and give us our radio. We’ll report what we see: locations of German guns, minefields, which units you face.”
The pukovnik tapped his foot as he considered the offer. “We have no weapons to spare, and we can’t return your radio. But I can release you and provide passes. We have an agent in Rijeka. You can give her the information, and she’ll report back to us.”
Peter glanced at Jamie and Krzysztof. They weren’t being offered much of a deal, but it gave them the opportunity for freedom. Krzysztof nodded ever so slightly, and so did Jamie. “We accept.”
* * *
The first day back in the field with the type of mission he’d been trained for left Peter feeling alive and hopeful again, even though he and his men were unarmed, heading into tremendously strong German defenses, and working for an army they didn’t trust.
By day three, Peter’s optimism had faded. They were in poor physical shape, and as their supply of food disappeared, so did their energy. Before their first mission together, they’d been able to run ten miles in full gear, then repeat the exercise the next day without difficulty. Now they could barely walk a mile without feeling drained.
Peter was exhausted, but he smiled as the Rječina River came into view. On a map, the Ingrid Line ran along the river, but in reality, the definition wasn’t that simple. The men approached the river slowly, trying to remain unseen.
“Up for a swim, Jamie?” Peter asked.
“As long as it gives me a break from climbing.” The area around the river consisted of steep hills—challenging for Peter and Krzysztof, more daunting for Jamie, who was still using his cane.
The rocky riverbed was lined with tall trees stretching into the hills. Even in the dark, Peter could tell the water was swollen and white with movement. The Partisans had given them little food and no weapons, but they had provided rope for rappelling, and Peter had been carrying it over his shoulder.
He unlooped the rope. “I’ll swim across with this. If I get into trouble with the current, you can haul me back in. If I make it, you’ll have something to hold on the way across.”
Krzysztof tied one end of the rope to a tree and took Peter’s boots. Going across with the rope, maybe he’d be able to keep them dry.
Peter tied the other end of the rope to his belt and inhaled sharply as he waded into the icy water. The daytime temperature was pleasant, but the snow melt was a different story. He used a few rocks for balance until the water grew deeper, then plunged in. By the time he pulled himself onto the opposite bank, his muscles ached and his breathing was labored. Looking back across the river, he realized the current had carried him farther downstream than he’d expected. He rolled the rope along his arm as he walked back upstream, then tied it to a tree opposite where Jamie and Krzysztof waited.
The area seemed quiet, so Peter waved them over, shivering in his wet clothes until they arrived. “I thought we were better swimmers,” Peter said, his teeth chattering.
The sky was more gray than black now, and Peter could see Jamie’s smile. “A year ago, we could have made it to Rijeka in a day.” Jamie yawned and closed his eyes.
Peter took his shirt off and wrung it out, then did the same with his pants before getting dressed again. Krzysztof had kept his boots mostly dry, so Peter put them back on. He was lacing his second boot when Krzysztof tensed and raised a hand in warning. Peter looked around, not seeing anything, not at first. Then a pair of Ustaše soldiers emerged from behind the trees, yards from Jamie, who still had his eyes closed.
“Jamie!” Krzysztof shouted.
Jamie reached for his cane and tried to get to his feet, but one of the Ustaše patrolmen, a tall man with thick muscles, knocked him unconscious with a rifle blow to the back of his head. Jamie dropped to the ground, and his cane flew into the riverbank.
Peter would have given just about anything for a weapon as he ran toward the man who’d attacked Jamie. The Ustaše had his rifle, but he clenched his fists and held them up like a boxer. He was taller and heavier than Peter, but Peter managed to block the man’s first three jabs and land a pair of solid punches in the man’s ribs. Peter’s OSS training in hand-to-hand combat came back to him quickly as he dodged another hit and pummeled the man’s chin. But the man easily shook off Peter’s punches and resumed his attack.
Peter stepped away from the Ustaše man’s hook, and then the man’s fist connected with Peter’s jaw in a forceful uppercut. The blow sent Peter sprawling backward, his hands landing in the river, lights flashing in front of his eyes. He turned away from the next punch but couldn’t escape the man’s boot swinging toward the side of his head. He tumbled into the water, and his opponent followed, picking Peter up by his shirt collar and smashing his forehead into Peter’s nose.
Everything turned gray, then black, but as the cold river washed over him, Peter’s mind suddenly focused. His hands grabbed at the river bottom, slowing his drift until he could get his feet under him again. His legs were wobbly, but he managed to push himself to his knees and balance. He gasped for air as his head broke the surface.
The Ustaše soldier who’d nearly knocked Peter unconscious was wading back to shore with his back to Peter, who’d drifted a dozen yards downstream. Jamie lay on the bank, not moving. Krzysztof wrestled with the other soldier, but Peter couldn’t tell who was winning.
As the taller Ustaše reached Jamie, the soldier drew out a small knife. Peter had only seconds to prevent the man from slitting Jamie’s throat, but his legs weren’t working. “Hey!” he yelled. The Ustaše soldier glanced over his shoulder at Peter, then turned back to Jamie, refusing to be distracted.
Peter’s hands felt in the water for a rock, hoping to find one small enough to throw in his weakened state and large enough to slow down the Ustaše soldier. Instead of a stone, Peter felt something bump into him—Jamie’s cane. The Ustaše man must have knocked it into the swifter current while wading ashore. Peter wasted a full second staring at it in disbelief before ripping off the top. He brought his hand back and hurled the dagger at the Ustaše man, praying it would strike home. It hit the man in the center of his back, and his own knife, inches from Jamie’s neck, fell to the ground, as did the soldier.
Peter crawled toward shore, planning to finish the man off and help Krzysztof. But Krzysztof didn’t need help anymore. He jabbed his fist into the Ustaše’s face, and the man tumbled away, limp. Krzysztof struggled to his knees and pushed his unconscious opponent’s face into the river. He stumbled to his feet and staggered toward the other fallen Ustaše. “He’s dead,” Krzysztof said.
Peter nodded, dragging himself from the water at the shore’s edge and using a tree to pull himself up. His right ankle felt sprained, so he tried to keep his weight off of it. Jamie was still unconscious, and Krzysztof had a cut on his forehead and blood streaming from his lips. Peter wondered how two poorly trained Croatian soldiers had caused so much damage to members of what had been an elite commando unit. “How’s your head?”
Krzysztof felt his forehead and stared at the blood that stuck to his fingers. “It hurts.”
Peter sat beside Jamie, stretching his ankle and trying to wiggle the pain away. Haven’t I had enough problems with my ankles this war?
Krzysztof checked Jamie’s vital signs, then sat next to Peter, his breathing heavy.
“How many pairs of Ustaše soldiers do you suppose are patrolling this river?” Peter asked.
Krzysztof used his sleeve to wipe at the cut on his forehead. “I don’t suppose it will take more than a few more of them to finish us off.”
Jamie stirred and groaned as his eyes opened. “‘The wills above be done, but I would fain die a dry death.’” He stared at Peter and Krzysztof, then at the man who’d almost killed him. Peter was relieved. If Jamie was quoting Shakespeare, he couldn’t be too badly injured.
Jamie focused on the top of his cane sticking from the man’s back, then grasped it and yanked it free.
“That was an impressive throw,” Krzysztof said.
Peter checked the dead Ustaše for extra ammunition. “I missed once about a year ago, so I practiced.”
“How many German and Ustaše men did the Partisans estimate were behind the Ingrid Line?” Jamie sat up and rubbed the back of his head.
Krzysztof glanced at the dead men lying on the rocky ground beside the river. “Twenty-five thousand plus.”
Peter wondered what he and his friends had gotten themselves into. Peter and Krzysztof wouldn’t be able to pass themselves off as Croatian, so the next time they were spotted, they were likely to get the same reception they’d just received. We need to blend in. He glanced at the man Krzysztof had killed. “Krzysztof, grab that Ustaše before he washes away. We need his uniform.”
They stripped the two soldiers and dumped their naked bodies in the river. Dressing as Ustaše soldiers was risky. Jamie was the only one who spoke Serbo-Croat, and they had two sets of uniforms to divide among three people. Jamie would pretend to be their leader, but Peter wasn’t sure how many Ustaše patrol leaders used canes. At least it was spring, so no one would think it odd that Krzysztof didn’t have a jacket and that Peter kept his buttoned to hide his civilian shirt.
If they ran into German soldiers, Peter and Krzysztof’s limited, accented German would be expected. Peter prayed they wouldn’t run into very many Ustaše troops because the pistol, rifle, and two knives they’d taken from the dead men wouldn’t save them for long.