A Bitter Wind, page 16
He must have had a sideline as the patron of radial piston engines, since ours ran smoothly for the rest of the flight.
“Touchdown in ten,” Petro announced, then returned to his radio room. The pine trees grew closer as the plane banked, flaps up. I spotted a field, lightly dusted with snow, along the top of a flat plateau. At the far end sat a C-47, making its turn for takeoff. So far, so good. I heard the whine of the landing gear and hoped the ground wasn’t frozen rock-hard, praying for a soft touchdown. I gripped my seat as the treetops became level with the aircraft. Then we dipped and wheels touched earth. We rolled down the short runway, the pilot hit the brakes, and the aircraft shuddered as it slowed. It finally halted about thirty yards short of the trees. The pilot eased back on the throttle and turned the plane to face the runway, feathering the props.
Petro opened the hatch as Sully loosened the canvas that held the supplies. “A little late, but all in one piece,” Petro said.
“Never doubted it,” I said, and gave him a wink. I started down the steps and saw Dilas approach at a run. He waved his arms to hurry along a group of Chetniks steps behind him.
“Germans!” he shouted.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“GET THOSE SUPPLIES unloaded!” Dilas said. There was no time for questions. Big Mike and I helped Sully and Petro pass crates of supplies to the waiting hands of Chetnik fighters gathered at the door. Before we could finish, the other C-47 revved its engines and took off, making one helluva racket. If the Krauts were close by, they’d hear it easily.
As soon as we got the last crate out, twelve excited airmen started to clamber aboard. Petro wished us luck as we exited and was about to close the hatch when the airmen yelled for him to stop. Each man unlaced his boots and tossed them to the waiting Chetniks. Next came their heavy sheepskin aviator jackets. The Chetniks cheered and the airmen waved. They shouted farewells even as Petro closed the hatch and the Skytrain lumbered down the runway, the prop blast sending us stumbling back.
“Let’s go!” Dilas shouted above the drone of the engine as the aircraft picked up speed, rose, and cleared the treetops at the end of the runway. The Chetniks carried the crates, jackets, and boots to three waiting vehicles—rusted and rickety Opel trucks—loaded them up, and drove off. Three fighters stayed with us, big, bearded guys with bandoliers of ammo across their chests, armed with American M1 rifles along with an assortment of pistols and knives, all close at hand. They made Big Mike look mousy.
We followed Dilas away from the landing strip and encountered a group of women with long pine boughs. They hustled to where the C-47s had left tracks in the thin layer of snow and began to work the boughs like brooms to erase the evidence. Behind them, an old man led four cows out into the field to disguise the landing ground as just another winter pasture.
“Okay,” Dilas said as he halted once we were under cover. “We just got a report that a German patrol was sighted about six miles distant. We’re watching them now. If they head this way, we’ll have to stop them. We’ve got too many men and supplies hidden in this area to let the Krauts snoop around.”
“You don’t think they heard the engines?” Big Mike asked.
“Probably not, they’re to the north with a ridgeline between us. But if they did, they’ll send a recon plane to take a look, so that’s why we cover our tracks,” Dilas said. “I need to look at the situation. I’ll turn you two over to my radio operator. You’ll be the first to hear if we gotta scatter.”
“We’ll stick with you, Captain,” I said, and looked to Big Mike, who nodded.
“You’re our tour guide, Marty,” he said.
“Okay, stick close to me and don’t do anything stupid,” he said, and set off at a trot along a dirt road. Just around the bend we came to a village. Pranjani, I figured. There was one large stucco building and a wooden church with a steep roof. The houses were spread apart, most built with a stone base and wood planks. Outhouses and pens for animals completed the picture.
Dilas entered one of the houses after a short talk with his Chetnik pals, who loped off down the road. Inside it was dark, with small windows that barely let in enough light to see.
“What’s happening?” Dilas bellowed up the narrow staircase.
“They’ve halted and sent out patrols on foot,” the Yank said. He wore lieutenant’s bars and regular fatigues, nothing as showy as Dilas. “Three half-tracks and a Kübelwagen.”
“Not a major push, then, but enough to be trouble if they come this way,” Dilas said. “This is Lieutenant Rudy Jankov, radio operator for our team. He speaks Serbian and maintains contact with all the units watching the roads. Rudy, this is Billy and Big Mike.”
“No need to ask who’s who. You guys staying here?”
“No, they’re with me. And you should move out too. Radio Bari and tell them to cancel the next flight until we give the all clear. Then get to the cabin and set up there. Monitor the frequencies but don’t give the Krauts enough time to triangulate your position. They might be on to us, or maybe they’re just doing a sweep,” Dilas said.
“Don’t worry, I know the drill,” Jankov said. “You two can leave your rucksacks here, Sanja will hide them.”
“Who’s Sanja?” I asked.
“I am,” a young woman said. I hadn’t heard her come down the stairs. “This is my house. Welcome. We have many things hidden here, two more are no problem.”
“Your English is excellent,” I said, and shrugged off the heavy pack.
“I learned in school,” Sanja said. “And Rudy teaches me.” Her face lit up as she said his name. Sanja had sandy-brown hair pulled back, strong cheekbones, and sparkling blue eyes. She wore dark green trousers stuffed into leather boots, a wool sweater, and a holstered pistol.
“I will teach you more about baseball on the hike to your father’s cabin,” Rudy said. “We may be gone overnight.” He went upstairs to disassemble the radio, and Sanja began to gather food.
“Are the Krauts on the move?” I asked.
“No. They’ve halted by a bridge where we have an observation post. The Germans are across a valley and our OP is on the other side. If they stay on the road they’re on, it will take them away from us. But if they cross the bridge, it will bring them straight to Pranjani. If that happens, we’ll have to hit them hard. Follow me,” Dilas said, at the sound of a braking truck.
It was one of the Opels that had taken the supplies away, with a Chetnik at the wheel and two others in the open flatbed, a carton of grenades between them. We climbed aboard and watched as Jankov and Sanja left the house. He lugged the SSTR-1 radio gear, and Sanja carried a shoulder bag and a German Mauser. The two of them spoke with the Chetniks who sat with us, and they all laughed. Maybe it was a joke about driving on a bumpy road with a load of grenades, but I laughed anyway, just to be friendly.
“Baseball?” I yelled to Jankov as the truck lurched forward.
“Cardinals!” he responded, which left me with no comeback since St. Louis had won the World Series last year.
“Home run!” Sanja said. She gave a quick laugh and increased her pace, disappearing into the forest with Jankov. The two Chetniks roared with friendly laughter, but I doubted it had anything to do with the World Series.
“Lep,” I said, trotting out the one word of Serbian I knew.
“Da,” one of them replied. “Nice. Jankov good man. Sanja good.”
“You speak English,” I said. He shrugged and put his thumb and forefinger together in the universal sign of just a little.
“Good man, you. Dobro,” he said. His finger pointed at me, then Big Mike. “Nacisti, bad.” He patted his rifle, and it wasn’t hard to figure out that it was the Nazis who were bad, and we who were good. Now I knew three words of Serbian.
“Dejan,” the other fellow said, then patted his friend’s shoulder. “Nikola.”
I told them my name and learned there was no equivalent of Billy or William in their language. It took a moment to get Big Mike’s moniker across, but we finally arrived at Veliki Mihajlo. Big Mike in Serbian. My vocabulary was growing.
After a few twists and turns while ducking low-hanging branches, the driver pulled the Opel to the side of the road. We vaulted off and gathered around Dilas. He spoke first with the driver, who grabbed the box of grenades and jogged off into the woods.
“We have a position set up to cover our retreat, if need be,” Dilas explained. “And another on our flank. Follow me. Stay low and quiet.”
Nikola took the lead, and we went single file along a stony uphill path. At the top of the ridgeline, he halted, waved his arm, and nodded to Dilas. The OSS captain went forward and did the same.
“See there?” he whispered, pointing to our right, where the crest rose slightly. “Four of our boys. A few of them got restless and wanted some action. Their job is to fire a few rounds if the Germans try to flank us, then beat feet for town.”
“Where?” I said. Even though it was cool, I took off my steel pot and wiped the sweat from my brow. Then I saw them not twenty yards away, perfectly camouflaged behind a fallen pine. A couple of gloved hands signaled, and I returned the favor, waving my helmet. I hadn’t thought much about our guys going stir-crazy, holed up in a barn and waiting weeks or longer for rescue. Grabbing a gun and having a go at the Krauts would sound exciting. They knew the terrors of combat at thirty thousand feet, and I hoped they didn’t have to get too close to the down-to-earth variety.
“You’ve got everything covered,” Big Mike said, and snapped off a salute in the direction of the grounded flyboys.
“Yeah, except for the odds,” Dilas said, then followed Nikola through a path in the underbrush, nearly invisible amid the brambles and boughs.
A gesture from Dilas to go low told me we were at the observation post. The path sloped down into a dugout behind rocks, which jutted out from the loose soil. A weathered tree trunk lay across them and gave good cover for viewing the valley below for the five-man squad.
A .50 caliber machine gun was set up between the rocks. Probably salvaged from a downed bomber, it was mounted on a tripod that looked like it had been hammered out by an ironsmith. Dilas squatted next to the gunner. He questioned him in Serbian while he viewed the scene below through his binoculars. Behind him, a radioman spoke into his SCR-300 and relayed information from Dilas.
All I could see were two German half-tracks and the command vehicle, about seventy yards out. Soldiers stood around, smoking and gabbing without much thought for security. A good sign. If they knew how close they were to a Chetnik stronghold, they’d be on alert. Voices drifted up, echoing off the valley walls. The chatter of men who didn’t realize a heavy machine gun had them in its sights.
“A half-track went around the bend to the left thirty minutes ago,” Dilas whispered. “Then a squad climbed up the hill, like they were trying to trap somebody between them.”
“Maybe they’re tracking some of our escapees,” I said.
“Could be. That would explain why this group stayed by the bridge, to keep anyone from crossing.” I looked below. The bridge spanned a steep ravine that had a trickle of water flowing at the bottom. The ground was crumbling sandy soil, and it would make for a tough climb.
“There,” Dilas said, his glasses trained on the hilltop. He handed me the binoculars. “They have someone.”
“A civilian,” I said. I focused on the single figure being pushed and prodded by the Krauts. He was bearded, but it wasn’t the full, bushy beard of a Chetnik fighter. A farmer, maybe. He wore a loose, long coat that flapped in the wind as he was marched downhill. I handed the binoculars to Dilas. “Poor bastard, whoever he is.”
“Italian, by his coat,” Dilas said. “When the Italians surrendered, some took to the hills and the Germans hunted them.”
“Half-track on the left,” Big Mike said. I heard the engine and the clank of treads before it turned the corner.
“The vehicle they sent out earlier,” Dilas said, focusing his binoculars. “They’ve got a prisoner too. How long ago did your chaps break out?”
“Four days,” I said. “They were in a POW camp before that, most likely.”
“Not one of yours, then,” Dilas said. “This one looks too worn and scruffy. I’m still guessing Italian deserters. Tito has a brigade of Italian Communists, but these two look like bums. Probably didn’t want to end up doing slave labor for the Krauts.”
Nikola said something in a hushed voice and the others relaxed, tension fading as it looked like the Germans had found their quarry. Dilas focused his binoculars, studying the Germans. Each half-track held six men in the open back, with the two captives in the lead vehicle. Engines revved and gears ground as the vehicles began to move.
Toward the bridge.
“Damn,” muttered Dilas. He spat out an order to Nikola, who took off. The machine gunner swiveled his weapon and aimed at the first half-track as it approached the bridge. Dilas laid a calming hand on his arm and motioned for everyone to stay low.
The lead half-track moved onto the bridge. It was a single-lane wooden trestle, about one hundred feet long and thirty feet above the ravine. The second half-track crossed onto the bridge.
“You two target the Kübelwagen,” Dilas said to me and Big Mike, then returned his gaze to the bridge. The first half-track was almost across.
“Sada!” he shouted as he slapped the gunner on the back.
The .50 spat fire. Tracers slammed into the half-track. Gunners on heavy four-engine bombers used armor-piercing incendiary rounds, and the lightly armored half-track was no match for well-aimed fire at close range.
Smoke and flame blossomed from the engine, and the vehicle swerved within the narrow confines of the wooden bridge. The gunner kept firing until the half-track leapt ahead, veered to the left, and crashed into a stout wooden guardrail.
The noise was horrendous as we fired. Big Mike squeezed off carefully aimed rounds at the Kübelwagen, where the German officer in command sat in relative comfort. He launched out of the door and clawed at his pistol, as two bursts from my tommy gun kicked up spouts of dirt beneath his feet and sent him sprawling. Big Mike hit the driver, a blood-splattered windshield demonstrating his marksmanship.
Between the two vehicles, Germans were cut down as they scrambled to get out of the open half-tracks. Some took cover behind their vehicles, only to be felled by volleys of M1 fire from our right. I figured Nikola had been sent off to bring in the flank guards, who peppered the Krauts with murderous fire.
The gas tank on the second half-track blew, ignited by the incendiary rounds. Yellow-orange flame exploded and engulfed the vehicle, sending burning soldiers over the side of the bridge and into the ravine. Those who lived tried to douse the flames, only to be shot.
Four Germans tried to make a run for it, but the .50 trailed them and tore them to pieces. Another stood up, hands raised, and was hit from two directions. Not many prisoners were taken in this sort of warfare, but in the middle of fierce combat, any attempt to surrender was madness.
Dilas ordered everyone to hold their fire, then threw a grenade onto the bridge. It exploded next to the burning half-track but there was no response. No screams, no return fire.
“Let’s check it out,” Dilas said.
I stood and heard a thump on the ground behind me. A German potato masher grenade rolled into the trench. I grabbed it and flipped it out. My gut tightened as I thought about it going off in my hand, but it exploded just over the edge of our firing position.
I sprayed the woods behind us and vaulted up, diving for cover behind a tree and listening for movement. Which was damn hard with my ears ringing from all the shooting and explosions.
“See anything, Billy?” Big Mike asked from behind, his M1 at the ready.
“Nothing. He must’ve made it over the bridge and worked his way around us,” I said. I gave the foliage another burst for good measure. “We ought to search for him.”
“Billy, you and Big Mike come with me. I’ll send off a couple of my men and the flyboys to hunt for him,” Dilas said. “We might find some intel down there.”
“That was quick thinking, Billy,” Big Mike said. He clapped me on the shoulder. “We owe you.”
“If I’d had time to think about it, we all would have been filled with shrapnel,” I said. Dejan was wrapping a bandage around the machine gunner’s head. There was a fair amount of blood, but his eyes were okay. He’d been the closest to the explosion, so it could have been worse.
Dilas issued orders, and his men began to break down the machine gun. Nikola and another Chetnik went with us to check out the Krauts while Dejan and the rest watched for reinforcements. We took a route through the trees that led us down to the road that the Germans had been headed for. Still no sign of the grenade-wielding attacker. At the bridge, the smoking half-track was slewed across the lane. The driver hung out the door, his uniform singed and bloodied. But even so, the SS collar tab was clear to see.
A faint moan arose from behind the half-track. Nikola followed the other Chetnik, cautiously approaching the source. A pistol shot put an end to the sound.
“It’s a mercy,” Dilas said. “We can barely treat our own wounded, and no one wants to save the life of one of these SS bastards.”
The mercy of the pistol echoed along the ravine again, but the .50 and the rest of the firepower directed at the unsuspecting SS had wreaked such havoc on human flesh that little life was left to snuff out.
I heard a noise from under the half-track and went flat, my Thompson ready. It was one of the prisoners the Krauts had taken. He held up one trembling hand and muttered in fear.
“Come here,” I said, and beckoned with my free hand. He’d evidently been quick to take cover and avoided the heavy fusillade. Nikola pushed the guy from the other side with the butt of his rifle, and he crawled out from under the vehicle.
“His buddy’s dead, still in the half-track,” Big Mike said. “I’ll check out the officer.” Nikola went with him as Dilas searched the prisoner, coming up with nothing. He peppered him with questions, his voice ranging from harsh to consoling. At one point he stood and retrieved a canteen from a dead German and gave it to the prisoner, who drank from it greedily.
