by Lee Jackson
Paul frowned, and Donovan’s eyes flashed. “Your staff found it, Your Majesty? Those are highly confidential documents. I don’t suppose you read them.”
The firmness with which Donovan asked the question and the glint in his eyes seemed to have set the king ill at ease. He glanced at the envelope and then back at the general. “Well of course we read them, otherwise we wouldn’t know who owned them. And they are deeply disturbing. They suggest that America might be prepared to intervene in the Balkans if Hitler goes too far.”
The two men, both still standing, regarded each other from across the room. Donovan straightened to his full height. “Now seems like a good time to deliver my president’s message.”
Blood drained from the king’s face as he stared at Donovan. Hostility crept into his voice. “Let’s hear it.”
Donovan pursed his lips and nodded. “It is this. If the United States comes into this war, we will be guided in policy toward Bulgaria by what you do now.”
Their visit at the palace having been curtailed, Donovan and Paul departed Bulgaria within hours. On the transport plane, they listened to the BBC. No mention was made of Bulgaria having signed the Tripartite Pact.
Donovan clapped the back of Paul’s neck. “We delayed that at least a day.”
“How are you feeling today? You had quite a night.”
Donovan leaned back and laughed. “I’m a teetotaler,” he said. “I’ve never touched the stuff, and I didn’t last night.”
Paul chuckled. “I thought there must be more to the story than your having a cast-iron stomach. Where to now?”
“Belgrade, Yugoslavia. This will be a different challenge. Prince Regent Paul just came from a trip to Berlin, summoned there by the führer, where he was treated to the full force of Hitler’s ‘charm by intimidation’ techniques. He was the guest of honor for a display of military power. The führer demonstrated his police-state efficiency and all the machinery he could bring to bear against anyone who opposes him. I’m betting we’ll see evidence of Hitler’s persuasiveness on the prince.” He chuckled. “We’re ready for him. I doubt he’s ready for us.”
38
February 20, 1941
Belgrade, Yugoslavia
“This country is a different kettle of fish,” Donovan told Paul as their aircraft prepared to land at an airfield on the outskirts of the ancient city. “It’s made up of several areas carved out of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire. The Ottomans ruled it for centuries before the Austrians and Hungarians had it. The country came into being as currently constituted by another Treaty of Versailles provision at the end of the Great War.
“They’ve got a boy king, Peter II, but the country is governed by Prince Regent Paul until the king reaches legal age. The regent has broad authority, but he doesn’t exercise it, believing he should leave the country as it was on the late king’s death. He’s pro-democracy, and being anti-Bolshevik, his sympathies lie with France and Great Britain; but he’s scared stiff of Germany’s military power, and, as I mentioned, I’m sure that when he was in Berlin, Hitler brought to bear all of his persuasive tools and talents.”
The general grinned. “Churchill describes the regent as an unfortunate man locked in a cage with a tiger, hoping not to provoke the animal while dinnertime steadily approaches. The long and short is that if the regent stays in power, Yugoslavia stays in the fascist camp.”
Donovan turned suddenly and looked at Paul with a curious expression. “By the way, do you know what fascism is?”
Paul’s face went blank. “I think so. It’s where a strong man in a country takes over the government and rules by force and the threat of violence to impose his will.”
“That sounds like a good textbook definition.” Donovan shook his head. “That’s what most people think, but they and that textbook would be wrong. You just described thug methods that fascists use to maintain power without regard for laws or rights. All dictators do that. But fascism is an economic system. A fascist regime is one where government and big business collude on policy for their own benefit. Their creed is immaterial except as a tool to control the masses. The government controls the means of production in partnership with big business through force, blackmail, regulation, court decisions, the police, or by whatever else works to control people’s lives.”
“Isn’t that what Hitler does? People call him a Nazi and Mussolini a fascist.”
“They’re two sides of the same coin, each with his mantra, and both using the same tactics. At one time, Hitler emulated Mussolini. Now the roles are reversed. Hitler is a better propagandist and he’s managed to secure far more resources. Their partnership, along with the Japanese, was forged in hell.”
Paul pondered that a moment. “So, what are we going to do here?”
“Buy more time.” A thump of the plane’s landing gear as it dropped and locked into place alerted them that they would soon be on the ground.
“We’re meeting with the prince regent?”
Donovan nodded. “And we’ll make contact with Tito.”
“So, who is Tito?” Paul asked as an embassy limousine drove them to the royal palace.
“He’s a Serbian. He was drafted into the Austro-Hungarian army and became its youngest sergeant major. The Russians captured him during the last war, and somehow, he became enamored with them and joined Lenin’s revolution in Moscow in 1917. I guess the Russians didn’t like him so much because he says they mistreated him. He returned to Yugoslavia liking the Soviet economic system, but not them.”
“So, he’s a communist. Then, what’s the difference between him and a fascist, and why would we deal with him and not the fascists?”
Donovan smirked slightly and furrowed his brow. “Ah, Paul. Stephenson told me that you get caught up in moral dilemmas. Nothing wrong with that. Resolving some of them produced the United States. The simple answer to your question is that we’re in a war that we must win. If Joseph Stalin ever gets control of the resources to the extent that Hitler has, I have no doubt he would be just as horrific, maybe even worse. Look at what he did in ’33 to Ukraine by creating famine, his so-called Holodomor. That’s Russian for ‘to kill by starvation.’ Millions died.
“But the immediate threat for us lies in Hitler and his use of military force.” He heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Once that threat is dealt with effectively, we’ll no doubt have to deal with the next one, which could easily be Comrade Stalin.”
“I hate to expose my ignorance, but I’m still not seeing much difference between communism and fascism. They both want to control the means of production and are willing to wage terror and slaughter to get it.”
“I’m no economist, but I see the difference as semantic. The fascists claim to act on behalf of the nation, hence the Nationalist Socialist Party, or Nazis. The communists claim to do it on behalf of the people. Both end up in the same boat: exercising tyrannical power over people’s lives. At least that’s the way I see things.”
“Then what’s our strategy in Yugoslavia? You have communists confronting fascists here.”
“Exactly. We’d like to see the communists engage the fascists in a guerrilla war and draw in Germany. A non-fascist Yugoslavia would threaten Hitler’s southeastern flank and his access to Romanian oilfields, which in turn could subvert his drive into the Soviet Union. We’re going to prod that along to help us win this war.”
Paul sat back and thought through the discussion. “What will Hitler do if he sees that he could lose Yugoslavia as an ally.”
“He’ll invade, and that will tie up forces he needs in Russia.”
“Is that what Mr. Churchill meant in saying Roosevelt would have his Coventry?”
Donovan nodded solemnly. “A lot of people will die. The open question is how fiercely will Hitler retaliate? The president knows that just like Churchill knew about what would happen to Coventry, and he still agrees with the plan to draw Germany in to fight in Greece and Yugoslavia. It can’t be helped. Wehrmacht forces that will be used in the Balka
ns would otherwise be used in the Soviet Union, and no one can say if more or fewer civilians will die. All that can be said is that some will be spared in the north by those whose lives are taken in the south. Your prime minister sees the action as imperative to stop Hitler, wear his forces down, and ultimately defeat him. The president agrees with him. We can’t predict how bad Hitler’s response will be.”
Paul blew air out through pursed lips and shook his head. “What a Machiavellian world. Megalomaniacs muck things up for everyone else. Why must they exist?”
Donovan chuckled. “When you figure that out, we’ll make you potentate of the world. I have no clue what drives active greed or what pleasure some men get from slaughtering human beings. But as long as the other man’s grass looks greener, people will envy his stuff, and sometimes take it by force. We’re seeing that on an epic scale.”
They wound through the ancient city with its stately buildings and parks. On reaching a large, wooded hill, they drove past gardens and glades along a lane that contoured its ridges until reaching the sprawling compound with the palace at its heart, a Serbo-Byzantine architectural masterpiece with arches, columns, turrets, and spires.
A welcoming party greeted them when the vehicle rolled to a stop, and they were quickly whisked into the prince regent’s office. He was a man with a thin neck and shoulders supporting a large head with dark hair that had receded nearly to the middle of his scalp. He appeared perpetually nervous.
He greeted Donovan and Paul with a gratuitous smile but without fanfare, making passing mention of Paul’s having the same given name as his own. Then he invited them to sit in comfortable chairs in front of his desk, and he took his seat.
“These are difficult times, I must say,” he remarked, opening the discussion.
“I’ll get to the point, sir,” Donovan replied. “We know you’re in a tough spot. I received a cable upon arrival in your city, and I must tell you, it is a splendid city.”
The prince smiled benignly. “Thank you. May I know the contents of the cable. I doubt you’d bring it up otherwise.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll read it verbatim. It’s from my president.” Donovan reached inside his jacket pocket, pulled it out, and read aloud, “‘Any nation which tamely submits will be regarded less sympathetically when the United States comes to settle accounts than any nation resisting the Nazis.’” He folded the cablegram and replaced it in his pocket.
When he looked up, the prince regent had turned pale. He lifted his hand as he was about to speak, but it shook, so he grasped the edge of his desk as he leaned forward with the demeanor of a supplicant. “But surely the president must realize that any move by the Nazis inside Yugoslavia would be only to secure the German flank during an attack on the Soviet Union. Hitler told me so himself.”
Donovan gazed steadily at the prince. “Sir, you’ll have to judge his sincerity for yourself, and I thank you for the information about the führer’s invasion plans. The president will appreciate knowing that.”
The prince regent stared—the proverbial doe caught in headlights. His jaw set, he soon ended the meeting and called an orderly to escort his visitors back to their car.
“So, now we have further confirmation of Hitler’s plans to invade up north,” Donovan said as he and Paul rode away in the embassy limousine. “Anyway, the prince regent seems like a nice man. I hated scaring him like that. We’ve been sending our cables in the clear, so he’s got to know that German agents are listening.
“He’s shaking in his boots, and he demonstrated exactly the mindset that concerned Churchill: that these leaders would accept Hitler’s assurances regarding his plans within Yugoslavia if the country would secure the flank in his war against the Bolsheviks.
“If the perception persists and grows among the population that their fight is with the Soviet Union, they could be robbed of a reason to rise up in a Resistance army.” The general paused while he gathered his thoughts. “If a mass uprising occurs, it must be in answer to Nazi violence and not in support of its Soviet incursion.”
The two men rode in silence for some distance. Paul noticed that the route did not take them back to the airfield. “Where to now?”
Donovan looked at his watch. “I have one more stop to make. It’s with the Yugoslav Air Force chief, General Dusan Simovic, and he’s meeting me in secret, so I can’t bring you along. He’ll get nervous, and we need him.”
“What about Tito?”
“I’ll work with him through intermediaries. The message to him is simple: if his group actively resists the fascists, they will receive aid.”
“And the unspoken message is that if Prince Regent Paul kneels to the fascists, Tito should lead a revolt?”
Donovan smiled. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Then aside from your meeting with General Simovic, we’re done? This intelligence operation is finished?”
“Not hardly, Captain. We still have the British reinforcement of Greece to go, and then I’ll brief the press publicly on this trip to the Balkans with my conclusions. We can bypass meeting with Vichy generals in North Africa, though. As I told you, I was already there and reported my conclusions about that region to the president.
“With any luck, Hitler’s temper should be getting the best of him, and he’ll invade both Greece and Yugoslavia despite his high command’s more measured advice. Meanwhile, you’ll go back to New York, and I’ll go back to London.”
39
Five Days Earlier
RAF Kirton in Lindsey, Lincolnshire, England
Red, Shorty, and Andy taxied their fighters into position abreast of each other and halted. To their left, a new pilot in a latest-model Hurricane revved his engine to speed, his face a mask of apprehension. He had joined Eagle Squadron that morning to replace Pilot Officer Phillip Leckrone whose plane had been rammed, cutting off his tail in a fatal accident while on patrol a week earlier.
The loud bell that had sent the pilots scrambling to their planes clanged almost as soon as the newbie had walked through the door. His flight leader had pointed him toward his aircraft as they ran.
“We’re providing air cover on a convoy off the east coast,” the squadron leader called over the radio. “Climb to Angels 30. We’ll be high. Remember to turn on your oxygen. Let’s go.”
Twelve Hurricanes in three lines of four aircraft bounded forward, gained speed, lifted their noses, and leaped into an early morning sky of thick, rumbling clouds.
“This is not fun-flying,” Red muttered as they took off. They had been patrolling over the North Sea since they had finally gone operational nearly six weeks earlier. Messerschmitts were of little concern to him this far north and out of their range. But the weather was turbulent, the clouds dark and threatening. Inevitably the squadron would have to fly through them. The threat of losing orientation due to vertigo was deadly.
They cruised north and turned east, skirting the ominous weather as much as possible. Despite the need to remain alert, Red’s mind wandered. He thought of home, of a certain girl there, Anne Haring, for whom he had a fondness. There had been no commitment between them, but he liked her. Then he thought of Claire Littlefield. The two were from worlds apart, their only commonality being him.
Claire wore elegance and grace as though the concepts had been made for her, and Red had never met a more caring and friendly person. If I ever have to choose, which one will it be? If it’s Claire, would I be willing to stay and make a life in England, away from home.
Anne was a farm girl, charming, funny, and down-to-earth. And she was at home, a place he now yearned for with increasing frequency.
His mind went to the episode late last year when he had collapsed. His friends had hurried him to the doctor for a full check-up. He was sobered by the diagnosis. He suffered from lupus, the doctor told him, and he would be increasingly fatigued, and then exhausted.
Andy and Shorty had waited for him anxiously. When he emerged from the doctor’s office, they had pre
ssed him to know the result. “Just tired,” he had replied. “The doctor informed me that I’ve had a stressful year.” They had laughed together and sought out their favorite pub.
For a moment, the odyssey he had shared with his friends that had brought them to this moment flashed through his mind. He chuckled remembering how he and Andy had fooled the FBI and slipped into Canada to meet with a British mercenary recruiting for the French air force. At a hotel in Toronto, they had run into Shorty, who was there for the same purpose. Taken aback by his small size, they had only recognized that he might be one of them because he sat waiting for the same mercenary.
Red’s aircraft suddenly lurched, tossed in a violent updraft. Jerked back to the present, he checked around him for sight of his squadron mates, dropped his nose a bit, and adjusted his trim. Their course would take them into the maelstrom ahead, and looking about, he saw no break that provided a better route to their objective.
“This is Red One,” the squadron leader called. “Climb to Angels 35 and spread out. Let’s see if we can get above the weather. Controller, do you see better conditions?”
“Sorry, ol’ boy. The clouds are thick all along the northern stretch. You’ll be over the convoy in five. No enemy reported. Orbit as long as you can. Report when you depart for home.”
“Roger. Break. Squadron, on my order, begin orbit.”
The pilots acknowledged by squawking their transmitters. Red settled in for what would have been a boring routine, but for the weather—flying in wide circles over the convoy far below, hidden by clouds, until fuel consumption mandated their return to Kirton Lindsey. Then again, the weather keeps the bandits away. He grinned. Well, that and distance.
He looked down to his left. Andy was there and just happened to peer toward Red at the same time. They grinned and waved to each other.
