by Anda Vranjes
“We don’t really know anything for sure right now. So all we can do is hope that we are wrong about the moles. Tomorrow night we try again. The chances of us not succeeding again are slim to none.”
The next night, they tried for the fifth time to be dropped into Mihailovic territory. Once again, their anticipation was high. They checked their gear and verified the coordinates. All looked good.
The light turned green and they prepared to jump. Musulin braced himself on the doorway and looked into the jump area. He couldn’t see much through the dark. Rechecking his gear one more time, something caught his eye below.
At first he wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it made him uneasy. He took a better look. Flashes of light pierced the night sky below as a battle raged directly beneath them. Right where they were going to jump!
He shoved himself back away from the doorway, knocking over the other men.
“What are you doing?” shouted the jumpmaster.
“You are sending us straight into a battle! Either you guys are purposely trying to sabotage this mission or you don’t know what the hell you are doing. Either way, this mission is aborted . . . again!” shouted Musulin.
Musulin stormed across base straight into Vujnovich’s office. He slammed his hands on his desk and leaned forward.
“If this mission is ever going to happen, it will be without a dust of British influence. I don’t know what is going on with them, but I’ve had enough.”
Frustrated and fuming, he replayed the events of the evening. Vujnovich listened intently and swore under his breath as he took it all in.
“I want an American plane. I want an American crew. And I mean ALL American . . . no one else on that plane,” demanded Musulin.
Vujnovich stood up and stuck out his hand. Musulin took it and shook.
“All American it is,” agreed Vujnovich.
CHAPTER 15
July 31, 1944
AS PROMISED, GENERAL Mihailovich’s men surrounded Pranjane. They were prepared to keep the Germans at bay if it became necessary. Their orders were simple and direct.
The task was daunting as airmen were scattered in a hundred mile radius around Pranjane. Regardless, both the Serbs and the airmen were committed to ensuring a successful evacuation.
O’Donnell looked at the makeshift airstrip. Before today it was a narrow plateau that was used for grazing cattle and sheep. He shook his head as he evaluated the parameters of the plateau. It was only one hundred feet wide and about nineteen hundred feet long. Nowhere near enough room for a plane to land or the size of an actual landing strip.
As if the situation wasn’t dangerous enough, with the Nazis surrounding them and occasionally flying overhead, now they had to worry if a plane could actually land here.
The men were determined to make it happen. And what a sight to see! O’Donnell grinned as he and hundreds of other Chetniks, airmen and Serbian peasants worked the plateau to create the temporary airstrip. Every available man, woman and child was shoveling, raking, and grading the land to level it as much as possible for a plane to land.
Some of the peasants began singing a song in their native Serbian tongue. Soon all the Chetniks joined in. O’Donnell had no idea what they were singing, but he liked it nonetheless.
“What are they are singing about?” O’Donnell asked.
“Freedom,” answered Branko with pride.
Freedom, thought O’Donnell. That’s all these people have ever wanted. After all that they had done for him and the other American airmen, he made a silent pledge. If he got out of here safely, he would do what he could to give it to them.
The drop time was scheduled for 2200 hours. At precisely ten o’clock, one hundred and sixty airmen waited breathlessly. It was pitch black outside. It was so dark that many wondered how this would happen without any navigational radio. Others prayed silently for success.
They had no idea the intentions of the Fifteenth Air Force. Some thought that they would be dropping off supplies while others thought they were about to be rescued. All they could do at this point was wait and see what would happen.
Several minutes passed. With each passing minute, they slowly lost hope. But at 10:38PM, they heard a faint drone of a plane in the distance.
“Are they late?” whispered O’Donnell.
“Maybe, or it could be a Nazi aircraft searching the area,” replied Wallace.
“You think?”
“I don’t know. I can’t believe they would be this late. Even under these conditions.”
“Should we light the flare pots for them?” O’Donnell asked, referring to the three flare pots on either side of the airstrip that would identify the width of the strip.
“Might be too dangerous. What if it’s the Nazis? Then we ruin everything.”
Not being able to identify the aircraft, they decided not to light the flares. They hid in the bushes surrounding the makeshift airstrip as the plane flew overhead. After it had passed, they all walked away. Their hopes of rescue plummeted.
The next day they tried contacting the headquarters. Once again, they were unable to establish communication. All they could do was gather at the airstrip again that evening and hope that the Fifteenth Air force would come.
Sitting in the dark, they hoped for a miracle and held their breath as ten o’clock neared. O’Donnell said a silent prayer as he crouched near a tree. They had to come tonight, he thought. They just had to.
As ten o’clock came and went, the reality sank in. No rescue tonight.
August 5, 1944
Hope lowest that it’s been in days, O’Donnell and Wallace sat in the warm afternoon sunlight and discussed the events of the past days.
“If they don’t come tonight,” said O’Donnell “then I think we need to find another way out of here.”
“How else can we get out without an air evacuation?” asked Wallace.
“The Chetniks know every nook and cranny in these mountains. I think our only option is to see if we can walk out of here.”
“Our chances of survival are greatly diminished if we have to resort to that. There would be too many chances of running into the Nazis.” Wallace paused as he drank from his flask.
“True, but we are sitting ducks here, just waiting for them to find us. And if they do, they would slaughter the peasants for hiding us,” replied O’Donnell.
“What about the Partisans? The Chetniks are forced to fight the Partisans as often as they have to battle the Nazis. If we run into them, what happens then?”
“I wonder if anyone really knows how messed up it really is here.” commented O’Donnell.
That evening, everyone gathered, yet again, at the airstrip. Although they thought it was a long shot, they had no choice but to hope. As ten o’clock drew nearer, they held their breath and waited.
The night was dark with minimal moonlight to brighten the night. Silence filled the air as they waited. No aircraft in sight and time quickly slipping away, dread filled the men. This was their last hope. They decided to wait a few more minutes, just in case. After fifteen minutes, all hope was gone.
Disappointed, O’Donnell stood to leave the airstrip. But as he was about to leave, he heard a soft noise in the distance. Straining to hear, he cupped his ear and held his breath. As the noise became louder, O’Donnell quickly recognized it. A plane!
Excitement and anticipation filled the air as realization hit that a plane was approaching.
“Should we risk it?” asked O’Donnell. “Should we light the flares?”
Wallace stared at the sky then looked at the hundreds of airmen surrounding the field. “May as well risk it all. Light the flares!”
The night glowed from the flares on both sides of the airstrip. They knew that they were taking a major risk by lighting the flares without confirming the identity of the plane. But at this point, they didn’t care.
“We should signal the plane, if it is our guys. They need to know they are in the right spot.”
The plane turned towards them as it spotted the lights. The tension was thick as they waited to identify the plane. The plane descended slowly. With each second, they wondered if they did the right thing.
“Oh my God,” said Wallace. “If that is a Nazi plane, we just handed them our location and we are as good as dead.”
O’Donnell’s heart raced. The plane seemed to be flying in slow motion as he watched its descent. The lives of these men would be determined in the next several minutes. This was it.
“I can’t tell if that plane is ours. It’s so damn dark and these flares make it so hard to see,” O’Donnell replied. “Please God, let it be ours. Please!”
As the plane came in lower, O’Donnell and the others looked for the slightest indication that these were the good guys. Straining to see through the glow of the flares, O’Donnell searched desperately for a sign.
Then he saw it. A white star adorned the fuselage. That was the insignia of the Unites States Army Air Corp!
“It’s them!” shouted O’Donnell. “It’s our guys! They’ve found us!”
The field erupted in cheers as the airmen and Chetniks celebrated. The risk had paid off ! They watched as the plane passed over them and disappear into the night sky beyond the plateau. And then several minutes later, after it turned around, it flew over them again, and headed back towards Italy.
“What the heck?” wondered O’Donnell. “Where are they going?”
“Maybe they were verifying location first and then plan on getting in touch with us for further instructions,” replied Wallace.
Better than nothing, thought O’Donnell. But he couldn’t help being disappointed that they had to wait even longer to know what the plan was going to be.
“Well, at least they saw us. Now they have to come back and get us. We should probably head back and clear this place out.” They walked towards the flaring pots to distinguish them when they heard the cheers of the soldiers behind them.
A group of Chetniks ran towards the field carrying packages dropped by the plane. Opening the crates, they found medical supplies and clothing. Excitement was overflowing as the hope of rescue mounted.
“Well, they definitely know we are here. Hopefully this means they’ll contact us tomorrow and we can work out some sort of plan to evacuate,” Wallace said to O’Donnell.
“At least they dropped off some supplies for the time being. That’s something for now. And they’ll believe Mihailovich going forward, don’t you think?” O’Donnell said as he looked through one of the packages and examined the supplies.
“I’m not sure. But at least they’ve confirmed our location. It’s just a matter of time, now.”
Musulin, Rajacich and Jibilian jumped out of the low flying plane. At only eight hundred feet above ground, their parachutes opened immediately and they only had about thirty-seconds before hitting the ground.
Musulin fell the fastest and the hardest as he crashed into a chicken coup.
Feathers and pieces of wood soared through the air. The few chickens that survived balked in a flurry around him as he got to his feet. He looked around and laughed. Of all the places he could land, he would land on top of a bunch of chickens.
Brushing off the dust and debris, he disengaged his parachute and began to look for the other members of his team. He heard Rajacich in the distance and followed his voice.
Musulin found Rajacich hanging from his parachute in a tree.
“You all right?” asked Musulin.
“Yea, I’m OK. Just help me get down from here.” Musulin climbed up the tree and cut him down. They had to work quickly. If the Germans spotted them, they only had minutes. “Let’s find Jibilian.”
They found him in a nearby cornfield. Fortunately for him, the cornstalks softened his landing.
“Gather our gear. We need to find our soldiers as quickly as possible.”
They worked quickly and started walking in the direction of the flares. A peasant woman spotted them and ran as fast as she could until she stood in front of them. Talking fast, she jumped up and down and showered them with hugs and kisses.
“She thinks we are here to liberate them,” Musulin explained to his team.
Since he knew the language, Musulin told her that they were not there to free her people, but that they were looking for the Americans that the Chetniks were protecting. Undeterred by his admission, she hugged him again and directed him towards the Mihailovich camp.
“I’m sorry about the chicken coup. Here is a little bit of money to help you repair it,” he told her in Serbian. She gratefully accepted the money then hugged and kissed them again, thanking them for helping to free her people.
They were confident now that they were in Chetnik territory. But they still had to find camp and avoid the Germans. They walked in the direction the peasant woman had provided, hoping to come across a friendly Chetnik.
A group of large bearded men drew near the team. They searched around the area obviously looking for something. From the royal insignia they wore on their hats, Musulin knew they were the Chetniks.
“Musulin!” cried out one of the men as they recognized him from his previous mission among the Chetniks.
“George the American!” said another as he hugged Musulin.
“He’s like a movie star!” laughed Rajacich referring to the way the Chetniks greeted Musulin.
But within moments, Rajacich and Jibilian found themselves being bear hugged by the intimidating Chetniks as well.
“Just like movie stars,” joked Musulin to Rajacich and Jibilian.
The bearded Chetniks overwhelmed the men with their gratitude. But Musulin knew he had to explain the situation to them before they got the wrong impression. He quickly told them that they were only there to help facilitate a rescue of the American airmen. Not for any other reason. He wanted them to understand that things hadn’t changed from the viewpoint of the Allies.
“The support of the Allies is still with Tito,” he said.
They said they understood. But by the hopeful looks on their faces, Musulin was sure that they didn’t.
The Americans followed the Chetniks towards camp. As they passed a group of trees and entered camp, excitement erupted. Several of the Chetniks recognized Musulin and ran towards him in greeting.
Musulin approached O’Donnell. “I’m Lieutenant George Musulin with the OSS. Our team’s official designation is Air Corps Rescue Unit Team Number One.”
“Very glad to meet you, I’m Bill O’Donnell of the Fifteenth Air Force,” he said as he shook his hand. “Welcome to Pranjane.” He laughed, “Am I happy to see you!”
Musulin took in the sight and was amazed at what he saw. He was told to expect about one hundred to a hundred and fifty men. But this looked like much more than that.
“I see you’ve found the supplies and radios we just dropped. We also have a plan for evacuation.” He paused as he absorbed the numbers of men milling around. “We thought we’d find about one hundred and fifty men. This looks like quite a bit more.”
“More like two-hundred and fifty. And there are hundreds more in the surrounding areas. And the numbers keep rising,” answered O’Donnell.
Two hundred and fifty men and hundreds in the surrounding areas? Musulin swallowed hard as he took in the information. This was going to be harder than they thought.
CHAPTER 16
THE NEXT MORNING, Musulin, Rajacich and Jibilian immediately got to work. Time was of the essence and the sooner they put plans into action, the more likely they could avoid detection and capture by the Germans.
The peasants insisted on feeding them as soon as they woke up. They took whatever they had and put together a breakfast for Musulin, Rajacich and Jibilian. The women fussed over the men as the children giggled excitedly. The men laughed and joked as they watched the three Americans eat their breakfast.
“They act like we just conquered the entire G
erman army!” said Jibilian.
“Despite being told otherwise, they think us being here is a sign that Allied support is switching back to Mihailovich. That’s the first sign of hope they’ve had in a long time,” answered Musulin.
“Makes me feel guilty accepting their kindness and food. It doesn’t look like they have much,” added Rajacich.
“No, they don’t have much at all. This war has been hell on them.” Musulin glanced at peasants that had gathered around to see them. “They barely have enough to eat, not nearly enough resources left to survive, and yet they somehow keep fighting. They just keep going.”
“It’s humbling,” whispered Jibilian.
“It sure is. But they really have no other choice. And it’s been like this for generations. It’s just their way. I don’t know how they sometimes don’t say that they’ve had enough and give in to the invaders,” questioned Musulin.
They sat in silence for a few minutes and looked around them as they ate their breakfast and drank their Turkish coffee.
When they had assessed the feasibility of the airstrip for an evacuation, they discovered that it was not long enough to provide a safe landing area for the C-47s, especially if wind conditions worsened. So Musulin and Mihailovic decided that they needed to add an additional seventy-five yards to the length.
Approximately three hundred peasants, including men, women and children, immediately worked on extending the field. They dug, hauled and unloaded dirt, grass and gravel. And when the Americans offered to pay them, they refused.
Jibilian smiled as he watched them hard at work. He was humbled at the kindness and determination these people were showing to help evacuate the Americans. All the while knowing that they would be left behind to continue to fight the Germans on their own.
“You know, I was in the Tito camp for awhile,” he said quietly to Musulin.
“I know,” replied Musulin.
“I can honestly say that at the time, I had no idea, really, what a Chetnik was. I was told that they were Nazi collaborators and that they were monsters that committed the worst kind of atrocities.
