The Second World War

by Winston S. Churchill

  One morning Sarah was absent from her chair at the foot of my bed, and I was about to ask for my box of telegrams in the prohibited hours when in she walked with her mother. I had no idea that my wife was flying out from England to join me. She had hurried to the airport to fly in a two-engined Dakota. The weather was bad, but Lord Beaver-brook was vigilant. He got to the airport first, and stopped her flight until a four-engined plane could be procured. (I always think it better to have four engines when flying long distances across the sea.) Now she had arrived after a very rough journey in an unheated plane in mid-winter. Jock Colville had escorted her, and was a welcome addition to my hard-pressed personal staff, through whom so much business was being directed. “My love to Clemmie,” cabled the President. “I feel relieved that she is with you as your superior officer.”

  As I lay prostrate I felt we were at one of the climaxes of the war. The mounting of “Overlord” was the greatest event and duty in the world. But must we sabotage everything we could have in Italy, where the main strength overseas of our country was involved? Were we to leave it a stagnant pool from which we had drawn every fish we wanted? As I saw the problem, the campaign in Italy, in which a million or more of our British, British-controlled, and Allied troops were engaged, was the faithful and indispensable comrade and counterpart of the main cross-Channel operation. Here the American clear-cut, logical, large-scale, mass production style of thought was formidable. In life people have first to be taught “Concentrate on essentials”. This is no doubt the first step out of confusion and fatuity; but it is only the first step. The second stage in war is a general harmony of war effort by making everything fit together, and every scrap of fighting strength play its full part all the time. I was sure that a vigorous campaign in Italy during the first half of 1944 would be the greatest help to the supreme operation of crossing the Channel, on which all minds were set and all engagements made. But every item which any Staff officer could claim as “essential” or “vital”, to use these hard-worked words, had to be argued out as if it carried with it the success or failure of our main purpose. Twenty or a dozen vehicle landing-craft had to be fought for as if the major issue turned upon them.

  The case seemed to me brutally simple. All the ships we had would be used to carry to England everything the United States could produce in arms and men. Surely the enormous forces we could not possibly move by sea from the Italian theatre should play their part. Either they would gain Italy easily and immediately bite upon the German inner front, or they would draw large German forces from the front which we were to attack across the Chamiel in the last days of May, or the early days of June, as the moon and the tides prescribed.

  The deadlock to which our armies in Italy had been brought by the stubborn German resistance on the eighty-mile front from sea to sea had already led General Eisenhower to contemplate an amphibious flanking attack. He had planned to land with one division south of the Tiber and make a dart for Rome, in conjunction with an attack by the main armies. The arrest of these armies and the distance of the landing point from them made everyone feel that more than one division was required. I had of course always been a partisan of the “end run”, as the Americans call it, or “cat-claw”, which was my term. I had never succeeded in getting this manœuvre open to sea-power included in any of our Desert advances. In Sicily however General Patton had twice used the command of the sea flank as he advanced along the northern coast of the island with great effect.

  There was a great deal of professional support. Eisenhower was already committed in principle, though his new appointment to the command of “Overlord” now gave him a different sense of values and a new horizon. Alexander, Deputy Supreme Commander and commanding the armies in Italy, thought the operation right and necessary; Bedell Smith was ardent and helpful in every direction. This was also true of Admiral John Cunningham, who held all the naval cards, and of Air Marshal Tedder. I had therefore a powerful array of Mediterranean authorities. Moreover, I felt sure the British Chiefs of Staff would like the plan, and that with their agreement I could obtain the approval of the War Cabinet. When you cannot give orders hard and lengthy toils must be faced.

  I began my effort on December 19, when the C.I.G.S. arrived at Carthage to see me on his way home from Montgomery’s headquarters in Italy. We had hoped to go there together, but my illness had prevented me. We had a full discussion, and I found that General Brooke had by a separate route of thought arrived at the same conclusion as I had. We agreed on the policy, and also that while I should deal with the commanders on the spot he would do his best to overcome all difficulties at home. He then left by air for London. The Chiefs of Staff had evidently been thinking on the same lines, and, after hearing his account, telegraphed on the 22nd: “We are in full agreement with you that the present stagnation cannot be allowed to continue.… The solution, as you say, clearly lies in making use of our amphibious power to strike round on the enemy’s flank and open up the way for a rapid advance on Rome.… We think the aim should be to provide a lift for at least two divisions.…” After explaining that the new plan would involve giving up both the capture of Rhodes and also a minor amphibious operation on the Arakan coast of Burma, they ended: “If you approve the above line of thought we propose to take the matter up with the Combined Chiefs of Staff with a view to action being taken on these lines at once.”

  This led to a hard scrutiny of our resources. Some landing-craft for the cancelled operation against the Andamans were on their way to the Mediterranean across the Indian Ocean. Others were due to return home for “Overlord”. All were in extreme demand.

  The whole morning of Christmas Day I held a conference at Carthage. Eisenhower, Alexander, Bedell Smith, General Wilson, Tedder, Admiral John Cunningham, and other high officers were present. The only one not there was General Mark Clark, of the Fifth Army. This was an oversight which 1 regret, as it was to his army that the operation was eventually entrusted and he ought to have had the background in his mind. We were all agreed that nothing less than a two-division lift would suffice. At this time I contemplated an assault by two British divisions from the Eighth Army, in which Montgomery was about to be succeeded by General Leese. I thought the amphibious operation involved potential mortal risks to the landed forces, and I preferred to run them with British troops, because it was to Britain that I was responsible. Moreover, the striking force would then have been homogeneous instead of half and half.

  Everything turned on landing-craft, which held for some weeks all our strategy in the tightest ligature. What with the rigid date prescribed for “Overlord” and the movement, repair, and refitting of less than a hundred of these small vessels, all plans were in a strait-jacket. We escaped, though mauled, from this predicament. But I must also admit that I was so much occupied in fighting for the principle that I did not succeed in getting, and indeed did not dare to demand, the necessary weight and volume for the “cat-claw”. Actually there were enough L.S.T.s for the operation as planned, and in my opinion, if the extravagant demands of the military machine had been reduced, we could, without prejudice to any other pledge or commitment, have flung ashore south of the Tiber a still larger force with full mobility. However, the issue was fought out in terms of routine Army requirements and the exact dates when L.S.T.s could be free for “Overlord”, making of course all allowances for their return home in winter Biscay weather, and with the time-margins for their refits stated at their maximum. If I had asked for a three-division lift I should not have got anything. How often in life must one be content with what one can get! Still, it would be better to do it right.

  At the close of our discussion I sent the following to the President, and a similar telegram home. I was careful to state the root fact bluntly.

  … Having kept fifty-six L.S.T.s in the Mediterranean so long, it would seem irrational to remove them for the very week when they can render decisive service. What, also, could be more dangerous than to let the Italian battle stagnate and fester o
n for another three months? We cannot afford to go forward leaving a vast half-finished job behind us. It therefore seemed to those present that every effort should be made to bring off Anzio on a two-division basis around January 20, and orders have been issued to General Alexander to prepare accordingly. If this opportunity is not grasped we must expect the ruin of the Mediterranean campaign of 1944. I earnestly hope therefore that you may agree to the three weeks’ delay in return of the fifty-six landing-craft, and that all the authorities will be instructed to make sure that the May “Overlord” is not prejudiced thereby.…

  Lord Moran thought it possible for me to leave Carthage after Christmas, but insisted that I must have three weeks’ convalescence somewhere. And where could be better than the lovely villa at Mar-rakesh, where the President and I had stayed after Casablanca a year before? All plans had been made during the past few days. I was to be the guest of the United States Army at Marrakesh. It was also thought that I had been long enough at Carthage to be located. Small vessels had ceaselessly to patrol the bay in front of the villa in case some U-boat turned up for a surprise raid. There might also be a long-range air attack. I had my own protection in a battalion of the Coldstream Guards. I was too ill, or too busy, to be consulted about all this, but I saw in my beloved Marrakesh a haven where I could regain my strength.

  Outside the villa a magnificent guard of the Coldstream was drawn up. I had not realised how much I had been weakened by my illness. I found it quite a difficulty to walk along the ranks and climb into the motor-car. The flight at six thousand feet had been planned on the weather forecast that the skies would be clear. However, as we sailed on and the uplands of Tunisia began to rise about us I saw a lot of large fleecy and presently blackish clouds gathering around, and after a couple of hours we were more often in mist than in sunlight. I have always had a great objection to what are called “stuffed clouds”—i.e., clouds with mountains inside them—and flying an intricate route through the various valleys before us in order to keep under six thousand feet seemed to me an unfair proposition for the others in the plane. I therefore sent for the pilot and told him to fly at least two thousand feet above the highest mountain within a hundred miles of his route. Lord Moran agreed. Oxygen was brought by a skilled administrator, specially provided for the journey. We sailed up into the blue. I got along all right, and we made a perfect landing at about four o’clock on the Marrakesh airfield. Our second plane, which had adhered strictly to its instructions, had a very severe and dangerous flight through the various gorges and passes, many of which were traversed with only fleeting glimpses of the towering mountains. At this low height the weather was by no means good. The plane arrived safely an hour behind us with one of its doors blown off and nearly everybody very sick. I was sorry indeed they should have been put to so much discomfort and risk on my account. They could have flown it all out comfortably under blue skies at twelve or even eleven thousand feet.

  Nothing could exceed the comfort, and even luxury, of my new abode, or the kindness of everyone concerned. But one thing rose above all others in my mind—what answer would the President give to my telegram? When I thought of the dull, dead-weight resistance, taking no account of timing and proportion, that I had encountered about all Mediterranean projects I awaited the answer with deep anxiety. What I asked for was a hazardous enterprise on the Italian coast, and a possible delay of three weeks from May I—four if the moon phase was to be observed—in the date of the Channel crossing. I had gained the agreement of the commanders on the spot. The British Chiefs of Staff had always agreed in principle, and were now satisfied in detail. But what would the Americans say to a four weeks’ postponement of “Overlord”? However, when one is thoroughly tired out the blessing of sleep is not usually denied.

  It was with joy, not, I confess, unmingled with surprise, that on December 28 I received a telegram from Mr. Roosevelt agreeing to delay the departure of the fifty-six L.S.T.s “on the basis that ‘Overlord’ remains the paramount operation and will be carried out on the date agreed to at Cairo and Teheran.” “I thank God,” I replied, “for this fine decision, which engages us once again in wholehearted unity upon a great enterprise.…”

  Great efforts had indeed been made by the Staffs at home, and especially by the Admiralty, to accomplish the “cat-claw”, and I hastened to congratulate them. The President’s telegram was a marvel. I was sure that I owed it not only to his goodwill but to Marshall’s balance of mind, to Eisenhower’s loyalty to the show he was about to quit, and Bedell Smith’s active, knowledgeable, fact-armed diplomacy. On the same day Alexander sent us his plan. After conferring with General Mark Clark and General Brian Robertson, he had decided to use an American and a British division. Armour, paratroops, and Commandos would be on a fifty-fifty basis, and the whole would be under an American corps commander. The attack would go in about January 20. Ten days beforehand he would launch a big offensive against Cassino to draw off the German reserves. The forward plunge of the main armies would follow. I was well content. So far so good.

  I determined to be at home before the shock of Anzio occurred. On January 14 therefore we all flew in beautiful weather to Gibraltar, where the King George V awaited me. On the 15th she made her way out of Algeciras Bay wide into the Atlantic, and thence to Plymouth. After a restful voyage we were welcomed by the War Cabinet and Chiefs of Staff, who really seemed quite glad to see me back. I had been more than two months away from England, and they had been through a lot of worry on account both of my illness and my activities. It was indeed a homecoming, and I felt deeply grateful to all these trusty friends and fellow-workers.

  CHAPTER IX

  MARSHAL TITO: THE GREEK TORMENT

  THE reader must now go back to a fierce and sombre tale, which the main narrative has outstripped. Yugoslavia since Hitler’s invasion and conquest in April 1941 had been the scene of fearful events. The spirited boy King took refuge in England with such of Prince Paul’s ministers and other members of the Government as had defied the German assault. In the mountains there began again the fierce guerrilla with which the Serbs had resisted the Turks for centuries. General Mihailovic was its first and foremost champion, and round him rallied the surviving élite of Yugoslavia. In the vortex of world affairs their struggle was hardly noticeable. It belongs to the “unestimated sum of human pain”. Mihailovic suffered as a guerrilla leader from the fact that many of his followers were well-known people with relations and friends in Serbia, and property and recognisable connections elsewhere. The Germans pursued a policy of murderous blackmail. They retaliated for guerrilla activities by shooting batches of four or five hundred selected people in Belgrade. Under this pressure Mihailovic drifted gradually into a posture where some of his commanders made accommodations with the German and Italian troops to be left alone in certain mountain areas in return for doing little or nothing against the enemy. Those who have triumphantly withstood such strains may brand his name, but history, more discriminating, should not erase it from the scroll of Serbian patriots. By the autumn of 1941 Serbian resistance to the German terror had become only a shadow. The national struggle could only be sustained by the innate valour of the common people. This however was not lacking.

  A wild and furious war for existence against the Germans broke into flame among the Partisans. Among these Tito stood forth, preeminent and soon dominant. Tito, as he called himself, was a Soviet-trained Communist who, until Russia was invaded by Hitler, and after Yugoslavia had been assailed, had fomented political strikes along the Dalmatian coast, in accordance with the general Comintern policy. But once he united in his breast and brain his Communist doctrine with his burning ardour for his native land in her extreme torment he became a leader, with adherents who had little to lose but their lives, who were ready to die, and if to die to kill. This confronted the Germans with a problem which could not be solved by the mass executions of notables or persons of substance. They found themselves confronted by desperate men who had to be hunted dow
n in their lairs. The Partisans under Tito wrested weapons from German hands. They grew rapidly in numbers. No reprisals, however bloody, upon hostages or villages deterred them. For them it was death or freedom. Soon they began to inflict heavy injury upon the Germans and became masters of wide regions.

  25*

  It was inevitable that the Partisan movement should also come into savage quarrels with their fellow-countrymen who were resisting halfheartedly or making bargain for immunity with the common foe. The Partisans deliberately violated any agreements made with the enemy by the Cetniks—as the followers of General Mihailovic were called. The Germans then shot Cetnik hostages, and in revenge Cetniks gave the Germans information about the Partisans. All this happened sporadically and uncontrollably in these wild mountain regions. It was a tragedy within a tragedy.

  I had followed these events amid other preoccupations so far as was possible. Except for a trickle of supplies dropped from aircraft, we were not able to help. Our headquarters in the Middle East was responsible for all operations in this theatre, and maintained a system of agents and liaison officers with the followers of Mihailovic. When in the summer of 1943 we broke into Sicily and Italy, the Balkans, and especially Yugoslavia, never left my thoughts. Up to this point our missions had only gone to the bands under Mihailovic, who represented the official resistance to the Germans and the Yugoslav Government in Cairo. In May 1943 we took a new departure. It was decided to send small parties of British officers and N.C.O.s to establish contact with the Yugoslav Partisans, in spite of the fact that cruel strife was proceeding between them and the Cetniks, and that Tito was waging war as a Communist not only against the German invaders but against the Serbian monarchy and Mihailovic. At the end of that month Captain Deakin, an Oxford don who had helped me for five years before the war in my literary work, was dropped by parachute to set up a mission with Tito. Other British missions followed, and by June much evidence had accumulated. The Chiefs of Staff reported on June 6: “It is clear from information available to the War Office that the Cetniks are hopelessly compromised in their relations with the Axis in Herzegovina and Montenegro. During the recent fighting in the latter area it has been the well-organised Partisans rather than the Cetniks who have been holding down the Axis forces.”