The Forgotten 500 Part 8

Vujnovich was happy to comply.

Chapter 13.

SOS ... Waiting for Rescue In Pranjane, the Americans had no idea that the ACRU team was working so hard to rescue them. The plight of the downed airmen was getting worse every day and in every way. Food was in short supply even for the local people, who shared all they could with the downed Americans, and some of the fliers were in desperate need of medical care for the wounds they suffered on their ill-fated bombing runs. Richard Felman, the leader of the airmen who had watched the Germans burn a Serb village when the Chetniks would not give up the fliers, decided that it was only a matter of time before the Germans found the hidden Americans. When that time came, it would be a bloodbath. Not only would they probably kill all the Americans instead of taking them prisoner, but they would kill all of the innocent Serbs as well. Or the Germans might even do something worse than killing them as punishment for helping the airmen. team was working so hard to rescue them. The plight of the downed airmen was getting worse every day and in every way. Food was in short supply even for the local people, who shared all they could with the downed Americans, and some of the fliers were in desperate need of medical care for the wounds they suffered on their ill-fated bombing runs. Richard Felman, the leader of the airmen who had watched the Germans burn a Serb village when the Chetniks would not give up the fliers, decided that it was only a matter of time before the Germans found the hidden Americans. When that time came, it would be a bloodbath. Not only would they probably kill all the Americans instead of taking them prisoner, but they would kill all of the innocent Serbs as well. Or the Germans might even do something worse than killing them as punishment for helping the airmen.

Felman met with some other ranking officers of the Americans in Pranjane and started debating whether to do something to facilitate their rescue. Up this point they had been just waiting, hoping that the Allies knew they were there and were planning some way to get them home. And they a.s.sumed that Mihailovich, who was protecting them so diligently, had made contact with the Americans. But nothing was happening. Weeks and months had pa.s.sed with no word of any way they might get out of Yugoslavia.

Felman and the other airmen wanted to do something to help themselves, but what? Some of the airmen wanted to send a radio message telling the Allies where they were and that they needed rescue. It was possible, because the Chetniks routinely salvaged anything they could use from the crashed bombers, including radios. With a little repair work they probably could get a radio working well enough to broadcast a message back to Allied territory. But it would be a risky move. So far their survival depended on the n.a.z.is not knowing exactly where they were. Though the Germans knew that American airmen were being hidden in the hills of Yugoslavia, they didn't know that so many were concentrated in the small town of Pranjane. Even with Mihailovich's forces surrounding them, the Germans could launch an air strike that would devastate the entire town, killing the Americans and all the local people as well. It was crucial that the Germans not find their hidden sanctuary.

A radio message could change all of that. Just as Jibilian and his team had found out earlier, a radio message could allow the enemy to zero in on your exact location. The longer the message, and the stronger the broadcast, the easier it was for the enemy to determine where you were hiding. If they got on the radio and started calling to their bases in Italy, the first response could be a fleet of German fighters and bombers unleas.h.i.+ng h.e.l.l on them.

Everyone agreed it was a huge risk, but it was one they had to take. Felman and other ranking officers in Pranjane decided they had to send a message to the Fifteenth Air Force base in Bari, Italy. They asked Mihailovich's forces to send them a radio from one of the planes, and Mihailovich agreed, knowing that the risky message might be the only way to get help for the airmen. Thomas Oliver, the airman who parachuted down onto a family's picnic, was part of the group pus.h.i.+ng for the message to Italy and he worked closely with radio operators and others in the group to devise the right way to call Italy. Everyone knew they had to be cautious.

At first the group decided to just be quick about it. They would send short, simple radio messages to Italy in hopes that the Allies would pick up the transmission but that the Germans wouldn't have time to zero in on where it was coming from. When it was time to send the first call for help, there were dozens of airmen gathered around the radio, set up on a farmhouse table. A radio operator took the controls and put his finger on the Morse code key. He looked at the other men and took a deep breath before sending the first message from the downed airmen. He began to tap.

SOS . . . SOS . . . One hundred fifty members of American crew have been waiting for rescue . . . There are many sick and wounded . . . Call back . . . SOS . . . SOS . . .

That was it. That was all they were willing to send out at first, lest they give the Germans plenty of time to trace the radio call. So they sat and waited, their eyes on the radio, hoping fervently to hear a message tapping in return. They waited for hours. There was no reply. Slowly the men left the room, a few at a time, dejected as they realized that no one had heard them.

As the radio sat silent, Felman and the other officers discussed the situation and decided to keep trying. They would send the same message every few hours and maintain a vigil by the radio, waiting for someone to call them back.

They waited two days and heard nothing.

Then they realized that, in all likelihood, the Fifteenth Air Force in Bari, Italy, was hearing them after all but just not replying. They probably suspected this was a trick, some sort of trap set by the n.a.z.is to lure in a rescue mission. Of course Of course, Felman thought, they're not going to just get on the radio and arrange a rescue without knowing for sure that the message is legitimate. they're not going to just get on the radio and arrange a rescue without knowing for sure that the message is legitimate. They had to develop a code that would convince the Allies their message was trustworthy, that it really was coming from the airmen and not some n.a.z.i intelligence unit. They had to develop a code that would convince the Allies their message was trustworthy, that it really was coming from the airmen and not some n.a.z.i intelligence unit.

Oliver volunteered to work with some other airmen to develop a code. American slang would be a good idea, they thought, because it would confuse any Germans listening in. But more important, they had to code their message with information known only to those back at their air bases in Italy. That inside information would serve two purposes: It would show the Allies that the senders were really American airmen, and it would confound any Germans trying to break their code.

The airmen came up with two codes. The first was a simple letter transposition that required the receiver to know key information unknown to the Germans. Instead of the letter "A," the code letter would be the third letter of the place of birth of a bartender at the Officers' Club in Lecce, Italy. Instead of "B," they would use the fourth letter of the name of the intelligence officer stationed in Brindisi, Italy. The airmen worked out an entire alphabet code with similar keys. Sending this much information would mean staying on the radio far longer than anyone had been comfortable with so far, but the airmen saw no other way to jump-start the communication process. They prayed for the best and transmitted the alphabet code to those listening in Italy. Once they were done, both parties had a code they could use to send specific information back and forth regarding a rescue without letting the Germans know what their plans were.

The alphabet code would be good for specific bits of information, but using it for all communication would be tedious and confusing. So Oliver and some of the other airmen came up with a slang-based code that could be used to quickly convey information that probably wouldn't make much sense to any Germans listening in. Once all the senior officers approved the plan, Oliver used Morse code to tap out another plea for help.

Mudcat driver to CO APO520.

Oliver had piloted a bomber called the Fighting Mudcat, and CO APO520 was the command of the Fifteenth Air Force.

150 Yanks are in Yugo, some sick. Shoot us work-horses.

The workhorse of the American Air Force was the C-47 cargo plane, so the airmen were asking that some C-47s be sent to them.

Oliver then went on to provide the "challenge" and "authenticator" that both parties could use to verify ident.i.ties if a rescue party were sent. The challenge-the signal that the rescuers would send to prove they were friendlies-would be the first letter of the Fighting Mudcat's bombardier's last name and the color of the scarf worn by Banana Nose, the nickname of Sam Benigno, an airman in Oliver's squadron who always wore a white scarf. The authenticator-the signal the airmen would send to prove they were friendlies and in on the plan-would be the last letter of the "chief lug's" last name and the color of "the fist on the wall." Those items referred to the commander of the 459th Bomb Group, who referred to all his crews as lugs, as in lug nuts or key parts of the machinery. On a wall at the Officers' Club at their base, the commander had written, "Each lug in the 459th sign here," and signed it, "M. M. Munn, Chief Lug." The fist on the wall referred to the Fifteenth Air Force emblem, with a red fist.

Oliver also transmitted the serial numbers of himself and crewmates from his plane and one other bomber from the same group, cleverly adding them to the numerical coordinates of their location in Pranjane so that the string of numbers seemed meaningless. But he hoped that someone on the other end would figure out that the serial numbers confirmed his crew's ident.i.ties, and the remaining numbers pointed the rescuers to their exact location.

To ensure that the message would get through to the right people who could understand that code, Oliver signed off by saying, Must refer to shark squadron, 459th Bomb Group, for decoding Must refer to shark squadron, 459th Bomb Group, for decoding. His squadron had shark teeth painted on the noses of all its B-24 bombers. Then he said, Signed, TKO, Flat Rat 4 in lug order. Signed, TKO, Flat Rat 4 in lug order. TKO were his initials, and he had signed the wall under Munn's signature with TKO were his initials, and he had signed the wall under Munn's signature with T. K. Oliver, Flat Rat 4, T. K. Oliver, Flat Rat 4, a reference to how he and his bunkmates called their tent "the poker flat" and numbered themselves as flat rats one through four. a reference to how he and his bunkmates called their tent "the poker flat" and numbered themselves as flat rats one through four.

That complex code might save their lives, the airmen thought. Or it might mean they were on the radio too long and the Germans had already zeroed in on them. Or the d.a.m.n thing might be too complicated for anyone to figure out.

All they could do was wait and hope someone had heard it and was tracking down all the right information.

The messages were heard in Italy, where a Royal Air Force radio operator picked up the curiously coded pleas for help. He struggled for two hours to determine the location of the caller, finally recording them, and forwarded them on to the Fifteenth Air Force headquarters in Bari. There an intelligence officer locked himself in a room with the strange message and ordered that no one without a higher rank bother him. After a few hours of consternation, he started seeing patterns and bits of code that made sense. He was able to pull out the serial numbers and then he realized the remaining numbers must mean something. The longitude and lat.i.tude then became apparent. But he still couldn't make sense of some of the more arcane references in Oliver's code, and he understood the part that said, Must refer to shark squadron, 459th Bomb Group, for decoding Must refer to shark squadron, 459th Bomb Group, for decoding. So he took the message to a Major Christi, commander of the 459th Bomber Group, from which Oliver's crew flew. Christi was stymied for a while but intrigued by the unusual code and determined to figure out what it meant. The two officers sat for a long time, staring at the message, not saying much lest they interrupt each other's thoughts. As he kept staring at the code, Christi had a sudden realization. "Mudcat Driver" and "Banana Nose Benigno" were his men.

"That's Oliver's crew and Buckler's crew!" Christi yelled excitedly, standing up and looking at the intelligence officer with astonishment. "My G.o.d! Go get them!"

The code worked. With the help of crew at the air bases where the missing men had been stationed, air force officials decoded the rest of the message and understood that the men were asking for a rescue operation. The intricate code convinced them that the message could be trusted.

Only some of this information was a revelation. The air force leaders weren't surprised to hear that American airmen were hiding in the hills of Yugoslavia, but they had not realized that the airmen were grouped together and organized enough to send a coded message requesting rescue.

The airmen in Pranjane continued sending their coded pleas-SOS . . . Call back . . .-and waited for a reply. There was nothing for days, and then the radio crackled with a Morse code message from Bari. It was brief, but it said everything they wanted to hear: . . .-and waited for a reply. There was nothing for days, and then the radio crackled with a Morse code message from Bari. It was brief, but it said everything they wanted to hear: Prepare reception for 31 July or first clear night following.

They were going to be rescued! The Americans were coming to get them! The news kept the airmen jubilant for days, but they became quiet again as there was no more communication. They started to worry again that maybe a rescue wasn't forthcoming, that maybe the message had been a trick by the Germans. While they held out hope that July 31 would bring good news, they fell back into their usual pattern of waiting, helping the villagers with their ch.o.r.es, and listening to the radio for any more word of an impending rescue. Despite the one encouraging message, the airmen were slowly getting used to the idea that maybe the air force couldn't get them out. Maybe it just wasn't possible to come into enemy territory and take home hundreds of weary, sick airmen. The men's spirits sank lower and lower with each pa.s.sing day. They played cards, swapped stories, anything to make the days pa.s.s.

Maybe July 31 would change everything. But they were wary about getting their hopes up. How could the Americans rescue so many of them? Even if some sort of rescue happened, what were the chances that you would be among those taken out before the Germans interrupted the operation? Not so great, many of the airmen thought. A big gamble.

As the airmen waited for help, they could at least be confident that they were relatively safe in Pranjane. Germans were garrisoned only thirty miles away, down in the valley, and n.a.z.i patrols routinely rolled in villages all over the area. But unlike most of the countryside in the hills of Yugoslavia, this particular area was secured by almost ten thousand of Mihailovich's forces. Their job was to protect not only the American airmen but also Mihailovich's headquarters nearby. Within this area, Serb villagers could be a.s.sured that a German patrol would not cavalierly drive in and do as they pleased, but they also knew that the presence of Mihailovich and the airmen made the area a hot target if the Germans ever decided to launch a full a.s.sault. Until that day came, however, the day-to-day security was in the hands of young men like Nick Petrovich, a seventeen-year-old in Mihailovich's army. He had grown up listening to the stories of his grandfather and father who fought in the Turkish wars and in World War I, so when the n.a.z.is invaded his country Petrovich knew he had to fight. He had revered the Serbian medieval heroes Kraljevich Marko and Milosh Obilich since he was a child, and in 1940 when he was only fourteen he altered his birth certificate so he could enter the Yugoslav gliding school, while also putting himself through a rigorous physical development program of his own design. When the Germans showed up a few years later, Petrovich felt ready to fight. help, they could at least be confident that they were relatively safe in Pranjane. Germans were garrisoned only thirty miles away, down in the valley, and n.a.z.i patrols routinely rolled in villages all over the area. But unlike most of the countryside in the hills of Yugoslavia, this particular area was secured by almost ten thousand of Mihailovich's forces. Their job was to protect not only the American airmen but also Mihailovich's headquarters nearby. Within this area, Serb villagers could be a.s.sured that a German patrol would not cavalierly drive in and do as they pleased, but they also knew that the presence of Mihailovich and the airmen made the area a hot target if the Germans ever decided to launch a full a.s.sault. Until that day came, however, the day-to-day security was in the hands of young men like Nick Petrovich, a seventeen-year-old in Mihailovich's army. He had grown up listening to the stories of his grandfather and father who fought in the Turkish wars and in World War I, so when the n.a.z.is invaded his country Petrovich knew he had to fight. He had revered the Serbian medieval heroes Kraljevich Marko and Milosh Obilich since he was a child, and in 1940 when he was only fourteen he altered his birth certificate so he could enter the Yugoslav gliding school, while also putting himself through a rigorous physical development program of his own design. When the Germans showed up a few years later, Petrovich felt ready to fight.

Petrovich joined Mihailovich's forces at about the time Mihailovich was abandoned by the Allies, starting first with underground work such as information gathering and stealing firearms from the Germans. One of Petrovich's methods was organizing small groups of children around ten years old to play marbles around parked German vehicles, watching for the opportunity to pilfer hand guns, ammunition, binoculars, or any other valuable items. They stuffed the booty in a flour sack and dragged it along behind them playfully. Petrovich became so bold that he once swiped a 9-mm submachine gun from an SS officer who lived in his girl-friend's family home. He was beaten and interrogated by the Gestapo for hours but would not confess, and they released him the same day. As he proved himself more to the Chetniks, Petrovich took on more and more responsibility, soon a.s.signed to helping the American airmen falling out of the sky on a regular basis.

The duty was one of the most important that could be a.s.signed to Mihailovich's troops, and it carried a great responsibility. As more Allied airmen gathered in Pranjane to await rescue, Mihailovich issued this stern warning to the officers commanding the guard in Pranjane: "Take good care that nothing happens to these men. You must defend them, if necessary, with your lives. If any one of you comes to me with news that anything has happened to a single one of these airmen, I shall have the man who bears this news executed on the spot." Mihailovich may have been exaggerating to make clear his dedication to protecting the airmen, but no one could be sure.

A typical operation for Petrovich involved blocking a road leading to the area where the airmen had bailed out by placing large rocks or trees in the path, then waiting for the German patrol to stop and remove them. Once the Germans exited their vehicles, Petrovich and his colleagues opened fire. Their weapons of choice were the big fifty-caliber machine guns salvaged from downed American bombers, which they took to local blacksmiths who would secretly fas.h.i.+on metal stands so the guns could be used on the ground against German troops. Then they would take the deadly guns and hide in the trees, waiting for German patrols to come by. The machine guns designed to shoot down German fighter planes shredded the n.a.z.i soldiers who dared try to get too close to Pranjane.

Knowing the price the villagers might pay for the deaths of German soldiers, Petrovich and the other guards conducted such attacks only when they had no choice but to engage, such as when a German patrol threatened Allied airmen or Mihailovich himself was in the area of Pranjane. Petrovich knew how to hold his fire and not provoke German retribution unnecessarily, but when he had to fire, he did so with gusto.

Like the Germans who would kill the American airmen rather than be bothered with capturing them, Petrovich had no time for prisoners.

Chapter 14.

Sure to Be a Rough Landing July 31 came and the airmen in Pranjane eagerly scanned the skies for any sign of a plane coming to rescue them. As night fell they gathered in a field near the village, the presumed drop zone for anyone parachuting in to help them. Dozens of eyes looked to the horizon, through the tree-covered hills, for any hint of Americans coming to take them home. They always had a red-lens flashlight ready to signal the plane with the predetermined code. They waited all night and into the morning. The weather was clear and they saw no reason the rescue had not been carried out as promised. Their hopes were dashed as the sun rose on another day in Pranjane, another day in which the Allies would not come and help them. They were crushed with disappointment, and more than a few vowed they would not get their hopes up again. scanned the skies for any sign of a plane coming to rescue them. As night fell they gathered in a field near the village, the presumed drop zone for anyone parachuting in to help them. Dozens of eyes looked to the horizon, through the tree-covered hills, for any hint of Americans coming to take them home. They always had a red-lens flashlight ready to signal the plane with the predetermined code. They waited all night and into the morning. The weather was clear and they saw no reason the rescue had not been carried out as promised. Their hopes were dashed as the sun rose on another day in Pranjane, another day in which the Allies would not come and help them. They were crushed with disappointment, and more than a few vowed they would not get their hopes up again.

But what the airmen did not know was that Operation Halyard was still a go. They had no way of knowing that Musulin, Rajacich, and Jibilian had already made repeated attempts to reach them in Pranjane but were stymied by everything from bad weather to bad Brits. The mission would have arrived on July 31 if only the weather had been clear between Bari and Pranjane. Unfortunately, the airmen could see only the starry night above them and had to a.s.sume the mission was not really coming. Their despair knew no bounds, made all the worse by the fact that it was unnecessary. Not only was help on the way, but the radio messages the airmen sent so bravely, risking hundreds of lives in the process, would be the real catalyst for getting the Americans on their way to Pranjane. The rescue plan was well underway, spurred by Mirjana's letter to Vujnovich and Musulin's report from the field, but the coded messages from the men in Pranjane threw some momentum behind the effort. An actual request from these men, their plea for help spelled out in a way that made their desperate situation crystal clear, seemed to light a fire under anyone who held that message in their hands.

Once the message was decoded by the Fifteenth Air Force, excited intelligence officers there forwarded it to the ACRU team in Bari. Vujnovich, Musulin, Rajacich, and Jibilian all gathered around to read the message together. The words made their mission seem more real, more personal.

There are many sick and wounded. . . . Call back. . . . SOS . . .

They felt it in their gut, the dire straits these men were in, and they knew they were the only ones who could help them.

Now they had some solid information. They had confirmation about where the men were, that they were all gathered in one place, and that they were eagerly awaiting rescue. And the message provided Vujnovich and the rescue team with one more vital piece of information: The number of airmen was up to one hundred fifty.

Vujnovich didn't like hearing that. Every extra man meant the mission was more difficult. He had thought one hundred airmen were a lot to bring out, and now they were dealing with one hundred fifty. But still, the message from the airmen pumped a new vigor into their efforts, overcoming the frustration and dejection they felt from their experience with the British. Seeing the desperation in the message convinced them anew that they had to get in there soon, and they had to make this mission work.

On August 2, 1944, the weather was good over Brindisi, the base from which the missions would launch, and also in Pranjane. Musulin had his all-American crew ready to take the ACRU team in and rescue those men once and for all. By now everyone was antsy from having been on standby for so long, eager to go and do this risky job. The words of the downed airmen's plea for help kept running through their minds. SOS . . . Waiting for rescue . . . SOS . . . Waiting for rescue . . . Jibilian couldn't get that message out of his mind since he had first heard of the coded distress call, understanding that the men must have been in a desperate situation if they were willing to send such a long message and risk having German planes home in on their signal. He knew all too well how effective the DF could be. Jibilian couldn't get that message out of his mind since he had first heard of the coded distress call, understanding that the men must have been in a desperate situation if they were willing to send such a long message and risk having German planes home in on their signal. He knew all too well how effective the DF could be.

Musulin, Rajacich, and Jibilian were focused and ready when the word finally came that today would be the day. They had tried so many times before, but they all felt that this time would be different. None of those crazy Brits to get in the way. An American crew to get them in there quickly and safely. Vujnovich personally drove the team down to Brindisi for the mission launch, and he could tell the men were focused.

In Brindisi, Vujnovich shook each man's hand and wished them good luck, looking them in the eyes and wondering if this would be the last time he saw them. He admired their willingness to go into such a dangerous situation, and at the same time, he wished he was going along with them.

The flight out was just like every other attempt, except that this time Musulin had checked the coordinates with the pilot and found them correct, and there was no Partisan sitting in the plane with them. They felt good about this one. They were really going in this time. When the plane reached the jump site, Musulin was on high alert, looking for any sign of trouble that might spoil this attempt as well, but none materialized. The pilot signaled that the jump site was approaching and the three agents stood up, double-checked their gear, and lined up at the door. This time when he looked down, Musulin saw no battle below, no cloud cover. Nothing that would stop their mission. But then he did see something. Are those flare pots? Are those flare pots?

On the ground, Felman and the other airmen had been waiting in the bushes on the edge of that large clearing in Pranjane, the spot they a.s.sumed the Americans would use for a landing zone if they were to be rescued. Just as they had been every night since July 31, as the message from Bari had instructed, they were waiting for the arrival of the rescue team. With each pa.s.sing night, they had become less and less certain that the promise would be fulfilled. But still they waited, every sense on alert for a sign that something was finally about to happen. When they heard a plane in the distance, everyone thought the same thing: Is this it? Could it be? This wasn't a normal time for flights to Ploesti to pa.s.s overhead, so they feared that a German plane might be scouting for their location. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the Americans looking for them. Felman and a few other men stepped outside and looked up in the dark sky but they couldn't see the plane yet. But d.a.m.n if that didn't sound like a C-47 But d.a.m.n if that didn't sound like a C-47, Felman thought. He couldn't be sure, but the more he listened, the more that sounded like an American plane! He asked a few men around him what they thought, and no one was willing to commit, but Felman could tell from the look in their eyes that they also thought this could be the Americans coming to rescue them. Was the plane looking for them? What if they couldn't find the right drop zone? Felman thought quickly and he decided they couldn't just stand there and risk having their rescuers pa.s.s right over without finding them. He made a decision that, like the radio call, could bring n.a.z.is instead of Americans if he was wrong.

"Light the flares!" Felman shouted. "Go! Now! Get the flare pots going!"

The men went running for the flare pots they had placed around the field for exactly this moment, pots of rags and wood that would burn brightly as a signal to the plane overhead. Felman was nervous as he watched the men light signals that would give away their position, but he was ready to signal this plane, whoever it was. These airmen couldn't wait any longer.

The flare pots roared to life and lit up the perimeter of the field, a clear signal for a drop zone. Felman and the other airmen crouched in the bushes around the field and watched the sky eagerly, listening as the plane drew closer.

Musulin saw the flares, as did the jump master, who was already sure they were in the right location. Then the pilot saw the three red flashes from the ground, the correct signal that these were friendlies waiting for the OSS agents. The jump master checked that Musulin's line was secured and then yelled, "Go!" with a strong push on the big man's back. The static line ripped Musulin's oversized thirty-two-foot parachute out of his pack and then Rajacich and Jibilian followed him quickly, the three men trying to stay as close as possible so they would land near one another. As soon as the men were in the air, the jump master pushed out several crates of medical supplies and clothing, which Musulin had insisted on taking back to these people he had lived with before.

The team had jumped from only eight hundred feet, which is very low, but makes it more difficult for the enemy to spot you and kill you on the way down or to meet you at your landing place. From that alt.i.tude the agents came down fast and hard, with only about thirty seconds from leaving the plane to hitting the ground. Musulin was the first to land, not only because he was the first out of the plane and starting from a low alt.i.tude but also because when this former football lineman parachuted, he tended to fall out of the sky like an angry rock, his parachute merely providing some drag to slow him down. Musulin landed on a chicken coop, smas.h.i.+ng it to pieces and sending startled chickens flying in every direction. Rajacich followed soon after, landing in a tree near Musulin and the chickens. He was uninjured but had to call for Musulin to help cut him down from the tangled chute lines in the tree.

Jibilian was the last on the ground, realizing on the way down that he also was headed toward trees. The usual procedure in that circ.u.mstance is to cross your arms and legs tightly, with your elbows across your face to protect it from the tree limbs, but he barely had time to react when he saw the trees. That turned out to be good because he landed in a cornfield instead of the trees, and he probably would have broken both legs if he had crossed them as he intended. The cornstalks helped cus.h.i.+on his fall and Jibilian ended up with one of the best landings of his career.

As soon as the three men collected themselves and their gear, they saw a peasant woman in a long dress come rus.h.i.+ng up to them. They instinctively tensed and readied their weapons, but it quickly became clear that this was another enthusiastic greeting by a grateful Chetnik woman. She charged right past her demolished chicken coop without seeming to notice and proceeded to kiss the three men on the cheek repeatedly, calling them "liberators" and saying over and over that she was so glad the invasion had begun. Apparently she was under the impression that the trio were the beginning of a full-scale parachute invasion as had just happened in Normandy, so Musulin had to break it to her that there would not be anyone else coming that night. She was grateful to see them nonetheless and insisted that they come to her house for something to eat. Musulin politely declined on behalf of the team and gave the woman fifteen thousand dinars, about ten dollars, to cover the cost of the chicken coop he had so thoroughly smashed. The woman accepted the money and pointed the men in the direction of the Mihailovich camp, with more thanks and more kisses.

The trio walked down a road in the dark, wary of being found by a German patrol but also confident that they were firmly in Chetnik territory. It was not long before they ran into a group of bearded men wearing the royal insignia of Mihailovich's army on their caps, and some of them recognized Musulin right away. The leader of the group yelled, "George the American!" and ran toward him. Some of the Chetnik men wept with joy at the sight, running to give their favorite American a big bear hug. Jibilian and Rajacich were amused by Musulin's celebrity, but soon they, too, were experiencing the bearded kisses and hugs of these fierce-looking guerilla fighters.

As soon as he could get a word in amid the celebration, Musulin tried to tell his Chetnik friends that his return did not signal any change in diplomacy by the Allies. Trying to adhere to his orders, Musulin explained that they were here to help the downed airmen and that their presence should not be construed as any signal that the Allies were more favorable to Mihailovich now. The Chetniks said they understood, but Musulin could tell they didn't really believe him. The way they saw it, the Americans had returned.

Soon after lighting the flares in a risky move to make sure the rescuers could find them, Felman and the other airmen in Pranjane saw parachutes popping out from behind the plane. They counted three good chutes, followed by a few more that looked like supply drops. And then just at that moment the plane flew directly over their position, low enough that the men could see the white star of the United States Army painted on the tail. The mountains of Yugoslavia were filled with a hearty cheer as the airmen felt for the first time that they might really, really be going home. in a risky move to make sure the rescuers could find them, Felman and the other airmen in Pranjane saw parachutes popping out from behind the plane. They counted three good chutes, followed by a few more that looked like supply drops. And then just at that moment the plane flew directly over their position, low enough that the men could see the white star of the United States Army painted on the tail. The mountains of Yugoslavia were filled with a hearty cheer as the airmen felt for the first time that they might really, really be going home.

There was only a short while before Chetnik men started coming out of the surrounding woods with crates full of desperately needed supplies, a welcome sight to the airmen and villagers alike. But then the village erupted in celebration when they saw a very large man in an American uniform emerge from the tree line. Felman was watching, but he had no idea who this fellow was. The Serb villagers certainly knew him, and apparently they loved him.

"Captain George! Captain George!" they shouted, welcoming back the big American who had left them months earlier after spending so much time in the village and with Mihailovich. Men and women alike ran to embrace the returning American, grabbing his round face with both hands to kiss him hard. Tears streamed down the faces of men, women, and children as they saw Musulin emerge from the forest like a savior, followed closely by Rajacich and Jibilian, who received the same exuberant greeting as soon as the villagers spotted them, carried heroically on the shoulders of Chetnik soldiers. Felman and dozens of the airmen were standing nearby, eager to greet their rescuers but feeling like they should let the villagers have this special moment with a man they knew and loved. It took a short while for Musulin to peel himself away from the adoring crowd and walk over to Felman.

Musulin walked right up and somehow sensed that Felman was the leader of the group. He put out his hand and said, "I'm George Musulin."

The airmen welcomed the trio as angels dropping out of the sky, and one of the first things the rescue team noticed was the huge number of airmen greeting them. They had been told to expect one hundred fifty airmen, and Vujnovich was hoping that number had been exaggerated. The rescue team, however, found themselves surrounded by no fewer than two hundred fifty American airmen, and they were told that more were streaming into Pranjane every day.

The daunting numbers could be put aside for a short while, though, while all of Pranjane celebrated the arrival of the rescue team. In the Serb fas.h.i.+on that the airmen were getting used to, the village erupted into jubilant celebration with plum brandy and music, capped by a visit from Mihailovich himself. Jibilian was in awe of the already legendary general, feeling awkward in front of the charismatic leader, especially because the OSS was so informal, with little attention paid to military protocol. He almost never saluted his OSS officers, but Jibilian felt that he was an enlisted man in the presence of a famous Yugoslav general, so he snapped off a sharp salute when introduced to Mihailovich. The young American was pleased to find out that despite his reputation as a fierce guerilla leader, Mihailovich was as down to earth as anyone he had ever met.

Like every other American who met Mihailovich personally, however, Jibilian was taken by the way a man of such simplicity could at the same time give such an impression of grandeur. Jibilian and the other Allied soldiers were most impressed by Mihailovich's sense of dignity in the face of extreme hards.h.i.+p and insurmountable odds, and the humble way he received accolades from his followers, consistently coming away with the same unshakable impression that they were standing in the presence of greatness. More than one airman reported that meeting with Mihailovich actually made them feel physically small, though Mihailovich was merely of average height and build. Mihailovich was known to be even-tempered for the most part, despite his recent outburst about the British, and though he was not necessarily considered a great intellect by most of his peers, his sense of duty to his country and his people was unquestioned.

He was a man of great warmth and personality, kindly and paternal to everyone around him, though he was also a strict disciplinarian with his troops. Mihailovich was renowned for his simplicity, his insistence that he be one of the common people, never above them or his soldiers. He always preferred eating a meal on the ground with his troops to sitting inside a dining room with other officers, and everyone around him knew that his greatest joy was to live among the common people in their own communities-eating with them, dancing, joining in their festivals, singing folk songs, and playing a guitar. He dressed as his soldiers dressed, ate what they ate, and refused anything that even implied a privileged status. His followers loved him for it and commonly called him Chicha, the Serbian word for uncle.

The Americans saw Mihailovich at his best whenever the local villagers came to see him, always bringing gifts of wine or flowers, the women eager to kiss him on the cheek and pose for a picture with the general. Mihailovich was extremely fond of children, and whenever he pa.s.sed through a village the local schoolmaster would declare a holiday so the children could swarm Mihailovich, eager to touch the hero. Mihailovich often would tease the boys in the group by saying he had heard that one of them was a Partisan and then ask which one was loyal to t.i.to.

"Ne ja, Chicha!" Not I, Uncle! each boy would yell in return. Mihailovich continued teasing them, eyeing them suspiciously, pointing to first one and then another, saying, "I have definite information. Is it you?" The boys would continue laughing and yelling, each boy would yell in return. Mihailovich continued teasing them, eyeing them suspiciously, pointing to first one and then another, saying, "I have definite information. Is it you?" The boys would continue laughing and yelling, "Ne ja, Chicha!" "Ne ja, Chicha!" until finally Mihailovich relented and patted the boys on the back, saying, "I see that you're all good Serbs. I shall have to tell my intelligence that they were wrong!" until finally Mihailovich relented and patted the boys on the back, saying, "I see that you're all good Serbs. I shall have to tell my intelligence that they were wrong!"

The stories Jibilian had heard of Mihailovich were confirmed when he saluted the general and received a salute in return, then hung around for a while to exchange a few pleasantries and listen in as Mihailovich talked with Musulin and the other Americans about the upcoming rescue. Followers were always crowded around, seeking close proximity to this local celebrity, a celebrity without pretense who didn't mind a farmer suddenly giving him a bear hug and insisting on sharing a cup of plum brandy.

When the celebration died down, Felman and Musulin conferred at length about the plans for getting all these men out. Musulin was reluctant to admit that the OSS had not antic.i.p.ated so many men, but he did tell Felman that the rescue plan was audacious, bigger and riskier than anything that had been attempted before, and he gave him a basic rundown of how it would work. C-47s would come in and pick up a dozen men at a time and fly them back to Italy, he told Felman. Exactly how that would happen was still a little uncertain, and that was one reason Musulin and his team were there in advance: They had to figure out how to accomplish the airlift of so many people, using whatever resources they found here. The first order of business: Build an airstrip. On this rugged hillside. With virtually no tools. Without the Germans finding out.

Musulin soon checked with an old friend in Mihailovich's army for an update on the Germans in the area. What he heard was not encouraging. Only twelve miles away in the village of Chachak was a garrison of forty-five hundred German troops. Only five miles away on the other side of the mountain was another garrison of two hundred fifty n.a.z.is. Within thirty miles in all directions there were a half-dozen cities and other centers important to the Germans, each with a number of troops stationed there. In Kraljevo, only thirty miles away, a Luftwaffe Luftwaffe unit was stationed at an airfield just a very short flight from Pranjane. The meaning was clear for Musulin: This had to happen quickly. unit was stationed at an airfield just a very short flight from Pranjane. The meaning was clear for Musulin: This had to happen quickly.

"If the Germans find out about this and attack, they're going to bring superior firepower and overwhelm the Chetniks," he told Felman. "Our friends will hold them off as long as possible, but eventually they will be forced to retreat through the mountains. All these airmen, especially the sick and injured, will never make it. We've got to do this evacuation before the Germans find out that my team is here."

Felman a.s.sured him that the airmen were ready to do whatever they were asked to make this rescue happen. Musulin knew he could count on the same from the villagers as well.

Meanwhile, Jibilian set up his radio and made contact with Bari, letting them know the ACRU team had arrived safely and were proceeding as planned. The airmen set up a field hospital with the medical supplies that were dropped, calling on the services of an Italian doctor who had escaped from a prison camp in Belgrade.

Jibilian was amazed by the number of airmen in Pranjane and by the generosity of the villagers risking their lives to help Americans. He was more determined than ever to get these men out safely, but actually seeing two hundred fifty men in one place was challenging his confidence. When Jibilian was asked by desperate airmen if the plan could really work, he always said yes. But deep down he was thinking, Only G.o.d knows Only G.o.d knows. It was the same response he had when the airmen and villagers asked why the Allies had abandoned Mihailovich.

The next morning, Musulin and his team wasted no time in setting about their tasks. Job one was clear: Get to work on the landing strip. They knew this would be tough work for the airmen and the local villagers to build an airstrip big enough to land C-47 cargo planes using nothing more than their bare hands and the occasional hoe or pitchfork, but there was no other way. The airmen had already begun clearing the field near Pranjane, the one where they had waited for the rescue team to arrive, but there was still a great deal more work to be done. And as Musulin kept reminding everyone, it had to be done quickly and without the Germans catching on. He confirmed that the site chosen by the airmen was the best option because it was relatively flat and clear, at least for the mountains of Yugoslavia, but it wasn't much of a landing strip. It was just a small, narrow plateau halfway up the mountainside, about fifty yards wide and nearly seven hundred yards long. The field was surrounded by dense woods on one side and a sheer dropoff on the other. Farther out, the plateau was surrounded on all sides by mountain ranges that were less than two miles away. It looked like a pilot's worst nightmare. his team wasted no time in setting about their tasks. Job one was clear: Get to work on the landing strip. They knew this would be tough work for the airmen and the local villagers to build an airstrip big enough to land C-47 cargo planes using nothing more than their bare hands and the occasional hoe or pitchfork, but there was no other way. The airmen had already begun clearing the field near Pranjane, the one where they had waited for the rescue team to arrive, but there was still a great deal more work to be done. And as Musulin kept reminding everyone, it had to be done quickly and without the Germans catching on. He confirmed that the site chosen by the airmen was the best option because it was relatively flat and clear, at least for the mountains of Yugoslavia, but it wasn't much of a landing strip. It was just a small, narrow plateau halfway up the mountainside, about fifty yards wide and nearly seven hundred yards long. The field was surrounded by dense woods on one side and a sheer dropoff on the other. Farther out, the plateau was surrounded on all sides by mountain ranges that were less than two miles away. It looked like a pilot's worst nightmare.

Musulin knew from what the air force had told him in preparation for the mission, and plenty of the airmen on the ground confirmed it also, that the minimum distance required for landing a C-47 is seven hundred yards.