'The valley of the Neretva,' Jensen said. The vital sector of the main north-south route through Yugoslavia. Whoever controls this valley controls Yugoslavia — no one knows this better than the Germans. If the blow falls, they know it must fall here. They are fully aware that an invasion of Yugoslavia is on the cards, they are terrified of a link-up between the Allies and Russians advancing from the east and they know it any such link-up must be along this valley. They already have two armoured divisions along the Neretva, two divisions that, in the event of invasion, could be wiped out in a night. From the north — here — they are trying to force their way south to the Neretva with a whole army corps — but the only way is through the Zenica Cage here. And Vukalovic and his seven thousand men block the way.'
'Vukalovic knows about this?' Mallory asked. 'About what you really have in mind, I mean?'
'Yes. And the Partisan command. They know the risks, the odds against them. They accept them.' 'Photographs?' Mallory asked. 'Here.' Jensen pulled some photographs from a desk drawer, selected one and smoothed it out on the table 'This is the Zenica Cage. Well named: a perfect cage,i perfect trap. To the north and west, impassable mountains. To the east, the Neretva dam and the Neretva gorge. To the south, the Neretva river. To the north of the cage here, at the Zenica gap, the German 11th Army Corps is trying to break through. To the west here — they call it the West Gap — more units of the 11 tl i trying to do the same. And to the south here, over the river and hidden in the trees, two armoured divisions under a General Zimmermann.'
'And this?' Mallory pointed to a thin black lim spanning the river just north of the two armoured divisions.
'That,' Jensen said thoughtfully, 'is the bridge at Neretva.'
Close-up, the bridge at Neretva looked vastly more impressive than it had done in the large-scale photograph: it was a massively cantilevered structure in solid steel, with a black asphalt roadway laid on top. Below the bridge rushed the swiftly-flowing Neretva greenish-white in colour and swollen with melting, snow. To the south there was a narrow strip of green meadowland bordering the river and, to tin south of this again, a dark and towering pine forest began.
In the safe concealment of the forest's gloomy depths, General Zimmermann's two armoured divisions crouched waiting.
Parked close to the edge of the wood was the divisional command radio truck, a bulky and very long vehicle so beautifully camouflaged as to be invisible at more than twenty paces.
General Zimmermann and his ADC, Captain Warburg, were at that moment inside the truck. Their mood appeared to match the permanent twilight of woods. Zimmermann had one of those high-foreheaded, lean and aquiline and intelligent faces which so rarely betray any emotion, but there was no lack of emotion now, no lack of anxiety and impatience as he gloved his cap and ran his hand through his thinning grey hair. He said to the radio operator seated behind the big transceiver:
'No word yet? Nothing?'
'Nothing, sir.'
'You are in constant touch with Captain Neufeld's
'Every minute, sir.'
'And his operator is keeping a continuous radio watch?'
'All the time, sir. Nothing. Just nothing.'
Zimmermann turned and descended the steps, folded by Warburg. He walked, head down, until he was out of earshot of the truck, then said: 'Damn it! Gods damn it! God damn it all!'
'You're as sure as that, sir.' Warburg was tall, good-looking, flaxen-haired and thirty, and his face at moment reflected a nice balance of apprehension and unhappiness. 'That they're coming?'
'It's in my bones, my boy. One way or another it's coming, coming for all of us.'
'You can't be sure, sir,' Warburg protested.
'True enough,' Zimmermann sighed. 'I can't be sure But I'm sure of this. If they do come, if the 11th Army Group can't break through from the north, if we can't wipe out those damned Partisans in the Zenica Cage — '
Warburg waited for him to continue, but Zimmermann seemed lost in reverie. Apparently apropos of nothing, Warburg said: 'I'd like to see Germany again sir. Just once more.'
'Wouldn't we all, my boy, wouldn't we all.' Zimmermann walked slowly to the edge of the wood and stopped. For a long time he gazed out over the bridge at Neretva. Then he shook his head, turned and was almost at once lost to sight in the dark depths of the forest.
The pine fire in the great fireplace in the drawing room in Termoli was burning low. Jensen threw on some more logs, straightened, poured two drinks and handed one to Mallory.
Jensen said: 'Well?'
'That's the plan?' No hint of his incredulity, or his near-despair, showed in Mallory's impassive face That's all of the plan?'
'Yes.'
'Your health.' Mallory paused. 'And mine.' After an even longer pause he said reflectively: 'It should be interesting to watch Dusty Miller's reactions when he hears this little lot this evening.'
As Mallory had said, Miller's reactions were interesting, even if wholly predictable. Some six hours later clad now, like Mallory and Andrea, in British Army uniform, Miller listened in visibly growing horror as Jensen outlined what he considered should be the proposed course of action in the next twenty-four hours, or so. When he had finished, Jensen looked directly at Miller and said: 'Well? Feasible?'
'Feasible?' Miller was aghast. 'It's suicidal!'
'Andrea?'
'Andrea shrugged, lifted his hands palms upwards lid said nothing.
Jensen nodded and said: 'I'm sorry, but I'm fresh out of options. We'd better go. The others are waiting at the airstrip.'
Andrea and Miller left the room, began to walk the long passageway. Mallory hesitated in the doorway, momentarily blocking it, then turned to face Jensen who was watching him with a surprised lift of be eyebrows.
Mallory said in a low voice: 'Let me tell Andrea, at least.'
Jensen looked at him for a considering moment or two, shook his head briefly and brushed by into the corridor.
Twenty minutes later, without a further word being token, the four men arrived at the Termoli airstrip to find Vukalovic and two sergeants waiting for them: the third, Reynolds, was already at the controls of his Wellington, one of them standing at the end of the if strip, propellers already turning. Ten minutes later both planes were airborne, Vukalovic in one, Mallory, Miller, Andrea, and the three sergeants in the other, each plane bound for its separate destination.
Jensen, alone on the tarmac, watched both planes climbing, his straining eyes following them until they disappeared into the overcast darkness of the moonless sky above. Then, just as General Zimmermann had done afternoon, he shook his head in slow finality, turned and walked heavily away.
CHAPTER THREE
Sergeant Reynolds, Mallory reflected, certainly knew how to handle a plane, especially this one. Although his eyes showed him to be always watchful and alert, he was precise, competent, calm and relaxed in everything he did. No less competent was Groves: the poor light and cramped confines of his tiny plotting-table clearly didn't worry him at all and as an air navigator he was quite clearly as experienced as he was proficient. Mallory peered forward through the windscreen, saw the white-capped waters of the Adriatic rushing by less than a hundred feet beneath their fuselage, and turned to Groves.
The flight plan calls for us to fly as low as this?'
'Yes. The Germans have radar installations on some of the outlying islands off the Yugoslav coast. We start climbing when we reach Dalmatia.'