NATIONS: This Is Yugoslavia

THE NATIONS

The significant facts about Trieste were that: 1) Soviet tactics in eastern and southern Europe had been checkmated, for the first time, by equally positive British and U.S. tactics; 2) up to this week, the checkmating had been accomplished without a fight.

No Russians were directly involved; Field Marshal Alexander’s immediate adversaries were Yugoslav Partisans who had tried to seize title to Trieste before Italy’s claims could be settled by Big Power negotiation (TIME, May 28). Last week, while negotiations with Marshal Josip Broz (Tito) continued, Alexanders U.S., New Zealand and Indian troops held a line running inland from Trieste deep into Titoland. After visiting this fantastic, front, TIME Correspondent Tom Durrance cabled:

The Friends. I Jeeped up a secondary road well within Yugoslav territory. At the first Yugoslav roadblock about two miles north of Trieste, I was stopped by a group of 20 or 30 men. One of them, a big, bearded character loaded down with grenades and ammunition belts, demanded my pass. I had none, but fished out my typewritten permit to eat at the British officers’ mess in Trieste. The Yugoslav examined it carefully for about 30 seconds, broke into a black-toothed grin, said the equivalent of okay, snapped the neatest salute I have ever seen, and waved me on.

All along the route were small units of Tito’s men. Fifteen minutes out of Trieste I saw a convoy of Indian troops moving slowly into the hills, and a few minutes later bumped into a company of Yanks from the 91st Division being directed to new positions by Yugoslav sentries who stood fascinated by the flow of vehicles.

Despite the closeness of large numbers of troops, only one incident occurred during the first two and a half weeks—a group of Tito’s men one night jumped an American soldier and stole his rifle. Colonel Rudolph W. Broedlow, commanding the regiment, forbade any retribution. Later, when Broedlow calmly shifted his troops east of the Isonzo River, the Yugoslavs asked how come the Yanks were penetrating “Yugoslav territory.” Broedlow said his orders carried him just so far, that was where he was going, and furthermore he hoped the Yugoslavs wouldn’t give him any trouble. They didn’t.

“A Very Poor Situation.” Gorizia is headquarters for a regiment of the U.S. 91st Infantry Division, and is also a large Yugoslav military center. Later I went with other correspondents to see the Yugoslav commissar for Gorizia, whose offices were in the town’s swankiest building. Ushered in with snappy saluting, we discovered an educated young man. However, when he learned the purpose of our visit—to get his reaction to the penetration of his lines—he quickly excused himself, and sent in eight bottles of beer. With the beer came an older, baldheaded, bug-eyed captain, who obviously was a trouble shooter. The captain spoke at great length about the crimes of Fascism, and said the whole purpose of the Yugoslav invasion of Venezia Giulia was to liberate his people. After a lot of evasion he did comment that having Allied troops behind his front lines constituted “a very poor military situation.”

Driving up through the incredibly beautiful mountain country toward Caporetto, we passed many small Yugoslav convoys moving north. They were travelling in groups of 50 or 60, some on foot, some in long, horse-drawn wagons. The Partisans looked at us with dull, tired eyes. One of these groups had four 37-mm. antitank guns—the only artillery I saw on the whole trip.

At the 10th Mountain Division headquarters in Caporetto, all was Yank efficiency: maps, intelligence reports, crisp uniforms, shiny equipment, freshly shaved chins, in weird contrast to what we had seen on the road coming up.

Along the Isonzo, every cluster of peasant houses sported a half-dozen flags, both Italian and Yugoslav. The flags were made of silk from parachutes we had used to drop food and supplies to the Partisans when they were fighting the Germans. On every building there were red stars and signs reading: “Tukaj je Jugoslavia” (This is Yugoslavia) and “Zivjo Tito” (Long live Tito).

Even the smallest bridge or road junction was guarded simultaneously by Yugoslavs and Gurkhas, Yanks or New Zealanders. The Yugoslav command had a lot to learn about Yanks. Yugoslav girl troops often stood guard at one end of a bridge, Yanks at the other. The girls did not stay on their own side very long—gum, candy, and wristwatches were fascinating.

The Children. Trieste harbor is lovely and undamaged. The Kiwis (New Zealanders) park their tanks and trucks on the waterside, and enjoy the surf with Italian girls. In the town itself the streets are patrolled night & day by armed squads of Yugoslavs carrying machine guns and tripods, knives, pistols and clusters of grenades. Most of them are very young; some are only ten or twelve years old. Their tattered uniforms include British battle dress, captured German and Italian hand-me-downs. When not patrolling, most of them ramble around Trieste’s downtown districts with their dirty-haired Yugoslav girls.

At a Partisan performance of Rigoletto, British and Yugoslav soldiers sat next to each other with Tommy guns resting on their knees. (At a banquet in celebration of Tito’s 53rd birthday, British General Sir John Harding, U.S. General William Livesay, and other Allied officers dined & drank with their Partisan “enemies!”)

The Terror. The country north of Trieste undoubtedly is Slovene as far west as the Isonzo. But it is equally certain that Trieste is an Italian city.

It is also true that the Yugoslavs have carried on a reign of terror since they hit the place. Starting with a housecleaning of alleged Fascists, they have executed several hundred people and have jailed many more, including leaders of the Liberation Committee. It is a certified fact that during the early days of the occupation the darkened streets echoed the muffled sounds of shuffling feet as the Yugoslavs deported hundreds of Italians under cover of night. They have set up their own civil government and still refuse to recognize the authority of our A.M.G.