CODE NAME: SPIKE: THE DAWN OF THE COLD WAR, CIA & U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES

By Steven Bizic and Joseph S. Kosky

CODE NAME: SPIKE

Discover the stunning true story of secret-agent Steven Bizic and the men of SPIKE team as they descend into darkness, landing amidst the turmoil of a nation torn apart by civil war and years of Nazi occupation. Facing the looming threat from f

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stories by Publishing
• Release date: Jun 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869390776

Book preview

CODE NAME: SPIKE

THE DAWN OF THE COLD WAR, CIA & U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES - A GROUND BREAKING WWII MEMOIR

Jacek Jack Waliszewski

Steven Bizic

Joseph S. Kosky

Stories by Publishing

Copyright © 2023 Jacek Waliszewski

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN-13: 9781234567890

ISBN-10: 1477123456

Cover design by: Art Painter

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Foreword

Prologue

—1—

—2—

—3—

—Adaptive Note—

—4—

—5—

—6—

—7—

—8—

—9—

—10—

—11—

—12—

—13—

THE END

EPILOGUE

BIOGRAPHIES & OBITUARIES

OSS / POKRET*

OSS / SPIKE MISSION*

SOE BRITISH**

PARTISANS***

FASCISTS***

THE CHETNIKS

In Closing

Originally written in 1946 by

Steven Bizic and Joseph S. Kosky

Modern adaptation by

Jacek Waliszewski

Foreword by

Lieutenant General (Retired)

Charles T. Cleveland

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Dedicated to the

Intelligence and Special Operations Communities

and to all those who served in the

Office of Strategic Services (OSS)

1941-1945

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© Copyright 2023

No part of this book, biographical content, photographs, or maps can be used or replicated without exclusive permission from the adaptive author.

Reference to Archives, the U.S. Army, CIA, OSS, SOE, or any other governmental organization does not denote or imply endorsement.

Published by

Stories By Publishing

All rights reserved.

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Foreword

by

Lieutenant General (Retired)

Charles T. Cleveland

Commanding General

U.S. Army Special Operations Command

2012 - 2015

Throughout history, wars and conflicts have produced remarkable stories that represent the best and worst of humanity. They provide us with inspirations of courage, compassion, and sacrifice, but they are also weighed against warnings of depravity, horror, and death. Even rarer, in the classified world of intelligence and special operations, are first-person accounts. Those that exist are often found in vaults or walled off in government classified holdings, and if they ever come to light, it is often through the pen of someone who was not there.

This war story, that of CODE NAME: SPIKE, is different in both its perspective and substance. It is a fascinating true tale for all and a timeless reference for today’s irregular warfare professional. Originally written in 1946 by the very agents from the Office of Strategic Services (OSS)—from which today’s Special Operations and CIA originated—it tells of resistance and strategy and foreshadows what would become a half-century-long global struggle against the Soviet Union and Communism: the Cold War. 

CODE NAME: SPIKE is also a unique tutorial in understanding the difference between traditional wars and irregular warfare. Traditional wars are supported by an enterprise that is designed for soldiers to fight and defeat other soldiers. It is fought on the land, sea, air, even in space and cyber domains, each having professionals in formations designed to win in their respective domain. As lethal and devastating as the weapons of traditional war have become, their use in conflicts that are among the affected peoples often have counterproductive effects. In contrast, irregular warfare, which was the successful strategy of the Viet Cong and their North Vietnamese sponsors, remains the chosen approach of adversaries across Africa, Latin America, Asia, and notoriously, in Iraq and Afghanistan. It is still a contest of wills, but the decisive battle does not happen because of fire and maneuver; rather, it takes place wherever people exist—it is fought in their hearts and minds; this is the Human Domain. As such, irregular warfare requires its own concepts, professionals, and tools to both counter irregular warfare strategies, as well as to successfully employ them on behalf of the nation.

The difficulty of understanding the true intent of allies, partners, and the enemy creates uncertainty at all levels, and designing irregular warfare campaigns over the expanded periods of time required is difficult and often frustrating. Furthermore, fighting for extended periods alongside foreigners is an endeavor where trust and respect across cultures must be earned, and competence and common sense are indispensable. And as has always been true of this challenging form of war, it takes a unique patriot to volunteer for and succeed in this line of work. Thankfully, I can say America is blessed to have such men and women in its Special Operations and Intelligence Communities.

What you hold in your hands, then, is a trove of knowledge, inspiration, and wisdom. CODE NAME: SPIKE is relevant in ways few such stories can be, as it offers warriors, strategists, and policymakers alike a glimpse into what the dynamics of irregular warfare are, and more importantly, what they are not. Lastly, I would like to congratulate Jacek (Yacht-SEK) Waliszewski (Volley-CHEF-ski), who went to great lengths to research and publish the OSS operatives’—Steve and Joe’s—long-lost memoir. His years of effort are a testament to his commitment to history and storytelling, as well as to the families of the men and women of the OSS, and the silent heroes of today’s CIA and Special Operations.

Sincerely,

​Charles T. Cleveland,

​Lieutenant General (Retired)

​U.S. Army Special Forces

Prologue

In the tumultuous aftermath of World War II, two Office of Strategic Services (OSS) agents, Steven Steve Bizic and Joseph Joe S. Kosky, returned home from Southern Europe with a story that had to be told. Theirs was not just a tale of wartime heroics, but a clandestine mission known as SPIKE—etched in secrecy and sacrifice. Determined to share their experiences—and wondering if they could achieve notoriety as famed authors—the two painstakingly transformed Bizic’s covert mission into a memoir named Pokret. As Bizic recounted his tales, Kosky, the creative force behind their collaboration, brought the mission to life on paper, the reverberations of their secrets echoing through the clatter of typewriter keys.

But when they were done, they had created more than just a memoir—they had created a record that immortalized the pioneering spirit of OSS agents who would go on to forge new frontiers in intelligence and military strategy. Unfortunately, when Bizic and Kosky endeavored to publish their memoir in 1946, they encountered insurmountable barriers. Their manuscript brimmed with classified information that would have been a damning exposé and could have upended official U.S. policy during the delicate onset of the Cold War. Then, in 1947, what had been the OSS was restructured into the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), which absorbed many OSS agents into its ranks. One of the first acts of the newly formed Agency was to protect their operatives and classify all OSS records as ‘Secret’ and ‘Top Secret.’ This overarching policy included SPIKE mission, and Bizic and Kosky’s memoir was relegated to the shadows where it would stay undiscovered, seemingly forever.

___

Eighty years later, as a U.S. Army Special Forces Green Beret, I had returned from a six-month deployment in Eastern Europe and found myself in the basement of the U.S. Army Heritage and Education Center in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.

I wandered down long corridors filled with war documents and original WWII maps, and I felt a sense of reverence and connection to my heritage. My eyes scanned the countless volumes of records around me, and I wondered if all conflicts, both large and small, shared certain undeniable traits. I then saw a thick, leather-bound book resting on a shelf. Its cover had been worn with age, and it was written by J.S. Kosky and Steven Bizic—Pokret. Intrigued, I slipped on a pair of cotton gloves and carefully lifted it down. The book was heavy, and its thick leather cover contrasted against the delicate onion-skin pages within. Little did I know this discovery would soon forge an incredible connection between my life and the authors of this long-forgotten memoir.

I had never heard of SPIKE mission before, and what I knew about the OSS was limited. I knew they had been founded during WWII as America’s official spy and sabotage organization, operating behind enemy lines and conducting espionage, sabotage, and guerrilla warfare. But what had never been fully clarified to me was how those actions of the past translated to my reality in the present. I would soon read, however, how OSS operatives risked everything for the cause. Bizic, the central character of the memoir, was one of four such men assigned to SPIKE mission, and they had been tasked with parachuting into Southern Europe in the summer of 1944. Their primary mission was to reinforce and direct Yugoslav and Macedonian resistance operations, and to gather vital intelligence against the Nazis. Two OSS teams had already gone before SPIKE, both tasked with the same goal… yet neither team had survived initial infiltration. SPIKE would be the third, and with significant risk, luck, and trepidation, they would become the first OSS team to successfully operate in Macedonia at a critical point in the war.

As I delved deeper into the memoir, I pieced together the significance of what I was reading. Pokret had been written in 1946 and later, I would discover it was the first post-war memoir written for publication. But in that very moment, it was a particular photograph nestled within the pages that caught my eye—a moment frozen in time. There stood General William Wild Bill Donovan, one of the most decorated U.S. officers of WWI, the founder of the OSS—often referred to as the founder of American intelligence—and godfather of the CIA, and he was pinning a medal on Sergeant Bizic, the author of this memoir. And they were smiling, as if one had cracked a joke. This image wasn’t merely a snapshot of history; it was the first step toward validating the narrative within, as if Donovan’s celebration of Bizic gave legitimacy onto his account, and affirmed its status as a firsthand testimony of OSS operations.

Wild Bill Donovan decorating SGT Steven Bizic in Washington, D.C

And while the OSS’s transition into the CIA is a fairly well-known piece of history, what’s lesser known is that many prominent OSS agents, under the leadership of former OSS agent Colonel Aaron Bank, helped form U.S. Army Special Forces, now more commonly known as the Green Berets. The organization was named the 10th Special Forces Group (Airborne)—in part to confuse the Soviets into thinking there were nine other Special Forces Groups to find, and here I was, a Green Beret who had served his entire career in 10th Special Forces Group. In essence, the memoir captured the genesis story of my organization and what would soon become several other Special Forces Groups before Special Forces had even been created. The memoir explored the tactical methods and operational philosophies that defined my career and that of my fellow Green Berets, which were directly inherited from the OSS’s pioneering work eight decades earlier—Bizic being among them.

Karl, the curator of the archives, interrupted my reverie into history with a gentle tap on my shoulder and I turned to face him.

Sorry, he started, but it’s closing time. His voice was tinged with understanding, as if he had seen researchers discover ‘things unknown’ numerous times before.

I glanced at my watch, only realizing then how many hours had slipped by unnoticed as I had read the manuscript. I barely scratched the surface, I replied, reluctantly handing the 600-page book back to him.

Noting my disappointment, Karl offered a sympathetic smile. You’re welcome to come back Monday morning when we open.

Thanks, Karl. I appreciate it, I said, grateful for the invitation, but I knew it would not be that simple. My schedule was unpredictable, and there was always another mission, another deployment.

As I thanked him and said goodnight, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was leaving something profoundly important behind. I walked home that evening with questions whispering in my mind: What if I just keep walking away? Would SPIKE mission remain unknown to the world? And how would my fellow Green Berets, veterans, and members of the CIA gain a full understanding of our heritage if it stayed there? Would Bizic and Kosky’s dream of sharing their story with the world be shelved forever?Can I sneak back in and take it?

On Monday, after I had returned to North Carolina, I reached back out to Karl. I asked if I could get a copy of the memoir to put in the U.S. Army Special Forces Warrant Officers’ private library, and he agreed. Months later, I received Pokret, made a personal copy for myself, then placed it in the library. In doing so, I felt I had put it where it belonged, among unconventional warfare experts and strategists. I stored the second copy in my deployment box, not knowing that dramatic events in the future would lead me to publish the adaptation, now titled CODE NAME: SPIKE, nor did I know how arduous the process would be.

___

Four years later, in January 2021, injuries had healed, and multiple deployments had come and gone since my time in the basement archives. Now, however, I wasn’t in America; I was seven thousand miles away in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. I was the second in command to one of the most isolated Special Forces teams in the world, and we were under immense pressure while waiting for the final word from the White House to stay or go. I desperately needed a distraction, but the base had been evacuated, lines of communication were under threat, and books were in short supply.

I then remembered my copy of Pokret and opened the Contico box in the corner of my hooch, dug to the bottom, and pulled out the tattered, dusty, and unread copy. It had been stowed away just in case I was stuck somewhere and needed something to read, and this was the perfect moment to rediscover it. I sat down, opened it, and was immediately pulled into the storied history of WWII. In Bizic’s world, it was the summer of 1944. Hitler had set the world on fire, war casualties were in the millions, and the Nazi’s grip on power was slipping. As if sensing this, shadow governments and political groups were actioning their hidden agendas while Bizic, an American OSS agent fluent in Serbo-Croat, had a unique front-row seat to witness it all. He and SPIKE mission traveled throughout the complex landscape, and his experience and insights were enhanced all the more because he was advising General Apostolski, the leader of the Partisan Resistance, on how to conduct guerrilla warfare against the Fascist invaders.

More than 75 years later, in my world, America was approaching the 20th anniversary of its longest war, the Taliban were probing our base and destroying cell phone and radio towers in preparation for their spring offensive, and Iran, Pakistan, India, and China were exploring their post-war options. Secret negotiations were being held in Doha—the outcomes of which would determine our collective fates—and my Special Forces team was advising Lieutenant General Sami Sadat, one of the last Afghan Generals of the war, on how to implement and preserve his resources. This experience gave me a front-row seat to the end of this war… and then it struck me—Steve and my realities were reflections of each other, and Pokret was the mirror.

Returning home from Afghanistan a few months later with the country collapsing in the rear-view mirror, I felt a profound lack of connection to anything. The familiar rhythms of life seemed foreign, and I yearned for a mission, a purpose, but I had none. My thoughts drifted back to Pokret and the untold story of SPIKE mission, and the more I pondered it, the more I realized the importance of bringing this forgotten memoir to light.

Who were they, really? I asked myself, and do all wars end the same? I wondered. My curiosity pushed me to find the answer to both questions, and the journey started with searching for the men of SPIKE—Bizic, Kosky, Captain Richard Dick Rainer, and the others. I quickly found their obituaries and learned they had died many years earlier, but in finding their records, I now had a list of their living families. To find them, I scoured hundreds of Facebook profiles, made twice as many phone calls, and even published ads in local hometown papers hoping to get someone’s attention. I faced more dead ends than connections, but finally, a cautious reply arrived in my inbox: Yes, I’m the granddaughter of Steven Bizic. How can I help you? and with that single message, I latched onto a thread that would take years to unravel.

I was soon connected to Bizic and Kosky’s children, Nada and Ken, now in their 60s and 70s, and explained what I had found—a copy of their fathers’ unpublished memoir. After a moment of confusion, then celebration, they welcomed me into their families and shared incredible tales of their fathers. I then met Richie Dean, the widow of Captain Rainer, and she cried when I told her what I had found—an untold story of her late husband operating behind enemy lines. After several more meetings, Ken pulled out a private copy of Pokret and presented it to me. It was a more complete version than the Pokret memoirin the archives, and rather stunningly, this version had more details, not less. I was confused, but when Ken told me his dad never took ‘no’ for an answer, Joe’s decision to write a more complete tell-all made all the more sense, given that he hadn’t been able to publish his original. In an act of defiance, or perhaps logic, he likely assumed no one would read it, so what did he have to lose by sharing more details? I rejoiced in this find. Then Ken and Nada challenged me with a new mission: to adapt Pokret and fulfill Bizic and Kosky’s original goal—publish the memoir. 

I agreed but told them I couldn’t do it until I could prove the mission and the memoir were real, because the details in their writing were stunning yet also threatened to rewrite parts of history. Several of the Partisan leaders SPIKE had advised were well-known national heroes, and the memoir risked adjusting that brand of truth. To be as thorough as possible, I scoured more than a thousand folders in the U.S. and British National Archives, collaborated with the U.S. Army Heritage and Education Center, made multiple Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) requests to the CIA, partnered with the OSS Society in Washington, D.C., worked with memorial organizations around the world, and hired multiple archivists. I soon found countless records that validated the memoir, but the most pivotal discovery came when I stumbled onto a file in the National Archives in London. Within the folder were SPIKE’s morse code messages to OSS Headquarters, and these and more are interspersed throughout this adaptation. Not only do they validate the memoir’s stories, sometimes down to the very day and topic, but Ken and Nada sent me original OSS photos their fathers had kept from the mission, and I could now tie many of the pictures to the narrative and messages within.

Now knowing the memoir was true, as were the stories, I discovered I would have to transcribe the memoir word for word into a digital document since its faded pages and typewritten font made scanning it extremely unreliable. Frustrated but undeterred, I began typing each word of the memoir into a Word document. In doing so, I soon realized the people within its pages were no longer creative characters I had simply read about. Rather, they were humans, just like you and me. This included the men of SPIKE mission, the British Special Operations Executive (SOE) operatives, the Communists, the Chetniks, and even the nameless victims who had all once been alive. The realization then came upon me: I was no longer a reader—I was an editor and an executioner, because splayed out over hundreds of pages was the only recorded existence of another person’s life, and in many cases, their deaths. The conversations and experiences I was transcribing were vivid and verified, and if I deleted the stories or events, then I also deleted another person’s existence—forever.

I sat back, absorbed these facts, and paused because I knew I had to get it right.

To determine how best to proceed, I consulted with multiple people in Special Operations, as well as the SPIKE families, other authors, and historians. They listened to my concerns, which primarily focused on the fact that I had been tasked with adapting a unique memoir that was critical to history, and while my primary fear was that I would get the edits wrong, I also knew I had to adapt it in a way a modern reader would want to read a firsthand account, and learn about life, love, and war. These mentors offered me sage advice, and one of them asked me if I saw what was truly happening.

The memoir’s rediscovery, they said. "And the uncanny connections, which include your position as a Green Beret, tell me it isn’t you who wants to bring the memoir into the modern world. Rather, it’s still Steve and Joe—they’ve simply chosen you to do it for them."

I considered this perspective for some time and concluded that if I didn’t do it, then it was entirely possible no one would. With renewed determination, I sat behind my computer and whispered to the men of SPIKE mission, that if this was their intent, then I would need them to guide me because I didn’t have a map, let alone a compass, but I promised to figure it out as we went. A year later, through much effort, I finished the adaptation, then took a deep breath because I had yet to submit it to the Department of Defense Office of Prepublication and Security Review. Without their final stamp of approval, I wouldn’t be able to publish the adaptation since many items within the pages were classified and had not yet been cleared for public release. With an appreciable pause, having spent years on the project and facing the cold reality that it could have been all for naught, I submitted the adaptation for review, closed my laptop, and took a deep breath.

A few months later, in early 2024, I received an official memorandum. I opened it quickly and scanned straight to the bottom—CODE NAME: SPIKE had been cleared for publication. I fell to my knees in elated exhaustion, and to know that after eighty years, the adaptation could finally be shared with the world was a blessing. I immediately called the SPIKE families to share the great news, and we celebrated together, even though we had never met in person and were thousands of miles apart.

The book that you are now reading represents a combined effort from multiple generations of people in the Intelligence and Special Operations communities, both past and present, the extremely generous families of SPIKE, writers from around the world, and multiple historians and archivists. It only exists because of their monumental help, and the goal had always been the same—to share the story of SPIKE with the people who the OSS fundamentally served. And this is perhaps the irony. The OSS’s post war secrecy meant the average American had little understanding of the organization’s unique place in WWII, and their critical contribution to the CIA and U.S. Special Operations. Because of this oversight, we should intentionally endeavor to celebrate the OSS and what they accomplished. This adaptation, CODE NAME: SPIKE, is one such celebration.

Now, with this multi-year ‘story-behind-the-story’ completed, let’s move on to Bizic and Kosky’s incredible memoir. They have waited nearly a century to share it with you, and I don’t think we should keep them waiting any longer.

Respectfully,

​Jacek Waliszewski

​Chief Warrant Officer Two

​U.S. Army Special Forces

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—1—

CHAPTER ONE

Parachutes & Mountains

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​I, Sergeant Steve Bizic, walked into the briefing room of the OSS Headquarters in Bari, Italy. The other three members of my mission were already there, their drawn, anxious faces reflecting my own inner conflict. Intensive training in demolition, radio, and parachuting had indicated generally what was ahead, and of course, the fact that I was to be the interpreter pointed to somewhere behind enemy lines in Yugoslavia. But exactly what we had volunteered for when we agreed to go on a dangerous mission—a question we had asked ourselves a thousand times—would finally be answered in a few short seconds.

​The Intelligence Officer in charge of the Secret Operations Section entered and shook our hands silently, and he began as soon as we were seated.

​It is urgent that a mission jump into Macedonia and begin supplying the Partisans at once, he started. They are organized to resist the Germans but don’t have the equipment or clothing needed to do the job. He then drew back the curtains on the wall to reveal a huge map of Southern Yugoslavia.

First Page of POKRET

Page 1, Pokret, 1946

​The Intelligence Officer continued and pointed to a shaded spot. Four months ago, a mission of three men jumped into this area, and we haven’t heard from them since.

​Stan, nineteen-year-old Corporal Casanova Stanley Kazinauskas, who was to be our radioman, nudged me and whistled under his breath.

​Then just two months ago, the Intelligence Officer continued, a second mission went into this other marked area. When we failed to get a message within a month’s time, we assumed they were killed or captured.

​I ground my teeth.

​We knew we were in for a rough time, but this sounded like suicide.

​Were those men received by anyone? asked Major Scott Dickinson, who was in charge of SPIKE—our operational codename.

​No, Major, answered the Intelligence Officer. They jumped blind. There was no reception committee waiting… that is, he said, slowly releasing a wry smile. "None that we planned on."

​Captain Dick Rainer, who completed the complement of SPIKE, wet his lips and his mouth dropped dourly.

​I didn’t think much of the joke either.

​The Intelligence Officer continued. It is very possible that they came down into the hands of the enemy. At any rate, we are not going to risk more men that way. You will be received by a British SOE team to the north, codenamed BURLESQUE, located here, near Uruglica, and you will have to walk two hundred miles south through enemy territory.

​That won’t be the easiest thing in the world to do with all of our equipment, said Major Scott.

​Certainly not, especially since you will have enemies all around. In addition to the Germans to worry about, there are the Bulgarians and the Albanian Fascists. However, there is one bright spot in this mess and that is a Partisan assurance that you will be provided with horses.

​I raised my hand. What about the immediate vicinity of the zone we’re going to drop into? I asked.

​All the peasants are pro-Allied, but there are some Chetniks close by, Sergeant. As you know, both Tito’s Partisans and Mihailović’s Chetniks are resisting the Germans, and at the same time, are fighting among themselves. You men will work with the Partisans, but if the Chetniks capture you, I don’t know what will happen.

​That’s the chance we will have to take, said Scott, and from the calm way he spoke, I knew he had already received a partial briefing earlier.* Now as I understand it, Major Scott continued, our orders are to get established in Macedonia to receive other missions, to equip the Partisans and lead them in the demolition of enemy installations, to gather Intelligence on enemy movements, and to evacuate downed Allied airmen. Is that right?

​The Intelligence Officer nodded. Exactly, but don’t forget the mines south of Skoplja. It is imperative that those are destroyed because the Germans are getting most of their copper ore from there.

​We’ll do what we can, Scott promised, and the others of us nodded our heads in agreement.

​The Intelligence Officer pulled the curtain back over the map. He concluded the briefing by wishing us luck and repeating how important it was that we get to Macedonia as soon as possible.

___

Over the next few days, we repeatedly got ready, put on parachutes, boarded planes, and flew over the target in Yugoslavia, but, because of bad weather or activity on the ground, we could not jump in and had to return to base in Bari, Italy. But on the morning of June 22nd, 1944, Major Scott got up early and his moving about awakened me. I glanced out the window and saw that it was one of those bright, crisply clear days with a beautiful blue sky that made you glad you were living. But this was good flying weather, too, and if we flew, I knew I would then have to think about dying.

​A man shouldn’t have to think about dying on a fine day like this. That kind of thinking should be saved for dark, cold, gloomy days—on a bad day, a man almost wouldn’t mind dying, I thought to myself.

​The Major finished dressing, then tied his OSS dagger into his right jump boot before walking over to the weather office. I hoped that the weather over Yugoslavia was bad so we wouldn’t fly that night, but a few minutes later, the Major returned smiling. By that time, Captain Dick and Stan were up, too.

​Well, fellows, Scott said. Here we go again.

​This makes flight numb’r seven that we’ll sweat out, added Captain Dick in his signature southern drawl.

​I hope to hell we jump this trip, I said without meaning it. And get it over with. What about Mrs. Kazinauskas’ little boy? I joked, turning to Stan.

​Me, too, Steve, said Stan. I get more scared each time.

​It’s not too late to change your mind, the Major kidded him.

​Not on your life! answered Stan empathically. After all this hard work, I’m not going to let you guys get all the glory. Hell, after the jump, the rest is easy.

​We had dinner and then proceeded to a point three hours away by ambulance for security reasons. At our destination we were given a final equipment check and a freshly packed parachute, an English X-type. Then we were driven to a villa in Brindisi, Italy. A big steak dinner with all the trappings was served and topped off by the finest Italian wines, but only Stan seemed to enjoy it. At 2100 hours, we picked up our parachutes, arrived at the airfield a half hour later, and Major Scott reported to the Control Officer.

​All the conditions for a drop are excellent, the latter said. There is no moon, there are no clouds, and there is no wind.

​Each man was to jump with the following equipment on his person: a parachute, one Marlin submachine gun, a folding stock carbine, one .45 caliber pistol, K- and D-rations for two days, radio parts, a medical kit, a silk map, a compass, a two-edged OSS Commando dagger, a British jump suit, and underneath, an American Paratrooper uniform with an American flag on the left shoulder. In addition, Major Scott, Captain Dick, and Casanova Stan wore rubber helmets, whereas I insisted on jumping with my garrison cap—later, in Yugoslavia, I was frequently mistaken for a general because of the dignity that the garrison cap gave me.

​Two cases of K-rations, a complete radio with batteries and generator, and some personal clothing were to be dropped separately. On our plane there were also sacks of flour, rice, sugar, coffee, medical supplies, and bales of shoes and British combat uniforms (made in the U.S.) for the Partisans. Our C-47 would carry us, and eight other planes were to drop supplies. There were five members in the plane’s crew and two dispatchers who would be responsible for pushing out the bundles.

​A half hour was consumed by putting on our equipment, and about a dozen men, concerned with getting us away, were clustered around the plane. They joked and horseplayed to bolster our morale, but our minds were set on the job ahead of us and we found little comfort in their antics. Two missions had already been lost, and the prospect of jumping into a hot zone in pitch darkness was something each man had to reconcile himself and settle alone.

​When ready, we climbed into the planes.

​Is this trip really necessary? quipped Stan.

​The rest of us were not in a joking mood, and we didn’t respond. While we waited, the motors were warmed up, the propellers turned over, and the planes taxied down the runway one by one. We took off in a roar, my stomach sank, and we circled the field to gain altitude. The side door was finally closed and there was nothing to do other than wait two and a half hours to cross the Adriatic and get into enemy territory, at which point we would reach the pinpoint and jump. Because of the complete darkness and the noise of the motors, however, there was little to do but go to sleep.

​An hour later, we were awakened by the Crew Chief, to whom we gave our names, ranks, serial numbers, and the addresses and phone numbers of the girls we left behind. The Major, Captain, and I dispensed with this formality in a matter of seconds; but Casanova Stan took a long time. He was still going strong when I saw the Crew Chief wave his hand at him as if saying, that’s enough.

​Again, we cuddled up among the various bundles and tried to go to sleep. The others dozed off promptly, but I didn’t have much luck. I remembered the circumstances under which I had left Yugoslavia in 1935 when I was twenty years old. My uncle was an ex-Colonel in the Yugoslav Army and had advised me to leave because of the dark clouds that hung over Europe. I departed from Yugoslavia to avoid trouble, yet here I was, an American Sergeant, about to jump back into much more trouble than I had left. Perhaps I felt I owed a debt to the people of Yugoslavia who took me in among them and were so deserving of better things. My father was Serbian, my mother Croatian, and I spoke Serbo-Croat fluently. In the United States, I was overcome with the liberties and the abundance of everything, and those were the things I hoped to help bring to the Yugoslavs by jumping in.

​We crossed the Adriatic and were over Albania now, and I looked out the dark windows. I recollected how dizzy I used to get looking down at the East River from the Brooklyn Bridge, and as we progressed, I saw the lights of two long German convoys headed south. Suddenly, there were rifle and machine gun flashes. The convoys were being attacked, but I couldn’t work up much interest in the events taking place below, being so focused on my own mission—in another minute, my fate would be decided.

​The pilot signaled to the Major to come forward. Our moment of truth was at hand. Captain Dick and Stan were still asleep, so I awakened them. Our plane was 18,000 feet up, and we shivered from the cold. A nervous tension gripped us, and we glanced at each other, and I looked repeatedly at my wristwatch to ease my apprehension. I was anxious to jump and get it over with once and for all, but if the Major were to come back with the decision that we would not jump that night, I would not be brokenhearted.

​Stan, meanwhile, removed his crash helmet and smoothed his hair into place.

​What the hell are you doing? I shouted above the roar of the motors.

​He gave me a silly look. I got to look good for the women, naturally.

​Which women?

​Listen, Steve, he shouted with mock alarm on his face. Half the people in Yugoslavia are women, aren’t they?

​Presently, the Major emerged from the cockpit, and I didn’t have to answer.

​Oh, oh, here comes the news.

​He went directly to Stan and spoke to him for about a minute. Although they were barely eight feet from me, I couldn’t hear a word because of the motors. Next, he went to Captain Dick for several seconds. Then he turned to me, smiled, and formed the ‘OK’ sign with his thumb and forefinger. With my heart in my throat, I tried desperately to reflect his smile.

​The Major then repeated the jump instructions. On the first run over the target, the dispatchers will push out all the supplies…

​On the second run, the Major was to jump first with Stan close behind—one second’s difference in getting out the door could mean hundreds of yards apart on the ground. And on the third run, the Captain would be first, with me bringing up the rear.

​In the meantime, the dispatchers had opened the door in the rear of the plane. A glance into the darkness revealed a fiery T formed by seven signal fires in a dark valley. It appeared to be miles away, and the plane quickly lost altitude and prepared to make its first run over the target.

​We huddled together, holding onto the main cable overhead while the dispatchers hooked the parachutes on the supply bundles to a cable by the door.

​Above the noise of the motors the Major shouted, You’re on your own, fellows, watch the lights. See you downstairs. Good luck!

​The Major and Stan went to the rear of the plane and hooked their static lines to the main cable above, and to the safety cable on the side of the ship. As a double precaution, the Major and Stan checked each other’s hookup—there are occasions on record where in the excitement of the moment a man failed to hook himself up properly, or to hook himself up at all, and jumped to his death.

​Suddenly a red light flickered above and another to the right of the door—this was the Alert signal. The dispatchers leaned their weight against the supply containers. Now the red lights stopped flickering and became a solid red for five seconds. When the red changed