Chapter One Thousand Seven Hundred Ninety-Eight
1st June 1967
Tirana, Albania
This place had taken on the feel of Pusan towards the end of the Second World War when the Japanese were getting pushed out of Korea and China. Douglas Blackwood remembered that well. There had been thousands of soldiers and refugees crowding the docks, hoping that the means of escaping to the relative safety of Japan would present itself as the perimeter of the port city was crumbling. By the end, there had been people who had risked leaving on anything that would float.
Here in Tirana, the streets were crowded with thousands who had fled here for the temporary illusion of safety. An illusion that was crumbling by the hour along with the Albanian Army. Already there was word that the roads west to the Adriatic Coast were jammed up as those with the means to, fled.
The rumble of artillery was a constant reminder that the war was creeping closer. Months earlier, Doug had taken this assignment in the hope that he could document what was happening here and along the frontier with Serbia. Far to the north, it was rumored that the tributaries of the Danube were running red with blood. That was considered something of an exaggeration, but not by as much as anyone would have liked. Everyone knew that when Tirana fell the resulting humanitarian crisis would be apocalyptic, yet no one seemed to have the wherewithal to do anything about it. As it had turned out, he had barely left Tirana but had still taken many photographs that were relevant to what was happening here.
Over the past few months, the Serbian/Bulgarian Army had methodically advanced into Albania. Wherever the Albanians had dug in or had constructed fortifications, they had discovered that their enemies were perfectly happy seeing to it that those became their tombs by any means available. Most disturbing of all were the men who had appeared among the combatants who wore green uniforms that had no identifying features for nation or military division. The jokes had flown around about how these were little green men. As Doug had observed, these were not Martians but Russian speaking volunteers.
Today, Doug had found himself sitting in the back of an Iltis from the German Observation Mission. The Hauptmann in charge of it had been ordered to bug out and part of his orders had been to collect Doug and get him onto one of the transport helicopters using force if he had to. One of the first things that Doug had noticed was that he had the Hellcat patch on his sleeve, meaning that the orders had probably come from Kat herself. Considering the sort of hairy situations that she had found herself in over the years, if Kat felt that it was time to get out, then the time for debate was over. As if the full battle kit her people were wearing wasn’t a big clue already.
As they made their way to the airport, Doug saw the compound used by the League of Nations Mission was a hive a frenetic activity. Hardly a surprise really. The situation in Albania had laid bare the limitations of that organization. For decades, critics had seen the LON as a threat to the sovereignty of the member States. Those more knowledgeable said that it only had the authority that those same States allowed it to have and was a debate club for those connected. Recently, the determination had been reached that peacekeepers were needed in the Albanian region and the resolution had landed on the floor of the LON with a thud. After the resolution had fallen flat the best that could be achieved was a weapons embargo in an effort to contain the conflict. In Washington DC, London, and Berlin, the Governments had reached a determination of their own. To them, Albania wasn’t worth starting a larger war over and its people were paying a heavy price and would continue to do so. Doug was snapping photographs from the back of the Iltis the entire way. The fact that no one seemed inclined to stop him suggested that they had opinions of their own about what was happening.
“Here you go Sir” The Hauptmann said as they handed him his bags and hustled him across the tarmac to the waiting Albatros Al-30 Hurricane helicopter as the airport was buffeted by the sonic booms from low flying fighter planes. No one said anything as Doug took the first seat available once he got to the top of the ramp, just behind the door gunner.
As the helicopter lifted off, Doug could see smoke rising from the east where he had heard that a large set-piece battle was taking place. Then a column of smoke and dust rose up from the center of Tirana, followed by another seconds later. Through the viewfinder of his camera and the telephoto lens, he saw what he knew from long experience was an artillery bombardment commencing. The armies massing outside the city didn’t care if they took it intact and they cared even less about its residents, Doug realized as he watched it start to play out as the distance grew.
A couple hours later, the helicopter landed in Italy and Doug was greeted by the sight of holiday travelers seeking a week or more of fun in sun-soaked Apulia completely oblivious to what was happening just across the water. It seemed like a world apart. Finding a telephone, he called the house in Tempelhof. Kat wasn’t home, but he got his youngest daughter, Marie Alexandra, instead. Talking to her about what she was doing this afternoon, how Jo and Tatiana didn’t have time for her, so she was doing her own thing was exactly what he needed at that moment.