where we were.
Life with the Partisans soon returned to pre-air raid amity. Close friendships began to develop. Kirky, the rascally Scot, became a popular favourite with them for reasons which we never found apparent, unless it was his readiness to have a go at the Serbo-Croat language. Sirjon helped him, but how they communicated in English I shall never know, being consistently unable to understand his Glaswegian dialect myself. Probably due to his diminutive stature the girls almost adopted him, so that in the evening song and dance sessions he was usually supported by one on either side of him in circle-style dances where gender played no part in one’s position in the ring. To those tough, buxom girls that was no problem. I recall one evening when vino had laid him to bed early, news of which would not deter the girls. Unselfconsciously they entered the house, dragged a half-revived Kirky out of bed, clad in only his shirt, and danced around him as usual. The dances that night seemed to have acquired a necessity for more supported leaps in the air than normal, guaranteeing that Kirky’s body landed much sooner than his lighter, and otherwise concealing, shirt. Whoops of enjoyment ensured that no one in the area missed the spectacle.
My particular friend among the Partisans in Podselje turned out to be their storekeeper, Roko. A man about my own age, Roko was the rare instance in the Brigade of being a native of Vis. Indeed, he had lived in Podselje with his aged mother and stunningly beautiful teenaged sister, Milka, until requisitioning of their home had necessitated both mother and sister finding residence in Vis town. Slight of stature, though undoubtedly physically fit, Roko never managed to exude the gladiatorial aggression of most of his colleagues. A possible explanation might be the fact that the enemy had not occupied Vis. Passion for conflict is fed on vengeance. Would not Roko – would not we – have been more hostile protagonists had we lived in enemy-occupied territory, where bestial atrocities committed against our families and friends were the order of the day? Perhaps it was this kindred spirit, this shared understanding which attracted Roko to us, although the reason why my gun-crew was found the most compatible I cannot explain. He tried valiantly to pick up and use as much English as possible, while he probed deeply into our personal circumstances, our way of life at home and ambitions for the future. He seemed to be the only one interested in such matters: that there was any other place in the world beside Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union seemed not to have dawned on the others. I am not sure whether he was particularly good at his job.
On our first visit into Vis town, a couple of miles walk along the twisting downhill road (the alternative was a mile of clambering down the rocky hillside), our prime commitment was to meet Roko’s mother and sister. Language difficulties delayed our discovery of the tiny house, accessed by an alleyway. Conditions were not conducive to prolonged social conversation either, but the sad looking, black-clad old lady greeted Tony and me as a mother would. Caring, concerned and almost alarmist, she managed to convey that the war was still far from won and that we must take care of ourselves for the sake of our loved ones at home, for whom she prayed.
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