A great deal of nonsense has been talked about terrain. The history of these wars shows that almost any terrain is suitable for guerrilla warfare: provided always that the warfare is sufficiently rooted in the sympathies and support of the people who inhabit the terrain in question. What at first sight may seem, on the other hand, to be the ‘best’ particular sort of terrain for operations of this kind can often prove to be the worst. During 1944, as one example, a group of brave but misguided French officers decided to establish a strong resistance base in the mountainous ramparts of the Vercors massif of south-eastern France. They assembled men and arms in relatively large quantities, and were helped in this by the parachuting of stores from Allied bases in Italy and elsewhere. The Germans replied by blockading the few passes into and out of that rock-bound plateau, and the consequences were disastrous for the French.
At much the same moment, as it happened, Yugoslav partisan detachments were operating with outstanding success in the wide plains that lie immediately to the west and north-west of the Yugoslav capital of Belgrade, then strongly in German hands. In those plains of Srem — and I myself spent some twelve months of 1943-4 with partisan detachments fighting there — enemy garrisons were so thick on the ground as seldom to be more than a dozen miles apart, and often much less. Roads were good and plentiful. And, to crown it all, down through those plains there ran the main strategic railway connecting Germany with the southern Balkans, a railway with no cover on either side that was patrolled both by night and day. Yet in this apparently impossible guerrilla territory we moved and operated night by night and week by week. That railway was blown up, often with great segments of rail levered and twisted down its embankment, not once but on scores of occasions. We even succeeded in evacuating severely wounded fighters to hospitals in liberated Italy under the very noses of the enemy. All through that June of 1944, with the help of the Royal Air Force flying in DC3s from Bari, we kept open an airstrip, usable at night by the flares of maize-stalks, that was only five miles from the nearest enemy garrison, a fairly large one at Ruma, and fewer than twenty miles from the outskirts of Nazi-occupied Belgrade. Standing there in the darkness before the DC3s came down, we could even see the distant glow of city lights.
How was it done? On nights when we used our airstrip, the roads leading to it were ambushed by partisan fighters. The wounded who were to be sent to Italy were gathered from neighbouring villages where the peasants had hidden them — from Popinci, Karlovci and others, big villages lying four-square on roads patrolled and searched by the enemy in daytime. The planes came down along our flarepath of burning maize heaps, stayed for the hour that was needed to lift our wounded into them, and departed well before dawn. At dawn the enemy arrived. But we had vanished from the scene, hidden in twos and threes by peasants who had dug more or less well-hidden holes in the ground of their farmyards. The secret was a simple one. It lay in staunch peasant support. Where that is present, any kind of terrain is good terrain.
— No Fist Is Big Enough To Hide The Sky by Basil Davidson, Aristides Pereira, Amílcar Cabral