Blood of Honour

5

It was not until half past three that the 3rd Battalion finally began boarding their transports at Eleusis, and not until some twenty minutes later that the Tante Jus, as the Junkers 52s were known, began to bump and rumble down the runway and finally get airborne. From being in a dense cloud of swirling dust one minute, they were suddenly emerging back into a world of clear blue, leaving the mainland of Greece behind and heading out across the sea.

Eighty minutes later, they were approaching Crete.

‘Stand by!’ called one of the crew. Turbulence buffeted the plane so that the men sitting on either side of the dark, corrugated fuselage knocked into one another and put out feet to steady themselves. Balthasar felt his heart beat a little faster. Clear intelligence about what would be waiting for them had not been forthcoming, but then, just as they were about to land, news had arrived that there were more than forty thousand enemy troops on the island, almost four times as many as had been thought. No one had expected the Tommies to roll over immediately, but their task was clearly going to be tougher than they had originally imagined. Men were going to die. He glanced along the men sitting opposite him, each alone with his thoughts. Some chewed at their lips, others sat with their eyes closed. Unteroffizier Schramm, sitting opposite, stared directly ahead, his jaw clenched.

The Junkers lurched again, this time the engine whining as they dropped some height.

‘Get ready!’ came the shout from the pilot, and Balthasar got to his feet, the others following, and hooked up his static line. It was difficult to move with so much kit: parachute at the back, rifle and MP40, and all the various bits of webbing. He turned to check that the man next to him had hooked up correctly and then the crewman was heaving off the door and the rush of wind blasted through the fuselage so that his smock and trousers clung to his body and the skin on his cheeks fluttered. Balthasar had insisted on being first to jump and now stood by the door and caught his first glimpse of Crete, blue-grey mountains rising above them as the Junkers shook and rumbled its way along the coast.

Heraklion was just up ahead, and bullets began to ping against the fuselage. Suddenly a line of them tore through the metal, leaving bright holes of daylight. One man slumped to the floor. Dead? Balthasar wondered. Flak now, and the plane rocked as a burst exploded disturbingly close.

The despatcher by the door received a signal from the pilot, then beckoned to Balthasar to jump. A deep breath, and he was out. One, two, three, and then a jolt as his parachute blossomed, the harness clamping around his chest and knocking the breath from his lungs so that he gasped. He glanced around, spotting the airfield and the town, with its immense walls and the scattering of houses beyond, stretching out into the surrounding countryside. How high was he? More than 150 metres – too high. Too much time in which to get hit.

Bullets and tracer arced up towards him, and just as he was trying to get his bearings, there was a loud explosion above and he looked up to see flames engulfing the Junkers. How many were out? Seven? And the rest? More tumbled from the plane, two already on fire. He watched a man – one of his men – plunging past, legs waving, arms and parachute ablaze. Another nearby jerked as he was hit, then hung limply from his harness. This is slaughter, he thought, then felt something smack into his rifle butt – a bullet? More transports whirred over, the roar like a swarm of hornets. Not far now, the ground approaching, a mass of olive groves and vineyards. He could see he might land in some trees, so swung his legs. Good, he thought, as he seemed to accelerate down onto an old track at the edge of a vineyard.

With the parachute harness strapped to his back, he landed awkwardly, broke into a roll and winded himself. For a moment he lay still, trying to breathe calmly, but then, with his gravity knife, he cut free his parachute and unclipped his harness. Suddenly he heard movement a short way ahead among the vines. For a split second he froze, then crouched and deftly rolled onto his front, his face just centimetres from the dry, dusty soil, and peered ahead. No more than fifteen metres away he saw several enemy – their legs at any rate. Not Tommies, but Greeks, with puttees wrapped up to their knees. Carefully, he pulled back the cocking handle and took a stick grenade from his belt. Voices, excited, then another ordering them to be quiet.

Too late, thought Balthasar as he gave them a brief three-second burst. Men screamed and he saw two fall to the ground. Others fired their rifles wildly, but Balthasar was already unscrewing the metal cap on his grenade. One, two, he counted, then hurled it towards the enemy. He had already got to his feet and begun scampering away when the grenade exploded, the blast accompanied by more screams. Sliding below a lip in the ground, more bullets followed him, but they were comfortably above his head. As he hurried through the vines, the shots and voices lessened until he emerged again, further along the track but out of sight of the enemy, now some hundred metres away.

Half crouching, he approached the same lip in the land, but further back, away from where he had spotted the Greeks. More paratroopers continued to stream down, but most, he realized, were dropping west and east of the town. Guns boomed, small arms chattered, and aircraft still roared overhead, but it was impossible to know what was going on. Clearly, the enemy were not far away – not more than fifty metres, he guessed. Ahead of him there were yet more olive groves and vineyards and a mass of trees and bushes, all bursting with leaf and flower. He took out his binoculars and peered through, then cursed as a bead of sweat smeared the glass. Wiping them, he put them back to his eyes. The walls of the town were just visible, rising over the vines and trees, he guessed around two kilometres away. Suddenly a bullet fizzed over his head, and then another, and Balthasar hastily ducked.

A whiff of smoke and cordite on the air. He looked at his watch – 1740 – and was pleased to see his hand was perfectly steady. How many had already been killed he had no idea, but it was time to get the survivors together, if possible establish a radio link to Major Schulz, gather as many supply canisters as possible, and then take the attack to the enemy. He was pleased they were up against Greek troops. They were tough fighters, but the conflict on the mainland had shown how poorly equipped they were. If the battalion could just gather themselves together, he reckoned their superior training and fighting skill would see them through.

Keeping the rise in the ground on his right, he moved through the vines and almost tripped over a prostrate paratrooper, groaning and clutching his stomach. A dark stain had seeped across the olive green of his step-in smock, while the boy’s face was already waxen and drained of colour. Balthasar bent down over him and carefully moved his hands away. Underneath was a gaping wound so large he could see the soldier’s guts.

‘You’ll be all right,’ Balthasar told him, pulling his P38 from the black leather holster looped through his belt. The boy would not live; better to end it quickly now. The lad looked at him with wide, frightened eyes.

‘Mother,’ he called. ‘Mother.’

‘All right, boy,’ said Balthasar, then put the pistol to the side of the boy’s head and fired. The head lolled lifelessly, and Balthasar took the lad’s MP38 and ammunition clips, and hurried on.

He emerged through the vines and, to his relief, saw a dozen of his men sheltering beneath the terrace of the vineyard on the track below. Among them was Obergefreiter Tellmann, the radio operator, who was squatting beside an already opened canister and pulling out an aluminium case containing the company’s field transceiver.

‘Does it still work?’ Balthasar asked, jumping down beside him.

Tellmann nodded.

‘That’s something,’ said Balthasar. ‘Try and get a link to the major right away,’ he demanded. He paused and listened. Planes were still dropping men and guns were pounding, but the small-arms fire was further away now. ‘The rest of you get up off your arses,’ he said, ‘and start looking for canisters and the others. Tell anyone you see to report back here. Go!’

While Tellmann was trying to make contact, he watched yet more paratroopers floating down from the sky, further towards the coast. More small arms chattered. Then he heard a shout nearby and a burst of machine-pistol fire. A burning Junkers plunged towards the open sea, thick smoke following in its wake. He wandered a short way down the track and spotted a Cretan man on a small cart, furiously urging on his mule. The crazy fool, Balthasar thought. Anyone moving around like that in the middle of a battle was asking for trouble. Unslinging his rifle, he drew it into his shoulder and aimed, then lightly squeezed the trigger. A loud crack, the butt pressed into his shoulder, and the man fell sideways from the cart. As Balthasar had hoped, the mule soon drew to a halt; they now had transport for their supplies. Another of his men emerged into the clearing, wide-eyed and breathless.

‘There are enemy just ahead, sir,’ he said. ‘Not Tommies – Greeks.’

‘I know. I’ve already met them. They’ve all got to be killed whoever they are,’ Balthasar replied, then said, ‘Go and fetch that mule and cart.’ He turned back to Tellmann, who nodded. I’m getting through.

Balthasar squatted beside him and impatiently waved at him to pass over the headset and transmitter. Bullets were schiffing through the vines on the small ridge above them.

‘Major Schulz,’ he snapped, into the black transmitter.

Static hissed and crackled in his ear, and then he heard the major’s muffled voice: ‘Get as many men as you can, and RV at Z45D21. Have you got that, Oberleutnant?’

Balthasar pressed the red button on the transmitter. ‘Yes, Herr Major.’

‘Be here by nineteen hundred hours. I think I’ve found a way through. We’ve got to go in tonight. Repeat tonight.’

‘Understood.’

He passed back the headphones, then took out his map. The grid reference pointed to a spot on the main coast road, west of the town. More of his men were now joining him. Two brought another of the canisters, and his second-in-command, Leutnant Eicher, emerged through the vines behind him.

‘Eicher, you made it,’ he said.

‘Only just. We’ve lost a lot of men.’

‘Then let’s not lose any more.’ Another canister had been recovered, which contained two MG34s. That would make life easier. He now had a band of just over twenty men; it was a fraction of his company, but he hoped they would pick up more as they headed towards the road. Calling the men around him, he divided them into two groups. They would move in two staggered lines, one covering the advance of the other in turn, with the machine-gun teams leading each column. Two men were also detailed to take the cart; they were to keep wide on the left flank.

‘Does anyone know what lies up ahead?’ he asked. ‘It looked like maize at the mouth of this valley as I was coming down.’

‘It is, sir,’ said a man. ‘But it’s much flatter down there.’

Damn it, thought Balthasar. ‘That can’t be helped. The maize will give us some cover, and so too will the other vegetation. We will move in a wide arc. Understood?’ The men nodded. ‘Right. Let’s get going.’ And then, at that moment, a Junkers, burning fiercely, streamed across the valley from the east, banked, spluttered, then whined in a final dive. The men stopped to watch this spectacle. Moments later, the aircraft landed with a crash of tearing, grinding metal. Then a pause – brief, strange, quiet – swiftly followed by an explosion. Balthasar noticed several of the men flinch, but he was not thinking of the men who might still have been on board: he was smiling to himself. He reckoned the Junkers must have landed not far from the road, and the breeze, albeit slight, was coming from the north. Thick smoke was already billowing up from the wreck – he could see and smell it. And smoke was the perfect cover. A smokescreen, in fact.

As soon as they had seen the first parachutes dropping, Tanner had suggested to Peploe that he position himself at the top of the rocky outcrop above their forward positions and do some sniping. In his haversack, wrapped in an old soft cotton cloth, was an Aldis scope, one his father had used in the last war, and which Tanner had carried with him ever since he had become a soldier himself. He had had some pads and scope fittings attached to his Lee Enfield rifle. He did not like to advertise the fact, because he had no desire to become a full-time army sniper, but on occasion it had proved a useful tool.

With Peploe’s consent, Tanner scrambled up onto the outcrop and set himself down, making the most of the rocks to find a position in which he could rest his elbows and get a steady aim. Hitting a moving target was no easy matter, but having grown up learning how to shoot game, and with plenty of subsequent practice and experience in the army, he was a fine shot, with a steady head, the ability to control his breathing and judge distance.

He could see now that most of the paratroopers were falling either around the airfield or to the south-west and west of the town. Away to his left, the Australians and Black Watch boys were having a field day. The firing was furious – planes were coming down in flames, and it seemed as though the invaders were being decimated before they had even touched the ground. It served them bloody well right: it was about time they got a pasting. To the west, the guns were now pounding the sky. Tanner rated their brigadier: he had noticed that there were many more guns around the town than had been firing during the daily enemy raids. Brigadier Chappel had evidently ordered them to keep their presence hidden. Now, however, they were all opening up and the German transports, flying low at not much more than five hundred feet, were suffering a pummelling. For the first time since he had set foot on Crete, Tanner began to think they might have a decent chance after all. Damn it, they had the chance to kill every single one of them if they held their nerve.

His scope was zeroed at four hundred yards, and he reckoned the closest to him were falling a little further away than that. It wasn’t a problem – it just meant allowing a little for the extra distance. Bringing the rifle to his shoulder, he closed his right eye and peered through the scope with the left, singling out falling paratroopers. They were a curious sight; he’d not seen parachutists falling from the sky before, but the straps seemed to emerge from their backs, so that each man hung there, like a puppy held by the scruff of its neck.

A plane-load was now dropping just to the south-west so, quickly taking his bead, he aimed a body length below his target, breathed in, held his breath, and fired. The first shot missed – too high? Aiming off a bit more, he picked out a second man and this time saw the body jerk. So, a body and a half was the aim-off length at five hundred yards. The key, he discovered, was to pick an aircraft of falling paratroopers, use the first few to judge the distance, then take aim the moment the ’chute opened.

In front of him the men were also firing, most wildly. Each time a plane caught fire, a cheer went up. The air was now heavy with smoke, so that he could no longer smell the sweet scent of May flowers and grass; the stench of battle had fallen on Heraklion. As Tanner put another two five-round clips in his magazine, he watched one enemy transport plunging out towards the sea, a body and parachute caught on the tail-plane. Jesus, he thought, poor bastard. More aircraft were dropping men further west, at the foot of the mountains near the coast, while others were landing in the maize fields and groves to the west of the town. They were too far away, so he lowered his rifle and peered through his binoculars.

He spotted some Cretan men and Greek soldiers scampering between the olives. A German had just landed in the branches and Tanner watched as he desperately tried to free himself. But now three Cretan men were upon him, dragging him out of the branches and beating him to death with their rifles. Another paratrooper, only just free of his ’chute, was attacked by several Greek soldiers charging at him with bayonets. Three men each lunged at him. For a moment the man stood, held up by the steel, then as they withdrew, he slumped to the ground. Vicious fighting, he thought. Everyone’s blood was up. He swept to the south-west, and noted movement below a shallow ridge more than half a mile away. Taking careful aim, he fired and saw a figure duck. A miss, but it might keep their heads down.

He waited a few more minutes, then looked at his watch. Ten to six. It seemed clear that the two main drop zones were the airfield and west of the town; the ground in front of them to the south was quiet. Leaving his position, he hurried back down the ridge and up to the company’s positions, where he had seen Peploe a few minutes before.

‘Good shooting, CSM?’ Peploe enquired, as Tanner reached him.

‘Piece of cake, sir,’ Tanner replied. ‘Those poor sods are sitting ducks once you get a bead on them.’

‘Rather them than me.’

‘Too right, sir.’

‘Well, so far so good, wouldn’t you say?’ Peploe peered through his own binoculars.

‘Early days yet, sir.’ Tanner looked around him, at the staggered slit trenches, the weapons and ammunition pits, each section carefully positioned for interlocking fire, and making the most of the trees, rocks and vegetation. These were not so much deeply dug as well positioned. It would, he knew, be hard for lightly armed German paratroopers to break through.

‘I got a good view from up there,’ he said, jerking a thumb at the outcrop behind them. ‘All the action’s over to the west. Why don’t we send out a fighting patrol?’

‘Where?’ asked Peploe.

‘I was thinking we could push out to the south-west. See what Jerry’s up to. It seems to me they’re going to be pretty disorganized at the moment. We could take advantage of that.’

Peploe nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Who will you take?’

Tanner had already thought of that. ‘Sykes, and McAllister’s section, sir?’

‘All right, but take Mr Liddell and his Platoon HQ men as well.’

Tanner’s face fell. ‘Really, sir? Mr Liddell’s only just arrived.’

‘Then it’ll be good experience for him, won’t it? I need you two to work together, Jack. Prove to me that you can.’

Tanner swallowed. ‘Yes, of course, sir.’

The patrol was quickly assembled. Having sent runners to the neighbouring Greek regiment on their right and to A Company on their left, Peploe spoke with Liddell and Tanner while the men readied themselves, getting rid of any unnecessary kit. ‘CSM Tanner will lead the patrol,’ Peploe told them, ‘but, Mr Liddell, you are the officer, and are therefore ultimately in charge. But learn from him, Lieutenant. He has a lot of experience at this sort of thing.’

‘Anything else, sir?’ Liddell asked.

‘No, I don’t think so. Just have a look around.’

‘And if we come across any enemy?’

‘Engage if appropriate, but don’t get yourself into a compromising situation. You’ll have to use your judgement, Lieutenant.’ His expression relaxed. ‘But you’re in good hands with Tanner and Sykes.’

Tanner turned towards the men. Some wore jerseys or their battle blouses over their KD shirts, and he realized there was now the first nip of cooler evening air. The sun was lowering; soon it would be behind the great mountain range to the west. Leaning down to his pack, he pulled out his own khaki wool jersey. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Everyone ready?’ He took out his map, showing them where the buildings and wells were that he had marked earlier. ‘Any stragglers are likely to make for these,’ he told them, ‘so we need to be particularly careful there. I spotted Jerries here.’ He pointed first to the map then to the fold in the land to the south-west. ‘That’s where we’ll head – south first, using the olive groves for cover, then we cut across.’ He turned to Liddell. ‘All right, sir?’

‘Yes, I think so, CSM,’ said Liddell. ‘And we’ll use a formation for open country with the enemy in close contact.’

Tanner glanced at Sykes – what the hell is that? The sergeant winked. ‘Something like that, sir. I’ll take Chambers, Bonner and Sherston out front, Sykes can scout on the right with Bell, and you, sir, with McAllister, the Bren and the rest of the section, follow fifty yards or so behind.’

Liddell nodded. ‘Diamond formation?’

‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘And what if we lose sight of you?’

‘Try not to, sir. I said fifty yards, but what I meant was, stay behind at a distance where you can always see me.’ Tanner pulled his rifle from his shoulder, one hand around the barrel, the other on the neck of the stock, his finger and thumb touching the bolt. ‘Let’s go.’

Tanner led them through the olive groves, jogging so that they covered ground quickly. Two hundred yards or so on, he paused, glanced behind and then across at Sykes, saw everyone was still with him, and pressed on. After another couple of hundred yards, he turned westward until he was approaching the top of a shallow ridge. A grassy track marked the boundary between the olive groves and, beyond the ridge, a north-west-facing vineyard. It was here, just on the lip, that he had seen a paratrooper show his head a quarter of an hour earlier. Glancing back at the others, he raised his arm above his head to halt them, then looked across at Sykes and Bell and urged them on.

‘Stay here a moment,’ he told Chambers, Bonner and Sherston, then he too crept towards the brow of the ridge.

On his belly, Tanner lifted his head, scanned the ground quickly, then rolled over. In front of him there was a vineyard, the vines full of newly bursting fresh leaves. It was not big – perhaps sixty yards across – and another track was followed by more olive groves. To his right, the land rose again, gently, so that the ground before him was enclosed in a shallow hollow. Among the olives, several parachutes fluttered; a limp body hung from the branches, but he could see no enemy troops – not live ones, at any rate. Glancing across at Sykes and Bell, he saw the sergeant signal thumbs-up, then turned back to the others. ‘Hey, Punter,’ he called softly, to Chambers.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Signal to the others to come up, will you?’

‘Sir,’ Chambers replied.

Tanner scurried forward through the vines, noticing bootmarks in the dusty soil. He found Sykes and Bell standing over the body of a dead paratrooper.

‘Look at this, sir,’ said Bell. ‘Stomach wound, but he’s been shot in the head too.’

‘And at close range,’ said Tanner, looking down. ‘Someone put this boy out of his misery.’

‘There’s a load of dead Greeks up there,’ said Sykes, waving towards the crest of the ridge. He turned back to the dead paratrooper. ‘Look at those boots, though. I’m tempted to ’alf-inch ’em.’

‘Too big for you, Stan,’ grinned Tanner. ‘You need to pick on someone your own size.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Sykes. ‘But I’d rather be on the short side than a big lad like you, sir.’

‘Why’s that, Stan?’

‘Less of a target.’

‘Talking of which,’ said Tanner, ‘let’s push on. Tinker,’ he said to Bell, ‘you go ahead a bit with Punter. See what’s round that bend. There are plenty of tracks here – see if you can follow the Jerries. My guess is they’ve headed north to the west of the town where most of them were dropping.’

‘What about me, sir?’ asked Sykes.

‘I need to speak to you. Tinker, take Bonner and Sherston with you as well. If it’s clear up ahead, leave two men to keep watch, then come back. All right? Now, iggery, boys.’

The four men hurried off, and Sykes said, ‘I did speak to him, you know.’

‘Tell me in a moment,’ said Tanner, pushing on down through the vines. At the edge of the vineyard they now saw there was a short four-foot terrace alongside the track. Jumping down, they looked around. Back along the track, they could see a figure lying on the ground, ran over and found a dead, grey-haired Cretan lying face down in the grass. There was a neat hole in his back, but rolling him over they saw an exit wound the size of a fist. Thick blood had stained the front of his shirt and waistcoat and the surrounding grass.

‘Shot in the back,’ said Sykes.

‘For his cart,’ added Tanner, pointing to the tracks.

The rest of the patrol was now clambering out of the vines.

‘You talked to him, then?’ Tanner said, in a low voice.

‘You don’t need to worry, Jack,’ said Sykes, using Tanner’s Christian name out of earshot of the others. ‘He thinks you left because your father died and because you were too young to take over from him.’

‘Who’s saying that wasn’t the case?’ Tanner snapped.

‘No one, Jack. No one’s saying anything. That’s the point.’

Tanner sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Stan. Didn’t mean to take it out on you. One of these days I’ll tell you all about it.’

‘His old man died,’ said Sykes.

‘Died?’ Tanner wiped his brow. ‘I’m sorry – as I said before, he was a good man.’

‘I told Mr Liddell you thought that. That’s why he joined the Rangers and not any of the Wiltshire lot. Thought he’d follow his father.’

Tanner nodded. ‘That explains it.’

Liddell was now walking towards them. ‘What’s going on, Tanner?’ he said, as he neared them. ‘Why have we stopped?’

‘I’ve sent men on to scout up ahead, sir. We’re where the Jerries started dropping. Earlier I saw some canisters coming down around here, so I thought we could have a quick look around for them while we wait for Bell and Chambers to report back.’

‘’Ere, sir,’ said Sykes now, pointing towards an olive grove a short distance from the track. ‘There’s a couple of dead Jerries over there.’

‘So there are. Come on, then.’ Tanner and Sykes hurried across a narrow strip of rough grass, then reached the olives. Pushing their way between the young trees, they reached the first of the dead men, some twenty yards from the other, lying in the grass.

‘Good,’ said Tanner. ‘This one’s still got his weapon. Have a look at the other one, Stan.’ Tanner picked up the dead man’s sub-machine-gun, and admired it. It was light, with a comfortable grip, and beautifully engineered. He looked at the safety catch, the cocking handle and the magazine, which he removed and replaced easily and smoothly. Slinging the weapon over his shoulder, he squatted down to strip the man of his spare magazines.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ said Liddell, beside him.

‘Taking his weapon, sir. Say what you like about Jerry, they make beautiful kit.’

‘Put it back, CSM.’

‘What?’ said Tanner. He stared at Liddell incredulously.

‘Put it back. We’re on a patrol, CSM, not a booty hunt.’

‘Sir, this is a good weapon. We don’t have anything as good as this.’

‘Nor are you trained to use it.’

‘Trained? I don’t need training in how to use this.’ He picked it up and pulled back the cock. ‘Aim, fire. Sir.’

‘Put it down, Tanner. That’s an order.’

Tanner glared at him. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said, flinging the weapon onto the ground.

‘Right,’ said Liddell. ‘Now let’s get back to the patrol.’

‘Look at this beauty,’ grinned Sykes, as he rejoined them, clutching an MP38 of his own.

‘Put it down, Sergeant,’ said Liddell.

‘Down, sir? Why?’ Sykes glanced at Tanner.

‘Mr Liddell doesn’t want us booty hunting,’ said Tanner. ‘He’s worried we’re not trained to use them either.’

Sykes laughed.

The subaltern had turned red. ‘I’ll not have any more insolence from either of you,’ he snapped. ‘Put the gun down, Sergeant, and let’s get on with what we’re supposed to be doing.’

‘Give me strength,’ muttered Tanner, then turned back in the direction of the track.

Chambers arrived soon after. There were more olive groves and vineyards, he reported, then a series of maize fields that led all the way to the Rethymno road. They had found tracks easily. There was also a downed aircraft up ahead, about five hundred yards away. Smoke was still billowing up from it.

‘That settles it, then,’ said Tanner. ‘Back in patrol formation, and let’s see if we can’t surprise a few Jerries. Bet they reckon they’re safe behind that smokescreen.’ He grinned. ‘Sergeant Sykes and I will head back with Lance Corporal Chambers, the rest follow as before. And keep your bloody eyes out and on me.’

Liddell now cleared his throat. ‘Hold on a minute, CSM,’ he said. ‘What exactly have you got in mind?’

Tanner took a deep breath. ‘Whatever Jerries landed round here have clearly moved on, sir, to the north. My guess is they’re mustering somewhere up ahead.’

‘A guess?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m not a Jerry, so I can’t say for certain, but they’re not here any more, are they? If we follow their tracks we might be able to find out a bit more. We’re reconnoitring, sir.’

Liddell bit his bottom lip. ‘Very well,’ he said at length. ‘But we’re now quite a long way from our lines and I don’t want any shooting, all right? Observation only.’

Without answering, Tanner turned and strode on ahead. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered, as Sykes and Chambers hurried beside him.

They found Bell, with Bonner and Sherston, lying at the edge of the vineyard. Tanner got down beside them. Directly ahead was the aircraft, still smoking furiously, the plumes swirling towards the coast. The low ridge continued, gently flattening out to the west of Heraklion. From where they lay, the walls of the town could not be seen, but beyond were more olive groves, which gave way to a series of maize fields. The crop was still young, but tall enough for a man to crawl through.

‘Have you spotted any movement, Tinker?’ Tanner asked Bell.

‘I’m not sure. I might have done. Maybe movement through the maize, but I couldn’t swear to it.’

‘Should have lent you these,’ said Tanner, pulling out his binoculars. He peered through them. The maize and the bushes and trees at the end of each field were too dense for him to see anything; perspective seemed to condense through the lenses. But beyond, perhaps as much as three-quarters of a mile away, he could now see men moving through the groves and around a small cluster of buildings. Then, suddenly, movement caught his eye, movement that was closer, somewhere before the buildings. Quickly he adjusted the focus. Yes, there they were, now in his line of vision, quite clear: a column of men crossing a track between the fields – not crouching, but openly walking, no more than three hundred yards ahead, the smoke of the aircraft their shield.

Tanner smiled. ‘Will you have a dekko at that! Can you see what I see, boys?’

‘Jerry, sir,’ said Bell.

‘Where are those tracks through the maize, Tinker?’

‘A bit further down, sir. We found two lots.’

Tanner saw a second line of Germans come into view, further across the field and behind the lead column. ‘Sergeant, give me a head count, will you?’ he said, as he put the binoculars to his eyes once more. He noticed one man at the front of the two columns had an MG34 slung over his shoulder, but that the others seemed to have only sub-machine-guns.

‘Nine in the first, eight in the second, sir,’ said Sykes.

‘Good. Sergeant, you and Tinker follow the right. The rest, follow me. Let’s get a move on.’

Scampering down through the vines, they found the tracks through the maize and, half crouching, hurried on. Reaching the end of the first field, Tanner led them as they crawled on their stomachs across a track – a path, Tanner realized, that led back up onto the shallow ridgeline. Some smoke had drifted across there too, not thickly but it was something. Sykes and Bell were crossing the track and he signalled to them, Lieutenant Liddell and the others following to halt, because he had just remembered the cart. A plan had seeded in his mind. Where the hell was the cart? He had seen several trees a short way down the track to his left, and told Chambers, Bonner and Sherston to wait, then ran over to the trees and, carefully raising himself, peered around.

‘Got you,’ he mouthed. Less than two hundred yards away, working its way through the groves beyond the maize fields, was the cart. Tanner counted three men. Hurrying back to Chambers and the other two, he signalled to Sykes to join him.

‘What’s up, sir?’ whispered Sykes.

‘That cart,’ he said, gesturing in its direction. ‘There are three men with it. My guess is their supplies are on it. I want you and Tinker to head up this track to the right. It rises slightly, so you should be able to get a good view down towards those two Jerry columns. There’s a bit of smoke, so that’ll give you cover. I want you to take out the two leading men. They’ve got MGs, so make sure you hit them. Fire off a couple more rounds, then get back. Most of them only have sub-machine-guns, so they won’t be able to hit you from that range.’

‘And in the confusion, you take out the cart.’ Sykes grinned.

‘Me and the boys here, yes.’

‘What about Mr Liddell?’

He glanced back. The lieutenant and the rest were still waiting. Tanner again held up his hand – stay where you are. But he could see Liddell moving forward, coming towards him.

‘Quick,’ he said, with a glance at his watch. ‘I make it eighteen twenty-two. In three minutes – no, make that four – open fire. Do the job, then peg it. Now, iggery.’ He slapped Chambers and Sherston on the back. ‘Come on, let’s hurry.’

They were off before Liddell could reach them, half crouching, half running down the track, and in moments were out of sight of the lieutenant. They easily found the route the cart had taken. At the far end of the maize field there was another long, narrow olive grove: the trees, combined with the smoke between them and the town, provided all the cover they needed. The cart was a couple of hundred yards ahead and, looking at his watch again, Tanner realized he had cut the timing a bit fine. Making sure they ran with a line of olives masking their approach, he delved into his haversack and felt for his scope, then thought better of it. You don’t need it, he told himself. Six twenty-five. Just one minute to go. They were making ground on the cart, which was trundling through the rough grass at a slow pace.

‘Rifles ready, boys,’ whispered Tanner. ‘I’ll take the lead. Punter, you go for the one on the left, Bonner and Sherston, the third fellow, on the right.’ They continued to run forward, now moving from tree to tree. Still none of the men by the cart had looked round. Any moment now, thought Tanner, and he prayed Sykes and Bell would hit the men with the MGs.

A rifle crack from the ridge and then another, and now the men by the cart flinched and looked around – not behind them but to their right, the flank they must have known was their most vulnerable. On cue, Tanner leaned against an olive tree, his rifle to his shoulder. A little under a hundred yards, he reckoned. Aiming low in case his target suddenly crouched, he breathed out, held his breath and squeezed the trigger. The German was hit in the stomach and cried out as the other three fired almost simultaneously. Tanner saw that Chambers had hit his man, who had collapsed on the ground, but the other two had missed. Maintaining his aim, Tanner pulled back the bolt and fired again, this time at the third man, who had been looking wildly in their direction and trying to bring his sub-machine-gun up when the bullet slammed into his chest. Tanner pulled back the bolt again, fired a second time at his first target, then ran forward, sprinting through the long, lush May grass.

Short bursts of sub-machine-gun fire rang out, but not the lethal brurp of the MG. Good, thought Tanner, as they reached the cart. The mule was calmly eating grass as though nothing untoward had happened, but Chambers’s German was gurgling softly. Tanner saw now that the man had been hit in the neck, bubbles of blood foaming at his mouth, his eyes wide. Damn it, damn it, thought Tanner, taking out his Webley from its canvas holster. Christ, but he hated to do this. Pointing the pistol at the man’s head, he closed his eyes briefly and fired.

He turned and saw Chambers staring at him.

‘He couldn’t have lived,’ Tanner snarled. ‘Aim a bit better next time, Punter.’

Chambers nodded mutely, but Tanner was now looking at the cart. There were a number of canisters, but also a stash of rifles. He wondered what was in them, but then a rifle shot cracked and a bullet fizzed nearby. No time, he thought.

‘Quick,’ he said to them, ‘move back. Run!’ More shots rang out, a bullet struck the side of the cart and another hissed over Tanner’s head. His heart pumping, he felt in his haversack for his grenades and took out two. He had intended to set the mule free but there was no time for that now. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said to the mule, pulled out the pins of the grenades, lobbed them into the cart, then sprinted. Bursts of sub-machine-gun fire – too far, but getting closer. Another rifle bullet whistled by, and then the grenades exploded in quick succession and Tanner could not help but look back. The mule and cart had disappeared among a ball of flame and smoke, and then there was a second explosion as ammunition in the canisters detonated. Rounds were pinging as they caught fire, but then he heard the tell-tale burst of MG fire raking the olive grove, and cursed Sykes and Bell.

Reaching the track, he saw Chambers urging Bonner and Sherston to head straight into the maize field. More MG fire, this time only just behind him, and now Tanner was among the maize too, crouch-running as quickly as he could. He knew they had nothing to fear except the enemy machine-gun but so long as the men lay flat on the ground, they would be all right. Were they doing so? He knew he should have told the lieutenant what he was planning, but there hadn’t been time. No, that wasn’t it: he’d said nothing because he’d feared Liddell would put a halt to it. He cursed as another burst of MG fire peppered the ground around him and he dived down into the maize, his face pressed into the sweet-smelling soil as bullets snipped through the stalks above his head.

Silence, a few muffled shouts behind him, and then he got up again, pushing on through the maize, his heavy breathing amplified among the dense stalks, until he reached the path along which they had come. Glancing back, he saw a German near the edge of the track, scanning the field. Crouching still, Tanner brought his rifle to his shoulder but he must have caused movement in the maize because the German was now raising his weapon to his shoulder. A moment later, two bullets sliced perilously close, thumping into the soil nearby. Tanner fell flat on his face as a third whined a hair’s breadth from his head. Turning his face slightly he could just see the German reaching for his ammunition pouch and Tanner smiled. Quickly lifting himself onto his haunches, he brought his own rifle to his shoulder and slowly rose until he was standing there, no more than fifty yards away. The German now saw him, too late, but instead of diving for cover or fumbling at his breech, he just stood there, staring at Tanner.

Pressing the butt into his shoulder, Tanner felt his index finger squeeze against the trigger, but then something made him stop. He had long since come to the conclusion that the only useful German was a dead one, but to kill the man in cold blood like that, even in the middle of a war, felt like an execution rather than a combat killing. Why it was different from shooting a man in the back as he sat on a cart, he could not say, but he knew he could not kill the man. Instead, he began to walk backwards, keeping his aim, and stepping carefully through the maize, until at last the German turned and ran back towards his men.

Tanner turned too, running through the field until ahead he saw several Rangers crawling on their hands and knees. Recognizing Chambers, he hurried on, hoping Sykes and Bell had got away safely, and then it occurred to him that the enemy machine-gun must have run out of ammunition. And thank God for that. Now that he thought about it, he’d seen the cylindrical magazines on the weapons, not belts. Smiling to himself, he soon caught up with the others. Mr Liddell could go to hell. They had just destroyed eight Jerry supply canisters and, with them, a stash of arms and ammunition – weapons and bullets that those Jerry paratroopers could no longer use. And, as he knew from bitter experience, a soldier without weapons was no good to anyone.