Blood of Honour

9

As the defenders of Heraklion were preparing their final charge on the Canea Gate, eighty-five miles away Major General Freyberg was signalling to General Headquarters, Middle East, in Cairo his assessment of the day’s fighting. The old quarry high on the Akrotiri outcrop had been transformed over the past three weeks into the working headquarters and command post of Creforce. Trestle tables lined the hollow cavern cut into the rock, electric lamps had been rigged up from the rough stone roof, radio sets and telephones had been connected, with a mass of wire running out from the entrance and down the hill. Camouflage nets had been draped over the entrance to mask it from the air. Inside, staff officers tapped at typewriters, while on a map table, progress, as far as it was known, was carefully plotted.

It was ironic that Freyberg was able to send a coded message more than seven hundred miles across the sea to Cairo and yet have very little communication with his forces stretched out on the coastal plain just a few miles in front of him. Freyberg had seen more action than most, and he knew that battles were always messy, chaotic affairs. A lot of smoke, a lot of noise and always conflicting messages. From their vantage point he and his staff had seen plenty of German transport planes plunging into the sea and onto the rocky Cretan ground; they had heard the sounds of fighting all day. Other than that, they had seen very little.

Instead, they had been reliant on deciphering what messages had come through: increasingly jittery ones from Colonel Andrew, commander of the New Zealanders of 22nd Battalion at Maleme, who was clearly out of radio contact with his two companies on the far side of the airfield. Freyberg appreciated that this was always a difficult judgement for a commander. Were one’s men overrun and defeated? Or was it simply that the rather flimsy telephone lines that linked battalion to company had been cut? Freyberg suspected the latter. He knew that Brigadier Hargest had initially promised reinforcements from 23rd Battalion for Colonel Andrew, but that would have meant moving them away from the coastal sector they were defending. Yet Freyberg knew what Hargest and Andrew did not: that the same intelligence that had warned him paratroop drops would be made at around 8 a.m. that morning had also advised that a further ten thousand enemy troops were to be transported to Crete by sea. True, there had been some inconsistencies in the intelligence signals over the past few weeks, but Freyberg had decided to trust the latest. Warnings of a seaborne invasion force had last been passed on exactly a week before, and since subsequent intelligence signals had proved uncannily accurate, Freyberg saw no reason to doubt that the Germans were indeed about to arrive from the sea too.

It was with this in mind that he had urged caution to Hargest. It would be wrong, he felt, to reinforce Maleme when logic suggested that infantry armed with Brens and rifles should never be overrun by Germans armed with little more than sub-machine-guns. Elsewhere, around Galatas and in Prison Valley, it seemed the enemy had taken a drubbing, yet fighting had been heard all day and, as at Maleme, communications between units had been extremely problematic. It didn’t matter how many telephone wires wound their way out of the Creforce quarry – if they were cut somewhere along the line, they were completely useless. Indeed, most information that day had come from runners rather than by phone, messengers arriving at the quarry’s entrance, red-faced, sweat-drenched and exhausted.

As darkness had fallen and the fighting had at last died down, Freyberg hoped his commanders in the field were making the most of the opportunity to repair lines, get runners through to dispersed companies and prepare themselves for robust counter-attacks at first light with the troops they had. Sending massed reinforcements to panicked battalion commanders was not the answer because that would upset his carefully prepared dispositions – dispositions that had been made with the promised subsequent seaborne landings in mind.

That afternoon German operation orders had been discovered on a dead German officer in Prison Valley and had revealed that objectives for the first day had been all three airfields: Maleme, Heraklion and Rethymno. News from Heraklion and Rethymno had been sketchy to say the least, but the last communications both suggested huge German casualties and gave no sense that the airfields – or harbours for that matter – were in immediate danger.

With a tumbler of Scotch beside him, Freyberg sat at one of the trestle tables, pencil in hand, paper in front of him, ready to draft a signal to GHQ in Cairo. ‘Today has been a hard one,’ he wrote – and indeed it had. He took a mouthful of whisky, the strong aroma masking the dank mustiness of the cavern. ‘We have been hard-pressed,’ he added. ‘So far, I believe, we hold aerodromes at Rethymno, Heraklion and Maleme, and the two harbours.’ He paused, thinking. It was true the enemy had not taken their objectives but he was worrying about what was to come the following day: more airborne troops and ten thousand men by sea. That being so, the situation looked less secure. ‘Margin by which we hold them is a bare one,’ he scribbled, ‘and it would be wrong of me to paint an optimistic picture.’ He paused again, drank another glug of whisky. Was that too pessimistic? No, because he had always made it quite clear he felt the island was inadequately defended, and it was best to prepare his masters for the worst, should it come. However, he could always end on a brighter note. ‘Fighting has been heavy,’ he continued, ‘and we have killed large numbers of Germans. Communications are most difficult.’ He sat back, read it through again, then added one last afterthought: ‘A German operation order with most ambitious objectives, all of which failed, has just been captured.’

He stood up, passed the scrawled note to a clerk, then wandered out through the camouflage netting to the mouth of the quarry. The night was warm, although there was a light breeze. A faint whiff of smoke blended with the ever-present scent of herbs and grass. Under the light of the moon and the stars, the dark outline of the coast could clearly be seen and beyond, away to the south, the imposing mass of the White Mountains. Occasional desultory small-arms fire rang out; a dog barked in the town of Canea below. Freyberg finished his whisky, wondering whether he would be able to stand in the same place at the same time tomorrow night, or whether by then his forces would have been overrun.

Tanner stood on the battlements, looking out over the town. To the south, fighting was still going on but it was lessening now. He felt certain the Germans there would soon fall back once they knew their other thrust had failed. In any case, as he could now see, it looked as though the two platoons from A Company had just arrived – he could see Captain Bull and several others approaching Peploe from the direction of Kalokerinou; for all he knew, those from C and D Companies had already been sent to join the fight by the sea. He wondered what was happening over by the airfield. Turning his head, he listened for any sound of battle, but there was none – the airfield was surely still theirs.

Laughter from below made him look down thirty feet to the open area around the mouth of the Canea Gate. The mood among the town’s defenders there was euphoric. Clear of the shadows, soldiers and Cretan andartes alike were exchanging excited accounts of their part in the action. Tanner knew these feelings. There was relief at still being alive and the strange elation that could happen after a fight. It was the adrenalin that still coursed through the body. Only when that had worn off would the exhaustion set in and even dark thoughts – memories of terror or even of horror: the blood, the broken limbs and smashed faces. One got used to seeing mutilated corpses, men with limbs missing, heads blown off, guts spilling out, and the mind hardened to such things, but thinking about them was never pleasant. There were corpses aplenty down there now, and large patches of blood spreading across the dusty road, clear enough even in the milky moonlight, but no one else seemed to have noticed. He watched one large, silver-haired Cretan kapitan embrace Alopex and then Pendlebury, who laughed, then gesticulated wildly. The man still had his swordstick in his hand and waved it in circles above his head, no doubt reliving the charge he had led earlier.

‘Crazy bugger,’ said Sykes, now standing beside him. ‘Not your normal run-of-the-mill soldier, is he?’

Tanner chuckled. ‘No, but he’s a bloody good leader. He’s got those Cretans where he wants them. Look at ’em. They bloody love him, don’t they?’

‘More than I can say for Mr Liddell. Look at him.’

Liddell was away from the rest of the men, walking aimlessly among the fallen.

‘Poor bastard,’ said Tanner.

‘Why d’you think that?’

‘As you said, Stan, he’s not cut out for this lark, is he? I saw him earlier, before we set off to flush out those Jerries. He was bloody scared stiff. Should have stayed on the farm.’

‘He’d probably be more use there. We still need scoff, and so does everyone back home, but I’m not sure we need his sort trying to tell us what to do.’

‘I just wish to hell they’d never sent him here. Of all sodding people.’ He lit two cigarettes and passed one to Sykes. ‘Anyway, we need to go on a scavenge.’ He stood up. ‘Here, Hep,’ he said, ‘keep an eye on the lads, all right? Make sure they keep a good lookout.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Hepworth replied.

‘Good,’ said Tanner. ‘Right, Stan, let’s see what we can find.’

On the top of the wall and above the bastion, the moonlight shone brightly. Now fully accustomed to the light, Tanner found he could see quite well. Certainly, they had no difficulty in picking out the German dead, although he had found only a few spare magazines for his newly acquired sub-machine-gun. He did take a pistol, though. All the paratroopers, he noticed, seemed to carry these side arms, a small, nicely balanced semi-automatic, with an eight-round clip. Tanner much preferred it to the heavy, bulky Enfield revolver he had been issued on becoming a warrant officer. What was more, the Enfield could only be reloaded by placing each bullet into the six chambers, a fiddly task at the best of times, but especially so in the heat of battle when nerves and adrenalin made hands shaky. With the Sauer pistol he’d taken, he discovered he could grip the weapon and press the release button with the same hand. Out it fell, and all he had to do was shove another in place. He decided that so long as he could get his hands on enough ammunition – and the bullets were quite a bit smaller than those for his Enfield – his own revolver would be consigned to the bottom of his pack.

There was much about the German kit that he and Sykes found to admire. The cotton smock looked comfortable and had the kind of large pockets they wished they had more of on their own uniforms. Both men helped themselves to the long canvas gasmask bags they carried. Having ditched the masks, they slung the bags over their shoulders and used them to store as many magazines as they could find. What took their attention more than any other piece of kit, however, were the paratroopers’ boots. Tanner had long wished they might be issued with rubber, rather than studded leather-soled boots. The German boots were not only rubber-soled but side-laced and high enough to reach well over the ankles.

‘These look about right.’ Sykes whipped off one of his own and measured it against those of a paratrooper. ‘Bloody beautiful,’ he added, as he pulled them from the dead man. ‘Will you look at that!’ With the laces undone, the top of the boot opened to reveal not a separate tongue but one large piece of soft leather that folded back on itself once the laces were tied.

‘Very nice, Stan,’ said Tanner. ‘What’s the leather like?’

‘Lovely an’ supple. You’re not going to have problems of stones in your boots with these on. Just need to get you a pair now, sir.’

Tanner walked among the dead and eventually found a man of similar height. Like Sykes, he measured his own boot against that of the dead German and was pleased to see the sizes compared.

He sprang up and down on his new boots, patted some of his new kit, then said, ‘Good work that, Stan. I’ll say one thing for Jerry – he does make bloody good clobber.’

He looked up and saw Captain Peploe approaching them from the bastion.

‘Well done, you two,’ he said, extending his hand to shake theirs in turn. ‘The Cretans are over the moon, and so are Pendlebury and Vaughan. Hopefully, so too will be Brigade. We lost a few men but not as many as the Germans by the look of things. I see you’ve found yourselves a bit of extra kit.’

‘It’s damn good, their stuff,’ said Tanner.

‘You want to get yourself a pair of these boots, sir,’ said Sykes. ‘You can walk silent in these, I swear it.’

Peploe smiled. ‘A good tip. I will.’

‘So what happens now, sir?’ asked Tanner. ‘Have reinforcements been sent down to the sea?’

‘Yes – A Company is going to stay here with us but the others have been directed there and it seems the Leicesters and Yorks and Lancs have sent a company each.’

‘That’s good, sir. A swift, strong counter-attack is the way to deal with these jokers. I tell you what, sir, today’s given me heart. We can’t possibly lose this island now.’

‘What if there’s a seaborne invasion as well?’

‘With what? I thought Jerry only had U-boats.’

Peploe shrugged. ‘Captured Greek ships?’

‘What? Those wooden fishing-boats? You’re joking, aren’t you, sir? Against the Mediterranean Fleet? Those navy guns might not be much bloody good against Jerry bombers but they’d be perfect against any slow little transports. I know we lost a few ships coming back from Greece, but it wasn’t that many, all things considered. If Jerry’s stupid enough to try it, let him.’

‘You’re probably right, Jack,’ said Peploe. ‘I hadn’t really thought of it like that.’

‘So long as we keep these airfields, those para boys are done for. You can only carry so much into battle when you’re thrown from an aeroplane. I bet they’re already starving hungry.’

‘I ’ope they are,’ said Sykes. ‘Serve ’em bloody right.’

‘So, what now?’ Tanner asked again. ‘We’re to stay here, are we?’

‘For now, yes, we’re to man the ramparts here. We’re holding them between here and Bethlehem. A Company is going to hold the bastion. I’m not quite sure about the Greeks yet or what happens in the morning, which is why I’m going to head back to Battalion in a moment and see Old Man Vigar. But we need to be vigilant – just in case they try anything at first light.’

‘Shouldn’t we be attacking them at first light, sir? We’ve got them on the run. We should be making the most of that. God knows, we might be able to wipe them out entirely.’

‘Well, maybe. I’ll suggest it to Vigar, but we don’t know what’s going on elsewhere and it’s not only Jerry who’s running low on ammo. We don’t have that much ourselves.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t know about you two, but I feel dog-tired.’ He gave Tanner an affectionate pat on the arm. ‘Look, do me a favour. Organize watches, then try and get your heads down. Who knows what will happen tomorrow? But we’re going to need our wits about us. We might have beaten them back tonight, but this battle isn’t over yet.’

When he had gone, Tanner took out another cigarette. It was cooler now, and he was glad he had put on his battle blouse, which he now buttoned up. The firing had almost completely stopped – just a few shots to the south, and an occasional crack of small arms from away to the east; both sides had paused, it seemed, to lick their wounds. Men still moved around on the street below, but the town was quiet again.

But then he heard voices and both he and Sykes got up and looked down. There, clear in the moonlight, was the silver-haired kapitan with Alopex and half a dozen of their andartes. They watched them, standing there, checking weapons, until they disappeared under the archway of the gate.

‘Where they off to in such a hurry?’ said Sykes.

‘To kill some Germans,’ said Tanner. ‘Which is exactly what we should be doing.’

Dawn had broken a short time after five. First a faint pink and grey strip in the east and then, slowly, an arc of deep orange had risen, just a sliver at first. Oberleutnant Balthasar had awoken, cacophonous birdsong sounding through the many trees and groves around them. Raising himself from his grassy bed on the edge of the river, he took out a water bottle, drank greedily, then went down to the river’s edge and refilled it. The river was barely a trickle and no doubt the water had been filtered with all manner of dead animals and other bad things, but it was better to struggle with a stomach upset than to die of thirst.

He moved forward to check on the pickets. He found two of the men watching diligently from the safety of an olive grove, trees and the tall May grass providing good cover. Lying beside them, he drew out his binoculars. Up ahead were the houses and the walls – the walls that had been briefly theirs. He and the men around him at the Canea Gate had been among the first back to the battalion command post. He had known Major Schulz had gone to try to link up with von der Schulenberg after their breakthrough; his own task had been to secure the west of the town. It had been plaguing him that he had been the one to sound the retreat, but what else could he have done?

Schulz and von der Schulenberg had eventually reappeared with the remains of their storm troops some time after midnight. Balthasar had never seen Schulz so angry. It seemed that, with von der Schulenberg’s men, they had reached the edge of the port. There, he had even taken the surrender of the town from a Greek major and the town’s mayor and had raised the swastika from a flag-pole at the western end of the harbour, but as they had been corralling the prisoners, they had come under attack again. The Tommies were refusing to honour the surrender. ‘It is completely against the practices of war,’ Schulz had fumed. He had been cheated of victory and, in the process of falling back out of the town, had lost far more men than they had when they stormed the walls. Anger was fuelled by bitter disappointment; that night, they had suffered their first defeat of the war.

He looked at the town. It seemed quiet enough.

‘Have you had contact with the other pickets?’ he asked.

‘No, Herr Oberleutnant.’

‘All right,’ he said, moving into a crouching position. ‘I’ll send some men to relieve you shortly.’ He moved along through the grove, pushed his way underneath two thick olive trees, and then recoiled. Before him, in a slight hollow in the ground, lying in the grass, were two of the pickets, side by side, their heads severed and placed on their chests. Pinned to the jump smock of one was a note, written in German: ‘Ravening a blood drinker though you may be, yet will I glut your taste for blood.’ Balthasar snatched the note, the paper stained with blood, then looked back towards the town. A fury he had not experienced before coursed through him, as he made his way to the command post. Quickly sending forward replacement pickets, he then found Unteroffizier Rohde and ordered him to organize a burial party. ‘Wrap them in parachute silk,’ he snapped. ‘The fewer men who see them the better.’

Schulz was up, squatting beside a radio, anxiously watching the operator as he tuned the receiver.

‘Herr Major,’ said Balthasar, ‘two pickets were killed in the night.’

‘Scheisser,’ cursed Schulz. ‘How? I did not hear any shooting.’

‘They had their heads cut off.’ He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply.

‘My God,’ said Schulz, his voice quiet.

‘Here,’ said Balthasar, passing him the bloodied note.

Schulz snatched it, his eyes scanning the words. ‘What does it mean?’

‘Revenge, Herr Major. I imagine it is a quotation of some kind.’

‘Revenge?’ snarled Schulz. ‘Revenge? I will give those sons of bitches revenge!’

But there was little they could do that morning. A head count showed they had now lost more than seventy per cent of their force since the air landings had begun. Ammunition was low; so, too, was food. The survivors were exhausted – Balthasar could see it in the men’s drawn faces. Morale, usually so high, had taken a beating. Every man among them had lost good friends, and that was hard to take. And there was the shock of defeat, too. Those who had fought in France or in Greece were used to lightning victories with minimal losses; those new to action had joined their ranks expecting those successes too. Now there was the grotesque murder of the two pickets. Schulz had tried to put a lid on it but, of course, word had quickly got round.

It was their inability to make contact with any of the other units that Balthasar found so frustrating. They knew that more men were due to be dropped that day around the airfield, and, they hoped, more supplies, but it was infuriating not to know what was happening, whether the men dropped around the airfield were making headway, whether the other drops at Rethymno and Canea had succeeded or failed. Despite repeated efforts on the radio set, no contact had been made with Oberst Bräuer and the rest of the men in Orion Sector, the designated codename for the Heraklion Drop Zone, nor had the runner sent the previous night reappeared. God only knew what had happened to him. A link had been established with Major Schirmer and his men from the 2nd Fallschirmjäger Regiment, who had now secured the Canea road, but Schirmer would only spare one company. The 3rd Battalion now had just 204 men left and nothing like enough ammunition to launch any kind of attack. They would have to stay where they were, digging in and watching out for any enemy counter-attack.

Just after seven, with the sun now risen, a radio signal from VIII Fliegerkorps was intercepted. From this they learned that the Luftwaffe would be carrying out a supply drop and bombing Heraklion some time after 8 a.m.

‘Let’s hope they come soon and find us,’ said Balthasar, squinting up at the cloudless sky. ‘It’s going to be hot today.’

‘Get a flag pinned out,’ said Schulz, ‘and have the green flares ready. We can’t afford for those fly boys to miss us. Some supplies will give the men a much-needed lift.’

Balthasar took another glug from his water bottle. ‘I know what will really lift morale,’ he said. ‘The chance to make those bastards pay.’

The daily hate arrived just after 9 a.m., Stukas first, circling and bombing the harbour area, and then around a dozen Junkers 88s. From their positions on the walls, Tanner watched through his binoculars. Some of the bombs landed in the sea, others on the town. The noise – the scream of the sirens, the whistle of the falling bombs, the explosions, the crash of stone and timber collapsing, and the pounding of the anti-aircraft guns – was deafeningly loud. Huge clouds of dust and smoke enveloped the harbour and then several houses were hit nearby, the ground thudding at the explosion. The dust and smoke that rolled up into the air soon drifted across to the walls, making the men there cough and choke.

And then they were gone, the smoke soon thinned and dispersed, and above them droned another wave of aircraft, this time transports.

‘Here, look at this, sir,’ said Tanner, passing his binoculars to Lieutenant Timmins.

‘What am I looking at, CSM?’ asked Timmins, a thin-faced twenty-three-year-old from Knaresborough, commander of 2 Platoon.

‘The flare, sir, that Jerry’s just fired.’

‘What of it? I’m afraid I don’t really catch your drift, Tanner.’

Tanner tried not to let his impatience show in his voice. ‘Well, sir, first of all it’s pinpointing exactly where those para boys are, and second, it’s clearly a signal to the transports coming over to drop them supplies and maybe even reinforcements.’

‘Yes, yes, I see what you mean.’

‘So next time they come, if our lot to the south of the town start firing green flares, then maybe Jerry will drop us some supplies too.’

Timmins grinned. ‘That would certainly get up Jerry’s nose.’

‘It would, sir.’

Most of the transports seemed to be to the east of the town and, once again, the chatter of small arms could be heard between the thunder of the ack-ack guns. Parachutes were blossoming behind him, but now several opened out ahead. Tanner took back his binoculars and peered through them again. Canisters. He counted half a dozen descending slowly to the ground, then disappearing from view behind the shallow ridge away to the west.

He had been studying the ground since first light, and already it felt familiar to him. The edge of the town spread only a short distance from the walls, then beyond were the seemingly endless olive and fruit groves and vineyards, interspersed with small grass meadows. Stretching away from the town was the main road to Rethymno and Canea, an unmetalled and dusty track that cut a creamy path through the endless green vegetation and rose up over the ridge, beyond which, he guessed, was the river he had seen the previous afternoon. Then maize fields, yet more olives and finally the mountains. Just the far side of the ridge, but clearly visible above it, was a house, a farmstead of some kind, he supposed. It was from around there, just the other side of the ridge, that the flare had been fired. How far? Half a mile, maybe as much as a thousand yards. Just out of rifle range. And there would be the Germans’ forward positions, with pickets sent to keep watch, just as he was watching them.

Tanner had been hoping for movement, but had seen little sign of life, apart from a brief moment when the sun had caught some glass and a blinding glint had twinkled from an olive grove. A paratrooper looking back at him, he guessed. At least now he had some definite markers. He knew the Cretans had been out scalp-hunting in the night, but his thoughts now were of patrolling at dusk, assuming the enemy did not try anything in the meantime. Certainly, there were few indicators to suggest they would: the morning hate had been no worse than normal, and the Aegean looked calm and untroubled, no sign of any German armada steaming over the horizon towards them.

Down below, burial parties were clearing away the dead from the previous evening, a grim task that was now the responsibility of B Company since they had been detailed to cover the Canea Gate and the bastion. It was a measure designed to ease the load on the Greek battalions, now back in position at either side of them. ‘To buck them up a bit,’ was apparently what Colonel Vigar had told Peploe. The rest of the battalion had returned to their positions astride the Knossos road. A cart of bodies was now rumbling through the gate itself and out to a pit that had been dug at the edge of town, a task overseen by Lieutenant Liddell. It was funny, Tanner reflected, how different things were now. When he was a child, the Liddells had been treated like royalty in their village. David Liddell had been a respected man, squire of the parish. Tanner had been taught not to speak to any of the Liddells unless spoken to; he’d not liked that even then, but it had been the way of things. It had existed for centuries, the huge chasm between landowner and the families who worked for him.

The war was changing that. Second Lieutenant Liddell might be an officer and therefore still his superior, but the men knew that the CSM ran the company with the company commander. That was also the way of things. The men respected and looked up to him, he knew, something he had earned. The war was turning civilians into soldiers – men like Liddell and even Captain Peploe, who in peacetime would never have worn a uniform. And they were seeing that those from the lower classes were not necessarily another man’s inferior. War was levelling the social divide. As Tanner was aware, his own natural authority and his proven abilities in battle had shown that a man like Guy Liddell was not his better any more.

Early afternoon, in a quiet street near the harbour. They were in a small Venetian townhouse, two storeys high, in a room on the first floor with white walls, crammed bookcases, a few old prints, a desk and a couple of tatty armchairs. To the side of the desk, French windows led out onto a small balcony, from which the twinkling blue of the old harbour could be glimpsed. By the door stood a hatstand, over which was slung a Sam Browne belt, and an officer’s peaked cap, and beneath it, what at first glance appeared to be an ivory-handled cane but was, in fact, a swordstick.

Behind the desk sat John Pendlebury, leaning back in his swivel chair, smoking a cigarette, while the two armchairs were occupied by Satanas and Alopex, the former also smoking, but a long cheroot rather than a cigarette. Alex Vaughan was leaning against the French windows’ frame. A knock on the door, and in came Corporal Tasker-Brown, bearing a tray of small glasses and a bottle of raki. Pendlebury leaned forward to clear a space for the tray, rolling his glass eye in the process but neatly catching it as it tipped off the edge of the desk.

‘Damn eye,’ he said.

‘The patch is better,’ said Alopex. ‘It makes you look more fierce.’ He chuckled.

‘I wonder whether the Huns have worked out their little message yet,’ said Pendlebury, as he poured the raki.

‘What’s this?’ said Vaughan.

Pendlebury glanced across at Satanas and Alopex, with a smirk. ‘I wrote our friends a line from Herodotus,’ he said. ‘“Ravening a blood drinker though you may be, yet will I glut your taste for blood.”’ He raised his glass. ‘Your good health, gentlemen.’

‘And then we caught two of their sentries,’ grinned Alopex, ‘killed them, cut off their heads and left that note pinned to one of them.’

Satanas and Alopex chuckled.

‘For God’s sake,’ snapped Vaughan. ‘You’re as bad as them. Behaving like savages.’

‘They were already dead,’ said Pendlebury. ‘We’re trying to sow a sense of discord, of fear, among them.’

‘And the point of the Herodotus?’

‘It was said by Queen Tamaris when she cut off the head of King Cyrus. Cyrus and the Persians invaded her kingdom of the Massagetae. She captured him, executed him and returned his head in a sack.’

‘Invade our country and pay the price.’

‘Exactly. I think it sent a very clear message.’ Pendlebury pushed back his chair and ran his hands through his hair. ‘The maddening thing, though, is that we should be annihilating that mob out there. Tonight we should be finishing them off. Damn it all, we’ve got way more men than they have. We could storm their positions and be done with ’em. I’m no soldier, but I know my history, and that tells me one should always exploit success. “Don’t leave today what might cause rivers of blood tomorrow.”’

‘Our andartes are ready and waiting in the mountains,’ said Satanas. ‘We give them the word and they’ll attack.’

Alopex stroked his moustache. ‘Then we would attack them from behind. The British could stay here, sitting on their arses. It would be our victory. A Cretan victory. Word would quickly spread. It would unite our people against the Nazi invader.’

Pendlebury leaned forward, thinking, his fingers drumming on the desk. Then he stood up. ‘Damn it – you know what? We should break out of here now. Go and tell the andartes to attack. If we’d been given radio sets like I asked then we could signal Hanford and Bruce-Mitford, but since we haven’t then I see no other way.’

‘Don’t be mad, John,’ said Vaughan. ‘If you must go, wait until dark.’

‘No. It’ll be too late then. We need to get them moving now, this afternoon, so that they can attack at dusk. Satanas and Alopex can head back to Sarhos and Krousonas, and I’ll break through to Gazi.’

‘But the Germans are to the west of the town,’ said Vaughan. ‘You’ll never get through.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ said Pendlebury, lighting another cigarette. ‘We drove to see Brigadier Chappel this morning and there are supposedly German paratroopers swarming around between here and there too. We never saw a single one and we were making no effort to hide.’

‘They probably moved in the night.’

‘Listen, Alex, I’ve been trying to work out how many paratroopers we have to the west of here, and I reckon at the absolute most – and it’s probably even a lot less than this – there cannot be more than three hundred. Three hundred, spread out along the reverse slopes of that ridge, is not very many. Are you really going to tell me I can’t sneak through with all that lovely natural cover? Course I can.’

‘If they see you, they’ll kill you. After what you did last night, I don’t suppose they’ll be in a very forgiving mood towards any of us,’ said Vaughan.

‘They won’t. I know these folds like the back of my hand. I can get through them, I know I can.’

‘This is madness, utter madness. It’s not a game. And you are no soldier. You’re a brilliant inspiration and a wonderful organizer, but you’ve barely done any fighting in your life. Let the army boys do their job, John.’

‘But they’re not, are they? You heard Brigadier Chappel this morning. A fine fellow, I have no doubt, but he wouldn’t even consider ordering a counter-attack. He just wants to sit and wait. Well, that’s no good. We need to strike now. I know I’m right.’ He looked at Satanas and Alopex for approval. Satanas tilted his head. I think you are right. ‘We’ll leave through the Canea Gate, head straight down the road and then split up. You two can go south, and I’ll break through to the west.’

‘John, don’t. It’s a needless risk.’

‘Battles aren’t won without taking risks, Alex.’

‘Battles aren’t won taking needless, stupid risks.’

Pendlebury walked over to Vaughan and clasped him by the arms. ‘Alex. We need to do this. My mind is made up.’