Blood of Honour

11

No one had said a word as the remaining five Rangers made their way back to the town. Only when they had passed through the Canea Gate and on beneath the walls to the bastion did Tanner turn to the others. ‘Get a drink and some tiffin, and clean your weapons,’ he snapped.

‘Shouldn’t you get your wound seen to, sir?’ suggested Sykes.

‘No, I bloody shouldn’t. Now get going – all of you.’ He leaned against the wall and took a long draught from his water bottle. He gasped and then grimaced with pain.

‘I’m going to have you court-martialled, Tanner,’ hissed Liddell.

‘Oh, really?’

‘You directly disobeyed my orders and then – I still cannot believe you did this – you had the nerve to knock me unconscious. Striking an officer, Tanner, that’s very bad. Very bad indeed.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Tanner. ‘I saved your life. I could have left you there. Left you for Jerry. If you hadn’t stopped yapping you’d have got us all killed, rather than just Atkins and Captain Pendlebury.’

Liddell’s face reddened. Tanner saw the jaw muscles clench with anger. ‘You’re forgetting yourself, Tanner. And forgetting what I told you earlier.’

‘I’m not forgetting anything,’ snarled Tanner.

‘Do you want me to tell the men the truth about you?’

‘And what’s that? What is the truth, Mr Liddell? Why don’t you tell me what you know?’

Liddell glared at him. ‘You killed that lad. The one who died. Cutler – George Cutler.’

‘Oh, did I really?’ Tanner made to wipe his brow and saw Liddell flinch. ‘You don’t know. You don’t know anything. You can tell the men whatever you bloody well like.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘How could such a fine man as David Liddell have been your father?’

‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

‘Look, you stupid bastard, go and report me to Captain Peploe. Go on, run off and bleat. And then I’ll tell him how you wrecked the whole mission. I’m beginning to think Captain Pendlebury would have got through on his own if we hadn’t made such a bloody racket. And he still would have most likely got through if you hadn’t gone and lost your nerve and fired that rifle. My rifle. No shooting, I said. What the hell did you let off that shot for?’

Liddell said nothing.

‘Well?’ said Tanner again. ‘Why did you?’

‘I didn’t mean to!’ spluttered Liddell. ‘I had the bolt cocked and my finger ready on the trigger. It just went off.’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Tanner, clutching his hair, ‘give me strength. Get away from me. Say what you want to Captain Peploe, but bloody well keep away from me.’

He staggered across the street to the house they had taken over from the Greeks as Company Headquarters, Liddell following him.

‘Wait,’ said Liddell.

‘I’ve told you – keep away,’ growled Tanner. Captain Peploe was not there, so he pushed past Liddell and went back to the bastion. He felt hot and weak and his side hurt, but as he went through the arched wooden doorway of the left-hand tunnel, he stepped instantly into a world that was refreshingly dark, cool and musty. The Pantokratoros Bastion was bisected by two dark tunnels that ran through its length, although only the left-hand one was being used now. At the entrance between the tunnels was an old guardroom, with one solitary oval window looking back down Dedikaki. B Company had made this their mess room, a place to escape the smell and the heat.

Sykes was in the guardroom, chatting with Staff Sergeant Woodman.

‘All right, sir?’ asked Sykes.

‘Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you, Stan,’ he said.

‘’S all right, sir.’

‘Have you seen Captain Peploe?’

‘He’s with the colonel,’ said Woodman.

Tanner nodded and left them, heading back out into the bright sunshine. He took another glug of water, then set off down Plastira, the road that ran all the way round beneath the walls to Jesus Bastion.

The bodies from the fighting the previous night had now all been removed, but patches of dried blood could still be seen on the ground. He passed a blackened building, the site of bitter fighting. Jesus, was it really only yesterday? It felt a lifetime ago. The distance to Battalion HQ was not far – less than a mile – but even though he had kept in the shade of the walls, he felt light-headed by the time he reached the bastion. Captain Peploe was upstairs with Colonel Vigar, he was told, and by the time he reached the top of the stairs, he had to hold out an arm and lean against the wall in an effort to regain his composure. He paused a moment, then stumbled to the colonel’s office and knocked at the open door.

‘Good God, Tanner!’ exclaimed the colonel, as Tanner weakly saluted.

‘Jack, are you all right?’ Peploe stood up and got him a chair. ‘Here, sit down.’

Tanner gratefully did as he was bidden. Peploe offered him his silver hip flask. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. Brandy. The fluid scorched his mouth and throat but the kick from the alcohol revived him. And now the colonel was offering him a cigarette. Tanner smiled. ‘Why, thank you, sir. I need to go on patrols like this more often.’

‘So what happened?’ asked Peploe, as Tanner exhaled a large swirling cloud of cigarette smoke. He told them – no details, but the bare facts.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Peploe, when he had finished. ‘And Atkins, too. I’m sorry, I always knew it was a bad mission.’

‘Yes,’ muttered Colonel Vigar. ‘Damned bad show.’

‘He would have made it – Captain Pendlebury,’ Tanner said. ‘I could see him. He was clear of the river, but then a rifle went off and it was bloody mayhem.’

‘Who fired the shot?’ asked Peploe.

‘God knows,’ Tanner lied. ‘I’d been seeing to some pickets when it went off. I’m sorry, though, sir. Two good men. I know Captain Pendlebury was an important man here. And I’m also sorry you won’t now get your guided tour.’

Peploe grimaced. ‘Fate has rather conspired against it, hasn’t it? I’ve got his books, but it’s not quite the same. He was a great man, though. It’s sad, very sad.’

‘But at least the rest of you got back,’ said the colonel. ‘That’s something.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Peploe. ‘I was half convinced you’d all come croppers out there.’ He now looked at the bloody mess of Tanner’s side. ‘Is it bad?’

‘No, sir, just a graze. Bloody hurts, though.’

‘Take him to the MO, Peploe, and then you’d better go and see Captain Vaughan.’

‘Sir?’ said Tanner, as he stood up once more. ‘Tonight? Are we counter-attacking?’

‘I’ve had no orders to that effect.’

Tanner’s wound was not serious. An unpleasant gash, but when it had been properly cleaned, treated and bandaged, the MO assured Tanner it should heal quickly. His light-headedness had been compounded by too much sun, extreme fatigue and not enough water. The doctor urged him to drink more and gave him a couple of benzedrine pills. ‘One of those will perk you up in no time,’ he said cheerfully.

Tanner swallowed one with a large draught of water and by the time he and Captain Peploe were back outside in the street he felt decidedly better.

‘Do you want me to come with you to see Captain Vaughan?’ he asked.

‘Perhaps it might not be a bad idea. I’m sure they can spare us both another half-hour.’ Peploe squinted up at the deep blue cloudless sky, then whisked away a fly. ‘Bloody hell, it’s hot.’

A loud boom of guns made both men flinch, and then they heard the tell-tale hum of aero-engines. A high-pitched whine – and Stukas were high above the town, ten of them, peeling off one after the other and diving, sirens screaming. The guns around the harbour and edge of the town thundered, the ground shook, and bombs were crashing down once more.

‘Come on, Jack!’ yelled Peploe. ‘Captain Vaughan can wait. We should hurry back to the gate.’

In the ten minutes it took to reach the company at the wall, the Stukas had gone and were now pasting the area to the east of the town around the airfield. Much of Heraklion lay smothered in a cloud of slowly rolling dust and smoke. Bombs had landed just to the west of the town and several buildings had been destroyed, but as Tanner and Peploe climbed up onto the wall once more, they heard more aircraft, transports this time, and the sky was filling with parachutes.

‘Sir, with your permission, I’m going to try a little experiment,’ said Tanner.

‘What is it?’

‘Green flares, sir. To attract the transports.’

Peploe grinned. ‘All right.’

Tanner grabbed Woodman and Hepworth, hurried across the road to retrieve a Very pistol and green flares from his pack, then ran back out through the Canea Gate and to the house where they had earlier paused. A wave of Junkers was now thundering over so, aiming his Very pistol into the air, Tanner fired. The flare crackled with a green light. He fired another and, sure enough, moments later, four canisters were floating down towards them.

‘Neat trick, that, sir,’ grinned Hepworth.

‘Thank you, Hep. Now we just have to watch where they land and retrieve them.’

Two were beyond daylight reach, but Tanner carefully noted where they had come to rest; they could be collected at dusk. However, the other two landed close by – one in a grove less than fifty yards away, the other drifting down among the houses behind them.

‘Would you bloody believe it?’ laughed Woodman. ‘That’s going to really piss off Jerry, that is.’

‘And we like pissing off Jerry, don’t we?’ said Tanner.

They collected the container from the olive grove, cutting away the silk parachute, folding it up, then dragging the long, rectangular aluminium box back to the safety of the house. It was heavy – too heavy to be easily dragged as far as the wall. ‘Hep,’ said Tanner, ‘run back and get a few of the lads from your section to help pull this in.’

While Hepworth hurried off, Tanner and Woodman retrieved the second canister, which they found lying in an alleyway. Several Cretan boys and old men were already standing around it, but they moved away as Tanner and Woodman approached. This one was lighter and they moved it easily, dragging it down the dusty road to where they had left the other.

‘It’s like Christmas, Jack,’ said Woodman, rubbing his hands. ‘What d’you reckon we’ve got here?’

‘Hmm,’ said Tanner. ‘Rations in the lighter one. Ammo in the other? Let’s have a look.’ There were indeed rations in the first, but also medical supplies.

‘Verbandkasten,’ said Tanner, pulling out one of the green-grey metal boxes. ‘We can always do with medical kit.’ He opened it up. On the underside of the lid was an inventory of its contents, and the box included a number of field dressings, ointments, syringes and phials. The canister contained six such boxes in all.

‘How’s your wound, Jack?’ said Woodman. ‘You can try some Jerry medicine on it and see if it’s any better.’

Tanner grinned. ‘Hold on, Woody,’ he said, pulling out a cardboard box. ‘See what that says?’

‘Zigaretten,’ said Woodman. ‘Lovely job.’

Tanner ripped open the box. ‘Tennis Meister! Never heard of that one before. More of a cricket man myself, but I’ll give ’em a go.’ He pocketed four packets and gave the remaining four to Woodman.

‘Finders keepers, eh, Jack?’

Tanner lit one and inhaled. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, breathed out the smoke, then delved back into the canister. There were more cardboard boxes, and Tanner lobbed one with ‘Eiserne Portion’ stamped on the side. ‘Have a dekko at what’s in there,’ he said, taking out another box for himself. ‘This one says, “Nahkampfpackung”,’ he said. ‘God knows what that means.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Woodman, opening his. ‘Hard-tack biscuits and tinned fish. Just what I wanted.’ He rolled his eyes.

‘Bad luck,’ chuckled Tanner. ‘I’ve got more beadies in this one, and some chocolate. Bloody hell, there’s even sweets and a couple of cigars. Bloody brilliant rations, these.’

Hepworth arrived back with two other men and Tanner lobbed him a bar of chocolate. ‘Here you go, Hep. This one’s on me.’

‘Cheers, sir,’ said Hepworth. ‘What’s in the other container?’

‘Haven’t got that far. Hold on.’ Tanner opened it, then his face creased into a smile. ‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘Will you look at that?’ Inside was an MG34 light machine-gun, spare barrels, oilers and two aluminium tins of ammunition.

‘We’ve had one of those before, haven’t we, sir?’ said Hepworth.

Tanner nodded. ‘The barrels get bloody hot, but they can chuck out the bullets, all right.’ He closed the lid again. ‘Anyway, enough of the chat. Time to get them back.’ He stood up and looked at the sky. The Germans had gone, and the guns were quiet once more. It had been a good ruse, firing those green flares, but there was no doubting that many more canisters had fallen further to the west, among the enemy. Presumably more would come the following day. He felt a fly settle on his neck and slapped it, but it buzzed away.

If only they received orders to counter-attack that night. Time was everything, and he felt certain they should attack right away, while they had the chance. He wondered what was holding Brigadier Chappel back. Did he know something, some piece of intelligence, or was it just caution? Tanner shook his head. ‘Iggery, lads,’ he said. ‘Back to the walls.’

Around the same time, Major General Freyberg was holding a conference with his commanders in the Canea sector at the Creforce Headquarters quarry, although Brigadier Vasey had also driven over from Georgioupolis near Rethymno, to report on the situation there. Overnight, the enemy paratroopers at Maleme had occupied the perimeter of the airfield and taken command there. Yet this did not unduly worry Brigadier Hargest, commander of 5th Brigade around Maleme, since he still had two battalions, plus two companies from the 22nd Battalion within shouting distance. Having talked to his divisional commander, Brigadier Puttick, that morning, he had agreed that there was no need to launch a counter-attack on the airfield until dusk. With his guns and infantry all around the south and east of Maleme, there seemed to be little the Germans could do. He would let the Huns fry in the sun all day and finish them off that night.

This mood of quiet confidence had not changed as they had settled down around a rough wooden trestle table to discuss the current situation and to plan for the counter-attack that night at Maleme. Drinks had been poured, cigarettes handed around; their faces were serious but hardly grave.

No sooner had they each given their brief reports than Freyberg was interrupted by Captain Sandford, head of the signals group above the quarry.

‘Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.’

Freyberg stepped away from the table and, taking the thin, folded piece of paper from Sandford, went outside to read it in private. Clear of any possible prying eyes, he unfolded it and read: ‘On continuation of attack Colorado, reliably reported that among operations planned for twenty-first May is air landing two mountain battalions and attack Canea. Landing from echelon of small ships depending on situation at sea.’

Freyberg read it through again, his heart sinking, then held it out and, with his cigarette lighter, burned it, the paper curling and blackening and turning to ash. For a moment he stood there thinking. Colorado was the codename for Crete, but an attack on Canea had been spelled out in the clear. The air landing of two battalions was less of a concern because he did not see how the Germans could land at Maleme when the south and east of the airfield were still surrounded by 5th New Zealand Brigade, but a seaborne invasion was a different matter. It was what he had feared most all along, and now it was about to happen.

He walked stiffly back to the table and sat down, then gulped his Scotch. For a moment he said nothing, his brow furrowed, his mind whirring. He wished he could have shown the signal to the others, to discuss it in detail, but he had been sworn not to show such messages to any soul under any circumstances. Besides Captain Sandford, also sworn to secrecy, these signals were for his eyes only. And only he could shoulder the responsibility of acting on this intelligence.

‘Are you all right, General?’ asked Puttick.

Freyberg, who had been rubbing his brow between his fingers and thumb, looked up. ‘Er, yes – sorry. Where were we? Yes, the counter-attack on Maleme tonight.’

Hargest cleared his throat. ‘Ideally, I’d like another couple of battalions,’ he said. He was a round-faced and round-girthed New Zealander, with a short, trim moustache, a farmer and politician in New Zealand between the wars. ‘I’ve got the 21st and 23rd Battalions primed and ready to go, and the Maoris still at Platanias, but I’d far rather have an overwhelming force and make sure we do the job properly.’

‘I can release you two of my battalions,’ said Brigadier Inglis, commander of the 4th Brigade, based further along the coast between Canea and the village of Galatas.

‘Out of the question,’ retorted Freyberg. ‘We need the troops here in case there’s a seaborne invasion.’

‘Surely one battalion could be spared, sir?’ said Hargest.

‘Only if Vasey agrees to release one of his Australian battalions from Rethymno to replace it.’ He turned to Vasey. ‘You seem to have Rethymno in hand, Vasey. Can you spare one of yours? What about the 2/7th?’

‘I was rather hoping to use them to clear the road to Rethymno, sir.’

‘And it’ll take some hours to get them here, sir, at the very least,’ said Hargest.

‘Hargest is right, sir. It’s forty miles and we’ve barely enough M/T. Then there’s also the problem of moving in daylight with enemy fighters about.’

Freyberg held up a hand. ‘Do your best, Vasey. Put the order through now. I’m sorry, but I’m not budging on what I said. You can’t have another battalion until Vasey’s Australians arrive. We’ve got more pressing concerns here at Canea and Suda than those few paratroopers at Maleme. What you’ve got should be more than enough as it is. Damn it, man, you’ve got three whole battalions you can use. Those para boys must be hopelessly low on ammunition by now. You should be able to slaughter ’em.’

Hargest nodded. ‘Very well, General.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s nearly fifteen hundred hours now. If Vasey’s lot can get here by, say, twenty hundred, then I’d still like to have 20th Battalion or whichever one you can spare, Inglis. But as you say, sir, I’m sure I’m being overly cautious.’

‘Of course you are, James,’ said Puttick. ‘Colonel Andrew panicked a bit last night, that’s all. I don’t entirely blame him – it’s difficult to know what to do for the best when communications are down, but we’re aware of the situation now and you’ve got more than enough troops as it is to deal with it. The general’s right, it’ll be a slaughter. But what we must be careful about is moving the fielder every time the ball goes through the gap. If the Huns try a seaborne invasion or an attempt to break out of Prison Valley, we’re going to need troops here. Balance, James. It’s all about maintaining balance.’

They left soon after, just as the latest enemy air raids were developing. Stukas and Junkers 88s bombed British positions along the coast from Maleme to Suda Bay, the coast disappearing once more amid a haze of smoke and dust. The bombing did not appear to have been particularly accurate, but this time the planes had been accompanied by fighters, Messerschmitt 109s, which strafed positions in the wake of the Junkers. As the dust settled and the smoke began to drift away, the transports appeared, turning and flying parallel to the coast in their already familiar vics of three. From the sand-bagged sangar at the mouth of the quarry, Freyberg, tin hat on his head, peered through powerful binoculars at the spectacle. A large number of parachutes were blossoming directly over Platanias, some six miles away. They were met by furious return fire, cackling like fireworks all along the coast to the rocky outcrop of Akrotiri where Freyberg now stood. He smiled to himself. Of all the people he would least like to meet were he to be descending in a parachute, it was the Maori. Vicious little brutes.

Fierce fighting continued for at least an hour and a half. There seemed to be something going on at Maleme as well, but Freyberg soon found himself gazing out to sea, more than along the coast. The signal had been quite explicit: a seaborne invasion was expected that day, 21 May. Freyberg found himself pacing impatiently: into the quarry, back out to the sangar. Then he left the quarry entirely, and climbed up through the sagebrush over dusty red soil to the rocky ground above. Sweat ran down the sides of his face, but whether it was from the heat or anxiety, he was not entirely sure.

At half past four, unable to sit waiting at Creforce Headquarters any longer, he ordered his car and sped down the hill to Suda Bay to see the naval officer-in-charge, Captain Morse. Half-sunken ships littered the narrow bay, while along the docks, the signs of repeated air attacks were all too apparent. Part of the quayside had completely collapsed, a crane lay on its side, twisted and broken, while a number of buildings were nothing more than piles of jagged rubble. There was an air of menace and desolation about the place.

Morse’s command post was in a building a short way from the harbour’s edge, with a commanding view back down the length of the bay. As his car drew to a halt, Freyberg looked back at the harbour and the men clearing the rubble; it was a big task. Morse seemed slightly surprised when, a minute later, Freyberg was brought into his office – another room of smooth, whitewashed stone, a picture of the King on the wall behind the desk and a shipping chart opposite. An ashtray overflowed with cigarette ends. Morse stubbed out yet another, saluted, then nodded towards the window. ‘I’m afraid we can’t keep up, sir. It doesn’t matter how much we clear away, there’s always more.’

‘What about Suda Island?’ said Freyberg. ‘Have the stores there been cleared out yet?’

‘Yes, sir. We finished yesterday.’

‘Good.’ He stroked his moustache. ‘Look here, Morse,’ he said. ‘About a German seaborne invasion …’

‘As I said to you before, sir, I really don’t think that need be too much of a concern.’

‘Yes, you keep saying that, but we’ve underestimated the Hun before in this war and with dire consequences.’

Morse could not help his sigh of exasperation. He looked tired, his eyes hollow. ‘There are logistical issues here,’ he said. ‘The only way Hitler can get his men across the Aegean is by requisitioning large numbers of caiques. These are the only vessels in the sort of quantities he would need to transport any kind of invasion force.’

‘What about Greek merchant ships and the Italian navy?’

‘Perhaps one or two trampers as well, but nothing that would transport a serious invasion force. As for the Italians, well – the Italian fleet is not in the Aegean. One destroyer is known to be at Piraeus but nothing more.’

‘But from these, Morse, they could assemble an invasion fleet.’

Morse chuckled. ‘Well, yes, I suppose they could, but as I said to you before, the Mediterranean Fleet could deal with anything they put out. As you know, Admiral Cunningham now has four task forces in the Aegean. Believe me, sir, our destroyers would make light work of any German invasion fleet, let alone our cruisers and battleships. Surface vessels are not a problem. It’s attacks from the air that you need to worry about.’

Freyberg left him soon after, still unconvinced by Morse’s reassurances. The intelligence from Cairo had been uncannily accurate so far and now he had it on the same authority that a seaborne invasion would be coming today. The sea was a big place – what if it was not picked up by Cunningham’s forces?

By the time he arrived back at Creforce Headquarters, it was some time after five. Brigadier Stewart, his chief of staff, was there to meet him, concern etched across his face.

‘You’d better come and have a look, General,’ he said, leading him to the observation-post sangar.

Freyberg took the proffered binoculars in silence and trained them out to sea. He could see nothing – just the same deep, empty blue. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at, Keith? Can’t see anything.’

‘No, sir, not out to sea – at Maleme.’

Freyberg peered through the lenses. There was a lot of smoke around Maleme – it looked as though a fuel dump had been hit because at one end a huge column of black smoke rose into the air – but he could now see a German transport coming in to land. Men began leaping out, and then the aircraft moved off again, wobbling as it took to the air and disappearing into the smoke. Moments later, it re-emerged, rising safely out of the fray. Other transports, he could see, had not been so fortunate – one was still burning fiercely; another lay wrecked.

‘We seem to be making mincemeat of this little effort,’ he said, passing the binoculars back to Stewart. ‘I’d have thought that was a gunner’s dream.’

‘But if they keep coming and gain a foothold, General—’

Freyberg raised a hand. ‘Look to the sea, Keith, look to the sea. That’s where we need to worry.’

Once again, the intelligence reports had been right. An invasion fleet was on its way. Decrypts of German radio traffic reported that it was steaming for Crete. To protect this most secret of sources, Admiral Cunningham despatched a lone Maryland reconnaissance plane, which duly found the fleet, as if by accident. By dusk, three of the Mediterranean Fleet’s forces were back in the Aegean, and as darkness fell Force D, of three giant cruisers and four destroyers, all bristling with a combination of heavy guns, pompoms, cannons and torpedoes, was closing in for the kill.

All this immense fire power against one Italian destroyer, two small, rusting steamers and nineteen caiques.

It was around 11.25 p.m. when a runner from Captain Sandford’s signals team arrived at the Creforce quarry with important news. They had been monitoring radio traffic out at sea and had just picked up the news that Force D was about to engage. Freyberg immediately hurried outside, Stewart and other staff officers following, and clambered up to the rocky outcrop above.

Suddenly the horizon was lit by a series of flashes, followed, some moments later, by the dull crump of guns. Relief coursed through the general. More flashes, orange and red, momentarily lit the sky, then came the steady peal of the guns’ thunder.

‘Ha, ha!’ chuckled Freyberg, jumping from foot to foot. From the signals group regular updates were brought down. An Italian destroyer, the Lupo, was reported sunk, then two steamers. Two caiques had gone down, then five, then ten. Eventually it was reported that eighteen out of nineteen had surrendered or been destroyed. The invasion force was dead in the water.

Freyberg looked up at the stars twinkling down on them and breathed in deeply. A hint of smoke, but mostly he could smell the sage and grass, and the dusty red clay. Gunfire could still be heard out at sea, but the invasion force was no more.

‘It’s over,’ said Brigadier Stewart. ‘Well done, sir. Perhaps we will save Crete after all.’

‘Thank you, Keith,’ said Freyberg. ‘It’s been a great responsibility. A great responsibility.’ He looked at his watch. The counter-attack at Maleme was due to start in half an hour, at around 1 a.m., later than originally planned, but with 20th Battalion, released after the late arrival of the 2/7th Australians. ‘Time for Bedfordshire, I think,’ he said. ‘Can’t do much to help the boys at Maleme by staying up all night.’

Freyberg walked back to his villa, cicadas ringing in his ears, the rough ground crunching underfoot. His worst fears had not come to pass. Damn it, he should have listened to Morse.

The Creforce commander was already fast asleep by the time the counter-attack was due to begin, so he was blissfully unaware that already it had begun to unravel. Delays and more delays as troops struggled through the night meant that it was not until 3.30 a.m. that the Maori and 20th Battalion finally began advancing along the coast towards Maleme, and not until well after dawn that they would be in any position to join the counter-attack on the airfield. And all the time more and more fresh, well-equipped German mountain troops had been landing.

The invasion force at sea might have been defeated, but Freyberg had made a catastrophic miscalculation, for while he slept, Maleme was about to be lost for good.

And, with it, British chances of saving the island.