Blood of Honour

14

Alopex stood framed in the doorway, two of his andartes behind him. ‘We have come to check on our supplies – supplies we will need when you have run away again.’

‘I’m not going bloody anywhere.’

‘I hope not. We still have a score to settle. Two scores to settle now. You let Pendlebury get killed.’

‘He got himself killed with that hare-brained plan of his,’ growled Tanner. ‘As you know full bloody well. You should have persuaded him to go with you.’ Tanner shone his torch in Alopex’s face. ‘You had no problems getting through, then? Or have you been skulking here ever since?’

Alopex laughed, then lunged forward and flung a fist into Tanner’s stomach. He doubled up, gasped, and staggered backwards.

‘Hey, hey, easy, mate!’ said Sykes, moving between them.

‘Listen, you son of a whore,’ hissed Alopex, spitting at Tanner. ‘We came back down from the mountains, as we have been doing every night – killing Germans. I had some business to see to in town – and I was not stopped once, not on the way in or back out again. Your men are by the Jesus Bastion, I seem to remember.’

Tanner, recovering his breath, clenched his fists.

‘Easy, Jack,’ said Sykes, then turned back to Alopex. ‘Listen, mate, you’ve got a whole load of explosives here. Do you lot know how to use ’em?’

Alopex glared at him.

‘Only I do,’ said Sykes. ‘Me and Tanner here, we’ve blown up a lot of Jerries since this war began and we’re fully intending to blow up some more. Let us take a few bits and pieces and, trust us, we’ll make good use of them.’

Alopex eyed him suspiciously. ‘What will you do?’

‘I haven’t exactly worked it out, but we’ve got here fuse, explosives and pull switches, an’ that means we can make some booby traps, see? There are some wells up there and old sheds and that, the kind of places Jerry’s going to make a beeline for. We go up there now and arrange a few trip wires for them, and then when they’re looking for shelter or a little drink to ease their thirst, they get a nasty shock instead. See?’ He put two tins of pull switches into the deep inside pockets of his battle blouse.

Alopex thought for a moment. ‘All right. But we’ll come with you.’

‘And you and Tanner will stop trying to kill each other?’

Alopex laughed. ‘For tonight, yes.’

‘Sir?’ said Sykes, turning to Tanner.

Tanner glared at Alopex. He was about to speak, to warn him never to lay another finger on him, but then he saw Sykes shake his head. He took a deep breath, pulled out his bayonet and yanked open a box of explosives.

‘You should listen to your friend more often,’ said Alopex.

‘Says the man with the biggest gob in Crete. Just shut up, Alopex, and let’s get on with it.’

They took a box load of TNT between them, fourteen one-pound rectangular blocks, wrapped in foil and covered with light yellow paper, along with tins of both safety and instantaneous fuse.

‘There are a lot of Germans maybe five hundred metres ahead,’ said Alopex. ‘There is an old river escarpment they are sheltering behind. But there are others closer to hand.’

As they made their way through a vineyard, the ground rose gently. Suddenly it dropped away into the valley beyond Knossos. Alopex stopped them and pointed out two buildings, silhouetted darkly against the faint glow of the sky. ‘The house over there is deserted, abandoned,’ he said. ‘The other is a store. It has a well beside it.’

Just then they heard a wounded paratrooper cry out nearby. ‘Helfen Sie mir!’ came the desperate plea. ‘Helfen Sie mir!’

‘Poor bugger,’ said Sykes. ‘I almost feel sorry for him.’

Alopex glanced at him, then hurried forward with his two andartes. Sykes and Tanner followed. They soon found the German. He had cut free his parachute, but had clearly broken a leg or ankle on landing. He looked up at the men now around him, eyes wide with fear. Alopex crouched over him and pulled out a knife.

‘Nein, nein!’ cried the man. ‘Bitte …’

Alopex grabbed the man by his collar, yanked him up and thrust the knife into his side. The man gasped, then Alopex dropped him, and glared again at Sykes.

Tanner crouched beside the dead man, closed his staring eyes, then rifled for magazines in his pockets. ‘Probably been unconscious,’ whispered Tanner to Sykes. ‘Imagine waking up, in pain, and it’s dark, and then a sodding great Cretan comes along and shoves a knife into you. Jesus. Who’d be a paratrooper?’

A few shots rang out nearby, the enemy alerted by the alarmed cries of their comrade.

They waited a few moments, then moved on, reaching the ruined house. Sykes worked quickly, putting a small length of instantaneous fuse into a block of TNT and attaching the other end to the fuse adaptor at the end of the switch. He then tied the block of explosive to an old hinge at the bottom of the doorway, using safety fuse as wire. Another length was tied through the eye of the pin on the pull switch, which he then ran across to the other side of the doorway, where he found an old nail to tie it to. Checking the pin would release easily and that the length of fuse was taut, he hurried round the other side of the building to the well. This time he hid the explosive behind a large stone, which he placed at the base of the wall around the well, then ran the fuse back to the house, through the grass just a few inches off the ground. Only around two pounds of pressure were needed – easily created by someone getting their foot caught in the trip wire. The pin would be pulled out from the switch, which in turn released a spring that had been holding the firing pin in place. This knocked forward a striker rod, which caused the end of the fuse to spark and, with it, the TNT to explode.

They scurried on to the old store house, and set another booby trap. Alopex was delighted. ‘We could do with a man like you,’ he said, clutching Sykes’s shoulder. ‘We shall enjoy watching these blow up.’ He translated for his comrades, who chuckled in agreement.

‘We need to get back to the others,’ muttered Tanner, in a low whisper.

‘And we need to kill a few more Germans,’ said Alopex, ‘then get back to the mountains.’ He looked at Tanner and Sykes. ‘But if you steal any more of my supplies, I’ll know where to find you. I like your little friend here,’ he said, ‘but not that much.’ He pinched Sykes’s cheek and left them.

‘That man,’ muttered Tanner, as they scampered back in a wide arc towards the others. ‘I can’t bloody shake him off.’

‘A useful bloke to have on our side, though. You’ve got to admit he’s a bloody good fighter. Damn useful local knowledge, too.’

‘That’s as may be, Stan, but he bloody gets on my nerves. I swear that’s the last time I’m going to let someone punch me in the guts and not give them a kicking in return.’

To the south, a man screamed. Alopex, thought Tanner. Sykes was right – he was an effective and utterly ruthless fighter. No wonder Pendlebury had sought to help men like him and Satanas. If the Germans did seize the island, they would certainly have a difficult time so long as men like them were alive. It hardly made him feel better, though. Alopex had taunted them about the British leaving the island, and it had struck a nerve. A few days before he would have thought an evacuation impossible, but he sensed the balance was shifting. An ammunition shortage already! Good God, he wished they’d used up every last round three days earlier – if they had, there would not be any Germans left on this part of the island. Yet now every day the German situation was improving while theirs was slowly but surely getting worse. If something was not done about it soon, the time would come when the scales tipped against them for good. And then they would be falling back yet again, dependent on the navy to extricate them from the latest débâcle. Jesus, he thought, please don’t let it be so.

The pickets had seen nothing.

‘Where’ve you been, sir?’ asked Hepworth.

‘Never you mind, Hep. Now move back out of the way. Sergeant Sykes needs a bit of space.’

‘Why, sir, what’s going on?’ He watched Sykes. ‘Oh, I get it. Where d’you find them, sir?’

‘All these questions, Hep. Let’s just say we discovered a secret source, all right?’

They moved on to the well, calling ‘yorker’ in loud whispers, and then, once Sykes had set another booby trap, they carefully made their way over to the stone wall where the remainder of Hepworth’s section were still keeping watch.

‘See anything?’ Tanner asked.

‘We heard something, sir,’ said Cooper. ‘Jerries screaming. Was that you, sir?’

‘No. Our Cretan allies,’ said Tanner. He looked at his watch. ‘That’ll do. Come on, let’s head back.’

As they gave out the password and crossed back to their positions at the edge of the town, Lieutenant Liddell was there to meet them.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘We didn’t hear anything. All quiet out there?’

‘Very quiet, sir,’ said Hepworth.

But at that moment one of the booby traps exploded, a shocking, jarring blast that flashed briefly and lit the horizon with a bright orange glow. Liddell flinched.

‘God almighty!’ he exclaimed. ‘What was that?’

‘A nasty shock for some Jerry, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Tanner, calmly lighting a cigarette. The others laughed. ‘Right, then, boys, go and get some kip.’ He paused and turned to Liddell. ‘It’s your sergeant, sir. Very handy with explosives, he is.’ He chuckled, then headed on in the direction of Company Headquarters.

Sunday, 25 May, a little after 9 a.m. Tanner sat on his rocky outcrop, peering through his German binoculars. It was another glorious early summer’s day, the sky clear blue save for a few white puffs hovering over the mountains. Little seemed to be stirring ahead – and why would it? Those paratroopers would be below the ridgeline, stuck under the escarpment that Alopex had mentioned. No, he doubted they would see much movement that day. A few parachutes were still caught up in the groves, but otherwise there was little sign that there had been such a large air drop the day before.

He had heard only three explosions during the night, which left another three – those closest to their own positions – still untouched. Ah, well, he thought. There was always another night, and he felt little concern that any locals might disturb them in the meantime – he’d not seen a single person tending the land ahead of them since the invasion had begun.

But now he heard a faint rumble from the north, and quickly swivelled round to scan the sky. The noise was rapidly increasing and then he spotted them – more than twenty enemy aircraft approaching. The sound of aero-engines had risen to a thunderous roar as they flew almost past the town. The ack-ack had once again begun pounding, the heavy guns booming dully, black puffs of smoke bursting out over the sky, when the lead plane flipped over and began its dive. Even before the sirens began wailing, Tanner recognized them as Stukas. One after another they were screaming directly towards the town.

Tanner hurriedly put on his tin helmet as bombs began detonating. Light ack-ack guns were pumping shells towards them but the first dozen planes completed their dives successfully. Huge rolling clouds of dust and smoke were lazily rising into the air, shrouding the town. The noise was deafening but above the whine of aircraft, the thunder of the guns and the blast of exploding bombs came the crash of falling masonry as buildings crumpled.

Having dropped their loads, the Stukas disappeared but almost immediately another wave of bombers arrived, this time Junkers 88s, more than two dozen, racing in along the coast from the west and dropping a seemingly endless number of bombs. Heraklion had completely disappeared under the pall of smoke and dust. Tanner watched mesmerized, the shock of exploding bombs shaking the ground on which he sat. Shells continued to be pumped into the air, but the gunners were now firing blind. Suddenly, a Junkers emerged, an engine alight. The men cheered as it spluttered overhead, so low the oil streaks could be seen across its underside, the black crosses clear and distinct. The great machine banked and headed north again, hidden once more by the dust and smoke.

Tanner guessed it must have crashed into the sea, but then found himself ducking as he heard the whistle of a falling bomb nearby, which exploded on some houses a hundred yards to the west. Once again, the ground seemed to tremble, and now the dust pall was rolling over their positions too. Taking his water bottle, he wetted his handkerchief and placed it over his mouth, then clambered down as another set of bombs whistled towards them. This time they were closer and Tanner flung himself onto the ground as a building just yards from Company HQ received a direct hit. With an ear-splitting crash, the building collapsed, a cascading mass of tile, stone and wood. Shards were blasted into the air and Tanner felt them raining down on him, clattering against his helmet. Men were coughing and spluttering and shouting curses. His throat felt raw despite the wet handkerchief.

And then the bombers were gone. Spectral figures stood up, emerging through the haze, coughing, staggering, numbed by the noise and weight of the attack. Tanner drank from his bottle, the already warm water as soothing as ice. Captain Peploe appeared from the direction of Company Headquarters, his face, uniform and hair covered with dust. ‘The bastards,’ he said, then began coughing violently.

‘Is Company HQ all right, sir?’ asked Tanner.

‘Yes. A bit of bomb blast, but that’s about it,’ he replied, when he’d recovered. ‘Thankfully there was no glass in the windows.’ He leaned on his knees and cleared his throat. ‘They certainly weren’t going for the harbour that time,’ he said at last. ‘They were going for the whole damn town.’

Tanner offered him his water bottle. ‘I pity the poor bastards in the centre. That was some bombardment.’

Peploe took a long gulp of water, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘This is not good, Jack. Not good at all.’

Captain Alex Vaughan had stayed put in his house when the siren rang out and the first bombs began to fall, but as explosions started crashing around him and buildings crumbled, he hastily closed the window shutters and took to the cellar. He prayed that the stash of armaments was safe. That morning he had paved the way for the arrival of the caique that night. The thought of it all being destroyed was doubly alarming, because of the loss to the guerrillas and because if it exploded it would tear a giant hole in the heart of the old town.

Even from his hideout in the cellar, he had heard the whistle of bombs and felt the ground shudder. Several landed uncomfortably close. He wondered whether the entire building above him might topple. Certainly plenty of dust and debris fell from the cellar’s roof.

But somehow the building survived, and when at last the bombers had left, he tentatively made his way up the stairs into the main part of the house once more. Outside, Heraklion was shrouded by a dense fog of dust and smoke, so thick it was like the worst pea-souper in London. He waited inside, drank some water, then a large brandy, and at last ventured out. Slowly but surely, the dust was dispersing, like a veil being slowly lifted. Vaughan gasped at the level of destruction. Rubble and debris littered almost every street. Although much of the town miraculously still stood, many buildings had been utterly destroyed and now lay crumbled in heaps as much as ten foot high. Many more had been damaged.

Damn, damn, damn. Picking his way through the ruins, he saw a woman lying sprawled in the street, her skin and clothes completely white apart from the pool of blood beneath her. He clambered over an eight-foot-high mound that blocked the road and realized it had been the barber shop where he used to go for a shave and a trim. The alley to the safe house was also partially blocked but, struggling over the loose rubble, he managed to reach the door in the wall. On opening it he saw, to his great relief, that the building above the cellar was still intact. Well, that was something.

But one thing was perfectly obvious: there was absolutely no way they would be able to shift the whole lot that night – not quickly and discreetly.

Alopex would have to wait for his stash of arms.

From the 3rd Battalion command post away to the west of the town, Oberleutnant Balthasar had also watched the bombing of Heraklion. From the first floor of the house, he and Major Schulz peered through his binoculars as the town walls slowly emerged from the haze of dust and smoke.

‘Richthofen’s lot did their job well,’ said Schulz, a wry smile on his face.

‘It’s about time we gave them a show of force,’ said Balthasar, still looking through his binoculars. ‘They’ve not been playing by the rules. They needed a lesson like this.’

He had already been feeling in better spirits before the bombardment, not least because his bout of dysentery seemed to have passed. Earlier that morning he had eaten a tin of meat spread and hard bread, some chocolate and a fruit bar, then washed it down with a mug of hot coffee and a Pervitin tablet. Two hours on, and his stomach was still at peace, no longer stabbing him with pains from bile or nauseous hunger. In fact, he felt fresh and full of energy for the first time in days.

But there was another reason for his improved humour. At just before eight that morning, they had at last made direct radio contact. For days they had heard only occasional snatches of traffic, but now at long last they had spoken directly with Athens. Ironically, there was still no link to Oberst Bräuer, only a few kilometres away, but it seemed Bräuer’s headquarters was also in contact with XI Fliegerkorps HQ in Athens, so finally the separated parties could communicate with each other.

And not only had Athens warned them of General von Richthofen’s plans to pulverize Heraklion, they had also relayed Bräuer’s orders that all troops of the 1st Fallschirmjäger were to join together to the east of the airfield – that meant not only the 3rd Battalion but also those men who had landed the day before to the south of the town. They were to move that night, under the cover of darkness.

The prospect of leaving their river hiding place, with its stench of baking corpses, faeces and sweat, had given all the men a lift. No longer would they be isolated and rudderless. Rather, they would be massed together, no doubt in preparation for an assault on the airfield. The port, Balthasar now realized, was of secondary importance. Once the airfield was captured, troops and supplies could be flown in, rather than haphazardly dropped from the sky. The stranglehold could be tightened until the British had to flee or surrender.

It was true enough that capturing the airfield would be no easy task, but for the first time since their disastrous landing, Balthasar could see a way through. Against all the odds, they might yet win the day. And with victory would come revenge.

Balthasar lowered his binoculars and lit a cigar from his ration pack, the smoke curling around him in a thick sweet cloud that kept the insects and the cloying stench at bay. He thought of all the men he had lost since landing. Too many had been brutally butchered at the hands of the Cretans. Balthasar had seen some terrible things in his life, but deliberately hacking off the head of a man or ripping out his guts was something that belonged to a different, more bestial age. Good God, what kind of people were they? They would have to pay for what they had done. He glanced back at the still-smoking town, imagining the piles of rubble and corpses that now littered the streets.

That’s just the start of it, he promised himself.

Sunday, 25 May, 8 p.m. Another sweltering day was drawing to a close – a day of back-breaking labour as platoons had been detailed in turns to help the Greek garrison and civilians start the massive task of clearing the town. There had been barely a street in the whole of Heraklion to have gone unscathed. All day, the air had been thick with the smell of dust; it rasped the back of the throat, clung to sweat-moistened skin, and the folds of clothes. The amount of stone and debris littering the myriad streets and alleyways was incredible, and with no mechanical machinery and mostly bare hands little had been achieved, despite the best efforts of soldiers and civilians alike. The priority had been to rescue any of the living still trapped.

Tanner had helped pull a middle-aged woman and her teenage daughter from underneath one collapsed house. It had been painstaking work, one block of stone at a time, with the constant fear that any movement might make the situation worse, rather than better, and with the trapped women’s plaintive cries for help ringing in their ears. Eventually, however, they had pulled them clear, their hair, clothes and skin as white as if a sack of flour had been thrown over them. A few cuts and badly bruised, but otherwise, miraculously, they had been in one piece. Others had not been so lucky. Tanner saw one woman clutching her dead child, rocking and wailing with grief. He had wished then that they would be sent back to North Africa, with its wide, open desert – a place where armies could hammer away at each other with civilians well out of harm’s way.

But now, back at B Company’s lines, Tanner had other things on his mind. He had once more put his battle blouse over his shirt as the heat of the day was replaced by cooler night air. From the outcrop he had been watching the ground ahead once more. Still there was no sign of life and no further explosions. The enemy were keeping out of sight and it had begun to bother him that the remaining three booby traps might be left for some locals to discover.

He was about to head to Company HQ to speak with Peploe, when he saw the captain walking towards him through the olive grove to their forward positions. Tanner clambered down to meet him. ‘Just the man, sir,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes?’ Peploe looked around him. The men had dug a series of small two-and three-man trenches either side of the road and between the olives and other trees. Discarded ammunition boxes, bullet casings and pieces of kit littered the ground. ‘Looks a bit of a mess, doesn’t it?’

‘I shouldn’t worry too much, sir.’

Peploe took off his tin hat and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Maybe not. Anyway, did you want me?’

‘Yes, sir. I’d like to go forward and have a dekko.’

‘It’s certainly been pretty quiet.’

‘Those Jerries aren’t going to sit out there for ever, sir. After the bombardment this morning, something’s got to be brewing.’

Peploe nodded. ‘All right. How many men?’

‘Just Sergeant Sykes, sir. I want to check those booby traps we set.’

Five minutes later, they were on their way, Tanner glad to be doing something more interesting than watching a still landscape or shifting stone. At the goat shed they had moved up to the previous evening, they found the trip wire still in place.

‘We might dismantle that and the other two, Stan,’ Tanner told him, crouching beside the front of the shed.

‘Might?’

‘I want to see what’s up ahead first. You remember that escarpment Alopex mentioned?’

‘That far? Bloody ’ell, Jack, do we have to?’

‘Something’s up, I’m sure of it, and we need to find out what.’ They began taking a wide arc around the old house they had destroyed the previous night – Tanner did not want them to disturb any crows that might be feeding there and give themselves away. As they crouch-walked their way through a vineyard, something made Tanner stop and listen. A chink, a rustle. Something.

He moved on to the edge of the vineyard, which stood on a shallow terrace. Below there was another row of vines and beyond a track. And along the track enemy paratroopers were moving, rifles and packs on their backs, Schmeissers in their hands. Tanner immediately withdrew into the vines.

‘Jerry,’ he whispered to Sykes. ‘Heading along a track about forty yards up ahead.’

‘How many?’

Tanner inched forward again. He counted one section and another. Then there was a gap but he could just see more moving in the same direction a little way to the right.

‘We need to get back and fetch reinforcements,’ he said, hastily pulling himself back into the cover of the vines.

‘Hold on a mo’, Jack,’ said Sykes. He delved first into his pack and pulled out a slab of TNT, then reached into his battle blouse and took out a small, thin metal detonator and a tin of safety fuse. He cut a short length of fuse, fixed it to the detonator, then plunged the latter into the block of TNT. ‘A home-made and very powerful hand grenade.’ He grinned.

Tanner smiled wryly. ‘What the hell? All right. You throw it and I’ll give them a quick spray.’

Sykes took out a box of matches, lit the fuse, then briefly stood up and hurled it in the direction of the men walking along the track. In the dusk he had not been spotted and Tanner briefly saw the startled reactions of the enemy as the missile fell between them, then opened fire with his Schmeisser, emptying an entire magazine and seeing men jerk and fall.

‘Go!’ he hissed at Sykes, and they were running through the vines. Wild shooting followed them, bullets snipping wide through the vines. A moment later the TNT exploded. Tanner was jolted and the ground shook. Men were screaming, bits of stone, earth and debris pattering on the vines behind them. A minute later they had crested the shallow ridge and were now running back towards their lines.

‘Jesus, what was that?’ said Peploe, who was waiting by the forward lines.

‘One of Sergeant Sykes’s speciality hand grenades, sir,’ Tanner breathlessly told him. ‘Those para boys are moving east – my guess is the whole lot of them. Listen, sir.’ They paused a moment. Above the evening sounds of insects, shooting could be heard to the south, occasionally bursts of rapid fire and isolated rifle shots.

‘Nothing from the west, sir. It’s quiet over there.’ He glanced at his watch. It was a little after half past eight and now almost dark. Only a faint glow hung on the horizon beyond the mountains. He adjusted his rifle on his shoulder purposefully, then hurried over to a half-empty ammunition box.

‘You think we should be attacking, Jack?’

‘Don’t you, sir?’ He spoke quickly. ‘If they’re moving east we should be attacking their flank. You know Jerry doesn’t like fighting at night. I’m only guessing, but I reckon they must be trying to concentrate their forces for a move on the airfield. Even if I’m wrong, there are still lots of Jerries out there and we should be laying into them. The colonel needs to get the whole battalion moving.’

Peploe bit at his thumbnail. ‘All right. I’ll run and talk to Old Man Vigar. Keep 4 Platoon here, manning the positions, but get the others ready to move out.’

Peploe returned a quarter of an hour later with the news that Colonel Vigar had authorized ‘patrols in force’ from B and D Companies.

‘He’s issued a start time of twenty-one thirty,’ said Peploe.

‘That’s another twenty-five minutes, sir.’

‘I know. But I think it’s safe for us to get going. I mean, he didn’t say we couldn’t.’ Peploe shrugged. Behind him men from 2 Platoon were already waiting in the olive grove, clearing throats, shuffling feet, adjusting belts and equipment.

‘I agree, sir. We should get on with it.’

‘Right, Jack,’ said Peploe. ‘Call the platoon commanders and sergeants together.’

Five minutes later they were all there, standing in a clearing in the olive grove by the forward positions: Liddell and Sykes from 1 Platoon, Lieutenant Timmins and Sergeant White from 2 Platoon, and Lieutenant Askew and Sergeant Butteridge from 3 Platoon. The moon was waning, but still half full, and with another dazzling sky of bright starlight, Crete was once again bathed in a milky monochrome light in which it was quite possible to distinguish features, landmarks and, in the open at any rate, moving men. To the south, rifle shots and small-arms fire continued to ring out intermittently.

‘You hear that?’ said Peploe. ‘That’s the Cretans doing their bit. With rifles and knives. We’ve got Brens, grenades, some captured Schmeissers. We can wreak havoc on the enemy tonight.’

He handed over to Tanner, who briefed them. They needed to clear the ridge, he told them, then move as quietly as possible further forward. As soon as anything was heard, they would fire flares and open up. ‘Keep pressing forward,’ he told them. ‘Work in your sections around the Bren. Move forward, set up, fire, move forward, set up, fire. They’ll be surprised and probably confused, so when we first let rip, we need to make it count.’ They were to advance in a ‘lazy L’ formation: 1 Platoon would lead, representing the horizontal line of the letter; 2 and 3 Platoons would follow at a right angle, the vertical line, so as not to offer too large a target for the enemy and to protect their flank. The three leading sections would be widely spaced, so that the advance covered about a two-hundred-yard front. ‘It’ll get confusing out there,’ he added. ‘There will be lots of noise, lots of tracer, and your eyes will have to adjust from bright flashes to the night light. It’ll be easy to get lost and disoriented, but white flares will show the forward line. A red flare will be the signal to halt. Tell your men to keep their heads. If they do their job and think calmly everyone will be fine.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Peploe. He looked at his watch. It was now just after nine. ‘We move off at twenty-one ten. And in addition to the red flare, I’ll blow my whistle when it’s time to withdraw. Good luck, everyone.’

While Peploe moved out on the corner of the L between 1 and 2 Platoons, Tanner joined 1 Platoon by the road. They moved quickly up to the ridgeline, then crested it and pressed on, cautiously making their way through the series of vineyards in the direction of the track where Tanner and Sykes had been earlier. Suddenly a machine-gun opened up only a short distance ahead and slightly to their right, a gurgle of bullets spitting into the night and tearing through the vines. Some men cried out, and Tanner grabbed a grenade from his pack, pulled the pin and hurled it in the direction of the muzzle flash. At the same time 3 Section’s Bren opened up with a steadier burst of fire.

Speed, Tanner knew, was now of the essence. ‘Move forward!’ he hissed and, pulling out his Very pistol, fired two flares, one after the other, which hissed through the air, crackling and shedding white magnesium light over the track and curving valley in front of them. A number of German paratroopers scurried into the vines and groves beyond, fleeing from the sudden light. All along the company’s line, rifles and Brens now opened fire as muzzle flashes and MG tracer responded. The noise was incredible, earnumbingly shrill and harsh, yet Tanner could still somehow make himself heard.

‘Up and forward!’ he yelled. The Brens stopped, and gasping, panting men were pressing forward through the vines, crouching as bullets scythed around them. Someone cried out on Tanner’s left, but there was no time to stop. Jumping from the terrace, they crossed the track, Tanner stumbling over a fallen German. A pause in the gunfire as both sides seemed to be moving, and then a German Spandau was firing again and the night was torn apart by the din of rifles and machine-guns, spots of muzzle flashes and the cries of men. Beside him the Bren hammered out another burst, and then they were off again, Tanner now conscious that the rear of the Villa Ariadne was to his left.

‘This way!’ he said, and as they reached the edge of the grounds, rifle shots and MG fire opened up from the side of the road. The enemy, Tanner realized, were trying to cross the road here and head towards the higher, more pronounced ridge overlooking Knossos, which the British had christened Apex Hill.

‘Down!’ he cried, as bullets tore towards them. He fired another flare, up over the road and, as it burst, he saw more enemy disappearing towards the ruins of Knossos. Beside him the Bren clattered, but then a number of bullets thumped, Lance Corporal Donnelly cried out and the Bren stopped firing.

‘Charlie’s been hit!’ Mercer called.

‘Someone take over the Bren!’ shouted McAllister, but Tanner had already grabbed it, firing off another burst, then clicking out the magazine and ramming another in its place.

He knew that the Germans by the road would have to make a dash for it or surrender. Handing the Bren to McAllister, he glanced around him, then saw Lieutenant Liddell bent over the wounded Donnelly, his hands clasped to his head in despair.

Jesus, he thought. Then, moving between the men, he saw Sykes.

‘Stan,’ he said, his voice urgent, ‘we need to keep the men here for a moment. Look for some place where we can enfilade down towards the road. I’m going to find the captain.’

Tanner scurried through the vines, shouting for the captain so as not to be mistaken. The firing had lessened again, but just as suddenly the din of battle opened up away to their left, at the far side of the road beyond the ruins. D Company, thought Tanner. Good.

He hurried on, his breathing heavy. ‘Captain!’ he called again.

‘Here!’ from just a few yards ahead.

‘We should block the road, sir – try and wheel round. We can set up McAllister’s section at right angles to the road on the southern edge of the Villa Ariadne and pour enfilade fire at anyone trying to cross it. The escarpment Alopex told us about runs south-west from there. If we move round behind it, we can trap whatever Jerry troops are there.’

‘Yes, but we need to watch out behind us in case there are any more coming through from the west.’

‘Send another section back to cover the track below the ridge.’

‘Yes – good plan.’

Tanner ran back towards Sykes. The platoon was still holding a rough line extending through the vines from the corner of the Villa Ariadne grounds, but McAllister’s section had moved, as had Hepworth’s Bren. Ahead, one spat out a short burst, and following the sound, Tanner found Sykes and the others crouched behind a wall that marked the southern edge of the villa’s grounds and which overlooked the track leading to the road. Perfect, he thought. And Sykes had positioned the two Brens of McAllister’s and Hepworth’s sections well: covered by the wall but with an interlocking line of fire down the road and across the open ground that led to the ancient palace of Knossos.

‘Good work, Stan,’ said Tanner. ‘Make sure no one fires behind the flare line.’

‘Where are you going, sir?’

‘Back to the captain.’

Tanner rejoined Peploe, who fired another flare, then moved the men forward again. On his way down the shallow escarpment, Tanner saw shadowy figures flitting through the groves and fired a burst from his Schmeisser. Spandau fire erupted again, like a loud drumroll, rifles cracked and several muzzle flashes of sub-machinegun fire shone through the trees. Someone to his right cried out, another man swore. Tanner hurled two more grenades, and as they exploded a man screamed. ‘Keep moving forward!’ he shouted. The firing ahead of them died – the enemy’s running – and Peploe sent another flare into the sky, this time towards the road. McAllister’s and Hepworth’s Brens chattered, their bursts rattling over each other, then a short pause and one opened up again.

They reached the road soon after. Peploe fired a red flare and, as it lit up above them, shouted for his men to cease fire. Ahead, on Apex Hill beyond, fighting continued, but in their part of the valley, the shooting had stopped.

‘There it is,’ said Peploe, gazing towards the ruins, the columns and walls just discernible against the backdrop of the ridge beyond.

‘You’re getting closer, sir,’ said Tanner, beside him. Beads of sweat were running down his face, his heart was pounding and his ears were ringing. The air was so still again, every sound amplified, and despite the incredible cacophony of noise just minutes before, the cicadas and crickets were still chirruping.

‘I feel like Tantalus,’ Peploe muttered. ‘Every time I get near the place, something stops me reaching it.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘We should get the wounded back, then hold a line from here up to the ridge, don’t you think? There might be more still trying to work their way round.’

Both men had just turned when there was a sudden rustle nearby and a figure got up and began to run away from them through the olives.

‘Who’s there?’ Peploe called. He held out his revolver at arm’s length, fired a single shot, but the bullet and the figure were lost to the trees. ‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘Can’t get ’em all. Good luck to him.’ A minute or so later, they heard a scream from the darkness to the south.

‘The Cretans don’t share your forgiving nature, sir,’ muttered Tanner.

B Company had done all they could. Beyond, over Apex Hill, was D Company’s area of operations, so Peploe sent Lieutenant Liddell back with the wounded, and organized the rest of the men into a rough line extending from the Bren position overlooking the road back up to the ridge, watching for any further enemy approach from the west.

None came. Six hours later, Tanner sat with Peploe at the edge of a vineyard near the ridge, watching the first streaks of light appear behind Apex Hill, the long ridge that extended south and overlooked the Knossos valley.

‘Sir?’ said Tanner. ‘I’ve got an idea.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘Come on, sir.’

Peploe followed as Tanner led them back down the line, past shredded vines and trampled grass, and by the bodies of German paratroopers killed in the night. There was a stillness over the battlefield, an eerie calm. As they reached the road, they waved to Sykes and McAllister, smoking cigarettes and still manning one of the Brens. Like all the men, they looked exhausted, shirts and jackets filthy, their faces caked in dust, oil and streaks of blood.

Tanner paused and nodded in the direction of the palace. ‘What could be a better way to see it, sir, than at dawn?’

Peploe smiled. ‘You know what? You’re right.’

They crossed the dusty road and took the track through the trees to the ruins. Painted columns, supporting great slabs of flat roof in places, rose from the ground. They stepped between half-ruined walls, across what had once been the rooms of a giant palace – Peploe was entranced – and then a large open courtyard spread before them. Leading from this was a set of wide steps, which Tanner climbed. At the top, he stopped, sat down and gazed up at Apex Hill. Birds were singing their dawn chorus, a mixture of melodious song and strange whistling calls; the air was crisp and clear, the smell of cordite, blood and sweat replaced by something purer and softer. Around the site, a blanket of firs and olives stretched up towards the ridge, and Tanner breathed in deeply, fatigue sweeping over him like a draped cloak.

He lit a cigarette as Peploe joined him at the top of the steps. An orange glimmer appeared over the crest of Apex Hill, gradually rising before their eyes and bathing first the ridge and then the whole valley in a wash of glorious, uplifting light. Tanner closed his eyes, letting the morning sun’s rays warm his face.

‘You were right, Jack,’ said Peploe. ‘This is the perfect way to see it.’ He took out his hip flask, had a swig, then passed it to Tanner. They were silent for a moment, then Peploe said, ‘Do you think we did enough last night?’

Tanner shrugged. ‘God knows.’ He drew on his cigarette, not wishing to say what he really believed – what he hardly dared admit to himself: that it had been too little too late. That, once again, they were going to lose.