Blood of Honour

2

Colour Sergeant-Major Jack Tanner had already watched the gun captains check and recheck their ready-use ammunition and fuses on the two rear 4.7-inch guns. He had also seen the gun layer on the Quick Firing 2-Pounder, or pompom as it was known, train and elevate his weapon to its full capacity, then more than once examine its ammunition feedrails. It had been good to see. Checking and cleaning his own weapon was the first thing Tanner did whenever he had a spare moment, and since, over the past forty-eight hours, he had had very little to do other than wait in Rafina to be evacuated, his rifle had received an especially large amount of attention.

It was slung over his back now as he leaned against the stern railing. Apart from a bit of darkening and wear and tear to the butt, the rifle looked almost as good as new, glistening with a sheen of oil. As a boy, he had learned the importance of looking after weapons. It had been drummed into him by his father, and ever since he had joined the army as a sixteen-year-old boy soldier, he had carried an oiler, rags and pull-through and, wherever possible, a small flask of gin – nothing, he had discovered, could compare with gin for cleaning the firing mechanism. The spirit never congealed in cold weather, and it helped the striker hit with a clear, sharp snick.

He and the rest of the 2nd Battalion, the King’s Own Yorkshire Rangers, were all aboard HMS Halberd. Most of the men had been bundled below decks, officers into the wardroom, ORs anywhere they could find a place to perch out of the way. Destroyers were not large vessels – in Halberd’s case, a little over three hundred feet long and thirty wide. Normally, she played home to just 145 officers and crew, but that had now swollen by more than seven hundred Rangers who, if not properly disciplined, could play havoc with their chances of making safe passage to Suda Bay. As the ship’s captain had told the Rangers officers before they had set sail, he was expecting plenty of attention from the Luftwaffe now that more than half of the journey would take place during daylight hours. He made it clear he did not want soldiers to get in the way of the crew.

The crossing would have been considerably less tense had they left at dusk the previous evening as planned. However, both Halberd and HMS Havock had been held up on their way to Greece, first dodging enemy air attacks and then helping to rescue men from another stricken vessel. By the time they had unloaded them back in Suda Bay, the two destroyers were badly behind schedule. Not until the early hours of that Monday morning did they finally reach Rafina, and when the last of the men had been lifted, it was just before 2 a.m., with only around four hours left before first light.

Because of this delay, the crew had been almost continually at Action Stations. A small number of Rangers – one section from each of the companies – had been detailed to help the crew damage-control and repair parties. Tanner could have been excused such duty, but the idea of being stuck away below decks, unable to see what was going on, did not appeal to him at all; if he had to go to sea – and he would really rather not – then he reckoned it was far better being out in the fresh air with something to look at. So Tanner, with Captain Peploe’s blessing, had joined Sergeant Sykes and the rest of Corporal McAllister’s section at the stern of the ship where they had taken their positions next to Y Gun, one of the ship’s four 4.7-inch guns, and the one furthest aft. In any case, Sykes’s platoon had lost their commander in Greece – and the entire battalion of nearly a hundred men – so Tanner had been keeping an especial eye on them until their new subaltern arrived. Not that Sykes couldn’t keep them in line on his own; he could, but Tanner liked Sykes, and McAllister for that matter, and furthermore, he recognized that Sykes’s optimism was good for him. God knew, he needed it at the moment.

Tanner had been smoking a cigarette and watching Havock, Halberd’s sister ship. Not more than five hundred yards away and just a nose in front, she had the last remaining men from the 1st Armoured Brigade aboard, some eight hundred soldiers from the 9th Royal Rifle Corps. Then suddenly there were shouts from the men behind him, and a split second later he had heard the faint buzz of aircraft. He quickly scanned the skies, but without his binoculars he could not spot them at first. Turning round he heard the gun layer relay the orders he had received over his headset from the gunnery officer in the Director Control Tower: ‘Nine high-level bombers bearing green 170.’

The gun crew were gathered around their 4.7-inch gun, dressed in navy denim overalls and wearing white cotton balaclavas beneath their helmets. Behind them were the damage-control parties, waiting expectantly, the Rangers among them. Tanner saw Sykes and McAllister scanning the skies, then looked upwards himself.

‘Bearing green 160,’ called the gun layer.

Tanner spotted them, then almost immediately lost them again as they disappeared in the glare of the sun. He cursed, having caught a glimpse of the sun’s rays and now finding his vision affected.

‘Looks like they’re buggering off,’ said one of the Rangers.

Tanner caught Sykes’s eye and saw his friend raise a sceptical eyebrow.

‘Ignorance is bliss, eh, sir?’ he said, joining Tanner. He leaned out over the rail. ‘And so close too – look.’

Tanner, also leaning out, now saw Crete, a dark, milky blue up ahead, lying like a sleeping maiden on the sea. He turned back, a hand shielding his eyes. The faint drone of aero engines could still be heard. ‘Sneaky bastards,’ he muttered.

‘Can’t say I blame ’em, though,’ said Sykes. ‘If you’ve got a bloody great blinding sun in the sky and not a cloud for dear money, you might as well make the most of it. And you have to admit, it’s a nice day for a swim.’

‘I bloody hate swimming.’ Tanner glanced back at the guns. ‘I hope those lads are good.’

The two stern guns, Y Gun and, behind it on the raised gun deck, X Gun, were now moving into position ready in response to orders from the DCT, clicking and ticking as they were elevated skywards. The sound of aircraft was louder now, then shouts could be heard. Tanner saw them again, high in the sky, now coming straight towards them from the east. There was something odd about them, though, and then he realized: there were now only six aircraft, not nine. Where the hell had the other three gone?

The engine pitch changed as the six Junkers dived towards the two destroyers. Tanner gripped the railings.

‘All guns, rapid salvoes,’ called the gun layer, which was then repeated and shouted by the gun captain. As one, the four guns opened fire, the shells hurtling into the sky with a deafening crash, while the pompom, in the centre of the iron deck, furiously pumped away, the only weapon to be able to fire independently at will. At the same time, the ship lurched suddenly as she changed course, so that Tanner nearly lost his footing. In moments, the bombers were almost upon them and dropping their loads. The whistle of the missiles could be heard amid the ear-shattering din of the guns. Then huge fountains of spume and spray erupted like sea-monsters into the sky. One bomb from the second aircraft hit the sea no more than fifty yards from the port side, spray lashing across the men on deck. Tanner ducked and cursed again, wiping the saltwater from his face and hands. He glanced back at the gunners, traversing and elevating their 120mm tube in response to orders from the DCT – one man gathering the shell, the loader placing it in the breech, and the layer giving the signal that the gun was ready to fire. When all four guns were ready, the out-of-sight gunnery officer in the DCT triggered each of the guns as one. A moment later, they fired once more, the breech recoiling, then the empty casing pulled out and piled on the metal deck behind. Tanner reckoned this process took around ten seconds; six rounds per minute was not bad if firing against another vessel but against Junkers 88 bombers speeding through the air at around 280 m.p.h., it was only ever going to be a chance hit that brought one down.

The ship swerved again, and Tanner glimpsed Havock between the fountains of spray, her guns firing every bit as furiously and also taking hurried evasive action. Smoke and cordite hung heavy in the air, while above, black puffs of flak now dotted the sky. More bombs fell, but miraculously, none appeared to have hit either ship, and now the Junkers were climbing away, curving behind them to the north. Some of the men cheered, but barely had they opened their mouths than another roar of aircraft thundered towards them. Almost before the men realized what was happening, three Junkers had appeared low from the east, straight out of the sun at no more than four hundred feet.

Tanner ducked again as the creamy pale blue undersides of the bombers sped over the ship, a stick of dark bombs tumbling out as they did so. The 4.7-inch guns banged off another round of shells and the pompom pounded again but the elevation was wrong, their firing late on the targets, and in seconds the bombs were exploding, one landing in the centre of the ship between the port-side derrick and the pompom gun deck. Tanner turned his back and shielded his face from the blast, but even so a piece of flying shrapnel nicked his temple. Putting a finger to the wound briefly, he looked across at the other Rangers and the damage-control parties and saw most were still on the ground, only slowly raising their dazed heads.

Beneath the pompom, a large hole had been ripped out of the deck and upper side of the ship. The remains of a lifeboat, its timbers splintered and splayed, hung limply from the contorted and twisted frame of the derrick. Of the men who had been waiting there moments before there was now no sign. Nor was the pompom firing, yet between the din of the guns he could hear aircraft still circling, then spotted one banking in a wide arc in front of them.

Uncontrollable rage welled within him, and he now ran along the deck, slipped on some blood, tripped, fell, cursed and scrambled up again. Several body parts and globs of flesh lay splattered against the torpedo tube mount, the pompom mount, and across the shredded iron top deck. Through the smoke, Tanner heard the screams of dying men, pushed his way past a staggering sailor, and scrambled up the still intact metal ladder on the starboard side of the pompom deck. Heaving himself up, he took a rapid glance at the gun position. The port side was badly damaged from the blast, while the cabouche to the front was shattered. Behind the canvas lay two dead men.

The gunner still sat in his seat at his weapon, his head lolled back and groaning. Tanner hurried to him and grabbed his shoulders, then saw that half of the man’s face had been blown away, while his right arm was nothing more than a bloody mess of sinew and bone. Tanner clasped his arms around the gunner’s chest and pulled him out of the seat. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he muttered, as the man gasped. Tanner laid him on the deck beside the gun mounting and clambered onto the seat.

Wiping blood from his face, he looked at the weapon. It seemed to be undamaged, despite some obvious shrapnel nicks; steel was tougher than flesh and bone. ‘How do you fire this bloody thing?’ he mouthed to himself. Either side were two large ammunition feedrails still full of two-pound cannon shells. There were hand wheels either side too. Tanner turned one to his left – ah, elevation – and then another on his right – traverse – as the barrels rose and the weapon swivelled on its mount. Beside the breech on his left there was a crank – the firing handle? He glanced out as the smoke cleared. Approaching from the east were two Junkers coming around for another attack, but this time they were below the level of the sun and he now saw them clearly before they crossed the blinding brightness. He was no longer aware of any sound apart from a ringing in his ears; the din of the guns, the shouts and screams of wounded and dying men had gone. Traversing the gun so that it pointed directly out to sea, he turned the crank and, to his relief, a volley of shells punched from each of the four barrels. Smiling grimly to himself, he watched the two aircraft approach. One, he now saw, was heading straight for Halberd, the other for Havock.

On his own, he could not fire and change the elevation of the gun at the same time; it meant he had just one chance. Like shooting a pheasant, he told himself. Carefully he lined his aim on the first aircraft. The ship was still moving, but he could traverse the gun. Aim off a generous amount, he decided, open fire, and let that Jerry bastard fly straight into it. The two aircraft roared towards them – eight hundred yards, six hundred, four hundred, two hundred – now! Tanner turned the crank, the barrels pumped out their shells but immediately he saw his aim was wide. He swore – there was no time to traverse again – but then the ship lurched to port and the lead Junkers flew directly into his line of fire. Cannon shells tore into the cockpit and fuselage just a hundred yards from the port side of the ship. A puff of smoke, then flame.

Inside the plane, Oberleutnant Brühle had a brief moment of realization, the controls slipped from his hands and then, as the Junkers hurtled over Halberd, first a fuel tank and then the bomb bay exploded, the aircraft erupting into a mass of tumbling flame that scorched an arced path across the sky before plunging with a hiss of smoke and steam into the sea.

Tanner wiped the blood from his face once more. ‘Got you,’ he said.

*

HMS Halberd had safely docked at Suda just under two hours later, while Havock continued on her way to Alexandria. The remaining Junkers had turned for home after their Staffel Kapitan had been killed, and the ships had not been troubled again. Even so it was ironic that Havock, which had somehow come through the attack entirely unscathed, should be full of troops destined for Egypt, while Halberd, in desperate need of a lengthy stint under repair at Alexandria, should have to go to Crete first. Furthermore, at Suda, her crew learned that they would be taking their cargo of troops on to Heraklion where, it had been decided, the Yorks Rangers would be joining 14th Infantry Brigade in the defence of the port and airfield there.

Twelve sailors and two Rangers had been killed by the bomb on the iron deck. A further fourteen men had been wounded, of whom two were thought unlikely to live. Having safely unloaded their injured, the rest of the Rangers had trooped off, each company marching to an assembly area away from the quayside where they had been fed and given tea, while Halberd’s crew tidied their ship. In the afternoon, Suda was attacked by more bombers. This time, there were a number of anti-aircraft guns to help repel the intruders, both around the harbour and on the long ridge between the bay and the open sea. But although Halberd was not struck this time, a number of half-sunken wrecks in the bay showed that the Luftwaffe had had their fair share of success. As it was, some stores were hit and part of the quay was damaged, and after they had gone, a great column of smoke from the burning warehouse rose slowly into the sky, filling the air with the rich and biting stench of burning rubber.

At dusk, the men were boarded once more to begin the last leg of their journey, a trip of only a few hours. Different members of the crew were manning the guns now, and although there was still a threat from the air, the Rangers had been stood down. Even so, Tanner preferred to be out on deck and, accompanied by Sykes, returned to the stern of the ship, where they perched themselves against the hatch in front of Y Gun.

‘Christ,’ said Tanner, as they eased past a half-submerged wreck. He rubbed his brow; his head ached from the nick he had received earlier. A couple of stitches had closed the wound, but it throbbed. Sykes lit two cigarettes, then passed one to his friend.

He was a small man, with a lean face and carefully combed, brilliantined hair – even after long days of retreat, he had barely ever had a hair out of place. Like Tanner, he was not from Yorkshire, but while the CSM was a Wiltshireman, born and raised on the land, Sykes was from Deptford in London. As outsiders, they had recognized in each other a common bond, and as mutual trust and friendship had developed during more than a year of fighting, both men had come to appreciate that they complemented each other rather well. The time would come one day, inevitably, when they would head their separate ways. After all, the odds were that at some point one or other would be badly wounded or even killed, and if not that then the army’s system of promotion and progression meant they could not remain in the same company for ever. Not that Sykes gave it much thought. He had long ago, even before the war, learned not to think too far ahead: it did not pay to brood. In any case, who knew what was round the corner? There was no point worrying about what might not happen.

For a few minutes he watched the setting sun. Only a slip of burning orange now remained on the horizon. Then he saw it drop below the ridge at the end of the bay, leaving in its wake a sky of pink that rose into a deep and ever darkening blue. He glanced at Tanner, who was still gazing out to sea. His friend was hard to read. He had always thought that Tanner was, like him, a man who took each day as it came. He had never really spoken to him about his past, but he knew that, like him, Tanner had left home in a hurry. Both men were survivors, too – another unspoken bond. Yet his friend was brooding. Ever since they had been sent to Greece, Tanner had been even more taciturn than usual.

It was Tanner’s turn to pull out two cigarettes, silently light them both and pass one to Sykes.

‘Ta,’ said Sykes, holding the cigarette between his finger and thumb. ‘At least the air’s improved,’ he added, breathing in deeply. ‘That burning rubber was giving me a headache.’ Tanner said nothing so Sykes continued, ‘And at least we should have a quieter time of things here. I mean, I can’t really see Jerry having a crack at this place. I’m sure he’ll bomb us all right, but you have to admit, an island like this should be an easy enough place to defend. Mine the harbour entrances, line them and the airfields with a good load of artillery, and get the men dug in – should be able to throw any unwanted visitors back, no problem.’

Tanner turned on him. ‘Haven’t you learned anything this past year? Jesus, Stan, Jerry’s only got to turn up with his Stukas and his Spandaus and we piss off again. What makes you think this place’ll be any different?’

‘It’s an island. And it’s got lots of sodding mountains all over it.’

Tanner was quiet.

‘It’s not like Greece,’ Sykes continued, ‘where they could come down through Yugoslavia. It’s not like France either, or Norway for that matter. Where are they going to get all their ships from to bring their troops? And, anyway, we’ve still got the navy, haven’t we? They’ve got to get past them, and then actually land. And you can’t tell me they can possibly hope to win by dropping parachute troops. They’re sitting ducks when they come down. We’ll slaughter ’em.’

‘Maybe. I’m just sick and bloody tired of always retreating. God knows who’s leading us in this sodding war. Bunch of goojars, the lot of them. Christ, we get here and what do we see? Lots of sunken ships, and then the bloody Luftwaffe come over – again. I’ve seen too many aircraft with black crosses on in this war, and not enough with roundels.’

‘Well, you got rid of one this morning.’

‘One. One sodding Jerry plane.’ He sighed. ‘Where are the bloody RAF? That’s what I want to know. We need planes. It’s crazy, Stan, bloody crazy. Everything’s so damned half-cock all the time.’

Sykes was about to reply but then turned to see Captain Peploe beside them with one of the ship’s sub-lieutenants. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, scrambling to his feet.

Peploe smiled affably. ‘This is Lieutenant Jewett. Lieutenant: CSM Tanner and Sergeant Sykes.’

Tanner and Sykes saluted.

‘At ease, chaps,’ said Peploe, then glanced back at the fading horizon. ‘What a beautiful part of the world this is,’ he said.

‘Bleedin’ lovely, innit?’ said Sykes. ‘It’ll be nice coming out here once the war’s done with.’

‘I agree,’ said Peploe, then patted the sides of his legs. ‘Anyway.’ He paused, looked at Lieutenant Jewett, then back to Tanner. ‘Jack, the captain wants to see you.’

‘Me?’ said Tanner. ‘Why, sir?’

‘Either to tear you off a strip for firing his pompom without the required authority, or to thank you for saving his ship. Hopefully the latter.’

Lieutenant Jewett laughed. ‘This way,’ he said.

Tanner and Peploe followed him, past Y and X Guns, past the pompom gun deck, now fully manned once more, and to the centre part of the ship known as the waist. Up a metal stairway, onto the fo’c’sle, and then up another ladder and onto the bridge, which looked down over the bow and the two forward guns, A and B.

They found the captain outside on the bridge, leaning against the parapet above B Gun on the fo’c’sle, a pair of large binoculars to his eyes. Tanner gazed at the array of voice tubes, high seats, wires and boxes bolted against the iron turret. It was a world with which he was totally unfamiliar. Two other officers were there, also staring through their binoculars. The position commanded a superb view out across the fo’c’sle and bow; it seemed higher up there than it really was, and the ship bigger. Away to their right, the silent mass of Crete lurked, its jagged peaks sharply defined against the fading sky. A chill was just beginning to settle, helped by a light breeze from across the inky Aegean.

‘CSM Tanner, sir,’ said Jewett.

The captain lowered his binoculars and turned to face his visitors. Lieutenant Commander Cross was, Tanner guessed, in his early thirties, his brow already lined, as well it might be. Immaculately dressed, despite the day’s events, he had a thin, intelligent face. Tanner saluted, but Cross waved down such formality, and instead held out his hand.

‘Thank you for coming up here,’ he said, as he gripped Tanner’s. ‘We owe you our thanks. That was a fine bit of shooting.’

‘It was a lucky shot, sir. If anything, it was more down to you. The ship moved at just the right moment.’

Cross smiled. ‘Well, it was a brave thing to do, all the same.’

‘Thank you, sir, but the braver man is the one who has to take what Jerry throws at him and isn’t able to hit back.’

Cross turned to Peploe. ‘Is he always this modest?’

‘It’s a trait we like to encourage in the Rangers.’

Cross chuckled, then pointed to Tanner’s battledress. Next to the Indian General Service ribbon was stitched the blue, white and red of the Military Medal and the red, blue and red of the Distinguished Conduct Medal. ‘I see you’ve been in the thick of it before, CSM.’

‘A little bit, sir.’

‘And been rewarded for your efforts.’

Tanner shrugged. He had always been rather ambivalent about medals. ‘It’s nice to be given them, I suppose,’ he said, ‘but I’m sure you’ll agree, sir, that there are many brave men who are never given a thing, and a fair few who are given gongs they don’t deserve.’

Cross nodded. He wore the ribbon of the DSO himself. ‘True. And medals do mark a man, and that can be a double-edged sword. It gains you the respect of some, but resentment in others. My father, Tanner, won a VC in the last war. He always reckoned it was something of a curse.’ He rubbed his chin, then added, ‘In any case, medals are pointless if you lose.’

‘I couldn’t agree with you more, sir.’

‘And, let’s face it, things are not quite going to plan at the moment, are they?’ He frowned then smiled once more. ‘And what do you think of our ship, Tanner?’

‘She’s a fine one, sir.’

‘Yes, she is, but destroyers were designed to counteract the threat of torpedoes from either torpedo boats or submarines. They were not designed to defeat a heavy attack from the air. We have depth-charges and our own torpedoes, and our guns can make mincemeat of E-boats and U-boats, given half the chance, but against dive-bombers, the 4.7s are too slow. It doesn’t help that they’re centrally fired, either.’

‘I can see that, sir. Can’t you get more pompoms put on?’

‘I wish I could, Tanner. But what we need more than pompoms are aircraft. This war has shown us that a navy cannot operate effectively without strong aerial support. The two need to work in tandem. Unfortunately, these evacuations put a great strain on us. We’ve managed to get most of you chaps off this time, but I hope we won’t be asked to do it again for a while.’

‘You mean an evacuation of Crete, sir?’ said Peploe.

Cross looked out towards the island, now no more than a dark silhouette, only just discernible. ‘Crete or Malta. I’d have thought it would be hard for Jerry attacking an island rather than coming straight down through the mainland, but if Hitler does decide to have a go, you lot need to make sure you hold on to these islands. I’m not saying we can’t get you away again, but it is important to be realistic – to be clear about the situation here. We’ve lost a lot of ships this year and particularly in the last few days. If we lose too many more, the Mediterranean Fleet is going to be good for very little.’

‘And without the fleet,’ said Peploe, ‘Jerry can get his supplies to North Africa without much interference.’

Cross nodded. ‘So you see,’ he said, ‘it’s vital that you don’t lose Crete. Absolutely vital.’

Before Tanner and Peploe had left the bridge, Cross had apologized for speaking so frankly. It had been a long few days, he explained; he and his men were tired, and it was sometimes hard to keep spirits high when their ship had a gaping hole in the deck and too many good men had been killed.

‘Probably best to keep that chat to ourselves, though,’ said Peploe, as they stepped back down onto the fo’c’sle.

‘Of course, sir,’ said Tanner. Yet Cross had been saying nothing that Tanner did not feel himself, and when Peploe told him he was heading down to the wardroom, Tanner decided to step back up to the fo’c’sle, rather than rejoin Sykes and the others from the company.

A sinking feeling had been weighing him down ever since they had heard of the German invasion of Greece through Yugoslavia more than three weeks earlier. It was something he seemed unable to shake off, and it was making him sullen and irritable, affecting his ability to do his job within the company. It was defeat that was causing this black mood. Defeat – it was like a cancer, and Britain seemed unable to stop the rot. He sighed, then lit a cigarette, breathing in deeply the sweet-smelling fumes and watching the smoke swirl away on the light breeze. Well, he had had enough of running away. Here on Crete, he told himself, if the enemy came, he would stand and fight; and if he died in so doing, then at least he would have done so with his honour intact.