Blood of Honour

3

Monday, 19 May, a little after eleven in the morning. In a leafy side-street a stone’s throw from the imposing Holy Church of St Titus stood one of Heraklion’s many kafenios, a café-bar that in the long summer months spread effortlessly out onto the street, the tables shaded by two evergreen plane trees, one whose branches reached out from the walled garden next door, and a smaller, younger tree growing up from the side of the street. Inside, Aratiko’s was unremarkable: stone-tiled floor, rickety wooden tables and chairs, and a strong smell of cigarette smoke and coffee.

Sitting at tables both outside and in were a number of old and middle-aged men playing backgammon, their moustaches twitching, tanned faces creased with frowns of concentration or sudden laughter. The Luftwaffe might be coming over every day to attack the harbour and airfield, but that did not stop the Cretans going about their daily business – which, in the case of many of the men, meant sitting in a preferred kafenio for much of the day. In any case, they had soon cottoned on that the Luftwaffe could be relied upon. At around nine in the morning, and then again at dusk, thirty bombers, give or take, would fly over, aim for the harbour or airfield to the east of the town, drop their loads and head home again. The Germans were despised for what they were doing but at least they were consistent.

It was Sergeant Stan Sykes who had spotted Aratiko’s the day before, following the Rangers’ move to join the mixed force of Greek regiments and Cretans covering the town. This realignment of 14th Infantry Brigade had been prompted by the arrival of the Leicesters, who had taken up positions to the south-east of the town between the 2/4th Australians, the 2nd King’s Own Yorkshire Rangers and 2nd York and Lancashire Regiment, thus freeing up a battalion to reinforce the town. Since the Leicesters were new to the island, Brigadier Chappel considered it prudent not to place them alongside the Greeks; and because the Rangers had been closest to Heraklion, it was they who had been moved. The men were delighted – after all, a town had plenty more to offer than the countryside where there was little but olive and fruit groves.

‘Here,’ said Sykes, as he, Tanner and Staff Sergeant Woodman turned into the street. ‘I told you it was discreet, didn’t I?’

‘Very good, Stan,’ said Tanner. ‘Now, if we can just find ourselves a little table at the back, it’ll be even better.’

They wove their way past the tables on the street, through the open door and looked around. The old men glanced up, then returned to their games, but there was another group of men, younger, sitting at a table near the front, who eyed the newcomers suspiciously. Tanner caught the eye of one. Perhaps late twenties, a luxuriant black moustache and a three-day beard, wearing a black waistcoat over a white shirt, loose black linen trousers and knee-length leather boots. His hair was long, swept back off his head loosely. He was a big man, Tanner noted, about his own height. Strong-looking, too.

‘What about that one?’ said Sykes, pointing to a table at the back of the room, close to the bar.

‘Fine,’ said Tanner.

They settled around the table, chairs scraping loudly on the stone floor, took off their helmets and rested their rifles against the wall, then lit cigarettes. The barman looked at them – Yes?

‘I suppose we’d better just have coffee,’ said Sykes.

‘You should, at any rate,’ said Woodman. ‘You’re the one that’s got to impress his new platoon commander.’ More replacements had been due in that morning, including a new subaltern for B Company. It was why Tanner and Sykes had been sent to Battalion Headquarters, newly established in an old Venetian house opposite the Jesus Bastion beside the Kenouria Gate, one of seven arrow-headed forts built along the town walls. When they had reached HQ, however, news had just arrived that the boat from Alexandria would be late. The new time of arrival was estimated to be after midday. Since it was hardly worth heading back to their new positions either side of the Knossos road they had decided to wait in town instead, slowly making their way down to the port via this bar, which Sykes had spotted earlier. But while there was nothing wrong in that, it did not pay to be seen passing the time of day in bars while others were still preparing defences and keeping watch for enemy parachutists.

Tanner held up three fingers to the barman. ‘Three coffees,’ he said, ‘efharisto.’

‘I don’t know that I want coffee,’ said Woodman. ‘What about a nice cool beer?’

‘You go right ahead, Woody,’ said Tanner.

‘But you won’t join me?’

‘Not when the Germans might attack at any moment.’

‘You’re still convinced they’re going to, then?’

‘I’m sure of it. All this bombing – it’s them softening us up. I hope they bloody well do come. Then we can shoot the bastards and kick them back to Greece.’ He was talking with a confidence he did not feel. Once again, there was almost no RAF. It also worried him greatly that the Allied forces on Crete all seemed to be centred around the three main towns along the north coast: Canea, near Suda Bay in the west, Rethymno in the centre and then Heraklion. He’d been to Brigade Headquarters near the airfield and he had seen plenty of telephones and telephone wire, but little evidence of any radios. As he knew from bitter experience, once the fighting started, the phone lines were almost the first thing to go. He brushed away a fly from his trousers. The battalion had been issued with khaki drill during the past few days, and most had gladly made the change, swapping their thick serge battledress for the cooler sandy-coloured cotton. In Greece, the thick wool of their uniforms had been just about bearable during the day and they had been grateful for it at night, but now that it was May, the temperature was rising noticeably. Nobody wanted to wear it in this heat.

There had been few trousers available, but both Tanner and Sykes had managed to get two pairs each, as had Captain Peploe; there were a number of perks to being CSM but one was getting first pick of anything that passed the way of the company quarter-master sergeant, in this case new uniforms. And Tanner had been mightily relieved not to have to wear the KD shorts, not because he was worried about his appearance – although he did think Bombay Bloomers looked ridiculous – but because experience in India had taught him that it was easy for bare legs to become sunburned, scratched, cut and then infected. A layer of thick cotton – and KD was sturdy stuff – provided a useful extra layer of protection. When he passed this piece of wisdom to Sykes and Peploe, they were quick to follow his lead. Tanner had also managed to get a pair of denim battledress trousers from some Australians out near the airfield, and he was particularly pleased with them. Unlike the khaki drill trousers, they still had the large patch pocket on the left leg and a smaller dressing pocket on the right, as well as the two normal hip pockets, but were every bit as light and cool as the KD pattern. It was these he was wearing now, along with his new KD collared shirt.

Tanner stubbed out his cigarette and, as he did so, noticed the barman glance at the young men near the front of the kafenio, and nod. He thought nothing more of it until the barman arrived with a tray that bore not only their coffees but also three full shot glasses, which he then proceeded to set before them on the table.

‘What’s all this?’ said Woody, lifting a glass and examining it closely.

‘Raki,’ said the barman. He inclined his head towards the men near the front.

‘To our brave British allies,’ said the big man, in heavily accented English. Woody raised his glass and was about to drink when the man added, ‘The British who come over to Greece and then run away again, leaving our Cretan brothers stranded. Where is the Cretan Division now, Englishmen? Either dead or in the hands of Nazis. Your navy didn’t think they were worth rescuing.’

Tanner stiffened, the muscles in his face taut. Pushing away the raki, he picked up his coffee instead. Sykes knew that look. ‘Leave it, Jack,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s trying to pick a fight. And he’s a big bloke, an’ all.’

‘And now you won’t drink,’ continued the man. The other three were chuckling. ‘We offer you raki, the hand of friendship, and you push it away.’

Woody raised his glass again, then downed the spirit in one gulp. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We’re sorry about the Cretan Division but, you know, we’re only soldiers, not generals or admirals.’ He glanced shiftily at Sykes and Tanner. ‘Come on, drink it, Jack. We don’t want a bloody scene. It’s not worth it.’

‘He’s right, Jack,’ said Sykes. ‘Drink it up and let’s just walk out of here.’ He lifted his glass, drank, then grimaced and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

‘And what about you?’ said the man, nodding towards Tanner. ‘Your friends have shown some manners, but not you, eh?’

Tanner sipped his coffee, but said nothing.

‘Sir,’ hissed Sykes. ‘Please, mate. Just drink it.’

‘The mighty British Empire,’ said the man, scratching his cheek, ‘so mighty that her army is always running away. And what are you going to do if the Germans come here, eh? Run away again. We don’t want the horse that always bolts. We want Cretans to fight. Cretans who will stand their ground and fight like men for their country. For their homes.’ He laughed, but without mirth. ‘But, oh, no, we do not have any of our division because they were left to rot on the Albanian Front. Instead we are sent you. Cowards, men who like to run.’

At this Tanner slammed his fist into the table, pushed back his chair and picked up his shot glass.

‘Don’t,’ said Sykes.

‘Steady, Jack,’ said Woodman. ‘Come on, leave it.’

‘No,’ said Tanner, ‘I’ve had it. I’m not listening to this crap.’

The Cretans were laughing as Tanner walked over to them. Stopping by the big man, he slammed the glass on the table. ‘You can take your drink,’ he said, ‘and shove it up your arse.’

There was a sudden silence in the bar. The old men had stopped playing their games; the other three at the table now shot furtive glances at each other, while the smile on the big man’s face vanished.

‘Do you think I give a toss about this place?’ snarled Tanner. ‘I’ve lost good men fighting for your country. I’ve lost good men in Norway and Belgium and France and North bloody Africa. Not one of them was a coward, and nor am I, and nor are my friends. Now apologize. I want to hear you take that back.’ He stared at the man, his eyes unblinking.

‘I’ll kill you before I say anything of the sort.’ He spoke to the others, turning his back on Tanner as he did so.

Grabbing his shoulder, Tanner spun him around. ‘Apologize.’

The man now pushed back his chair and stood up to face him.

‘Outside then,’ said Tanner.

Sykes was beside him now. ‘It’s not worth it. Walk away, sir.’

Tanner turned on his friend. ‘Walk away? Walk away? Who do you think I am, Stan?’

‘Come on, then,’ said the man, clearing another chair out of his way. ‘Outside.’

Out in the street, Tanner turned to face the Cretan, vaguely conscious of the watching eyes of the old men happy to observe such sport. Where were Sykes and Woodman? he wondered, but dared not take his eye off the Cretan, who was broad-chested, with large hands. Strength, of course, was important, but so too were agility and speed. And the willingness to fight ugly. In a boxing ring there were rules, but he knew there were none now, and although he had no intention of killing this man, he wanted to hurt and humiliate him. Tanner had fought many times, in and out of the ring, but the sport of boxing had taught him a number of useful lessons, not least the need to weigh up an opponent. This Cretan was confident in his ability to take on a man of equal height, and that told Tanner he needed to be cautious until he knew the capabilities of his opponent.

For a few moments, they circled each other, the Cretan with his arms half raised, Tanner with his loose by his sides, a position he hoped would lure the man into making the first move.

‘Come on, Englishman,’ growled the Cretan, goading Tanner towards him with his hands.

Tanner smiled, then took two quick steps forward and swiftly dipped his left shoulder as though about to punch with his left hand, a dummy move designed to make the Cretan think he was left-handed and to encourage him to strike. The ruse worked as the Cretan swiftly flung out a heavy right punch so fast that even Tanner was surprised. Tanner moved his head but not before receiving a glancing blow across his temple, causing his footwork to falter and tipping him slightly off balance. Even so, the Cretan had over-extended and Tanner was able to drive in a savage right hook – not a knock-out blow, but one hard enough to make the Cretan gasp, and in that split second, Tanner kicked his right foot hard against the man’s knee, making his enemy cry out, then rammed his left boot straight into his crotch. As the Cretan grunted in agony, Tanner pushed back his right fist and, with the base of his hand, thrust a sharp jab into his opponent’s neck. The four moves had taken no more than two seconds, but Tanner knew he’d not yet caused any real damage: the blow to the head had not been hard enough to break any bones, or the one to the knee. Even so, the Cretan now staggered backwards, doubled up.

Tanner stepped towards him. ‘Now say you’re sorry,’ he said. Then something caught his eye. Looking up, he saw Woodman at the end of the road frantically waving and pointing to his left, down in the direction of the port. Damn him, thought Tanner.

A sudden stab of pain struck his legs and coursed through his entire body. Staggering, he saw the remains of a chair splintering at his feet, and then the Cretan was lunging at him, his bear-like arms gripping him around the waist and pushing him backwards. Tanner was already off balance, and the man’s weight forced him against a table. Cracking his head first on the wood, then again as he crashed to the ground, he was momentarily dazed and, in that time, the Cretan had clasped his enormous hands around his neck and was squeezing, starving Tanner of air and pressing against his trachea. The man’s nails were clawing into his neck too. The stench of alcohol, stale tobacco and sweat was overwhelming as the Cretan breathed heavily over him, grimacing with rage and effort. Tanner felt suppressed not only by the vice-like grip around his neck, but also by the hot, heavy weight of the man’s body on his. Sweat was running down the Cretan’s face, and a droplet fell into Tanner’s eye, stinging with its saltiness.

Tanner could feel desperation welling within him, and was vaguely conscious of his legs kicking, as it occurred to him that this wild Cretan might be as good as his word and kill him, after all. With his senses now rapidly fading, he knew he had just moments in which to break free and so, despite the overpowering urge to do otherwise, he allowed his eyes to flicker and his head to loll. As he had hoped, the Cretan’s grip lessened fractionally. In that instant, Tanner brought both his arms inside those of the Cretan and, summoning all his remaining strength, quickly prised them apart. Then he brought his head up with a sudden sharp jerk, his forehead smashing into the man’s nose. The Cretan yelled with pain and sat up, clutching his hands to his face. Still pinned to the ground, Tanner reached for a chair and swung it into the man’s head, knocking him sideways. He got to his feet, and kicked again, this time into the Cretan’s side, aiming for the kidney, then picked up another chair, ready to smash it down on him.

A pistol shot rang out, the report jarringly loud in the narrow confines of the street, and Tanner froze, panting, his head clammy with sweat and blood, the chair still in his hand.

‘Stop!’ shouted a man. ‘Stop that right now!’

Tanner staggered backwards, his legs weak, and turned to see a British officer striding towards them, while a column of some forty soldiers waited at the end of the street. Hurrying behind the officer were several of his men, and, behind them, Woodman and Sykes.

Bloody hell, thought Tanner, dropping the chair and staggering towards a table, his hands groping for support. He hurt like hell – his legs, his head, his neck. Christ, he could barely speak. He tried to clear his throat.

‘Get up, the pair of you,’ called the officer, who, Tanner now saw, was a second lieutenant.

The Cretan roused himself, eyed Tanner with hatred, then suddenly produced a knife with which he made a lunge. Parrying the thrust, Tanner caught the Cretan’s wrist, twisted himself out of the way and rammed his elbow hard into the man’s stomach, then deftly moved clear.

‘That’s it!’ said the lieutenant, pointing his Webley at the Cretan. ‘Drop that knife. Now!’

Breathing heavily, the Cretan glared at the lieutenant, then, rather than dropping it, slowly put his knife away. Tanner saw the barrel of the revolver was shaking in the lieutenant’s hand. ‘You!’ he said, pointing to three of the new arrivals, ‘put these men under arrest.’ Now rifles were being pointed at both of them, bolts already drawn back. There was alarm in the eyes of the lieutenant and, Tanner saw, fear in those of one of the other men, a young lad. New boys, he thought. No sudden movements. Jesus, that was all he needed: to have survived so much only to be shot by one of his own side.

‘Really, sir,’ said Woodman, ‘I’m not sure arrest is necessary. These two were just having a little scrap. A question of honour, you see.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ snapped the lieutenant. The Cretan’s friends were now beside him, talking furiously and gesticulating wildly. He was sitting on a chair, wheezing and dabbing the blood on his face.

‘Now, who are you?’ he said to the Cretan. ‘What is your name?’

The man spat and cleared his throat. ‘My name,’ he rasped, ‘is Alopex. I am a kapitan with Antonis Grigorakis. Satanas, you know?’

The lieutenant eyed him. ‘No, I don’t, and I don’t care whether you’re a kapitan or not. You are under arrest and you will come with us to Battalion Headquarters where I shall strongly recommend you be detained.’

Alopex glared back. ‘You are making very big mistake. How long have you been on this island? Straight off the boat, eh?’

The lieutenant looked affronted. ‘That is irrelevant. We can’t have people brawling in the street like that. And, believe me, if you had killed this man it would have been a whole lot worse for you, no matter who you claim to be.’

‘And who are you?’ Alopex asked. ‘Just so I know who I am dealing with.’

Again, the lieutenant seemed taken aback, and for a moment dithered as though undecided about how to reply. ‘I am Lieutenant Liddell,’ he said, ‘of the 2nd Battalion, the King’s Own Yorkshire Rangers.’

As soon as he said his name, Tanner, who had been recovering his breath quietly beside Sykes and Woodman, felt himself reel. It was as though he had been punched harder than he had by anything Alopex had thrown at him. Liddell – it was not possible. Incredulously, he stared at the lieutenant. How long had it been? Nine years now. Nine long years. Guy Liddell had been, what, twelve back then? Tanner closed his eyes a moment, rubbed his sweaty brow, then looked up at the lieutenant again. And now he did faintly recognize the boy in the man standing before him – those grey eyes, he remembered, because his own were much the same colour; it had been commented upon. The shape of the face too, full and round, as it had been in boyhood. Christ, no, thought Tanner. How could this have happened?

‘And you,’ said Lieutenant Liddell, turning to him. Tanner followed his eyes as they noted first the leather wristband with the laurels and crown, which denoted his rank as a warrant officer second class, and then his face. Liddell’s eyes narrowed – was that a flicker of recognition, Tanner wondered – and he said, ‘A senior NCO like you should know better than to get involved in fights with locals. Good God, man, in case you weren’t aware, we might be expected to fight a real enemy any moment.’

‘He was sorely provoked, sir,’ said Sykes.

‘Be quiet, Sergeant,’ snapped Liddell. Then, turning back to Tanner, he said, ‘Name and unit?’

‘CSM Tanner, sir,’ Tanner mumbled. ‘2nd Yorks Rangers.’ There were no regimental shoulder tabs on KD shirts.

‘What was that? Yorks Rangers? This is just getting worse for you, Tanner. You’re a disgrace to the regiment.’

‘Sir,’ interrupted Sykes again.

‘Leave it, Sykes,’ hissed Tanner.

‘And you two are also Rangers?’ Liddell asked, looking at Sykes and Woodman.

‘Sir,’ said Woodman, then told Liddell their names.

‘Good. You can take us to Battalion Headquarters. Take Tanner’s rifle, Sykes, and, Woodman, you search this man, Alopex. Then lead on.’ He pointed to two of the other men. ‘And you two can stay behind the prisoners. March them at gunpoint.’

‘We weren’t expecting you for another hour, sir,’ said Woodman. ‘We were in town to meet you off the ship.’

‘Perhaps you were simply too busy drinking and brawling to notice the time. We arrived more than half an hour ago.’

Tanner watched Alopex whispering to his three friends and then they hurried off. He noticed that Liddell had seen this too and was clearly wondering whether he should have detained them as well. It was too late, though, so instead he straightened his cap, put his revolver back in its holster and, waving his arm, indicated to them to get moving.

‘This is not over,’ muttered Alopex, as they were frog-marched away from the kafenio. ‘I will still kill you.’

‘Put a bloody sock in it,’ Tanner replied. He had other concerns now. Damn it, damn it. Sod it and damn.

Tanner and Alopex had been put in two makeshift guardrooms in the Jesus Bastion opposite Battalion Headquarters. The rooms were on either side of the tunnel leading into the bastion. Tanner’s cell was dark and dank, the walls thick with cold stone, and only a small slit window providing any light. The ground was nothing more than compacted earth – clearly, these had been designed as store rooms and nothing more – but Tanner was not bothered by any discomfort. The cool air was, if anything, something of a relief. In any case, being in a darkened cell was the least of his concerns.

Being frog-marched through Heraklion would have been humiliating enough under any circumstances but was particularly so when he knew that a number of the men would soon be joining B Company. As CSM, he was supposed to be one of the figure-heads of the company, a shining example. Now their first impression of him was of seeing him stripped of his weapon and placed under military arrest. Damn it all, he might even find himself court-martialled.

Sitting on the rough floor, his hands over his knees and smoking a cigarette, he sighed. His head still throbbed, and when he touched it, he could feel the slowly congealing blood of a gash that needed a stitch or two. If and when he did get out, he would have to watch his back now that a Cretan big shot was out for his blood. He knew about the kind of blood feuds these people made. Indians, Arabs, Greeks – they were all the same. If you made a vow, you had to follow it through: it was a question of honour. Tanner understood that – after all, it had been partly as a matter of honour that he had stood up to Alopex himself. The other reason had been anger. It was anger that had driven him to start firing the pompom a couple of weeks earlier and it was anger that had driven him to fight Alopex. A lot of anger. Too much, he thought.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, now Guy Liddell had turned up. He would lay money on Liddell being Sykes’s new platoon commander. Jesus. Of all the people. Why the hell had he been sent here? Why wasn’t he farming still in Alvesdon? What was it with these fellows? Captain Peploe was the same – he could have been doing his bit on his family farm in north Yorkshire, away from all this. They could have avoided the fighting altogether. Tanner pushed back his hair and sighed again.

There were voices outside – English voices – and then, through the narrow window, he heard the sound of a key being turned and the squeak of hinges. Moments later Alopex was muttering in a low voice.

‘You’re a hot-headed old fool, Alopex,’ said a voice. ‘I need you fighting Huns, not our chaps.’

‘He insulted me,’ said Alopex. ‘You think I can be humiliated like that in front of my men?’

‘All right, all right,’ soothed the English voice. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. There’s something I need you to do …’

Tanner shook his head and lit yet another cigarette. Sykes had somehow managed to purloin a stash of Player’s Navy Cut from HMS Halberd and they had been smoking them ever since. God only knew how he had managed it; Tanner didn’t like to ask. So Alopex was working for the British, he thought. He smiled ruefully to himself – a man who disliked the British, but hated the Italians and Germans more. He wondered who that English voice had belonged to. Not regular army, that was for sure, but someone who could cut through tape, pull strings. A useful friend. Tanner drew deeply on his cigarette. Bloody hell, he thought, what a mess.

He must have dropped off because when the key turned in his door, he jolted awake and felt momentarily disoriented.

‘Jack, Jack,’ said Captain Peploe. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘Bastard deserved it, sir,’ muttered Tanner. ‘I wasn’t going to sit and listen to him bad-mouthing us and calling us cowards. It’s not our fault his sodding division was left in Greece.’

‘Couldn’t you have just turned the other cheek?’ Peploe stood over him, his round face as genial as ever. ‘Sykes and Woodman managed to.’

‘It’s a question of honour, sir.’

‘Come on, up you get.’ And as Tanner got to his feet, Peploe patted his shoulder and said, ‘You and your honour, Jack. Pride and a filthy temper more like. What is it with you at the moment? You’ve been a bear with a sore head for weeks. Even more sore now, I should think.’

‘It bloody hurts like hell, sir.’

‘Well? What’s the matter? What’s bitten you?’

‘I’m sick of us running away, sir. That Cretan was right. And if I was him, I’d probably feel the same way about us too.’

‘But you still felt it necessary to get into a street brawl?’

Tanner sighed. ‘All right, maybe I did see red, but I’m not going to sit there listening to some Cretan wallah calling us cowards. Nor am I going to drink his drink when he’s taking a lot of good men’s names in vain – and men who died fighting for Greece.’

‘Sykes and Woodman walked away from it.’

‘Yeah, well, I think a man should stick up for himself, and his mates.’ Even as he said it, he knew it sounded lame and petulant. Renewed anger and frustration swelled within him and he growled and kicked the wall with his boot.

‘Feeling better?’ said Peploe.

Tanner said nothing for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said at last, ‘not for kicking that bastard – and, no matter what anyone says, I’d do it again – but for the trouble I’ve caused. I know everyone in the whole battalion will know about this, and it doesn’t reflect well on me or the company.’

‘More like the whole brigade.’ He eyed Tanner a moment. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘Apart from the lack of guns, MT and almost no radios whatsoever, no, sir, I’m as happy as can be.’

‘But we’ve no shortage of troops and we’re dug in around strong defensive positions.’

‘I remember what happened in Norway when we didn’t have enough kit or enough aircraft. And look what happened in France. It was bloody chaos. No one knew what the hell was going on. A year on and we’re still depending on telephone lines and runners. When are we going to be given some sodding radios?’

‘There’s a big difference, Jack. Crete is an island. They can only get here by sea or by air. They’re not going to be able to bring over tanks and MT and heavy guns. We’ll be more than a match for them. This is different.’

‘I hope you’re right, sir,’ muttered Tanner. ‘Anyway, let them come. I’m fed up with waiting.’ He looked at Peploe. ‘Will I be court-martialled?’

Peploe smiled. ‘No, Jack. I can’t say Vigar was overly impressed but he felt your humiliation through the town and a few hours in the glass-house were punishment enough in the circumstances. Had this been peacetime it might have been another matter.’

‘And the Cretan’s already been let out,’ said Tanner.

‘Yes – well, there was that too. Not really fair to keep you if he’s been let loose.’

‘An Englishman fetched him. I heard him.’

‘John Pendlebury,’ said Peploe. ‘He’s vice consul here, although he seems to be the chief of all these local Cretan kapitans. He’s recruited them to help fight any invasion.’

Tanner nodded. I see.

‘Actually, it’s rather a thrill to meet him,’ added Peploe. ‘He’s quite a celebrated archaeologist. In fact, he was curator at Knossos before the war. I’ve been hoping to cross paths with him ever since we got here.’

‘You studied that, didn’t you, sir? At Cambridge?’

‘Archaeology and ancient history, yes. I still can’t believe I haven’t got out to the ruins, but there’s hardly been the time. Maybe in the next few days.’

‘If Jerry doesn’t come.’

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t. A bit of sightseeing first might be fun.’

Tanner chuckled.

‘Hooray,’ said Peploe. ‘My CSM’s smiling again.’

‘Am I free to get back to our positions, then, sir?’

‘Not quite. There’s someone I need to introduce you to properly. Our new platoon commander, Mr Liddell. I think you probably owe him an apology too.’ He held out his arm and ushered Tanner into the bastion entranceway. ‘Come on, he’s still across the road at Battalion HQ.’

Tanner squinted in the sudden brightness. It was warm still, the sun quite strong after the cool of his cell. Birds chirped in the trees along the street and a fly buzzed by his face. Perhaps it would be all right with Liddell. After all, it had been a long time. Tanner knew he had changed a great deal from the boy he had once been; his face was more lined, more battered. There was also a slightly broken nose where before there had been no blemish, and skin that was permanently the dark brown of a deep tan, where before he had been fresh-faced, with white skin and pink cheeks. Yes, he told himself. I am a different person now. There was no need to worry.

‘And you could do with seeing the doc before you head back up to the lines,’ Peploe was saying, as they crossed the road.

In through the front door, a cool and light hallway, up some stone steps and then into a large, airy room on the first floor with windows overlooking the Jesus Bastion. Outside, a tamarisk tree waved gently in the breeze, the shadows of the leaves and branches cast across the whitewashed wall opposite. At one end, a staff clerk was tapping at a typewriter, while at the other, sitting behind a makeshift desk, was the battalion commander, Colonel Vigar. In front, also seated, was Lieutenant Liddell who, on seeing Peploe, stood up.

‘Ah, Peploe, come in,’ said the colonel. ‘And you, CSM. Calmed down a bit?’

‘Yes, sir. My sincere apologies, sir,’ said Tanner, clicking to attention and saluting.

‘Can’t go around scrapping with the locals,’ said the colonel, ‘although from what I’ve heard it sounds as though he damn well deserved it.’

‘CSM Tanner was standing up for the honour of the regiment, sir,’ said Peploe. Liddell shifted his feet.

Colonel Vigar smiled. ‘Well, maybe you’ve done us all a favour, Tanner. If we’ve got to fight alongside these Greek fellows, we don’t want them thinking we’re a pushover, eh?’ He glanced at Second Lieutenant Liddell. ‘Although you acted quite correctly, Liddell. Quite correctly.’ He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ‘So,’ he said, ‘let’s put this little episode behind us, shall we? We’ll pretend you two haven’t met yet and you can shake hands. Then we’ll pack you back off to our positions. As I was saying, Mr Liddell, Tanner here is one of our most decorated soldiers. A highly experienced man, a first-class soldier and someone who I’m sure will help you settle into the company.’ Vigar tapped a cigarette on the table, then popped it between his lips. ‘So, Mr Liddell, this is your CSM, Mr Tanner. Mr Tanner – Mr Liddell.’

Tanner had consciously avoided looking directly at Liddell, but now, as the new subaltern turned and held out his hand, he faced him and saw his expression change.

‘You!’ said Liddell. ‘It’s you. I know this man, sir,’ he said, turning to the colonel and then to Peploe. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t notice before. Good God, you’re Jack Scard – Bill Scard’s son.’