Blood of Honour

4

Tuesday, 20 May. As normal, the Luftwaffe had made their morning call, albeit somewhat earlier than usual. This time, first Dorniers and then Junkers had pasted the coastal plain west of Suda Bay just after 6 a.m., others following at regular intervals until some time after seven. By half past, on the basis that the morning ‘hate’, as the raids were known, was over, the various men dug in along that stretch of the island were stood down, preparing themselves for another day of weapons cleaning and tanning themselves in the late-spring sun.

For Captain Monty Woodhouse, however, the all-clear had been the signal for him to report back to General Freyberg and Creforce Headquarters on the rocky outcrop of Akrotiri, above Canea and Suda Bay. A British intelligence officer, Woodhouse had been visiting the Greek regiment dug in a few miles south-west of Canea and, grabbing his motorbike, had set off through the gradually settling dust, up along lush Prison Valley, thick with olive groves, tamarisk and fruit trees, through more Greek and New Zealand positions to the south of Galatas village, and then on through Canea, normally such a thriving, bustling port, but this morning still quiet – an occasional yap of a dog, the crowing of a cockerel – but curiously lacking the normal hubbub that was a feature of the island’s capital.

A change of gear, and the motorbike was climbing out of the town and onto the rocky Akrotiri headland, weaving past cactus plants, more olives and rough farmsteads, until Woodhouse reached the general’s villa, typically Italianate and solid. It was a stone’s throw from the quarry in which Creforce was based, and no more than a few hundred yards from one of Crete’s most hallowed sites: the tomb of the island’s hero of recent times, Eleftherios Venizelos.

Creforce Headquarters had been chosen for the same reasons as the site of Venizelos’s tomb: because the view from there was as fine as any on the island. It was around 7.45 a.m. that Woodhouse was ushered through the hallway of the villa and out to the veranda where the British commander had just begun his breakfast.

‘Ah, Woodhouse,’ said the general, ‘will you join me? I can offer you coffee, boiled eggs and quite superb bread and honey.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Woodhouse, taking the chair shown by Freyberg’s outstretched hand. The general now pushed a basket of boiled eggs towards him. ‘Help yourself to coffee,’ he said, dabbing at his trim moustache with a starched white napkin.

Woodhouse thanked him again and then, having poured his coffee and taken an egg, paused to look at the view before him. Below them lay Canea, the ancient harbour protecting the small array of boats like a mother cuddling a child. The pale limestone and whitewashed buildings of the town were vivid against the deep blue of the sea and the lush green coastal plain around it. Beyond, stretching west, was the long sweep of the bay. Visibility was as near to perfect as could be, and Woodhouse could clearly see the small town of Platanias some six miles away and, beyond that, the airfield of Maleme, now quiet and empty of RAF planes. To his left lay Prison Valley through which he had just travelled, and, rising majestically, the great ridge of the White Mountains.

‘Hell of a viewpoint, isn’t it?’ said Freyberg. ‘Twenty minutes ago we could see bugger-all for the smoke and dust, but it’s settled down again now. So, tell me, how are our Greek friends?’

‘In good heart, sir,’ said Woodhouse. ‘Determined not to give the enemy an inch, should he try to attack.’

Freyberg chuckled. ‘Good, good. And they’ve got enough ammunition? Positions seem satisfactory to you?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Woodhouse was about to expand, but stopped as something suddenly caught his ear. Pausing, he cocked his head. Yes, there it was – out to sea, unmistakable now: the sound of aircraft approaching. He glanced at the general, who was now spreading another generous dollop of thick honey across his bread, apparently oblivious to the sound.

‘I know most of them are not Cretans,’ said Freyberg, ‘but Crete is still part of Greece. It’s still their country. Most Greek men will fight like dervishes if it’s Greek soil they’re defending. We’re going to need men like that and, of course, they’re a proud people.’

By now the sound of aero engines was a steady, increasingly loud drone. Moments later, Woodhouse spotted them – an air armada of Junkers three-engine transport planes and, behind, gliders. Mesmerized, he watched as a number of gliders detached themselves from their Junkers tugs and began drifting down towards the coast. Ahead, the Junkers were now shedding their loads, hundreds of white parachutes suddenly bursting into life like flower buds until the sky was awash with them, white canopies drifting downwards.

Several gliders were heading seemingly straight towards them, and then more parachutes were dropping. Suddenly, from nearby and from the valley and coast below, firing rang out, anti-aircraft guns booming, black puffs of shell dotting the sky, while amid the crashes of the guns came the steady machine-gun fire of the Bren and the individual snap of the rifle.

Woodhouse glanced at Freyberg and was astonished to see the Creforce commander calmly continuing to eat his bread and honey. It was inconceivable that the general had not observed what was going on, yet Woodhouse knew that to suggest Freyberg do something would be at best impolite and at worst downright insubordinate. On the other hand, Bren and rifle fire was now crackling very near at hand, from the direction of the Venizelos grave.

Clearing his throat, Woodhouse said, ‘I say, there’s quite a show going on, sir.’

‘H’mph,’ Freyberg replied, now glancing up to see the spectacle. ‘I’ll say one thing for ’em, they’re dead on time.’

‘Sir?’

‘The enemy,’ said Freyberg, pointing skywards with his knife, ‘impressively punctual.’

Woodhouse glanced at the ribbon of the Victoria Cross and the Distinguished Service Order on the General’s chest, to which had been added no fewer than two clasps, signifying he had been awarded the medal three times. Next to these was an array of other honours. Freyberg’s bravery was legendary.

Soon after Freyberg had arrived to take command of Creforce, some three weeks earlier, Woodhouse had been told of how Churchill had once demanded that Freyberg strip off his shirt and vest and show him the wounds he had sustained during the Great War. According to the story, Freyberg had apparently obliged and then Churchill had carefully counted the scars – twenty-seven in all. ‘Yes, but it’s not as bad as it looks,’ Freyberg was supposed to have told him, ‘because you tend to get two wounds for every bullet or piece of shrapnel – one where it goes in and another where it goes out the other side.’ Fearlessness was all very well, Woodhouse thought, but rifle and machine-gun fire were now cracking out very close to hand. Paratroopers were drifting to the ground only a few hundred yards away. Above the din, he could even hear occasional shouts, while behind him, he was conscious of activity within the villa.

‘I should report in to the quarry, sir,’ said Woodhouse, as Freyberg calmly poured another cup of coffee.

‘Yes, yes, you cut along,’ the general agreed.

Woodhouse stood up, saluted, and hurried out.

*

General Freyberg smiled to himself once Woodhouse had gone. The expression on the young man’s face had been priceless. The truth was, however, that there was little he could do in these first throes of the German attack. He had made his dispositions, ensured his troops were as ready as possible, and had done all he could to urge the Commander-in-Chief, Middle East, to provide aircraft and guns and as many reinforcements as he could spare. Now that the Germans were actually dropping from the sky, he had to let the men get on with it. He would act only once he knew how the battle was developing.

He had known about the German plans since the beginning of the month; Wavell had let him in on some high-level intelligence. Where that had come from, Freyberg had no idea, but when Wavell assured him it was secure that was good enough for him. Yet the C-in-C had also made it quite clear that he was to guard this secret with his life and under no circumstances was he to act on what he had been told. This was damned frustrating. Any ass could see that the airfield at Maleme, just up the coast, was the key to a successful airborne invasion. Once the Huns had secured the field, they could pour in as many troops as they liked. The maddening thing was that he would have reinforced it considerably had he not known about the German plans. Now that he did, however, the risk of compromising this intelligence was considered too great. He’d rather Wavell had never told him.

This same source had also told him the Germans were planning an attack on 17 May. That had then been postponed by three days. Freyberg had woken early that morning and had settled down to breakfast on the veranda with the intention of watching events unfold from his grandstand view. And, by God, that intelligence had been bang on the money! Sure enough, almost dead on 0800 hours, down the Huns had come.

Freyberg dabbed his mouth again with his napkin. Ah, for two or three fighter squadrons, he thought. Three squadrons of Hurricanes or Kittyhawks, all based at Maleme, would have made mincemeat of the German airborne invasion. As it was he could see two Junkers plunging earthwards, long streams of black smoke following after them; one, he could see, was vividly on fire. He stood up and, for a moment, paused to lean on the balustrade. Puffs of smoke dotted the sky; more parachutes; smoke along the coast, and now a whiff of cordite on the air. Away in Prison Valley, he saw billows of silk caught in the olive groves. Guns boomed, machine-guns chattered. Behind him, in front of him, to the side of him, the battle was under way, ill-defined, confusing, messy. He put a small cigar into his mouth, clicked open his American lighter, and inhaled the sweet smoke. It was ever thus, he thought. Still, he felt quietly optimistic that the island would hold. He had some forty-eight thousand troops, which was way more than the Germans could ever drop in their initial assault. His inspections of the defences had also encouraged him greatly – morale was good, the men looked fit, and adequate ammunition had been dumped and stockpiled.

Freyberg glanced at his watch. Time to head down to the quarry. The German plan, he knew, was to attack in the Maleme-Canea sector first, then at Rethymno and Heraklion. And once the airborne invasion had begun, the seaborne assault would follow.

At Eleusis airfield, near Athens on the Greek mainland, it was another scorcher, but apart from a brief moment at first light, when the sky and air had been beautifully clear, the main feature of the day had been the vast amounts of dust that had been whipped up by the endless stream of transport aircraft that had been leaving since around 6 a.m. This had caused delays, slight at first but which had begun rapidly to escalate and had put the day’s operation significantly behind schedule. For those men in the first wave – the battalion of paratroopers from the 3rd Fallschirmjäger Regiment – this had been frustrating enough, but for those in the 1st Regiment scheduled to be part of the second wave, this delay was causing mounting fury. The men had been in a state of fevered expectation as it was, but now the hours were ticking by and still there was no sign of any movement.

At 11 a.m., the 3rd Battalion was stood down again, and this time there was no hour-long delay but the realization that they had absolutely no chance of being airborne before two o’clock that afternoon, some four hours after they had originally been due to set off.

‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ Major Schulz told his company commanders, from the battalion headquarters tent. ‘It’s the same elsewhere, though. I’ve just spoken to Oberst Bräuer, and the entire regiment has been delayed, so it’s not as though they will be starting without us.’ Around the edge of the tent battalion staff were still manning radios and field telephones, while a clerk tapped away at a typewriter. Only their packs and weapons, neatly stacked beneath the trestle tables, suggested they were, in fact, ready to pack up and go the moment the signal arrived.

‘I’m going to organize some food and drink for the men,’ said Schulz, ‘but in the meantime, go back to your companies and make sure your boys keep themselves busy.’

Oberleutnant Kurt Balthasar wandered back across the dry soil and sparse grass to his 4th Company area, a collection of patrol and bell tents among an aged olive grove. The tents had once been white, but were now a dun colour, thanks to the dust. He’d already been awake for the best part of nine hours, too nervous, too excited to sleep. Just a few snatched moments was all he had managed and then movement outside had woken him – the sound of trucks and buses, ferrying paratroopers to their gliders and transports, shouts of orders, the last-minute work of the mechanics – and from then on he had known he was awake for good. It had been the same last time, before the drop on the Belgian forts a year ago, but at least then they had been first into action. A long night that had been, but not for lack of action: they had loaded up before dawn, and had been dropping from the sky at first light. This time it was different: too much waiting.

And the airfield next to their camp was now maddeningly quiet. Across the sea, the men of the 3rd Regiment would already be fighting, yet here they were kicking their heels. The airfield was only a few hundred yards away and beyond was Athens, now shimmering in the late-morning sun. Balthasar squinted as he looked up into the bright, cloudless sky, then glanced across at the Acropolis, visible through the haze, standing, timeless, on its promontory. To the south lay the sea, where for the past couple of weeks the men had been swimming daily, keeping fit, cool and clean.

He wandered around the tents, stopping first by the men of Leutnant Neumann’s platoon. Some were stretched out in their tents, others outside.

‘Sorry, boys, we’re delayed again,’ he said. ‘Stood down until two.’ Groans of frustration, cards slammed on the table, a kick of the ground. ‘I know, I know,’ said Balthasar. ‘Clean your weapons again, lose some more money on skat, write another letter. I don’t want you sitting on your arses staring into space or at your wrist-watches.’ Mutters of ‘Yes, boss,’ and resigned nods. ‘And Papa Schulz is trying to fix up some lunch so that you can all be sick on each other when we do get in the air.’

He continued his way around, talking to the other two platoons in turn, using the same jokes – which brought a few wry smiles. He knew the men liked him, yet he was careful not to be a friend to any of them. A bit of distance was needed. So, too, was their respect, but he had earned that with a fighting record in France and the Low Countries and, more recently, in Greece that had brought him an Iron Cross first and second class. He also made sure he set high standards. Those who followed his lead found him approachable, ready with a joke, and willing to indulge a few high jinks. Those who did not meet his expectations soon found their lives a misery, and then they either stepped up or were thrown out, or found themselves on a particularly suicidal mission.

His company now was almost at full strength – 154 men rather than the full complement of 170 – and although there were admittedly a few greenhorns, there were enough combat veterans to ensure the new boys toed the line. In any case, from what he’d seen of them so far, the replacements seemed to be shaping up well. Paratroopers were special – elite troops, as he made sure none of his men ever forgot. And elite troops were just that: the best, particularly in this battalion and especially in this company. In a year and a half of war, the Fallschirmjäger had become a force that struck fear into their enemies. This, he told them, was what they had to live up to.

Returning to his tent, he checked his equipment again. Two water bottles rather than one – who knew when they might be able to refill? – canvas gas-mask case stuffed not with a mask but three stick grenades, a gravity knife and a Gebrheller bayonet, two triple-filled MP40 ammunition pouches, a stash of rifle rounds, plus spare socks and as many dressing packs and first-aid items as he could fit into his smock and trousers. In his canvas burlap carry-sack was his parachute, while laid out on his camp bed were his firearms. It was difficult to jump out of a plane with a rifle: it could not be slung across the back because of the parachute pack, or across the front because it would get in the way. Instead, rifles were supposed to be placed in the aluminium canisters that were dropped with them. Over Belgium, though, Balthasar had looped his K.98 over one shoulder and it had not fallen off, and he intended to carry it with him this time, along with his MP40 submachine-gun, and a Sauer semi-automatic pistol. He had suggested the rest of the men do the same. The most dangerous time for the paratrooper was swinging down through the air – when they were sitting ducks – and immediately upon landing when they were scrabbling around trying to shed their parachutes and offering clear targets.

On paper, the MP38 and 40 had ranges of some 200 metres, but in reality it was all but useless over more than forty. With its short barrel, it simply did not have the velocity – and Balthasar rarely opened fire with his at more than twenty-five metres. At close range it was a great weapon. At long range, it was a waste of time. On the other hand, he could drop a man at 400 metres with his rifle. When he landed, he wanted his K.98 with him, not in some canister lying tangled up in an out-of-reach cactus plant.

Balthasar sat down and looked at his watch – exactly what he had told his men not to do – then ran his hands through his hair and lit a cigarette. Scheisser, he thought. He considered writing to his sister, then thought better of it. What was the point? He’d barely seen her in years and he couldn’t tell her very much anyway. There was no one else. Both his parents were dead – his father in the last war, his mother nearly ten years ago. Balthasar and his sister had lived with an aunt in Hamburg after that, until Balthasar had decided to leave; he’d never liked her anyway. He’d joined the Merchant Navy, sailing trampers all round the world, saved a bit of money, then tired of the sea.

Back in Germany, the National Socialists had come to power and Balthasar had seen that the new Germany held opportunities for men like him: men who were big and blond and good-looking, with a half-decent brain between their ears. Men who knew something of the world and how it worked. The Nazis didn’t care if you were born in a back-street. If you had talent and could prove yourself, you could make something of your life. So Balthasar had joined the Party, then the SS and then, when Göring announced to the world that Germany had an air force, he had applied to transfer and was accepted.

Excitement had quickly turned to disappointment. Of course he had intended to become a fighter pilot – didn’t everyone? – but instead of pirouetting through the sky in 450-kilometre-per-hour Messerschmitts, he was sidelined into air-sea rescue, flying biplanes with sea floats. He was an officer in the Luftwaffe but clearly his career would go nowhere if he was spending his time picking up people out of the sea. And so he decided to transfer again, applying to join the newly formed Parachute Regiment General Göring. Accepted, he knew immediately that he had chosen wisely. The training was exhilarating and he discovered he was fitter and stronger than most of his fellows. The danger thrilled him, while the knowledge of being part of a newly formed elite gave him a sense of belonging he had never known before. Three years on, he was still with the 1st Fallschirmjäger Regiment, and confident that in the ensuing battle there would be more opportunities to further his career. If we ever get there. He got up and stepped outside his tent. Some coffee, or something to eat. That was what he needed. No – what he really needed was a chance to get stuck into some Tommies.

Two o’clock, 20 May. The 2nd Battalion, the Yorks Rangers, were dug in beyond the town walls. The town had sprawled, however, since the Venetian days and the Rangers had wasted no time in either occupying the buildings that stood crumbling and empty, or billeting themselves among the locals. Most of the battalion’s B Echelon, for example, had made their base among a number of dilapidated houses at the foot of the walls, and in the courtyard within had set up a field kitchen. So far, since landing on Crete, none of the men had gone hungry.

Even so, some three hundred yards further on, Sergeant Stan Sykes was squatting over a small fire under the shelter of a large plane tree by the side of the Knossos road. He was clutching his sword bayonet, from which hung a small Dixie can full of water. Beside him on the ground was a can of evaporated milk, a small packet of tea, a tiny tin of sugar and two white eggs. The battalion were being fed their three square meals a day, but with the lads in their positions and nothing much else going on, Sykes had bartered a couple of eggs from a Cretan girl in return for a piece of chocolate. He’d decided to boil some water, hard-boil the eggs and brew up some tea while he was about it. It was a means of passing the hours, if nothing else.

As the first wisps of steam began rising from the tin, Sykes’s thoughts turned to CSM Tanner. Sykes had found him the previous evening at B Company’s headquarters, a requisitioned house at the edge of town, a hundred yards behind their lines and a stone’s throw from the Knossos road. Sitting beneath a sprawling tamarisk, Tanner had been drinking a brew and sharpening his bayonet. The CSM had looked up as Sykes approached. The blood had been washed from his face, but some livid purple bruises had emerged on his neck.

‘You all right, sir?’ Sykes had asked.

‘Course I’m bloody all right,’ Tanner had snapped, then added, ‘Well, no, actually, I’m not. I’m bloody seething, Stan.’ He had looked around, then said, ‘Come on, let’s get away from here for a minute.’ He had led Sykes through a sparse olive grove between HQ and their forward positions, and up towards a rocky outcrop that overlooked the company’s lines. He had eventually sat down on a stony seat in the rock and Sykes had thought he was about to speak, but the CSM had merely pulled out a packet of cigarettes. For a while they had smoked in silence, the sun setting over the high mountains away to the west, the sky, once so blue, turning a soft purple.

‘Well, what happened, then?’ Sykes had asked.

‘The captain came and got me,’ said Tanner, then told him about Alopex’s release. ‘But it’s your new platoon commander, Stan.’

Ah, thought Sykes. At last. ‘What about him?’

‘I know him – or rather, I should say, I knew him. Back home.’

‘So there’s another Wiltshireman in the battalion.’

Tanner drew on his cigarette, eyed Sykes carefully, scuffed at the ground, looked around him once again and then said, ‘Look, his old man used to employ my dad. As a gamekeeper. But my dad died, and I left home soon after. Joined the army. Mr Liddell’s old man – well, he was a good bloke. A really good man.’ He cleared his throat. ‘What I’m trying to say, Stan, is this: that’s all anyone needs to know. When I left – there was a bit of trouble. But if you hear him saying anything, you’d be doing me a favour if you told me about it – and tried to put a lid on it too.’ He looked at him, his brows pinched.

‘You want me to find out what he knows?’

‘Yes – but whatever he tells you, you keep to yourself, you understand? My past is no one’s business. No one’s.’

‘No, no, of course not,’ said Sykes. ‘Listen, Jack, we’ve all got our secrets. Blimey, I was in all sorts of trouble before I joined up. That was then – this is now. If you don’t want to talk about it—’

‘I don’t. I can’t, Stan.’

‘And that’s fine. Honestly. Say no more.’ He grinned and clapped him on the shoulder, then changed the subject. ‘You know, you definitely had the better of that Cretan geezer. The lads are right behind you.’

‘You’re just trying to make me feel better. I’ve suffered my share of humiliations in my life, but being force-marched at the head of a load of new recruits was more than a man should have to put up with. I fought that bastard to save our pride and ended up getting it bashed. Sticks in the gut, Stan. Really sticks in the gut.’

‘I’m sure, but that was just a new officer trying to prove ’imself and nothing more. But, honestly, Jack, you can hold your head up. More than can be said for me an’ Woody. What a pair of lily-livers we were, eh?’

Tanner had smiled wryly. ‘We should get back.’

Sykes had left Tanner feeling little the wiser. His friend had never really talked about his past – not even his time in the army before the war. An occasional comment here and there, but that had been it. A bit of trouble, he’d said – something he couldn’t talk about. What did that mean? Sykes shook his head.

The water had now begun to boil and, looking up, Sykes saw Lieutenant Liddell approaching.

‘Care for a brew, sir?’ Sykes asked.

Liddell paused, hands behind his back, then said, ‘Yes, why not? Thank you, Sergeant.’ He added, ‘The men all seem to be in order.’

‘Yes, I think so too, sir.’

‘And in good heart.’

‘As good as can be expected. We just need Jerry to come, sir. Don’t want too much hangin’ around.’

‘Er, no, I suppose not.’

Sykes passed the lieutenant an enamel mug of sweet tea. ‘There you go, sir.’

Liddell thanked him, took a sip and nearly choked.

‘You all right, sir? I didn’t poison it, did I?’

‘Just a bit more sugar than I’m used to, Sykes.’

‘Oh, I’ll try an’ remember another time, sir.’

‘I’m sure I’ll get used to it.’ Liddell gingerly took another sip. ‘Um, tell me, Sergeant, where are you from? Clearly not Yorkshire.’

‘Deptford, sir. I’m a south Londoner. You’re not from Yorkshire either, though, are you, sir?’

‘No, no, I’m not. I’m from Wiltshire. The same village as CSM, er, Tanner, as it happens.’

‘He told me once that he left there as a boy.’

‘Yes. His father died – I remember there was talk that he’d been shot by some poachers. Or maybe it was an accident. I’m really not sure. I was away at the time – at my prep school.’

‘His father was shot?’

‘Yes, definitely shot, but how or why, I couldn’t say for sure.’ He frowned. ‘There were rumours.’

‘About what, sir? How he died?’

‘Yes. It was sad. His father was a good sort. Then one of the village lads drowned. Two unfortunate deaths just like that. As I say, I was away, but I remember there being rumours – village people are like that. There’s always talk. You know how it is.’ He paused again. ‘He was always rather wild.’

‘Tanner, sir?’

‘Yes. He was older than me, but it was almost as though he’d grown up out of doors. I’d run into him in the woods sometimes – suddenly he’d be there, as though he’d appeared from nowhere. Never heard him approach. I don’t remember his mother at all. She must have died when he was very young.’

‘So why did he leave, sir?’

Liddell shrugged. ‘I suppose because there was no one to support him any more. He was too young to take over as game-keeper – no brothers or sisters, no parents. I do know, though, that my father gave him an introduction to the regiment. He’d served with the Yorks Rangers in the last war – that’s how he met my mother. He was best friends with my mother’s brother, you see. I’m not sure of the ins and outs of it, but he had been in the Wiltshires and then was transferred. I don’t know why – filling a hole, I suppose.’

‘So that’s why you joined them too?’

‘Yes. I could have joined one of the Wiltshire regiments, but my father died last year and, well, I suppose I thought I’d follow in his footsteps, so to speak.’

‘The CSM doesn’t ever talk much about those days, sir.’ Sykes caught his eye. ‘Doesn’t like people knowing his business – and why should he, sir? It’s not up to us to pry into a man’s past.’

Liddell glanced at him. ‘No – no, of course it isn’t.’

‘But I will say this, sir. I know he thought a lot of your father. ’E did tell me that. Said he was a real good man. Looked up to him.’

‘Yes,’ said Liddell, his brow furrowing. ‘I just need to make sure he looks up to me too, don’t I?’

CSM Tanner was forward of the Rangers’ positions, making a further reconnoitre of the ground around them. A series of valleys fed down towards the town, valleys that were quite sparsely populated – just a few farms and clusters of houses. The land was lush, however, filled with olive groves, vineyards and small fields of still-young wheat, oats and maize. If any Germans landed, he reckoned they’d find good cover there. On the other hand, they would find it hard to advance. The British positions were pretty good: the men were well dug in, the Brens and mortars carefully positioned with excellent cover, while behind was the edge of the town, and then the huge Venetian bastions and walls of the old town. Those would take some storming.

From their positions at the edge of the town, the ground rose very gently some four hundred yards, offering as clear a line of fire as was possible in this broken landscape of vines and groves and trees. He and Peploe had considered leaving permanent pickets on the ridgeline, but then had decided there was little point: it was just too far and risked leaving the men isolated and exposed. If they were attacked in overwhelming force, it would be better to fall back to the town and the walls, somewhat crumbling after long years of decay but still a formidable obstacle.

He crested the ridge and looked down towards Knossos. Among the plane trees he saw the Villa Ariadne, marked on his map, and a little further on, the ruins themselves. Through his binoculars he could see the walls and columns of the ancient palace, while to the east, overlooking the site, lay another long ridge, the current limit of the Rangers’ front. To the west, another shallower ridge, and beyond that a further valley, narrower than the one they were currently in, and from which rose the Ida Mountains, which now, in the afternoon heat, stood clear and jagged against the cloudless sky. There was no denying it: Crete was a bloody beautiful place. He looked back towards the town, and then east, where most of the brigade were dug in. The airfield lay on flat land next to the coast. Nothing stirred; there was not a single aircraft there, and it occurred to him then that General Freyberg would have been better off destroying it, or at least disabling it.

Tanner shook his head and moved on; there was still work to be done. On his map, he carefully marked whatever buildings he came across – houses, sheds, barns and wells. When he got back to Company Headquarters, he would then make a note of the distances; he had a feeling they would be useful if it ever came to a battle.

Tanner was glad to be alone, out in the Crete countryside, away from the knowing looks and nudges. He was also grateful to be able to avoid Lieutenant Liddell. Jesus, he could have throttled him, the sodding big-mouth. He’d never liked him as a boy. Too spoiled by half. And that look on Peploe’s face – what was it? Surprise – yes, but something more. Disappointment. Tanner winced again, just thinking about it. He’d told them he had lied about his age when he joined the army and had changed his name so that no one could trace him. Tanner had been his mother’s maiden name, he told Peploe and the colonel. ‘It’s just a name,’ he had said. Had they believed him? They’d seemed to, but now he was not the person they’d thought he was. But I am. He no longer thought of himself as Jack Scard; it was a name that had belonged to someone else entirely. Someone he had left behind a long time ago.

He began walking down towards the road, and as he did so, he paused to sweep the valley once more with his binoculars. They were particularly good ones, a pair of Zeiss that had once belonged to a German officer. He’d taken them in Norway, and had looked after them well ever since, even managing to bring them back safely from Dunkirk, which was more than could be said for much of their kit. Even during his time in the Western Desert he’d managed to keep the glass clean without a single sand scratch.

He now saw someone walking down the road and, focusing his binoculars on the figure, saw that it was Captain Peploe. Tanner hurried on, clambering over several walls and through a vineyard to reach the road. Peploe was up ahead, only a few hundred yards from the Knossos site entrance, when a battered pick-up truck of faded brown sped past Tanner. It was the first vehicle he’d seen in days. He watched it pull to a halt beside the captain.

Tanner ran, calling to Peploe, who now looked up, waved him on and then turned back to the people in the truck.

‘It’s happening,’ he said, as Tanner reached him. ‘Germans are landing at Canea.’

‘But not here.’

‘Not yet.’

Tanner looked into the truck. Alopex, John Pendlebury and another British officer were sitting inside. Bloody hell, he thought, that’s all I need.

‘You!’ growled Alopex.

‘Tanner, I presume?’ grinned Pendlebury. He wore a patch over his left eye. ‘Captain, we could do with a couple of pairs of hands. Will you help?’

Peploe looked at his watch. ‘If it’s quick and you can drive us back to our positions.’

‘It will be if you help, and, yes, by all means. Jump in the back.’

‘Sir,’ said Tanner, ‘we haven’t got time for this. Jerry could attack any moment.’

‘It’ll be quicker than us walking back.’

‘We could run.’

‘Stop arguing, Jack, and get in.’

Almost immediately, they turned off to the right, up the drive-way of the Villa Ariadne, lined with squat palms, tall firs, clematis and bamboo. At the end of the drive, the truck pulled into a gravel circle before the house, a limestone turn-of-the-century building with a flat roof and large, shuttered windows. A flight of stone steps led up to the main entrance, but it was to a store at the back that Pendlebury now led them. Unlocking it, he pushed open the door, which squeaked, then said, ‘Here. We need to get them into the back of the truck.’

Inside were boxes of rifles, several Brens, ammunition and grenades.

‘Where did you get all this from?’ Peploe asked.

‘Oh, we’ve been stashing it up for a while,’ Pendlebury said. ‘Captain Vaughan here has been helping me. How many trips have we done now from Suda Island, Alex?’

‘A dozen, perhaps,’ said Vaughan.

‘It’s been a struggle, I can tell you,’ continued Pendlebury. ‘I’ll admit I’m not an experienced soldier, but you regulars are not very keen on helping the irregulars. London gives me the job of helping to organize and arm these local andartes but no one at Middle East HQ is prepared to help. We’ve had to rely on stealth and guile and good old-fashioned thievery. It’s been fun, though, hasn’t it, Alex?’

Vaughan smiled resignedly. For some, maybe. Suddenly a gun opened fire from the direction of the port, and then another, followed by the faint roar of aircraft and the tell-tale siren of Stukas. Bombs exploded, dull crumps to the north. The men paused.

‘An overture to invasion?’ said Pendlebury.

‘Or maybe just the daily hate,’ said Peploe.

Tanner looked at them – let’s get a bloody move on then – and grabbed a box of ammunition.

‘Yes, you’re quite right, Tanner,’ said Pendlebury. ‘We mustn’t dally.’

They began loading, taking the cache box by box to the truck. It was as Tanner was striding back to the shed that Alopex grabbed his arm and steered him to the side of the building, out of sight of the others.

‘Get your hands off me,’ said Tanner, shaking his arm free.

‘This isn’t finished,’ hissed the Cretan. ‘I said I’d kill you and I will.’

Tanner felt something sharp press against his side and looked down to see Alopex had a knife in his hand. He grabbed the Cretan’s wrist. ‘How can you be so sure I won’t kill you first?’

Alopex sneered. ‘Listen to me. For now, we fight the Germans. But after …’ He let the sentence hang. ‘After, we have a debt to settle. So don’t run away on me now.’

Tanner pressed his thumb hard into the tendons on Alopex’s wrist. The Cretan grimaced with pain and the blade fell from his fingers.

‘Oh dear, you seem to have dropped your knife,’ said Tanner. He stared at Alopex, then turned and walked back to the shed.

In less than ten minutes they had finished loading the truck and were heading towards Heraklion, Tanner and Peploe perched on the boxes at the back. The guns and explosions were dying out, but over Heraklion and the airfield they could see a pall of grey, dusty smoke.

‘Is that it for one day, do you think?’ asked Peploe.

Tanner shrugged. ‘They’ve got to come some time soon. I’m sure of it.’

Peploe was quiet for a moment, then shook his head sadly. ‘Ah – so close yet so far.’

‘Sir?’

‘The ruins. Another hundred yards and I’d have made it. And one of life’s ironies that it should be Captain Pendlebury of all people stopping me getting there. Oh, well.’

‘Perhaps if we kick out Jerry, sir, there’ll be the opportunity after that. Did you tell him you knew of him?’

‘Yes – and that I have his book on Amarna too.’

‘Amarna?’

‘It’s in Egypt. He was excavating there half the year and here the rest of the time. I rather regretted it, actually. Made me feel a bit foolish.’

Tanner smiled. ‘And what did he say?’

‘Much the same as you. Said he’d take me round after we’d beaten the Germans.’

As they neared B Company’s lines, the truck was waved down.

‘Good luck, gentlemen,’ said Pendlebury, as Tanner and Peploe jumped out.

‘And you,’ Peploe replied. He clapped his hand on the top of the hood, and the pick-up sped off, a cloud of dust following in its wake.

‘Jack,’ said Peploe, as they hurried towards Company Headquarters, ‘I know this probably isn’t the time, but it’s going to be all right with Lieutenant Liddell, isn’t it?’

‘As long as he keeps his mouth shut.’

‘I think he will. I talked to him about it yesterday and told him I didn’t want him to tell anyone what he told us. That you are CSM Tanner and that was all there was to it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘But, Jack, you weren’t under age when you joined up, were you?’

Tanner said nothing.

‘So why did you change your name?’

At this Tanner stopped, sighed, then said, ‘Sir, I really don’t want to talk about it, but at the time I had very good reasons to do so. Can we leave it at that?’

‘All right, Jack. But just assure me of one thing. It’s not something I should know, is it? Nothing that will affect the company or the battalion?’

Tanner breathed in deeply again. ‘No – no, sir, it isn’t.’

And just then he heard a faint rumble, which made them both stop dead in their tracks. A moment later, the noise had grown and now both men were running up through the grove to the small rocky ridge above their positions. Away to the west, turning in over the coast, they saw aircraft, lots of aircraft.

‘Here they come,’ said Peploe. ‘So it’s happening, after all. My God, but they’re low.’

And as the guns on the ground began to boom, so the first parachutes began to unfurl, their white canopies drifting down slowly through the warm early-evening sky.