by Ian Blake
The dispatchman saw the young major watching him with a grin on his face. The dispatchman grinned back and gestured him forward, waited the obligatory amount of time, then raised his hand.
But the major was gone. Even above the roar of the engines and the rush of air the dispatchman was sure he heard the major whoop with joy as he jumped. Well, it took all sorts. He unclipped the door and swung it closed.
‘Chums away, sir,’ he told the pilot through the intercom. The crew of aircraft on Special Operations always called their human cargo ‘chums’.
Without replying, the pilot put the Halifax into a steep, climbing turn. Whoever was firing at him must be pissed as a newt, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
The major had indeed whooped, but with relief not joy. The spread wings on his battledress showed that he had passed the parachute course, but he never much liked the sensation of jumping into space. But doing so from an aircraft was infinitely easier than from a balloon, which was what the first training jump was usually from. That was gut-wrenching. And once the parachute was open after jumping from an aircraft there was that blissful, transient feeling of being suspended in time as well as space.
The major looked down and saw that the sporadic flashes, now accompanied by a high-pitched crackle, were still coming from the ground. At first they seemed to be firing at the diminishing sound of the Halifax grinding its way back to Cyprus and he thought what silly sods they were wasting their ammunition like that. Then he realized they were firing at him too, and the tracer bullets were arching into the sky either side of him. He searched for any sign of the ground and as he did so remembered how he had last visited Rhodes. It had been by boat from Brindisi. He’d been an archaeology student then. It was only five years ago but it seemed a lifetime away. Perhaps the Italian professor of archaeology who had so courteously taken him under his wing on Rhodes was now in charge of those taking a pot-shot at him as he swung helplessly above them.
He suddenly saw the ground appear out of the dark. It seemed to be coming up towards him at an alarming rate. It always did. He flexed his legs. There was no time to pick a landing place. It looked horribly rocky. The shock of landing jarred right through him, even though he rolled as he had been taught. A rock hit him under the ribs and knocked the wind out of him. A gust caught his parachute and pulled him like an express train through some gorse. He struggled to release it and just managed to do so before it threatened to throw him against a rocky outcrop. The parachute collapsed and the major staggered to his feet and began winding it rapidly towards him. It was only then that he realized that it was blowing half a gale. The Met people had got it wrong. Again. There was little chance they had landed in the right place in such a wind.
The major finished winding in the parachute, took off his helmet, put the helmet into the parachute and pushed the bundle out of sight under a gorse bush. He put on his beret and then checked his equipment: water bottle, commando knife, silenced Sten gun with extra 9mm ammunition, pistol, rucksack with rations, night binoculars, and lastly the letter. Nothing missing.
A gust of wind brought with it the staccato sound of semi-automatic weapons. What the hell were they firing at now? He tried to identify the sound: German Schmeisser or Italian Breda, but it was too indistinct and sporadic to be certain. The major decided they – whoever they were – must be firing at his two companions. But it was also possible, perhaps more likely, that they were firing at each other. He had been warned that the Germans and Italians might clash when the surrender of Italy became known.
He began making his way cautiously towards the sound of the battle. The ground was very broken and steep. Twice he stumbled and fell. After ten minutes or so he came to a crest. He flung himself down and crawled cautiously up to it so that he was not silhouetted against the night sky. Now he could see tracer flying in all directions and a flare spluttered upwards, burst, and lit the ground with an eerie light before extinguishing itself. Someone seemed to be putting up a hell of a fight. He started to shift forward when his ankle was gripped in a vice. His hand went for his knife but then relaxed when a voice hissed urgently: ‘Major Jarrett, sir. It’s me. Kesterton.’
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Jarrett whispered to his wireless operator. Whoever was firing was obviously not doing so at Kesterton. ‘Are they firing at Dolby?’
‘I don’t know, sir. If they’re Eyeties they’re probably firing at one another. Regular Guy Fawkes night, it is.’
As the major’s eyes became accustomed to scanning the area he could see figures moving. They seemed to be approaching the ridge where the two men were lying. Jarrett knew there were only about 10,000 Germans on Rhodes while the Italians had a garrison of 35,000. Perhaps the Italians had decided to make a pre-emptive strike at their former allies.
He trained his binoculars on the moving figures but they were still too far away. He passed them to Kesterton. ‘Krauts?’
Kesterton peered through the glasses. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Could be. It’s mostly rifle fire now, though they were firing something much heavier earlier on.’
It mattered to Jarrett who it was. It mattered a lot. He fingered the letter in his pocket. It was addressed to Admiral Campioni, the Italian governor of the Dodecanese, who was based on Rhodes, and was signed by General Maitland Wilson, Commander-in-Chief Middle East. It was couched in diplomatic terms and expressed the wish of the British for the Italian garrison to co-operate with incoming British forces. It flattered Admiral Campioni no end. It was not the kind of document Jarrett would like the Germans to find on him, especially if there happened to be any Gestapo on the island. The Gestapo shot parachutists out of hand and probably had a more lingering and painful death in store for those who were trying to suborn the Führer’s former allies.
But what really mattered was that, once the Germans got a whiff of what the British were planning to do, they could decide to take over the islands themselves, and Jarrett’s orders were precisely to prevent that happening. Campioni would have to do without his letter. He explained the situation briefly to Kesterton and could hear the surprise in the operator’s voice.
‘You’re going to eat it, sir?’
‘Well, I can’t burn it, can I?’ Jarrett said irritably. ‘And there’s nowhere to hide it.’
But it was the Italians who found them an hour later. By then Jarrett had laboriously swallowed the letter and was badly in need of the Chianti bottle that an unshaven but friendly carabinieri corporal offered him.
Admiral Campioni surveyed his visitors cautiously. If they were who they said they were things might be looking up. The one now lying on a stretcher with a broken leg spoke good Italian and certainly knew more about the surrender of Italy than he did. Campioni had only been told about the armistice the previous day – by the wife of a German officer who had just happened to be passing by – and this information had been followed by an agreement with the commander of Sturmdivision Rhodos, General Klemann, that both commanders would not move their troops.
The agreement had suited Campioni as he had no transport. But the Germans had then promptly broken it by sending patrols to take over the three Italian airfields at Marizza, Calato and Cattavia. It was, Campioni thought gloomily, typical of how his country – of which he was inordinately fond – had fought and lost the war. No proper communications, treacherous allies, and a lot of promises, all broken.
He wiped his heavily gold-braided sleeve across his brow and began reading the teleprinter message his aide had brought. It came from Cairo and was in Italian, and confirmed the names and ranks of the three Englishmen, and the purpose of their visit. Campioni smiled. Major the Earl Jarrett. If the British were prepared to risk an English milord – and one whose father Campioni had much admired – on such a mission then they must be serious. Things were definitely looking up.
‘Of course,’ Campioni said to Dolby. ‘If we were to be supported by a British armoured division and if an airborne brigade were to be dropp
ed within, say, the next twenty-four hours on the airfields then we would be in a position to go on the offensive against the Germans.’
Campioni’s staff officers clustered around him and nodded their agreement. Jarrett looked quizzically at Dolby. ‘Well?’
‘He wants the whole damned 8th Army air-dropped here this evening,’ the interpreter said wearily. ‘And I daresay he’s going to want Monty in command of it. Under him, of course.’
Despite the morphine injection the Italian doctor had given him, Dolby’s leg hurt abominably. But he felt the shock he was suffering was more from being within an ace of being shot by the carabiniere who had found him. Only some quick talking had saved him.
‘You’re joking,’ said Jarrett.
‘Am I? You had better believe it, George,’ Dolby said, then turned to Campioni. ‘You have many more troops than the Germans. Are such strong reinforcements necessary?’
Dolby hoped he was implying that the reinforcements were all lined up, ready to go if Campioni really needed them. So far as he knew there was half a battalion of the Buffs on Cyprus, and most of them were on leave.
‘Oh, but certainly. And we would also, of course, need strong logistical support and good air cover. Then we have a famous victory. We would wipe those damned Germans right off the island.’
The Admiral’s staff looked as if they were about to applaud his brave speech.
‘He does want the 8th Army,’ Dolby told Jarrett. ‘And he wants the bloody Desert Air Force as well.’
‘To avoid the – ah, unfortunate – reception you received this morning,’ Campioni said to Dolby. ‘I would like to inform our batteries as to when and where these reinforcements are arriving. Will it be at dawn or afterwards?’
‘What’s more, he seems to think they’re already on their way.’
Jarrett’s face was a mask. ‘What can we tell him?’ he asked Dolby.
A spasm of pain crossed the interpreter’s face. ‘How many men do we have available, George?’ he asked curiously.
‘About fifty,’ said Jarrett.
‘Well, I won’t tell him that,’ said Dolby firmly. ‘I’ll let him down as gently as possible.’
Jarrett did not try to follow the rapid flow of Italian that passed between the two men but the result was obvious. Campioni’s expression changed from amiability to irritation to petulance. Watching the Italian admiral reminded Jarrett of the story that had lately been circulating in Cairo. When Stalin was told by Churchill during a conference in Moscow that the Pope would not approve of some action the Allies were about to embark upon the great leader of the Soviet people had leant forward and asked: ‘And how many divisions does the Pope have?’
Jarrett did not have any divisions either – just a wireless operator, an elderly captain with a broken leg, and a lot of promises. He knew his advance party of fifty men would have already left their base and would at this moment be landing on Castelrosso, a small Italian-held island between Cyprus and Rhodes which was to be their base for operations in the rest of the Dodecanese. An infantry battalion on Malta was being readied to follow but that could not arrive for another six days.
‘Remind him that his king has ordered all Italian commanders to defend Italian land.’
Dolby did so but it did not go down well. Campioni simply shrugged and spread his hands open; his staff looked glum. In his mind Jarrett dwelt fleetingly, and adversely, on the fighting qualities of Italian troops generally and of Italian admirals in particular.
Beads of sweat glinted on Campioni’s forehead. His fingers picked at the resplendent gold braid on his sleeve. An awkward silence descended which was broken only by yet another member of the Admiral’s staff who entered the room and whispered in his ear. Campioni produced a handkerchief so seeped in eau-de-Cologne that Jarrett caught a whiff of it ten feet away. He dabbed his forehead and spoke imploringly to Dolby. It was a long, involved explanation.
‘He says General Klemann wants to confer with him,’ Dolby explained when the tirade had ceased. ‘As soon as possible. We have to go. He’ll fly me out in a seaplane immediately, while it’s still dark. He’ll arrange for you and Kesterton to be taken off by torpedo boat this evening. In the meantime you must put on civilian clothes and keep out of the way while this is being arranged. Under no circumstances must the Germans know we’ve been here.’
Dolby waited for Jarrett to absorb this information, before adding needlessly: ‘He’s running scared.’
3
‘We don’t stand on ceremony in the SBS,’ said Captain Magnus Larssen of L Detachment, SBS. ‘The chaps just call me skipper.’
Tiller studied Larssen discreetly. He was fresh-faced, fair-haired and looked appallingly young. But Tiller discerned there was something razor-sharp about him, too. Touch him and you’d cut your finger.
Tiller’s salute snapped up and down. He registered Larssen’s Scandinavian accent, the absence of any badges of rank on his blue shirt, the fact that his feet, clad in disgracefully dirty desert boots, were propped on the ramshackle table which he presumably used as his desk.
‘Yessir,’ Tiller replied loudly. Marines didn’t call officers by their nicknames. Especially scruffy army officers without pips on their shoulders, especially foreign-sounding officers, especially ones who had crossbows hanging on their walls. What was he, frigging William Tell or something?
Larssen’s eyes, a piercing, very pale blue, caught Tiller’s and bored into him. Tiller grinned lamely.
‘Good,’ said Larssen briskly, leaning forward to shake his hand. It was, Tiller couldn’t help noticing, like shaking a piece of particularly tough leather and the grip was vice-like.
‘So that’s settled, then. Sit down, Sergeant. Let’s have a gossip.’
Gossip? Tiller gingerly lowered his six-foot frame on to the edge of a rather rickety chair.
‘So,’ Larssen said softly. ‘You are Sergeant Tiller. I call you Tiger, is that right?’
Tiller nodded. He stifled the ‘yessir’ that was on his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to call this extraordinary individual ‘skipper’. He had too many other unusual things to get used to.
Tiller took off his beret and wiped his face. The tiny island of Castelrosso seemed hotter than Hades, hotter even than Athlit had been, and the crumbling house that Larssen had requisitioned as headquarters for L Detachment was like an oven.
‘I’m glad you catch up with us at last,’ said Larssen. ‘We were ordered to move quickly.’
Tiller had been travelling non-stop for five days. It felt like five years. At Athlit no one appeared to know where his detachment had vanished to, so they had sent him to the ‘Killer School’ for a refresher course while they tried to find out. The school was in the old police station in Jerusalem and was run by a major who wore two pearl-handled revolvers. Until he had shot the ace of diamonds out of a playing card at twenty paces with one of them Tiller had thought him a bit of a comedian.
When they still hadn’t been able to find his detachment they had sent him to Haifa on an aircraft identification course – why he never knew – but before he had had time to savour the delights of the city he had been bundled on to a plane bound for Akrotiri airbase in Cyprus, so he hadn’t even had time to collect all his new kit.
His one evening in Limassol had proved entertaining but abortive as, for some reason, the Turkish belly dancer had proved unresponsive to his approaches. Perhaps he was losing his touch. Then at dawn he had been flown to Castelrosso by a jovial RAF type in a captured Italian Cato floatplane which, with its load of ammunition and food supplies for the SBS, had seemed inordinately reluctant to become unstuck from the waters of Limassol harbour.
‘Underpowered,’ the RAF pilot had shouted cheerfully at him as they had bucked across the waves. ‘Bloody useless, really. Like everything Italian. Still, it’s better than warming a chair in some Cairo office.’
Tiller, who would not have minded being in Cairo at that particular moment, had shut his eyes. A fortune-
teller Sally had taken him to had predicted he would have a watery grave, but he had never supposed his coffin would be a clapped-out Italian seaplane. He had never been more glad to step on to terra firma after the two-hour flight, even if it was a bare, hot, miserable rock like Castelrosso.
‘You know anything about the SBS, Tiger?’
‘Not much, sir. You were part of the SAS at one time?’
The forbidden sin had slipped out. Larssen scowled but let it pass. ‘That’s right. We were D Squadron SAS. In April, after Colonel Stirling was captured, we became SBS – Special Boat Squadron. Full establishment is three detachments each of seventy men and seven officers, but we are still recruiting. We’re part of what is known as Raiding Forces, controlled operationally by GHQ, Cairo. A few of the men served with Courtney in the Special Boat Service, but they’ve spent a couple of years attacking Kraut airfields in the desert, and have probably forgotten everything they learned. Anyway, techniques and equipment have changed. You will have to instruct Corporal Barnesworth, the man we have given you as your swimmer.’
‘Here?’ Tiller asked. He had already met Billy Barnesworth and had taken an immediate liking to the lugubrious, powerfully built guardsman.
‘Yes, here. We are ready to move but the navy takes a little longer to get ready. We’ll be here for a couple of days at least.’
A couple of days! He hoped Billy was a quick learner. To help him get the picture of how he might be used he asked what the SBS did exactly.
‘We were formed for raiding operations in the eastern Mediterranean. Quick in-and-out affairs to harass the enemy. Blow up a few ammunition dumps, cut a few throats. What Mr Churchill calls a “butcher and bolt” policy. You get the idea?’
A jolt of excitement ran through Tiller. ‘Sure,’ he said.
‘So we’ve been training in Palestine for the past few months to mount that sort of operation. But instead of jeeps taking us to our targets, as the Long Range Desert Group took the SAS, we have caiques of the Levant Schooner Flotilla doing the same job.’