by Ian Blake
The corporal ripped one of the sheets in two and spoke to the garrison sharply. Most of them threw the sheets away, but one slipped off his rifle and dropped it to the ground. Another folded the piece of paper carefully and put it in his pocket. Both gestures were unmistakable.
The corporal snarled and ranted. One of the soldiers reluctantly picked up his weapon, but the other refused. He was not defying authority, but every inch of him seemed to spell defeat. He’d had enough and nothing the corporal said would move him.
Then the corporal grabbed one of the sheets from the ground, dropped his trousers, and wiped his behind with it. This brought a snigger from his audience and a roar of approval when he held up the paper, smelt it, and let it drop from his thumb and forefinger with an expression of total disgust.
‘Quite the little actor,’ Barnesworth murmured to Tiller.
Reluctantly, the second soldier picked up his rifle and slung it back on his shoulder with an embarrassed smile. The corporal then looked at the man who had pocketed the pamphlet. The man extracted it and let it drop to the ground.
‘Giovanni might have some spunk after all,’ said Barnesworth. He had christened the corporal Giovanni because the Italian looked the archetypal ice-cream vendor.
‘We’ll soon see,’ said Tiller. ‘I want you to remain here, Billy, with Tranter and Simmonds and seven of these characters. The Krauts aren’t going to oblige us by all of them walking into here in single file together. They’re going to come from at least two directions. I’ll need you to protect my back.’
Barnesworth nodded his agreement.
‘I’ll take the other two blokes to man the Bren. I’ll also take Giovanni and one of the Bredas. He can choose which four men he wants to have with him.’
Tiller signalled the corporal to join him and sketched his plan out in the dirt. He indicated where he intended to set up the ambush to the corporal and made him understand what he intended to do. The corporal nodded. Tiller told him to choose four men and then, nodding meaningfully, put his left hand on his right bicep and flexed the muscle. Giovanni grinned. He knew exactly what Tiller meant.
He called out four names and harangued them briefly. One of them was the man who had refused to pick up his rifle.
‘These good men,’ he said.
To Tiller they looked no different from the others. They were unshaven, their uniforms were torn and dirty, their boots worn out. One wore plimsolls. He indicated the one who had dropped his weapon and asked if he was any good.
‘My cousin,’ the corporal replied.
‘Christ!’ said Barnesworth. ‘They’re worse than the bloody Mafia.’
‘They probably are the Mafia,’ Tiller said. ‘Make sure he doesn’t shoot you in the back, Sarge.’
‘I’ll keep him in front of me,’ Tiller promised.
The ambush site was about a mile along the path towards the promontory. It was even better than Tiller had remembered it because the ground on either side trapped the path into a narrow defile.
Tiller placed the Bren at the start of the ambush area, knowing the two SBS men manning it would not open fire until the trap had been closed, and the less reliable Breda with its less reliable crew at the far end to seal off any escape. He then distributed the Italians along the rest of the path.
‘Tell them that as they are firing from above, they must aim low,’ he told the corporal, indicating his legs. In the heat of a fire-fight it was an error even the most experienced infantryman could make. Giovanni understood.
‘They must not fire until I say so.’ Again the Italian nodded.
The grenades, the more powerful Mills bombs, were primed and distributed, and the ambushers settled down to wait.
The Germans, when they came, could be heard a long way off, shouting gutturally to one another and crashing through the undergrowth.
‘Must think they’re on a fucking Sunday picnic,’ one of the SBS men muttered to Tiller as he pulled back the cocking handle on the Bren. Tiller suddenly felt the adrenalin pounding through him and he gripped the man’s arm so that he looked at Tiller in astonishment.
‘What is it, Sarge?’ he whispered.
Tiller cursed himself under his breath. The skipper was right: he was too conventional, did not use his instincts to keep one step ahead. One day it could be the death of him – and of those with him.
‘They’re doing that deliberately,’ he whispered.
The SBS man thought about it. He had fought against the Germans in the desert, knew they were wily adversaries. It made sense. ‘They could be, at that, Sarge.’
‘Take the Bren and go back to Billy,’ Tiller whispered. ‘Tell him most of them must be coming his way. Take all the Eyeties with you except Giovanni and his cousin, and the Breda team. Make it snappy.’
The two SBS men slipped away. Giovanni and his cousin looked too nervous to hold a gun, much less fire it straight. The shouting and the trampling was closer now. Tiller cocked his silenced Sten, gripped the thick canvas handguard around the barrel, and edged closer to the path, gesturing for the two Italians to follow him.
Suddenly three Germans appeared out of the undergrowth about a hundred yards from Tiller. He held them in his sights. He was in trouble if there were more, he thought. They were making no attempt to keep quiet, but were pushing their way through the bushes, and calling out to one another.
Tiller watched the bushes behind them. There could only be three of them, he decided. He could cope with that. He looked across at Giovanni and his cousin and indicated that he would do the shooting.
The Germans were big, blond fellows, clean, well fed and well armed, but they were very young. And much too sure of themselves.
They entered the cut without a second glance, carrying their rifles at the trail, and when they were ten yards from him Tiller stood up and fired three single shots from the Sten.
The shots made less sound than a champagne cork. The first hit the leading German in the throat before he even saw Tiller. His rifle clattered to the ground and his hands flew up to the wound as he spun round.
The second German saw Tiller just as the SBS sergeant carefully squeezed the trigger again. The bullet ripped into the soldier’s chest and knocked him backwards. His legs buckled under him and he pitched forward on to the first German sprawled across the path. He was dead before he hit the ground but through some physiological quirk he retained his grip on his rifle.
Only the last German had time to do anything. He dropped down on one knee and levelled his rifle. Fleetingly, as he shot the man between his eyes, Tiller admired the speed with which the German had moved, but even with such quick reactions he had had no chance to take proper aim.
Out of the corner of his eye Tiller saw the Italians rise from cover. He waved them down impatiently and then dropped into a crouching position to listen.
A lizard crossed the path, paused enquiringly, and then scuttled into the undergrowth. The first German made a strangled gurgling sound, drummed his heels on the ground, and died. Apart from that all Tiller could hear was the buzzing of the flies which were already beginning to gather over the blood and brains seeping on to the path.
For several minutes Tiller stayed crouched by the path watching the cloud of flies. Then he rose, indicated to the Italians they were to stay where they were, went back to the two men manning the Breda, and beckoned them to follow him.
‘The other Germans must have gone inland,’ he said to Giovanni, indicating with his hand. ‘We’ll take them from behind.’
The Italians followed Tiller back down the path. As they skirted the dead Germans, Tiller was drawn to the open, staring eyes of the one he’d shot in the throat. He looked away quickly.
They headed inland. Away from the beach the ground was rocky and steep. Apart from a few stunted bushes it was almost bare of cover, but a deep gully, which carried a stream to the sea during the wet season, gave them what was needed. Even so, they had to move carefully, one at a time.
Eventually
they were able to work their way round until they were directly inland from the bay. They could see the Germans now, large dots spread out across the hillside. They were moving slowly down towards the garrison’s defensive positions. There was a crackle of shots and the dots dropped to ground and returned the fire. Tiller wormed his way forward until he found a good position from which the Breda could enfilade the line of advancing Germans and he indicated it to the two Italians manning the gun.
Suddenly there was a puff of smoke from the hillside and the whoomph-crack of a mortar bomb. Shit, thought Tiller. He had not reckoned with the Germans having a mortar. They had, he knew, a reputation for using them with devastating accuracy.
‘I’m going to have to take that out,’ he said to Giovanni. He pointed to the German position and slit his throat with his forefinger. Giovanni nodded. ‘You stay here. Fire when you know I have taken out the mortar,’ he said, and he made the gesture of firing. ‘Understood?’ Giovanni grimaced.
Tiller worked his way up the hillside, round behind the mortar team, and then crawled forward until he was close enough to be able to throw a grenade.
There were two Germans working methodically from a small dip in the ground which made them invisible to those defending the bay. One was feeding high-explosive bombs down the mortar’s barrel, from which they were ejected with a subdued crump. Tiller watched two bombs as they whirred through the air and exploded on the hillside below.
The other member of the mortar team was breaking open a wooden box full of smoke bombs and piling them beside the mortar. Tiller guessed the mortar crew was just softening up the garrison’s positions before laying smoke to screen the attackers when they made their final dash forward.
Tiller crawled forward, extracted the pin from the No. 36 grenade with his teeth and lobbed it into the dip. He had primed it with an five-second fuse rather than the normal seven-second one, so it exploded with a jarring thud almost as soon as it hit the ground. There was a terrible scream from one of the Germans; the other, holding his leg, started scrambling up the hill. Tiller lifted his Sten and fired twice; the soldier staggered and fell.
That was five of the bastards, Tiller thought. Another fifteen to go. He heard the enemy commander shouting orders in the distance and tried to pinpoint his position. He had obviously decided to attack anyway, for the patrol rose in line, from what cover they had been able to find, and began advancing on the garrison’s positions.
The Germans were well beyond the range of Tiller’s Sten, so he scrambled to the mortar position and snatched up one of the dead men’s rifles. He thought of using the mortar, but decided it would take too long to realign it. He took careful aim at the nearest German, who was about 200 yards below him and to his right. He squeezed the rifle’s trigger, and the soldier pitched forward, though whether he had been hit, or had just tripped, Tiller couldn’t tell.
Then the Breda opened up below him and to his left. It was in a perfect enfilading position and three of the enemy were hit with its first burst. The figures on the hill hesitated; some went on; others dropped to the ground. A whistle blew and the German commander began shouting his orders above the firing before a brief burst from one of the garrison’s Brens forced him to the ground.
It did not surprise Tiller that Barnesworth, following the adage of reinforcing success, should now mount a counter-attack on the enemy’s right flank. Billy knew his stuff. What did surprise him was that Giovanni and his cousin, who must have followed him round, now rose from cover below him and charged the left end of the German line. He could hear the two men screaming what must have been Italian obscenities as they ran forward and he gave them what cover he could with his rifle until they disappeared over a ridge to his right.
Then another Bren opened up on the Germans’ right flank. That was too much for the attackers and within a minute a white handkerchief appeared on the end of a rifle barrel and then another and another, and the shooting petered out.
Tiller worked his way cautiously forward. From the garrison’s defensive position someone shouted, ‘Hände hoch! Hände hoch!’
Slowly, cautiously, the Germans rose from the ground, holding their hands well above their heads. Tiller watched them carefully, alert for any trick. He counted nine of them. ‘Kommen Sie hier!’ the linguist shouted. ‘Schnell! Schnell!’
But the Germans were reluctant to come quickly, or indeed to come at all. They stood on the hillside as if rooted to the spot, perhaps awaiting instructions from their commander. But it was the Bren to the right of them which eventually gave them their orders, because a burst was fired from it over their heads. The closest broke into a shuffling run and the others followed suit.
Tiller worked his way back down the hillside, collected the Breda team and the two Italians – all of them now grinning from ear to ear – and made his way down to the bay. Barnesworth greeted him enthusiastically. ‘Good going, Tiger. That mortar was causing us real problems. I liked the way you sent those Eyeties in as well.’
‘Not my doing,’ said Tiller. ‘They did it on their own initiative. Talk about Charge of the bloody Light Brigade.’
‘Good Christ!’ said Billy. ‘Whatever next. How did you guess what the Krauts were up to?’
‘I nearly didn’t,’ said Tiller sourly.
‘Well, if you hadn’t sent back that Bren and those extra men I ... ’
‘If, if, if, Billy.’ Tiller felt the tension snap something inside him. Barnesworth looked at his friend understandingly.
‘Two Eyeties dead,’ he said after a pause. ‘A mortar bomb got them in their slit trench.’
Tiller, quite irrationally, felt furious. ‘If they’d dug the fucking slit trench properly, with a parapet, they’d have been all right. Fucking no-hopers.’
Barnesworth paused and said gently: ‘No, it landed right in the trench, Tiger. They didn’t stand a chance.’
Tiller wiped his face. The fury left him as quickly as it had built up, and he said tiredly: ‘You’re right. Sorry, mate. Any other casualties?’
‘Couple of mortar-bomb fragments, a bullet through the arm, nothing serious. One of the Eyeties was advancing in the wrong direction and got a fragment in his arse. He won’t be sitting down for a while. But most of them behaved pretty well.’
‘And the Krauts?’
‘We found eight dead on the hill, including the mortarmen. A couple more have a hole or two in them. They’ll survive if the Eyeties don’t slit their throats.’
‘There are three down the track,’ Tiller said. He remembered the cloud of flies and added: ‘We’d better bury them quick.’
The Italians were talking excitedly among themselves.
‘Good, good, eh?’ the corporal said enthusiastically to Tiller.
‘Very good,’ said Tiller. ‘You’re a brave man, Giovanni. All your men, brave men.’ The corporal saw that Tiller meant it. His effusive gratitute at being so praised was almost embarrassing. Poor bastard, Tiller thought, the Krauts when they came would not call him brave – they’d just shoot him. If he was lucky.
Balbao arrived late at the rendezvous, having been delayed from leaving Simi when naval intelligence in Alexandria put out an alert that two Italian destroyers, now in German hands, were heading towards the islands from Crete.
He brought a sick-berth attendant with him, one of a trickle of key personnel arriving on Simi as the British effort to reinforce the islands gathered momentum. The man treated the wounded, who were then, with the prisoners and the SBS men, loaded aboard at the jetty, while more stores for the diminished garrison were brought ashore. But it was dawn before the MAS boat was ready to make its daylight dash to Simi.
Giovanni wrung Tiller’s hand in farewell. ‘Italians fight good, eh?’
‘Very good, Giovanni, very good. Good luck, mate.’
Tiller knew he would need it. They were all going to need it.
The MAS boat’s crew had just cast off when one of the crew shouted out a warning and pointed seawards.
In the exhilaration of victory Tiller had quite forgotten about the Siebel ferry and when he saw it clawing its way awkwardly around the next headland to the north he could not immediately think what it was. Balbao ordered full speed ahead and the MAS boat leapt forward as the gun crews scrambled to man their weapons.
The Siebel ferry fired first. It began pumping 105mm shells at the MAS boat as the latter picked up speed and made for the open sea. But the German gunners underestimated the astonishing acceleration of their target and the shells fell well astern. The MAS boat’s twin 20mm Bredas returned the fire and Tiller could see in the half light of dawn that the arcing tracer was hitting the target.
The Siebel was well armed but it was very slow and made an easy target. The MAS boat was now making thirty knots and the German gunners had little chance of hitting it. Balbao made a run parallel with the ferry which allowed his gunners to rake it from stem to stern. Then a shell from the Bredas hit a fuel tank on the Siebel and the German vessel suddenly blew up in a sheet of flame.
Balbao slowed and manoeuvred towards the Siebel, but by the time the MAS boat arrived there was no sign of it. A large patch of oil, some of it still alight, with pieces of charred, unidentifiable wreckage floating in it, was all that remained.
8
Tiller woke with a start. There was no moon; it was still very dark. A soft breeze sighed through the caique’s rigging. Occasionally it gusted more strongly for a moment, snapping a halyard against the wooden mast, making the caique’s hull creak against the quayside.
The SBS had set up its headquarters in the port and a more powerful radio than the Kittyhawk in the caique had been installed there. An empty house on the quay had also been acquired as sleeping quarters, but Tiller preferred to stay on the caique, where he could keep his nightmare to himself.
He stood up and and stretched himself and Griffiths, who was on guard, called out to him: ‘I’m brewing up, Sarge. Like a cuppa?’
Griffiths handed up the steaming mug and Tiller wrapped his hands around it. With autumn on the way the air had a definite nip in it. He wondered as he sipped the strong, sweet tea if Giovanni and his garrison on Piscopi would survive. The SBS had given the Italians what stores they could spare, had even left one of their precious Brens behind.