by John Harris
‘Deserted, perhaps?’
‘More likely murdered by your British survivors.’ Fernbrugge slapped the desk. ‘I want reinforcements! I’ve worked it out there might be around half a dozen of them in Xiloparissia Bay and I gather they have weapons – automatic weapons.’
Baldamus’ eyebrows lifted. He had long realised such a possibility existed, but it was still news to him and, though he didn’t show his concern, it wasn’t particularly good news.
‘It’s my belief,’ Fernbrugge went on, ‘that they’ve been repairing the wreck in Xiloparissia Bay and you know what that can mean, don’t you?’
‘Tell me.’
Fernbrugge scowled at Baldamus’ sarcasm. ‘They’re intending to escape. With news of what’s going on here. We were sent to back up your security people who appear to have been remarkably slack, and this seems to me a case that ought to be investigated.’
‘It does indeed.’ Baldamus’ face didn’t change but his heart thumped annoyingly that somehow his command had slipped up.
‘Why wasn’t the matter investigated before, Major?’
‘It was.’
‘Then why wasn’t it brought to a satisfactory conclusion?’ Baldamus stared at Fernbrugge, disliking him and everything he stood for. In men like Fernbrugge, he felt, there was only a thin veneer of civilisation and the job they did very nearly wiped that away. Even so, there was a small feeling of doubt at the back of his mind and he was playing for time because he was well aware that when Ehrhardt’s sergeant had jumped to the conclusion that the British survivors had escaped, the idea had probably been put into his head by Baldamus’ own suggestion that there’d been a third boat. The eye saw what it wished to see and, because there’d been no sign of the British, they’d all assumed that they’d been taken away.
He forced himself to be calm. ‘You’d better ask the Luftwaffe,’ he said. ‘They did the recce.’
Fernbrugge was eyeing him. He didn’t like Baldamus any more than Baldamus liked him.
‘I intend to ask the Luftwaffe,’ he said. ‘For the moment, however, I need men.’
‘I have a few engineers.’
‘I need soldiers,’ Fernbrugge said contemptuously. ‘Those people I took to Ay Yithion were useless. I sent them back.’
Baldamus didn’t blink. ‘Perhaps they don’t enjoy murder.’
Fernbrugge was used to insults from the regular army and Baldamus’ dislike ran off him like water off a duck’s back.
‘They have no guts,’ he said. ‘I want something better this time. If those survivors in Xiloparissia Bay have automatic weapons, I want men who know how to deal with them – not clerks and bridge-builders.’
Baldamus began to move the papers on his desk as an idea occurred to him. He had tried incorporating the troops at Xinthos – the so-called Special Service Battalion – into his own command, if only for discipline, and had even called on Captain Haussmann, their commander. There was a built-in self-reliance among them, however, which existed from the top to the very bottom and Haussmann had made no bones about it. His troops weren’t going to answer to anyone but himself and he didn’t intend to permit anybody to push them around.
Baldamus had had to leave unsatisfied, but there had been other means and a quick exchange of signals with Sofia had provided them. ‘Subject troops,’ General Ritsicz had pointed out, ‘will conform in every way – repeat every way – with orders issued by your headquarters. Co-operation of the islanders is first essential and good behaviour of troops is of prime importance. Subject troops will be given duties but, bearing in mind the need for secrecy, will not be used except in security tasks and then only sparely.’
Baldamus smiled up at Fernbrugge. ‘You’d better ask the captain in command of the special service unit at Xinthos,’ he said. ‘He’s the man with the soldiers. Mine are all bridge-builders, clerks, pen-pushers and bottle-washers.’
Fernbrugge glared. ‘That’ll take time.’
‘You wanted soldiers. They are soldiers. Splendid soldiers.’
As Fernbrugge turned away and the door slammed behind him, Baldamus stared after him, irritated and not a little worried. This was a damn fine kettle of fish for a peace-loving fighting man to find himself in, he thought cynically. If the British survivors they thought had escaped were still at the south end of the island and had repaired one of their boats sufficiently to take it away, it might prove highly embarrassing for him – especially if they did take it away! One of the instructions he’d been given by General Ritsicz had been that nothing should leak from the island about what was going on, and there was no knowing how much they’d seen or how much they’d guessed. It seemed a good idea to stir himself.
As he rang a bell, Ehrhardt appeared.
‘Ehrhardt,’ he said. ‘Get someone to send my car round. I’m going to sea.’
Ehrhardt gaped and Baldamus smiled. ‘We have a fleet,’ he pointed out. ‘Two caiques and an ex-Italian launch. And I’m the admiral in command. After all, we mustn’t let the Gestapo take the credit for everything, and we seem to have put up a bit of a black about these British survivors.’
‘I thought it was out of our hands,’ Ehrhardt said.
‘Not quite. I’m going to station my flagship south of the island, with me aboard her. You’d better stay around here. Our gallant friend Fernbrugge is bound to radio in.’
‘Won’t he contact Haussmann first?’
Baldamus considered. It had given him a great deal of satisfaction to present General Ritsicz’s signal to Captain Haussmann, who had glared at it fiercely so that Baldamus had realised there would very soon be signals flying north from him in an attempt to rescind the order. He was probably already in touch with General Student, who was in command of all special air service units, and was doubtless prepared to go as high as Field Marshal List and – if necessary – even to the Führer himself. That would take time, however, and by the time the dispute had penetrated into the inner sanctums, Haussmann’s men might well be gone from Xinthos, and the situation – and Major Baldamus’ reputation – might well be saved.
‘I suspect Haussmann will be receiving Fernbrugge at any moment,’ he said. ‘When he found our order covered his group he told me, if his people had to be used for anything, then for God’s sake at least let them be used for something worthwhile, because he was as bored as they were and was prepared to go with them.’
‘And–?’ Ehrhardt was still puzzled.
Baldamus gestured and smiled again. ‘And if our British are as clever as they seem to be, they’re not going to surrender all that easily to the SS. They might even try to dodge them by going to sea. And if they do, the chances are that they’ll run right into my hands.’
At the top of the slope, Cotton was peering across the plain, biting his nails. His mother had been in the habit of putting mustard on his fingers when he’d bitten his nails as a boy but he decided that this was a time when he might legitimately enjoy his bad habits.
‘I hope to Christ there aren’t more than two lorry-loads,’ he said to Bisset. ‘We’ll wait for Kitcat to start and we’ll handle the rear end.’
Bisset nodded, not taking his eyes off the plain. ‘Right.’
As they waited, the sun began to sink and Cotton realised with gratitude that it was well into the afternoon now. Every minute they waited without anybody approaching was to their advantage. Then he began to wonder again whether he could trust Docherty and why Annoula had failed to turn up.
It was almost five o’clock when Bisset touched his arm and pointed. In the distance below them they could see a cloud of dust approaching.
‘Here they come!’
Running up the road, Cotton waved to Kitcat. ‘They’re here!’
‘How many?’
‘Can’t tell yet. I’ll let you know.’
‘Right!’ Kitcat’s small face was taut and his big moustache bristled with anticipation.
Cotton ran back towards Bisset and threw himself down. ‘How many?’ he a
sked.
‘Can’t say yet. Not a column, anyway. That’s one thing, thank God, because I expect there’ll still be too many. After all, there are only four of us. Six boy scouts would be almost too many.’
Bisset was frowning and Cotton looked at him. ‘I’m scared,’ he admitted. ‘Are you scared?’
‘Of course I’m scared. You scare me.’ Bisset shifted his position and his eyes narrowed. ‘Four vehicles,’ he announced in a flat voice. ‘There seem to be four men in the car in front and eight in each of the other three. Twenty-eight altogether.’
Cotton’s heart sank. Twenty-eight! It was almost a regiment! He was tempted to call the whole thing off and take Loukia to sea and chance being caught by the aeroplanes off Cape Kastamanitsa. His whole soul cried out to him to bolt while the going was good, but the trained soldier in him told him it was up to him to do something positive.
He swallowed, deciding that this time he’d dropped himself in for something he couldn’t get out of all that easily. Glancing at Bisset to find what he was thinking, he saw the wireless operator’s face was blank and expressionless as he crouched among the rocks, holding the tommy-gun.
Jesus, Cotton thought, one tommy-gun, one Bren, one Lewis – not on a stand – and one rifle, against twenty-eight assorted weapons, some of them inevitably machine-guns! Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, he became aware of men among the rocks lower down and even a few near him, crouching over rifles. He saw a tommy-gun, a Bren, for God’s sake, even Lewis-guns, mounted on home-made stands. He turned swiftly, alarmed and wondering where they’d come from, who they were and what the hell was happening, and as he did so one of the men dropped down alongside him. Thickset with strong features and hot black eyes like Petrakis, he wore a jersey and an old felt hat, with smart riding breeches and long boots, and he was festooned with belts of ammunition.
‘Delageorgis, Nichomacos,’ he said. ‘You are Cotton?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘We are from Cape Asigonia. We went into Ay Yithion to kill the Germans but they’d all left and Varvara told us you were here.’ Delageorgis gestured down the slope. ‘You intend to destroy them?’
The German vehicles had started to climb the slope now and Cotton nodded. Delageorgis smiled.
‘We will help you. We collected the weapons from the goat-herds’ cave. We owe you a little and we can now return it.’
Cotton couldn’t believe his luck. He’d been doing a bit of quiet praying as he’d watched the Germans and it seemed that someone had answered his pleas. He remembered how his mother had always complained about his faltering attendance at church in the past and he resolved that if he got out of this lot he’d try to do better.
Then another thought occurred to him and he nodded at the machine-guns. ‘Can you use them?’ he asked.
Delageorgis’ eyes flashed and he gestured with the flat of his hand. ‘Pó-pó,’ he said. ‘Not very well yet, perhaps, but we shall manage and there are plenty of us. We have an ex-soldier among us who showed us what to do. Many of these men work for me and I have a small debt to wipe out. My brother was in Ay Yithion.’ He nodded at the approaching cars. ‘I have told my people to fire when you do. Will that be all right?’
Cotton’s relief exploded from him in a great sigh. ‘That will certainly be all right,’ he said.
As he explained what he intended, Delageorgis sent off a messenger to the other men gathered among the rocks, and Cotton could see him pointing.
The German vehicles were climbing towards them now. The first one was a staff car and contained the men he’d seen on the road outside Ay Yithion and later inspecting Claudia. The two civilians sat in the rear seat and one of the men in front wore a leather coat and the second a black uniform cap, so that he realised they were all security men. He’d never seen an SS man at close quarters before and, having heard of their ruthlessness and cruelty, he felt a little awed. But they looked ordinary enough men, not monsters. One of them even wore spectacles, and the second looked plump and overfed as if he wouldn’t move very fast.
Then his eyes fell on the second vehicle. It was small, open and light, with small wheels, and was commanded by a full captain. The men who crammed into it all nursed automatic weapons and wore grey-green overalls and small round helmets that he’d never seen before. Suddenly it dawned on him who they were, why they drove such a small vehicle, and just why the men he’d seen near Xinthos had worn no badges on their tunics.
‘Paratroopers!’ he said in an explosive gasp. ‘They’re paratroopers, Biss!’
Four
The realisation of what they faced came as a shock. The men in the open vehicle were the men who had contributed to the defeat of Norway, Holland and France – highly trained, ruthless specialists drilled in every form of assault.
Bisset answered Cotton calmly, quietly, almost in a drawl. ‘We have a few allies now,’ he pointed out. ‘What’s more, they don’t know we’re here, which is a happy thought because thrice blessed is he who gets his blow in first.’ His sleepy smile widened. ‘And, brother, what a blow,’ he went on. ‘I can see three Lewises now, two Brens, one tommy-gun and God knows how many rifles. That’s firepower, old boy.’
Thinking of the captured soldiers he’d seen in Kalani, Cotton gripped the butt of the Bren more tightly. There were a few things he owed the Germans. There was the blitz on London. His parents had been lucky and still had their home but there wasn’t much else left of the street where they lived. There were also the men who’d been killed when Caernarvon had been bombed, and all the men who’d died in Greece and at Dunkirk and in Norway. And now there was Ay Yithion. Hitherto, in spite of everything, the war had remained an impersonal affair of missiles launched by men out of sight or virtually out of sight, so that he’d experienced little feeling against them, but the butchery at Ay Yithion that morning had changed everything. Shifting his position, settling himself, savouring his hatred, Cotton felt a little better and drew a deep calming breath. ‘You ever done this before, Biss?’ he asked.
‘I came out of France at Dunkirk,’ Bisset said. ‘I’m quite used to loud bangs.’
The four vehicles were climbing now up to the steeper part of the road.
‘I’ll take the second vehicle,’ Cotton breathed. ‘Kitcat’ll stop the first. It’s up to you and the Greeks to get the others.’ He swallowed. ‘We can’t let anyone escape,’ he said to Delageorgis.
The Greek smiled. ‘Nobody will escape,’ he said.
Cotton drew another deep breath. It seemed to come with difficulty as if his chest was tight. His stomach felt empty, as it used to before a football match or a sports day at school, and his heart was thumping enough to deafen him. Above the grind of the engines, a bird was singing. The song seemed to fill the air, liquid and quavering, almost as if it were sounding a warning.
Glancing over his shoulder, Cotton could see Kitcat fifty yards away. He was crouched behind the Lewis which he’d smeared with dust so that its bright metal wouldn’t catch the sun and warn the approaching Germans. Doubtless in his forays from Malta and in the desert, he’d learned the trick of keeping anything that might pick up the brilliance of the Mediterranean sun well dulled, because everybody knew how the first invasion of Egypt in 1940 had been spotted and stopped because the sun had caught the windscreens of the Italian lorries turning down the escarpment at Sollum.
‘Hundred yards,’ Bisset said.
The four vehicles were keeping close to each other and none of the men in them seemed to be expecting danger. The SS men were slouched in their seats, clearly not anticipating meeting anything until they began the climb down to the beach at Xiloparissia Bay. The paratroopers, however, sat up, alert and clutching their weapons, and they looked as though they expected to be able to deal with anything that came along. But, Cotton noticed, they were jammed tight together, which would make quick movement difficult and provide a good target into the bargain. The captain in the second vehicle was armed to the teeth like the others but, unlike them, h
e hadn’t bothered to don a paratrooper’s smock, as if he expected his job to be quickly over.
Cotton glanced at Delageorgis, hoping and praying his men were as dangerous with the weapons as they looked. Then the grind of the engines grew louder and, as the German vehicles slowed for the steep slope and the tight bend, he heard the crunch of stones under the tyres. His head down behind the rocks, he caught a glimpse of the high-peaked cap of the SS man in the car in front passing slowly by; a moment later the round grey-green pot-shaped helmets of the paratroopers appeared in his line of vision. He was just wondering ‘Why paratroopers?’ when Bisset touched his arm.
‘Now,’ he breathed.
The leading vehicles had almost come to a halt as they negotiated the hairpin. It was only for a second as they changed into low gear, and Cotton thought Kitcat had missed his opportunity, because the SS men’s car began to draw away again. Then the Lewis fired, in a long burst like the tearing of cloth.
The car containing the SS men came to a dead stop at once and slewed sideways, jamming the road, steam coming from the radiator. The windscreen disintegrated and Untersturm-bannführer Fernbrugge’s hat flew into the air as, with his companion in the front seat, he dissolved into bloody rags of flesh. At a distance of thirty feet, Kitcat couldn’t miss.
The doors had flown open and one of the men in the rear seat fell out, his head on the ground, his feet still in the car. The other was caught by the Lewis as he ran. A short tearing burst lifted him clean off the ground and flung him several yards away, rolling him over and over in bloody jerks that left red stains on the dusty road.
The open-topped paratroopers’ vehicles had also come to a standstill and they could see the man at the wheel of the rear-most one struggling to put it into reverse. As he did so, Cotton fired. The driver was flung sideways over the door, and the car ran backwards in a short curve until one wheel dropped into the drainage ditch at the side of the road that carried the mountain rains away.