Hypnotized, Yeoman watched one of the dive-bombers as it plummeted down through the curtain of shell-bursts. In a wild moment of panic, he almost believed that the pilot had singled him out personally, for the Junkers seemed to be aiming directly for him. Two bombs detached themselves from under the Stuka’s wings, and an instant later the aircraft blew apart as an anti-aircraft shell found its mark.
No one cheered. Everyone had eyes only for the two bombs, curving down towards them. At the last moment Yeoman threw himself flat on the deck and clasped his hands behind his head.
He never heard the explosion. He dimly sensed a terrific blow, and then he must have blacked out for several seconds. When he came to, he was lying on his back, with people stepping over him. He was in a world of weird silence. He struggled to his knees, shaking his head. He could hear nothing except a shrill ringing, like a thousand bells. He placed his hands over his ears and the bell-like echoes deepened. He stayed in this position for a while, gathering his scattered senses, and then took his hands away, turning his head from side to side in a desperate search for some identifiable noise. Smoke was pouring over the destroyer’s deck. The Oerlikon, and the sandwich-eating sailor, had vanished completely, obliterated by the blast of the bomb. The ship was losing way rapidly and developing a pronounced list to port. A hand seized Yeoman’s shoulder and a naval officer bent over him, mouthing something and gesticulating. Yeoman shook his head and pointed to his ears, indicating that he could hear nothing, whereupon the man pulled him to his feet and pushed him towards the starboard side of the warship. Yeoman understood, then, that the order had been given to move everyone on deck to the starboard side, to help counteract the list.
Coughing in the drifting smoke, Yeoman pushed his way into the mass of bewildered and dazed soldiers packed like sardines along the warship’s starboard rail. To his intense relief the ringing in his ears diminished and he was able to distinguish sounds again, fuzzily at first, then more sharply as the minutes went by. His eardrums ached dully, but he didn’t think they had suffered any permanent damage.
He heard someone call his name and, looking round, saw Kendal waving to him a few yards away. He forced a passage through the packed troops, collecting a few curses en route, and managed to join the squadron leader, who had found a space together with Bright and Fraser underneath one of the destroyer’s four-inch gun turrets.
The air attack was still in progress, but it seemed as though the dive-bombers were concentrating on the cruisers. Bombs exploded in the water a hundred yards away, but none came closer than that to the destroyer. The damage, however, had already been done. As the list became more pronounced, despite the heroic efforts of the crew, the captain realized that it was impossible to continue and turned his crippled ship north-eastwards in the direction of Cape Plaka. Miserable and dispirited, the men on deck watched the land creep nearer. Most of them felt as though the bottom had dropped out of their world; they had come so close to getting away, and now, even if they survived, they faced the certainty of a long captivity.
The list seemed to have been checked, at least for the moment, but the destroyer continued to lose way and Yeoman wondered if she would founder in deep water. Kendal was keeping a watchful eye on three or four Stukas which were circling overhead at a respectful distance; they appeared to have already dropped their bombs, otherwise they would certainly have made another attack.
Yeoman was looking at the land, and trying to work out how far away it was. It couldn’t be more than a couple of miles. He hoped not, because the destroyer’s lifeboats would hold no more than a fraction of the men on board, and he was by no means a strong swimmer.
He turned to ask Bright’s opinion, and in that instant the destroyer struck the bottom with a long, shuddering crunch that threw them all off balance. She had grounded about a mile and a half off shore, and now, as her crew hastily lowered the boats and threw scrambling nets over the side, she slowly began to settle in the sludge. The khaki tide, with remarkable discipline, poured from her decks and down her scarred side, filling the boats to capacity or striking out for the shore. Kendal looked at his pilots, who so far had remained in their place.
‘Looks like we’re going to get our feet wet, chaps,’ he said. ‘Come on — there’s no use hanging around here any longer.’
Yeoman, like the others, wore only a tropical shirt and shorts in addition to his desert boots. He took off the latter, fastened the laces securely together, and slung them round his neck. Then he and his colleagues made their way back to the port side of the destroyer, where the deck was closer to the water, and scrambled down one of the nets. It would have been simpler to jump in under normal circumstances, but the water below the ship’s listing hull was full of soldiers and seamen, and the chances of colliding with someone were high.
The water was cold, for the sun’s rays had not yet had a chance to warm it, but the sea was calm and on the whole Yeoman found it quite pleasant. He began swimming towards the shore in a steady crawl, with Kendal abreast of him and the other two pilots close behind. There were swimmers all around, some of them supported by their comrades. The lifeboats, their gunwales awash, were pulling clear of the stricken vessel.
Above the shouts of the men in the water and the sounds of the sea, Yeoman heard a renewed roar of engines. Looking up, he saw the hawk-like silhouettes of more Stukas, circling at about three thousand feet. He knew that if they attacked now, the men in the water would stand no chance; hundreds would be killed by the underwater shock-waves of bursting bombs.
A shadow fleeted overhead, and for an instant Yeoman tensed himself, thinking that the attack had begun, but there was no explosion and he steeled himself to look up once more. A big three-engined seaplane circled low overhead, easily identifiable as an Italian Cant 506. It was painted white overall, and sported large red crosses on its wings and fuselage.
It went on circling, and with a sudden surge of gratitude towards the unknown Italian pilot, Yeoman realized that it was preventing the dive-bombers from attacking the survivors. They swam on, and after a while Kendal and Fraser, both of them far better swimmers than either Yeoman or Bright, began to draw ahead. Yeoman’s limbs were beginning to ache, and he was wondering how much longer he could go on when, suddenly, he saw Kendal stand upright in the water. Lowering his own legs experimentally, he felt his feet make contact with the muddy bottom.
Half-swimming, half-wading, they began to plough their way forward through the shallows. It was a tiring process, but at least there was some visible sign of progress now as the water, chest-high at first, gradually began to recede. Finally, after about half a mile, they trudged through the wavelets that lapped against a rocky shore and collapsed gratefully, regaining their breath.
There was no beach as such; just a wilderness of rocks and seaweed stretching away on either side, with a lot of high ground to the south-west. All along the shore, soldiers were dragging themselves out of the water and flopping down like stranded fish. The Italian seaplane was circling the destroyer, which now lay almost on her beam ends, and the last of the dive-bombers had flown away towards Scarpanto.
Kendal stood up, peering out to sea and then at the terrain behind them. He turned to the others.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t think we ought to hang around here. It’s only a question of time before the Germans arrive, and I don’t think this lot are capable of putting up any resistance.’ He waved a hand towards the troops, clustered on the shore, and Yeoman knew that he was right. Hardly any of them had any weapons, and in any case further resistance would be futile. The only hope now was to try and get away.
Kendal reached a sudden decision. ‘We’ll start walking south,’ he said, ‘keeping to the coast as far as possible. We might just be lucky and find a boat. I’m told there are plenty of fishing villages around the south-east end of the island. Anyway, it’s worth a try. All agreed?’ They nodded eagerly. Anything was better than sitting here, awaiting capture.
They put on th
eir desert boots again and turned their backs on the shore. The sun was pleasantly warm now, and steam rose from their drying clothes as they walked. No one tried to stop them.
Chapter Nine
Something cold and hard was pressing against Yeoman’s cheek, jerking him out of a fitful sleep. He tried to sit up, but the cold, hard thing jabbed painfully at his face, forcing him down again. His tired brain wrestled with the nightmare, and then his awakening consciousness flashed the danger signal to him that this was no nightmare, but reality.
He was in a cave. After walking all afternoon and evening, tired and hungry, they had crept into it to sleep. It wasn’t really a cave, just a cluster of boulders with a fallen tree lying across the top, forming a kind of roof.
A shadowy figure stood over him, and a low, menacing voice rapped words at him in a language he could not understand. All he knew was that it was not German, and despite the threat of the rifle he felt relief flood through him.
‘Min kunisis triha! Inda kanis edo more copeli?’
Around him, Yeoman sensed his colleagues rousing from their sleep in a confused murmur of voices. More shadowy forms entered the shelter, and he heard the snick of rifle bolts as bullets were rammed home into breeches. Whoever these people were they were taking no chances.
The alien words came again, and Yeoman, moving his face slightly to relieve the pressure of the rifle muzzle, spread his hands in the gloom.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said weakly, ‘but I don’t understand. We are RAF.’ As an afterthought, he spelled out the letters phonetically, in the continental manner. ‘Air … Ah … Eff.’
There were suddenly two figures in front of him, silhouetted against the night sky beyond the cave’s entrance, and the rifle that menaced him was pushed abruptly to one side. There followed a rapid exchange in the strange language, which Yeoman realized must a Cretan dialect of Greek, and then, to his amazement, the second of the two figures addressed him in cultured English tones that bore only the slightest trace of an accent.
‘I think I can help,’ the man said. ‘You must forgive my friends, but they are naturally very cautious. Now, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me who you are.’
Yeoman sat up carefully, conscious of the rifle that was still levelled at him, and looked up at the dark outline of the stranger.
‘We are all Royal Air Force officers,’ he told him. ‘We were being evacuated from Heraklion when our ship was bombed. We got ashore and are making for the south coast, in the hope of finding a boat.’
He caught the flash of white teeth as the other grinned. ‘Personally, I believe you,’ the man said, ‘and I think I can convince my colleagues that you are who you say you are before they decide to cut your throats. Doubtless you can prove your identity. You are very fortunate; we were passing on the trail a little way down the hill when we heard one of you cry out. A nightmare, perhaps.’
He paused, looking round. Kendal and the others had risen and were standing in silence, looking on. There seemed to be a tacit understanding that whenever foreigners had to be dealt with, Yeoman, who had some understanding of languages, got the job whether he wanted it or not. At this moment Yeoman, eyeing the man with the rifle apprehensively, was wishing fervently that he had studied Greek at school instead of Latin.
‘One thing you must understand,’ the stranger continued. ‘It is far better to travel by night and sleep by day. In this way there is less risk of discovery.’ He paused again, and Yeoman sensed that he was deliberating the situation. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind.
‘There are four of you,’ he stated. ‘That is not too many. You may come with us. We are heading for Ierapetra, where I have some business.’ He grinned again. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you may find my business is to your advantage. However, for the time being I must ask you not to question me, or my purpose. If all goes well, it will be made clear to you later. You may call me Manos; that is as good a name as any.’
He spoke briefly to his companions, then turned back to Yeoman. ‘We must leave now,’ he said. ‘We have already wasted too much time. lerapetra is fifty kilometres away, and we must go through the mountains. The Germans have not yet penetrated this far, but soon they will do so. Come, quickly.’
Yeoman looked at Kendal. ‘I think we ought to trust them, sir,’ he said. ‘They seem to know exactly where they are going, and what they are doing. It’s better than taking a chance on our own.’
‘I agree,’ Kendal replied. ‘Well, you heard what the man said. Let’s go.’
They went out into the night. There was a moon, and a few hundred yards away, beyond the hillside and the rocky beach, the light shone silver on the sea. The moonlight revealed something of the strangers; there were five of them, including the man who had spoken to Yeoman. Each wore typical Cretan peasant clothing, and each carried a small haversack on his back. All except the spokesman were armed with rifles.
At a fast pace, with the RAF men in the middle, the party set out along the trail that led south-west along the fringes of the high ground. The going was hard, for the track was broken in many places and strewn with rocks, but they walked ceaselessly, hour after hour, until Yeoman felt as though his feet were swollen to twice their normal size. Once, they heard the barking of dogs and smelt the smoke of fires. ‘Khandra,’ the English-speaker said briefly, and they gathered that a village or small town must be close by.
The sun rose and still they walked, although from now on they kept a watchful eye on the sky. Fraser, who had stumbled over a rock in the darkness, was limping quite badly and in obvious pain. In the end Kendal caught up with Manos and told him that they had to have a rest, or they would simply be unable to continue.
‘Just a little further,’ Manos reassured him. ‘There is a place only a short distance away, a good place where we can rest for the remainder of the day. We have come a long way towards our destination; another night’s march should see us there. Let us hope,’ he added grimly, ‘that we arrive before the Germans.’
They crossed a small plateau that stretched out from the base of a steep cliff of grey rock, and rounded a mass of huge boulders which must have broken away from the cliff face at some time in the island’s distant past. Suddenly the ground dropped away sharply and they found themselves looking down into a ravine. The trail led through it and wound its way up the other side.
Pushing up from the floor of the ravine, as though searching eagerly for contact with the sky, their thick trunks rising like sentinels, was a glade of cypress trees. Some of them, Yeoman thought, must be over a hundred feet high, their widespread branches forming a canopy that stretched almost from one wall of the ravine to the other. Down the rocks beside them a glittering waterfall tumbled, splashing into a pool with a sound like the tinkling of a thousand cow-bells. The sight was as close to paradise as anything Yeoman had experienced, and his dry, swollen tongue moved painfully around his mouth in anticipation.
A few minutes later he was lying full-length beside the rock pool, his face immersed in the cool, pure water. He felt that he could have gone on drinking for ever, but he forced himself to stop when the first pangs of thirst had subsided. They bathed their burning feet and relaxed gratefully in the shade of the trees. The Cretans produced bread and cheese and offered some to the pilots, who wolfed it down ravenously. It was their first food for thirty-six hours, apart from a few biscuits they had stuffed into their shirt pockets before the hasty departure from Heraklion.
Later, Manos became quite talkative. He seemed to have singled out Yeoman as a good listener and Yeoman didn’t mind at all, for although the others were soon stretched out and snoring — the Cretans taking it in turns to mount guard — the beauty of this place seemed to fill his mind with a strange enchantment. It was as though the spirits of ancient gods still lingered here, fulfilling their timeless task of watching over any mortals who passed this way. He mentioned his feeling to Manos, who looked at him curiously.
‘It is strange you should feel th
is way,’ he said, ‘for this glade has been consecrated to the goddess Britomartis, the huntress, since beyond time. There were once many such places in Crete, which was heavily forested, but men destroyed them, felling the tall cypresses for the pillars of Minoan palaces, and later for the masts and timbers of Roman and Venetian ships. Consecrated places were — and are — considered sacred and some remained inviolate, especially those which were not easily accessible, but the ignorance of men wrought damage which could never be made good. People used to worship here until quite recently,’ he smiled, ‘despite their lip-service to Christianity. There is a village just over the hill there, or rather a small community of four or five houses. It is deserted now; the families destroyed themselves through feuding, still unhappily a common pastime on the island, and the few survivors went elsewhere.’
He paused and looked at Yeoman thoughtfully. ‘You seem to have a sense of history that is rare among men,’ he said. ‘Were you a student of history before the war?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ the pilot told him. ‘It was one of my best subjects at school, and it was always my ambition to write on historical subjects. I’ll probably do so, if I come through this business in one piece.’
Target Tobruk: Yeoman in the Western Desert Page 14