Target Tobruk: Yeoman in the Western Desert

by Robert Jackson

  His companion looked up towards the tops of the majestic cypress trees, as though seeking inspiration from their age-old boughs. Yeoman appraised him covertly, noting the fine, scholarly features, the greying hair and artistic hands. There was a dignity and inner strength about this man such as he had seldom encountered before.

  Manos glanced at the sleeping men, then suddenly reached out and seized Yeoman’s arm. Quietly, he said:

  ‘I have decided to entrust you with my secret. My name doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you should know something of my purpose, in case anything happens to me. My companions are good fellows, but they are peasants and they do not fully understand. In any case, they would die rather than let themselves be captured.’

  As he spoke, his slender fingers unfastened the straps of his haversack, which he had never let out of his grasp. He opened it and withdrew a bulky package, wrapped in oilskin. He unfolded it and showed Yeoman a sheaf of papers. It was a typescript, in Greek lettering which the pilot could not understand.

  ‘Have you any idea what this is?’ Manos asked.

  ‘None at all,’ Yeoman replied, ‘although at a wild guess I should say it was maybe a list of enemy sympathizers, or something of that sort.’

  Manos shook his head and smiled gently. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth, my young friend,’ he said. ‘What you are looking at is my life’s work, and much more than that. It is the heritage of Crete, and perhaps the key to much of Europe’s early civilization.’

  Yeoman waited for him to continue, vastly intrigued.

  ‘First of all,’ Manos told him, ‘let me explain that I am an historian and archaeologist. As a very young man, younger than you, I think, I was a student of the great Sir Arthur Evans, who did so much to uncover our ancient Minoan culture. You are familiar with the Minoan period?’

  Yeoman nodded. Crete’s Minoan dynasty, taking its name from the legendary King Minos, was something that would always fascinate him. In many ways the most advanced culture of the ancient world, it had reached its zenith about 1600 BC. It had afterwards been destroyed by successive invasions from the mainland, and the remnants of a once-proud people — those who did not manage to escape across the sea — had been taken into slavery. Yeoman remembered that some had sailed to Syria, and that the Philistines were their descendants.

  ‘What you must remember,’ Manos went on, ‘is that although there is much Egyptian influence on Crete, the island has always been European. Crete’s history is inextricably intermingled with that of Europe, and for that reason every new discovery is of vital importance in that it throws fresh light, however dimly, on the ancestry and way of life of Europe’s early peoples.’

  He touched the typescript with a gesture that was almost loving, and then said:

  ‘The trouble is that our search for knowledge has been hampered, above all, by one obstacle. No one has been able to decipher, fully, the Cretan writings. Ancient Cretan writing is in linear script, of the type used by the Phoenicians, and the general theory had been that the Minoans borrowed it from that source and adapted it. Until now.’

  He looked at the pilot for a long moment, as though savouring what he was about to say, then continued:

  ‘For thirty years I have worked on this problem. Now, at last, I believe that I have solved it, and so do those few of my colleagues who have shared the experience with me. In the end, the solution was surprisingly simple. You see, scholars who have approached the task before me have all assumed that we borrowed our written language from cultures on the shore of the eastern Mediterranean, just as I made the assumption in the beginning.’

  He shook his head and tapped the typescript with his finger. ‘That is not so,’ he said. ‘They borrowed it from us. With that standpoint established, it became a question of reversing all the lines of attack, so to speak. And then everything suddenly began to fall into place.’

  He wrapped up the typescript carefully, and replaced it in the haversack. ‘It is all here,’ he said. ‘The translation, as nearly accurate as I can make it at this stage of my researches, of every script so far discovered during excavation on the island. Some of it is revealing, very revealing indeed. It hints that there are temples — perhaps even cities — still awaiting discovery, and gives clues to their location. Some day, when this war is over and the Germans have gone, we will carry out the work that awaits us — work that could lead to much rewriting of the history books.’

  Yeoman was puzzled. ‘I understand that you want to get out of Crete with your document before the Germans get hold of it,’ he said, ‘but how do you propose to do it? And why didn’t you get away sooner?’

  Manos smiled. ‘That last question was also put to me by a British diplomat with whom I had dinner a few days before the Germans invaded,’ he said. ‘He was a very senior official indeed, one of the men entrusted with the safe evacuation of the Greek royal family, who you may remember came to the island when the collapse came on the mainland. I explained to him, as I do now to you, that I had certain tasks to carry out. Certain archaeological treasures, still on Crete and of value beyond price to our culture, had to be hidden where the enemy can never find them. From what I have heard, the Germans — or at least some of the senior officers — have already established a reputation for removing objects d’art and adding them to their private collections.’

  Yeoman nodded. He had read something about the Germans doing just that in Poland and occupied Europe, but how much was fact and how much propaganda he did not know.

  ‘I have a full list of all the art treasures we managed to hide,’ Manos continued. ‘They are not all in one place, of course, and their whereabouts are known only to myself and my good friends here. However, to return to the British diplomat. He was extremely helpful, and said if the worst came to the worst he would try and arrange my passage out of Crete. He would also arrange for the information I carry to be deposited with the British government, to await the day when our homeland is liberated — as, I believe, it surely will be.

  ‘The diplomat,’ Manos went on, ‘was as good as his word. The day before yesterday, I received a message from him in Cairo; heaven knows how it reached the amid all the confusion. It said that if I still wished to leave the island, I was to make for Ierapetra, where, if all went well, a boat would pick me up in the early hours of June the first — that is, tomorrow night. With the evacuation in progress, I don’t know whether the boat will still be available, but you understand that I have to go to lerapetra just the same. It is my only chance, however slender.’

  Yeoman looked at him, greatly impressed by his dedication. ‘How can I help?’ he asked quietly.

  Manos leaned towards him. ‘If we are trapped by the Germans,’ he said, ‘I shall hide my haversack, and its contents. You and your colleagues will be made prisoners of war, and I do not think you will come to any harm. Then, when Europe is free once more, you must return, and ensure that my life’s work is brought back into the light of day.’

  ‘But what about you and your friends?’ Yeoman asked. ‘You talk as though the Germans would shoot you out of hand.’

  Manos smiled wearily, and shook his head. ‘My friends would never let themselves be taken alive,’ he said. ‘And as for myself — I do not think that I would last long in German hands. You see, I am Jewish. You have heard something of the fate of Jews under a German regime?’

  Yeoman nodded soberly, and was silent for a few moments. Then he smiled at Manos, reached out and slapped him reassuringly on the shoulder.

  ‘I don’t think for one moment it will come to that,’ he said. ‘And now, I think we should try and get a bit of sleep. We’ve another long night’s march ahead of us, and the way I see it, the sooner we reach lerapetra the better. It would be a pity to come all this way, and then find we’ve missed the boat.’

  Sleep, however, proved hard to come by. The cypress grove shivered to the thunder of aero-engines throughout the afternoon as low-flying aircraft, all of them German, swep
t overhead. There were bombers of all types — Heinkels, Junkers and Dorniers — and Yeoman guessed that they must still be harrying Allied shipping between Crete and North Africa. Once, a high-winged Henschel 126 circled low above the grove several times before flying away to the north, and for a few heart-stopping moments Yeoman thought they had been discovered, but no enemy patrol appeared and he reasoned that the observation aircraft must have been making a routine reconnaissance, probably mapping favourable roads for a German advance into the south-east of the island. Still, bitter experience in France had taught him that whenever a Henschel appeared, enemy troops were never very far away. He found himself longing for dusk, when they could continue their journey in comparative safety.

  The sun sank below the line of the surrounding hills at last, its dying rays caressing the tops of the cypresses before abandoning the grove to twilight. The last of the food was shared out and the men resumed their trek in the gathering darkness, climbing out of the ravine along the narrow trail. Rounding the curve of a hill, they came to the village of which Manos had spoken. The air was by no means cold, yet Yeoman found himself shivering as they passed through. There was an atmosphere of gloom and sadness about the half-dozen rough houses, with their stone walls and crumbling sod roofs, their windows gaping like the empty eye-sockets of skulls. He was glad when the place was behind them.

  They walked throughout the night, as before, without pause; and, as the sun rolled over the eastern horizon, they stood on a rise and looked down on Ierapetra, and the sea beyond.

  The Cretans called the waters south of the island the Libyan Sea, and now, for the first time, Yeoman realized the full significance of the name. As they moved cautiously down the hill towards the little town, his nostrils caught a scent the like of which he had not yet encountered in Crete, and his brain analysed its nature; the hot, dusty, neglected smell of Africa.

  Two of Manos’s islanders had gone on ahead, slipping like shadows among the ramshackle houses of the fisher men’s quarters to find out if the place was as yet clear of enemy troops. They returned a few minutes later, with broad smiles on their faces, and reported that no Germans had so far been seen. Up to now, all the activity on land had taken place much further west, in the area of Sfakia.

  Yeoman surveyed the town’s geography curiously as they descended into the dusty streets. The beach here was broad and flat, running for miles to east and west of the town, and in places it was lined with trees, spreading their shade over the big fishing boats that provided Ierapetra’s main industry. There was the crumbling ruin of an old fort, standing on a spit of land like a solitary decaying tooth, and Manos told Yeoman that it was Venetian.

  There was a fair amount of activity around the fishing boats, which had apparently just returned with their morning catch. To see the fishermen quietly going about their business, one would never have guessed that their island was about to come under the heel of a ruthless overlord, or even that a war existed at all. Most of the fishermen seemed either to be very old or very young, and Yeoman surmised that the able-bodied men had been conscripted into the Greek army.

  They walked along the waterfront street, with Manos leading the way, and stopped in front of one of the houses. An old man, with a short white beard, a fierce moustache and a weathered, wrinkled face, who had been sitting on a bench outside, rose as they approached.

  ‘Kalos orisate!’ he greeted them, with the traditional Cretan words of welcome.

  ‘Kalos sas vrikarne’ Manos replied, with equal ceremony. ‘It is well that we have found you!’

  He spoke at length to the old man, then turned to the pilots. ‘This man,’ he told them, ‘is a much respected figure in the fishing community here. His name is Christos Malephakis, and he has agreed to give us all the help he can. If the boat that was promised fails to arrive tonight, he is even prepared to place one of his own craft at our disposal. In the meantime, he asks me to tell you that his home is your home.’

  Yeoman and the others smiled and nodded at the old man, who bowed gravely in return.

  ‘He also says,’ Manos continued, ‘that many, a great many, of your troops have been safely evacuated, but that the Germans are already consolidating their positions in the western half of the island and are pushing out strong patrols to round up stragglers. They will, of course, be concentrating on likely embarkation points, which means that they will doubtless be here before very long. They will have to come from the north, because there are no roads to speak of to the west of Ierapetra. Christos believes that it will be another day before they arrive; let us hope he is right. A day’s grace is all we need.’

  An ancient woman brought them food: fish and a strangely-flavoured meat which Yeoman, with a sudden shock that made his stomach revolt for a few moments, realized was octopus; raw artichokes and delicious peaches.

  Afterwards, they settled down in the shade, some to doze, others to while away the long hours in whatever fashion best suited them. Fraser produced a greasy pack of cards, and together with Bright, amid much laughter, set about teaching Manos’s Cretan friends the mysteries of pontoon.

  Yeoman was restless, and said as much to Manos, who offered to show him round the town. Kendal gave his approval, at the same time cautioning them not to stray too far in case of sudden trouble.

  They walked through the fishermen’s quarter, where the tiny box-like houses, thanks to the Cretans’ age-old love of colour, were washed in pastel shades of pink, blue or green, and came to an ancient square, where sun-parched acacias wilted near a peeling mosque. The influence here was Turkish, not Greek, even down to the fountain that graced the square’s centre. Its water was cool and they drank gratefully, for the sun was already pounding down on their heads. They wandered into the shade of the side streets, flanked by two-storey houses with wooden balconies. Occasionally, peering through the shadows of an alley, Yeoman caught a glimpse of an overgrown, abandoned courtyard. There had been richness here once, but now it was gone, leaving only an aura of dilapidation and neglect. Yeoman felt strangely depressed, and despite the heat he was glad when they emerged into the full sunlight once more.

  Squadrons of enemy aircraft hew over in relays, very high, reminding them of ever-present danger. It would have been easy to sit down in the shade, look out over the cool waters of the Libyan Sea, and eat peaches, and forget that they were in the middle of a war.

  Throughout the red heat of the afternoon the town slumbered, and the fugitives slumbered along with it. And, shortly after five o’clock, with the inhabitants astir once more, the war caught up with Ierapetra.

  It came, first of all, in the shape of four twin-engined Messerschmitt 110s, which made several low passes over the town, the roar of their motors making the rooftops rattle. Two of them swept along the line of the beach at fifty feet and fishermen hurled themselves down on the sand in fear, expecting to be machine-gunned, but the aircrafts’ guns remained silent and after a few minutes they flew away to the north.

  Fifteen minutes later a Henschel 126 came humming over the hills and circled lerapetra at a low altitude. Yeoman, crouching in the shadow of a doorway, clearly saw the helmeted heads of its two occupants as it cruised overhead. Now we’re for it, he thought. This was no routine reconnaissance; the Henschel’s movements suggested that it was scouting ahead of an enemy patrol.

  Soon afterwards, his worst fears were confirmed. A small boy, one of Christos Malephakis’s many grandchildren, who had been posted as a lookout, came running up with the news that several vehicles had been observed making their way through the mountain pass that led to Ierapetra from the north.

  It was soon apparent that Christos had been quietly organizing matters to cope with the eventual arrival of the enemy. He produced a pile of shirts and baggy trousers, and in less than five minutes the pilots, their faces already burnt a deep brown by the sun of both desert and Mediterranean, were indistinguishable from the fishermen of Ierapetra. In five minutes more they were seated cross-legged on the beach, in the sh
ade of the trees, pretending to repair fishing nets.

  ‘The safest place to hide,’ Manos told them, ‘is out in the open. The Germans may search the houses, but they will almost certainly ignore the fishermen. Remember — if anyone tries to question you, act in a sullen manner and do not answer. It is better to risk a beating than to let slip the fact that you cannot speak Greek. Maybe we shall be lucky, and the enemy will pass straight through. The people have orders not to resist.’

  He looked at Yeoman and said, quietly: ‘Remember.’ The pilot nodded. He had watched Manos hide the precious manuscript under a flagstone in Christos’s house. It would be as safe there as anywhere.

  Hearts pounding, they settled down to wait as the distant sound of vehicle engines grew steadily louder.

  Three trucks emerged from a side street and Mick Bright gave a startled exclamation, jumping to his feet. ‘They’re British!’ he cried. ‘It’s all right, chaps, they’re Bedfords!’

  Kendal, who was sitting close by, made a sudden lunge at Bright and knocked his legs from under him.

  ‘Stay put, you silly sod!’ he hissed. ‘Hasn’t it crossed your tiny mind that the Germans might just be using the transport our lot abandoned? Take a look at that!’

  The trucks had halted, and men were spilling from them, fanning out purposefully among the houses. They were Germans, there was no doubt about that, and they were about thirty in number.

  ‘Look out,’ Kendal said softly. ‘Here they come. Watch your step, now.’

  Four soldiers detached themselves from the main body and ran towards the fishing boats. Their rounded helmets denoted that they were paratroops; they were in shirt sleeves and carried rifles, which they levelled at the fishermen as they approached.

  ‘Stehen Sie auf!’ one of them snapped, indicating with his rifle that the Cretans were to stand up. They got slowly to their feet and Yeoman, still apparently engrossed in the mesh of the net he was holding, studied the man who had barked the order. He was a tough-looking individual who had the air of someone who was used to being obeyed instantly.