The Girl Under the Olive Tree

by Leah Fleming

  Blinking into the afternoon sunshine, Penny missed a step and went stumbling out of the embassy when an arm appeared and reached out to stop her fall. ‘Steady on,’ said a man in uniform. Then: ‘Good Lord! What are you still doing here?’

  She looked up into the sunburned face of Bruce Jardine. For a second she was overjoyed to see such a familiar face and beamed, but then, wondering if she’d get another lecture, flushed with annoyance.

  ‘Looks like I’m stuck here for the duration,’ she replied, in no mood for conversation.

  ‘I told Walter they’d get you out ages ago. Where’ve you been?’

  Penny gave him a look of utter contempt. ‘I’ve been at the Albanian front since January with the Red Cross. I was going to call it a day and make for home but as usual I’m running a bit late.’

  ‘Balderdash! I’ll get you out, but you’ll have to be quick about it, and hush-hush. Jerry is only a few miles outside the city. I called to see you . . .’

  ‘I know and I rang you back but your girlfriend didn’t know where you were.’

  ‘That was Sadie, Dennis’s little playmate. I’ve been about and around myself; can’t say where . . . Come on, let me buy you a drink, you look as if you need one. You’re terribly thin, but then you always were a bit of a beanpole. Pretty terrible out there, was it?’ He had the decency to looked concerned.

  ‘You could say that.’ She was being prickly, unnerved by this unexpected encounter and the sight of that rakish face. As always, he picked up as if it hadn’t been ages since their last embarrassing encounter.

  As they sat in a pavement café sipping a cocktail with a meze of dried fruits and nuts, Penny couldn’t believe there was a war raging around them. Everything on the surface appeared so normal: the clack of trams and shouts of street vendors plying their wares round the tables, vying with the donkey carts full of passengers queuing in line like taxis in the sunshine, the lull before the storm. Tonight she’d be whisked away to safety, all because she’d stepped out of the embassy at the right time. It was all so unreal.

  ‘I ought to stay on. They need me,’ she said with a sigh.

  ‘The Greeks will manage their own affairs but they need us to fight on and return one day. You must have heard them shouting “Nike . . . Victory” as those poor defeated sods tried to march back through the city. Still, they’ll not make it easy for the bastards.’

  ‘Where are you heading?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows? Where we’re most needed, wherever the ship lands us. That’s not your concern. I’ll find us a taxi and we’ll go for your stuff. I’m not letting you out of my sight now. Evadne will kill me if I don’t get her little sister back in one piece.’ Bruce’s face, leathery from too much sun, creased in a smile.

  Why did she suddenly feel awkward and guilty? There was a time when she’d have welcomed him as her knight on a white charger come to rescue her, but now he was making her decision to leave too easy. Yet was this unexpected reunion a sign that it was time to leave the mainland? Odd that their paths kept crossing,and nothing was ever dull when Bruce was in charge, but did she want to embark on another adventure with him in control of things or was it better to strike out and make her own way? How could she do that now? Where would it lead and would she survive? The embassy had washed its hands of her so perhaps this was the best option, she thought, struggling to be grateful for his help. If only Yolanda was here as well. Oh, why did Bruce Jardine always make her feel confused?

  The convoy of diplomats and their families with an escort of soldiers drove through the evening to the port of Monemvasia. The diplomatic families were sailing on a steam yacht, Iolanthe, while Penny’s more subtle exit was to be made with some Greek political evacuees and diplomatic staff with their wives and children in a Greek caïque, hired from some seafarer who knew the remote islands in the Aegean.

  ‘We must travel only under cover of darkness,’ Bruce explained.

  Penny shivered, glad of her Red Cross cloak and battledress khaki borrowed from one of the army nurses, who’d given her a tearful farewell and a medallion of St Christopher for safe travelling. How could she be deserting them? Yet she knew her own presence might put them at risk for harbouring a British alien in their midst.

  As they bumped along the now familiar rutted tracks she stared out at the sheet of gunmetal that was the sea. It looked calm enough, but danger lurked from submarines and the ever-present dive bombers. She prayed she was not taking up someone else’s precious space, but Bruce assured her that there would be plenty of room on the caïque for stragglers and strays. The Amalia looked seaworthy, which was more than could be said for its captain. He looked like a pirate with his black beard, and he was rolling on deck, drunk to the point of stupor. Bruce and his friends threw him down into the hold in disgust.

  ‘Anyone know how to steer this thing?’ he yelled.

  Two bronzed Anzacs in tattered shorts, waiting for a lift off the beach, volunteered to get them started with the Greek crew, who looked nervous. It was going to be a motley bunch sailing the ship until they could sober up the captain.

  Slowly and silently they edged through the water. The Iolanthe, sailing ahead, was now just a speck on the horizon. With the throb of the engines, Penny curled up under her cloak, trying to snatch some sleep. Danger lurked under the water and they all sat in total silence seeing the smoking wrecks of ships lurching down into the deep. Penny stared out at the black water, smelling the telltale fumes of oil and burning rubber with only her thoughts for company.

  Everything had happened so fast: bumping into Bruce, collecting her case, her uniform and papers, saying farewell, all in one afternoon. As she left the mainland shore behind, she thought of Yolanda, wondering where she was and if she was still alive. Soon the numbness and stupor of exhaustion and a good helping of rough red wine settled her queasy stomach.

  She woke at first light, stiff-limbed and hungry, knowing that they could easily be spotted by air. Bruce had ordered that no men, guns, helmets or uniforms be visible. There was a tarpaulin for the men to hide under should the worst happen. Penny felt she was holding her breath, looking out constantly for any sighting of the enemy in the sky and under the sea. No one spoke when only minutes later, they heard the throb of engines. The Fates were against them but no one panicked. Now they must put Bruce’s strategy to work.

  ‘Are you OK, Pen? You know what to do?’ he asked as he ducked out of sight.

  Penny nodded, trying not to shake as she whipped off her cloak and trousers and flung on a pair of khaki shorts, which she rolled up to reveal her long legs. The Greek wives were sitting in dresses and they spread out a tablecloth and lay down as if they were sunbathing. Penny could see the Messerschmitt swooping down low, and then it banked and turned, ready to strafe the deck. Heart in her mouth, Penny shook out her hair, showed off her tanned legs. ‘Show your legs, ladies,’ she ordered, hoping they would act out this desperate attempt to fool the pilot. ‘Wave! Look as if you are on holiday!’

  Penny felt as if her heart were leaping out of her chest as she looked up and waved a book in the air, trying to smile through gritted teeth, hoping their ruse would work.

  Then, to their immense relief, the pilot swooped down, waved back to them from his cockpit, and sped off to look for other prey, leaving the girls staring up into the sky, shaking at such a close encounter.

  ‘Well done, Pen. I knew I could rely on you in a tight corner.’ Bruce smiled down at the prostrate women. ‘Hold to your posts, ladies, we’re not out of danger yet. We’re heading for the nearest uninhabited island.’

  Penny watched a lump of rock slowly emerge from the haze on the horizon and they sailed towards a shallow bay where the Iolanthe was already moored. It looked like a paradise island of white sand and turquoise-blue waters. There was plenty of shade from the trees on shore and it was good to feel terra firma once again.

  I can climb any mountain but the sea unnerves me, Penny thought as she jumped ashore to join t
he party already spreading tablecloths and opening picnic baskets. The children were letting off steam playing tag and hide-and-seek, with strict orders to hide properly should any planes appear.

  The Iolanthe had a Lewis gun on board, and ammunition, but it had suffered some damage getting out of the harbour, and the crew and some of the officers were busy trying to make repairs.

  Penny joined Judy Harrington, whom she’d once met at one of the embassy parties with Evadne, sitting with the other embassy wives for gin and limes under the shade of the huge trees, lying back and wondering if she was in some bizarre dream. Then they heard a warning klaxon from the yacht ringing in their ears and the wives jumped up to gather the children and run for cover. This time there would be no play-acting on the beach as three heavy bombers thundered overhead. To her horror Penny watched the Iolanthe blown out the water in a ball of fire and the Amalia was rocked with the blast. Immediately Bruce and the Anzac soldiers were rowing out to the blazing wreck even though there was ammo still exploding. In the chaos of smoke and screaming, the wives yelled in terror for their children to take cover. Suddenly the calm sea was rocking with debris and burning oil, and the smell was of burning flesh.

  The survivors were dragged from the water. It was a terrible sight on such a beautiful spot, but there was no time for delay. The children were rushed away from the shore, while women were screaming in horror, not knowing who had been killed.

  Penny’s mind went straight from gin as a drink to gin as disinfectant. What could she use to make a clearing station? Alcohol to cleanse, salt water, bandages, stretchers, wood for fuel.

  ‘I’ll need clean shirts, underskirts, anything clean, cotton, silk. You’d better rip them into strips,’ she ordered. Giving the stunned women jobs might keep panic and shock at bay for a while.

  The first to come out were beyond her help. The others, she examined, having read somewhere that salt water burns healed better than dry ones. She hoped this was correct as she tried carefully to peel fabric from skin.

  There were nine dead men – crew, officials and two soldiers – six had third-degree burns and two were in shock. Shock played havoc with the body if not recognized so she put these men in the care of Marisa and Elpi, the Greek maids from the Iolanthe.

  Bruce had superficial burns on his arms but no blast injuries. He was anxious to make repairs to their caïque now, take everyone off the island and hide somewhere else in case the Stuka dive bombers returned to finish them off. The captain, sobered now by the morning’s tragedy, knew how to navigate to a safer port where they could get help for the injured.

  At nightfall, everyone gathered to bury the dead. It was a sad party that limped across to Kimolos. Bruce stood on deck grim-faced, his arms bandaged with Penny’s shirt.

  ‘Sorry, Pen, didn’t mean to bring you into all this, but it was a good job we had someone on board who knew what they were doing.’ He was looking at her with admiration and Penny felt herself blushing. How strange they had once met in their finery in a Highland ballroom and now they stood ragged, burned and exhausted in this world of war.

  ‘Perhaps I was meant to be here . . . What’ll happen now?’

  ‘We’ll get picked up, not sure when, but there are too many important chaps on board for us to be overlooked. Don’t know what we’d’ve done without you.’

  ‘Where were we heading, before all this happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Over the wine-dark sea to the birthplace of Zeus, to the island where Theseus overcame the Minotaur,’ he whispered.

  She was too tired to take in his allusions and looked blank.

  ‘To Crete, last outpost of the King of Greece now,’ he continued. ‘The show must go on and they’re preparing for the next onslaught. You’ll be shipped out on the first convoy with the diplomatic wives and children, of course.’

  That’s what you think, Penny thought, staring out across the blue waters. She’d made herself useful, saved lives because of her training here. Once again fate was conspiring to point the way forward. Surely there was a role for her here more than ever now? With a deep certainty in the pit of her stomach Penny knew she’d not be seeing England for a very long time.

  2001

  So there you were, old girl, stranded with a bunch of strangers, but not for long. Remembering, I smiled, then drained the last of the whisky as dawn rose. I stared into the crystal glass; whisky, like wine, is a great consoler of the lonely.

  As the morning light beamed into the room, I heard my alarm clock ringing and I knew I must make an effort and rouse myself from this stupor. Time enough for reminiscing later, but I sat back for one more time, reluctant to leave those heady days when I was young and full of hope, even as the bombs rained down on us. How can you explain to the young how good it was then to be alive?

  Steady the Buffs, old girl, stop your daydreaming. Wakey, wakey, rise and shine. There’s still a list of must-dos before you swan off on your hols and you don’t want to keep Lois waiting . . .

  Part 2

  CRETE

  Red shines the sun, standby

  It may not smile for us tomorrow.

  There’s no way back. Comrade, no way back

  Dark clouds ahead, far to the west . . .

  ‘Rot scheint die Sonne’ (‘Anthem of the Paratroopers’), 1941

  May 2001

  An old man stood on deck with a bird’s-eye view of Piraeus harbour, watching preparations for the ferry’s departure, the clanking of the trucks into the hold, last-minute backpackers strolling up the walkway. He was a stranger among strangers, choosing this longer way to the island for this overdue return, rather than fly. His cabin was adequate, not luxurious. At his time of life his wants were simple: a firm bed, toilet close at hand, a private space to retreat to with a good book when the bustle on board got intrusive and his leg played up.

  He’d enjoyed reacquainting himself with Athens. The great buildings hadn’t changed much: familiar yet strange. Greece had its own history unfolding since the occupation, from civil war, coup d’état, rising slowly from the ashes of world war, coming to a different understanding of itself, as had Europe since the fall of the Berlin Wall.

  After a few days in the city streets he felt layers of his own life unpeeling – the academic career, his retirement, his marriages – back to the kernel of those youthful glory days when he’d believed so utterly in the purposes they’d been given: to secure and defend the Mediterranean seaboards, oil supplies and shipping routes. How they had been deceived. How naïvely trusting in such faulty leadership. Ah, he sighed, the wisdom of hindsight and the arrogance of youth, so many excuses we’ve made over the years but nothing can change any of it. You have to live with your actions, live with success and failure, he thought now, distracted by watching a plane descending overhead.

  It wasn’t all bad; those first heady days of victory, the comradeship of men who made the ultimate sacrifice in the name of duty and honour. How could I ever deny the bravery of my friends?

  He stood watching the lights of Piraeus harbour slowly fade into the distance, a last sighting of the majestic Acropolis and the mountains. Ahead was a long night’s crossing. How could he ever forget the last one he took during the war, that first sight of the Aegean and the mission to follow? He sighed again. That mission was a different matter. Who was it said that raw recruits had the courage of ignorance, little knowing what terrors lay ahead when they jumped from the sky?

  May 1941

  Rainer Brecht sat with the other officers in the ballroom of the Hotel Grande Bretagne, his eyes adjusting to the darkness as he focused on the screen with its huge map of Crete. He smiled, recognizing its elongated shape from visits in his student days. There was silence as General Student pointed out the three airports targeted for their drop on the north coast.

  His regiment must take Maleme, close to the old Venetian capital, Chania. He would have preferred Heraklion, recalling a visit to the city and a trip to Knossos to see the excavations. The island was divid
ed by a string of mountains, the ports were fortified with old Turkish forts and arsenals, and the rest was just olive trees, scrubland and glorious white-sand beaches.

  ‘The British have retreated and their presence is weak – no more than 5,000 troops at the most. Most of them have gone to Egypt. They are exhausted, defeated and badly equipped. Morale is low. And as for the Cretans, we are assured they will be passive, even welcoming in places. Their hospitality is legendary.’

  Rainer was puzzled. Were they talking about the same nation that had battled the Turks for their freedom, whose brigades had fought with such distinction in the Albanian campaign? It was not his place to argue with official intelligence on the ground, though, so he sat in silence.

  He’d met swarthy hard-drinking Cretans on his travels, men quick to flare up, who held grudges into the next generations and whose idea of a wedding was to abduct their brides. A classical education had taught him much about the Greek peoples, and the Cretans were a race apart.

  Once the briefing was over, Rainer went outside, blinking into the afternoon sunshine. Operation Mercury, as it was called, must be kept top secret from his men until the last possible minute. Young boys could be careless in their cups and overenthusiastic in their boasting. They were excited, raring to be in action after so many months in preparation. He was proud of their progress, these volunteers, hand-picked for courage, fitness and leadership.