As Kipling turned away, she seemed to take the Stukas with her. Wharfedale lay doggo for a while longer, probably looking to the aircraft as though she was about to sink. When the attackers had passed out of sight, Sawbridge, by now somewhat adrift on his half-promised noon rendezvous, gave the orders for the return to Crete. Drummond said, ‘Cameron won’t be expecting us by the time we make the coast, sir. Not till after dark.’
‘He’ll be in the vicinity and on the lookout, Number One.’ Sawbridge, capless and with his ginger hair blowing in a breeze, looked all around the horizons through binoculars. ‘The sooner we get him away the better. No point in marking time, is there?’
Drummond nodded. ‘I suppose not, sir.’ He added, ‘We’re damn lucky the propellers didn’t get twisted up.’
‘You can say that again, Number One.’ They were in fact moving at full speed again and would be off Sphakia in little more than an hour. As Sawbridge had said, the sooner they were away again from Crete, the better: no time currently to see to the dead. They would have to be committed to the sea once they were away and bound back for Malta. Sawbridge grieved for his dead: it wasn’t only Lord Louis who knew his men personally. Commanding Officers of destroyers were closer to their ratings than were the captains of the capital ships and cruisers. Sawbridge detested the letters that had to be written to parents and wives: each one left its mark on him.
The war was getting filthier; the machine-gunning of the men swimming for their lives had left Sawbridge feeling murderous. He looked up now at the empty sky, clear blue and sun-filled, and wondered when the next attack would come. If the troops from the north were assembling at Sphakia and Tymbaki they were probably getting the brunt of it. Saw-bridge sent up a prayer of thankfulness that he wasn’t a soldier; at least a ship had speed and could twist and turn as the bombs came down.
It was a little after 1330 hours when Wharfedale reached the position off the coast where Cameron had left the ship the night before. Sawbridge and Drummond, with the Officer of the Watch, scanned the coastline through binoculars but found no sign of waiting men. Nor was there any signal. There was a strange silence, the quiet before the storm perhaps. Sawbridge had half expected to find the whole area ablaze. Perhaps the southward movement of the shattered armies hadn’t yet started after all.
Drummond asked, ‘Do we wait around, sir?’
‘I’ll give him a little longer, Number One. Just a little longer.’
Drummond said no more. He understood his Captain’s thoughts well enough. No one liked the prospect of pulling out and leaving men behind; but Cameron had known the score and Drummond believed he would have holed up somewhere once the noon rendezvous had passed and would simply wait for the ship to come back in after dark. Meanwhile, a curious sense of unease began to grip the ship’s company. The coast was too quiet; it couldn’t last. It was almost as though they had been lured into some sort of trap. And every moment they lingered off Crete increased the danger. The proper place for a ship was out in the deep sea, with plenty of room for manoeuvre. The Stukas were not likely to be found well out to sea in any case; their best targets were the land forces and any ships they happened to spot in the inshore waters.
7
WHEN that scream had come, they had all stopped dead. Kopoulos said, ‘That is the girl.’ His voice was flat, dead-sounding. Cameron saw the movement of his hand but was too late to stop him; the knife, drawn down from the German officer’s neck, was thrust into the back, angled for the heart. He dropped without a sound. Kopoulos gave the body a kick as it lay on the ground. The Greek’s face was contorted, devilish. He said, ‘The Nazi lied. Razakis is in his cave. The sound came to us from an air-shaft. Come.’
He turned back into the circle of rocks, moving fast. Cameron and the rest followed. Kopoulos led the way into a narrow passage leading off the central area, running deep between the rocks, and then from this into another passage, even narrower, with only just room for a man to squeeze through. Farther along it widened out a little and ended in a curious round stone of immense size; it must have been delicately balanced for when Kopoulos gave it a gentle push it swung aside. Beneath it a hole gaped blackly. Kopoulos said, ‘There are steps. Feel carefully for them. When you are inside, it will be safe to use the light.’
‘Right,’ Cameron said. He was aware by now of his flesh wound, but the bleeding had stopped. He passed the word back for the signalman to hand the battery Aldis along. Kopoulos went down through the hole. Cameron had a word with Pike, whom he was leaving in charge up top, giving his orders and stressing that a full alertness would be needed. ‘There may be other German troops in the area,’ he said.
‘Watch out for any signs of them. All right, Petty Officer Pike?’
‘All right, sir.’
Cameron turned away and went down the hole in the wake of Kopoulos. Flicking on the Aldis he saw that the steps, cut out from the solid rock, were short, and led straight into a low but sizeable cavern where he had to bend almost double to avoid hitting his head on the roof. A middle-aged man lay on a pile of sacking, his face haggard. Like Kopoulos, who was now bending over another figure on a pile of sacking, this man was heavily built, and bearded. Razakis... Cameron was about to identify himself when there was another long-drawn scream from the second pile of sacking. Kopoulos moved aside, shaking his head, and Cameron saw the girl, Razakis’s daughter. She was little more than seventeen or eighteen, he fancied, and she had once been pretty. Now, her face was ravaged by pain; she tossed and turned on the rough bedding and seemed to be sweating profusely, and was talking to herself in a high, monotonous voice. Cameron saw that Kopoulos was shaking like a leaf himself; perhaps there had been something between him and this girl notwithstanding the difference in their ages, and his dedication to Razakis was not all party loyalty. Kopoulos spoke to Razakis in his own language, briefly, then turned to Cameron.
He said, ‘This is Razakis. I have told him who you are and why you have come.’
Razakis said, ‘Welcome.’ He reached out a hand; Cameron went forward and took it. The grip was firm, though the Greek looked ill and weary. Razakis spoke in English. ‘Forgive me if I remain lying down. I have little strength left.’
‘Your daughter,’ Cameron said. ‘What is the matter with her, Razakis?’
Razakis seemed to have difficulty in answering at first. Then he said in a shaking voice, ‘It was the Nazis. They wanted information from me... I would not give it. They used my daughter Alexia to try to make me talk. They inoculated tetanus into her, and left us alone here so that I might watch her suffering, and then talk to prevent a similar thing happening to me.’
Cameron caught his breath, deeply shocked and horrified. He glanced at Kopoulos. The Greek’s face was working and tears were visible; the hands clenched and unclenched as though in spasm. Another scream came, wrenching at Cameron’s heart, at his nerves. How Razakis could have borne this... he asked, ‘Did you talk, Razakis? You could not be blamed —’
‘I did not talk!’ The man’s eyes blazed with anger. ‘Never would I talk to the Nazis!’
‘I apologize,’ Cameron said. He was sweating now; the atmosphere in the cave was close, but it wasn’t that alone. He was wondering what was now to be done, how to handle Razakis. This was no straightforward job of bringing out a man and a woman and getting them to the coast for pick-up. The girl was clearly in no fit state to be moved, and Razakis himself was far from well and would have to be carried. But there were other matters as well: if Razakis had things to tell, it was desirable that he should tell them now. It might be difficult to persuade him; he looked the sort who trusted no one and would prefer to keep information to himself until he could deliver it in person... but deliver it to whom, and why?
Cameron said, ‘Orestis Kopoulos has told you who I am and that I have been sent to take you aboard a British destroyer —’
‘You have been sent by Winston Churchill?’
Cameron smiled. ‘I have been sent by my Captain, acting
under orders deriving from Winston Churchill. Do you trust me, Razakis?’
‘I trust Orestis Kopoulos, and I believe he trusts you. In any case, you are well vouched for by him, and I know both he and you speak the truth about your destroyer.’
‘Then perhaps you’ll tell me what it was the Nazis wanted to know?’
Razakis frowned. His teeth showed between stretched lips as more sounds of agony came from the girl; he seemed to be bearing the pain as well as his daughter, the pain that Cameron knew would come with every movement, with every sound to strike her ears. Razakis said, ‘This I cannot do. Until I am out of Crete I must not speak.’
‘But if you should fall into German hands again? It’s not going to be easy to get you off the island. Also, there’s going to be plenty of bombing along the coast as our troops move south. If you should die —’
‘Yes. I understand what you say. But there is something else.’
‘What else, Razakis?’
‘I must stay where I am. My daughter Alexia must not be moved. I shall not leave her until she dies, as die she must. It is too late. Even a doctor could not save her now.’
Cameron was sweating more than ever. What Razakis had said was undoubtedly true; the process of dying had started already; there was no knowing when the end might come. And Razakis was clearly adamant. So was Kopoulos. Kopoulos, who had been listening intently to the conversation, came forward and put his hands on Cameron’s shoulders, staring into his eyes. Veins were standing out like rope in his temples as he said, ‘Razakis is to be left to do as he wishes, my friend. Neither you nor I will interfere.’
It was an impasse; Cameron had the feeling that even Winston Churchill in person would have made no progress against the Razakis-Kopoulos combination. Yet there had to be a way. He clenched his fists as once again the girl on the sacking screamed. He saw Kopoulos put his hands to his ears, his face contorting.
*
Up top, Petty Officer Pike had made his dispositions against any enemy attack; although the German troops below the Canea-Maleme road, referred to by the hussar major and notified to the landing-party by Sawbridge before they’d left the ship, were well clear of the strongpoint so far as was known, there could have been enemy movements subsequent to the last intelligence report. In any case, the lot that had been slaughtered — dropped in by parachute for their mission — could have had other units with them, men detailed for rounding up other partisans perhaps, and they might rendezvous back at Razakis’s HQ; Mr Cameron, he’d been specific about an alert watch. Pike spread his men out, with orders to report immediately anything that was seen but not to open fire until told to do so by himself or Mr Cameron. And they were to keep hidden.
‘Best defence,’ Pike told them, ‘is surprise. Let the buggers show themselves all unsuspecting like, then attack hand-to-hand.’
Every now and again Pike heard the screams coming from down below. It was a terrible sound that would drive them all round the bend before long. Pike dug his nails into his palms and swore aloud. Bloody Nazis! It had to be their doing. He walked round looking at the littered corpses, left where they had fallen, British and German together. Pike spent some while moving the dead seamen into more dignified positions and well clear of the Germans. It wasn’t right, in his view, to leave them together with Nazis. And they would have to be decently buried, if possible, before the living moved out again, which Pike hoped fervently wouldn’t be long. The best sight he would ever see in all his life would be the old Wharfedale lying off out at sea to pick them up...
His sorting of the dead finished, Pike stood back and dusted his hands on the seat of his trousers. He’d done all he could for his shipmates and he felt better about them. He turned as he heard footsteps, and brought his revolver from its webbing holster, but it was only Cameron.
Cameron asked, ‘Did you hear the screams?’
‘Yes, sir, I did.’
‘It’s terrible down there.’ Cameron was shaking badly, really upset, Pike thought. Cameron told Pike the full facts, and the petty officer was as shocked as he’d been himself. Pike looked again at the sprawled German bodies. Bastards. He’d have liked to have the chance of killing them all over again. Cameron was going on, ‘Every time anyone speaks, she suffers. I had to get out. Kopoulos and Razakis are keeping quiet, not talking.’
‘Is there nothing we can do, sir?’ Pike asked.
‘I’m afraid not. Other than shoot her like a dog. It would be better really. The end’s going to come in any case... but you can’t do that.’
‘No, sir.’
Cameron gave a strained laugh. ‘Funny, isn’t it... you wouldn’t let a dog or a horse suffer. Yet in a human being you just sit and watch.’
Pike said, ‘Don’t let it get on your mind, sir. It’s happened before, in war. Not to say what she’s suffering from, but something like. My sister... she lived in London. She got it in the blitz last September. Trapped for hours, no one could get at her. Under a girder, she was. She screamed, they said.’ Pike’s voice shook.
‘You were there?’ Cameron asked.
‘No, sir, but her kids were. Till someone fetched ‘em away.’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘It’s a rotten war, sir.’ Pike’s tone altered, leaving the past behind. ‘This Razakis, sir. Do we know why it’s so urgent he gets off to Greece, or where Winny comes in?’
‘No,’ Cameron said. ‘No success in that direction. We’ve just got to get him away as soon as he’s ready to go.’ He meant, when the girl dies. He’d tried again to get some sense into Razakis, but he’d failed. The man was like stressed concrete. The girl’s condition hadn’t helped; each spoken word brought its reaction from her. Cameron had read about tetanus. Involuntary tonic muscular spasms, passing into paroxysmal convulsions. The inoculation of the disease could have been done any time from four to seven days earlier. The jaw was the first to be affected, then the face and neck. After that — not yet, in the girl’s case — the trunk and limbs. Almost anything you cared to name brought on the intense pain — the smallest sound, a touch, a current of air, an attempt to swallow or move. The jaws would clench and the back arch. There would be a heavy rise in temperature, often to 105° Fahrenheit. Even after death the temperature would remain, and even rise higher.
Cameron’s reading hadn’t informed him of when death might come. Meanwhile, time was short: there was the rendezvous to make. It could become necessary to use force; the landing-party had enough rifles to do just that, and there were enough of them left to disarm Kopoulos. Maybe.
*
Now the dawn was coming up; it was going to be a beautiful day, clear and bright once again, perfect weather for death to come like rain from the sky if the Stukas decided to come inland. The naval party was fully alert in its concealed positions behind the rocks, though there were yawns from tired men. And some muttering: the word had spread that the communist Razakis was being obstinate and was thus putting their lives in unnecessary danger. They were all worried now about that rendezvous; the Wharfedale wouldn’t hang around indefinitely; no Captain would hazard his ship to that extent. If she went to sea, they might as well have joined the bloody Army — they would have to take their chances of evacuation along with the thousands of troops waiting to be taken off and that would be no joke. It would be like Dunkirk all over again: great columns of men, waiting for the orders of the beach-masters as the dive-bombers swooped. Waiting for the boats to be filled, waiting for them to move out to the ships, and return, and be filled again.
Not a healthy prospect. Blame began to be attached to the sub-lieutenant until Petty Officer Pike put a stopper on it. ‘He’s hamstrung, is Subby,’ Pike said. ‘He has to think of the girl.’
‘I wish she’d stop bloody screaming.’
Pike said, ‘So do I, but she’s got it and we haven’t. Just think about that, and shut your mouth.’ He moved away, feeling a degree of disgust at the man who had spoken. He thought again about his sister in London, and the night he
was devoutly thankful he’d missed. He thought about Devonport, too, and hoped his missus was all right. He saw the small house, now bombed flat, just off Fore Street that until a month or so earlier had run down to the main gate of the dockyard, and he saw Plymouth, and the Sound, and the First World War memorial to the men of the Devonport — Port Division, on the Hoe where so long ago Sir Francis Drake had played bowls before drumming the Spaniards up the English Channel. Drake he was a Devon man, and ruled the Devon seas... unconsciously, Pike began humming the tune, or something like it. Then, after a few bars, he broke off, looking surprised. From somewhere, another tune was coming. It didn’t seem all that familiar at first, then he recognized it and it was ‘Lili Marlene’. German basically, although the South African forces were beginning to pick it up. Pike didn’t know if there were South African troops in Crete or not; but he wasn’t taking any chances. He ran along the firing-step, alerting all the hands, then went down for the sub-lieutenant. He reported an apparent enemy advance from the north; maybe there had been another parachute drop, out of sight and hearing of Razakis’s strongpoint.
‘Any idea of their strength?’ Cameron asked.
‘No, sir. Fair-sized party at a guess.’
‘And close.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cameron said, ‘It’s too late to evacuate. We’ll hold the rocks, Petty Officer Pike.’ He frowned. ‘On the other hand...’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Razakis has to be got away. Those are the orders. That takes priority.’
Pike asked, ‘A strategic retreat, sir?’
‘Of a sort. I’ll go below and put some dynamite up Razakis and Kopoulos, try to get them on the move and heading for the coast. I want you to hold the northern perimeter as long as you can. I’ll take Leading-Seaman Wellington and leave the rest of the hands with you. I’d better take Lawrence,’ he added, naming the signalman. ‘Give me an hour’s start, then move out behind me. All right?’
Dangerous Waters (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller) Page 7