‘He is very, very sick,’ Kopoulos said. ‘The rough going is not good, even when he is carried. It is his heart.’
‘Is he likely to have a heart attack, then?’ Cameron asked.
Kopoulos shrugged. ‘Me, I am not a doctor. I do not know, but to go on would make it likely, perhaps. You see his colour.’
‘Yes,’ Cameron said. Razakis’s face was now almost purple; he had to rest, that was obvious. Cameron seethed with impatience and frustration: the Wharfedale would —or rather, might — now be lying off for the pick-up and she wouldn’t wait beyond the rendezvous time, or not long anyway. Cameron asked Kopoulos how much farther they had to go.
‘A little more than four miles,’ Kopoulos answered.
‘Then we can’t possibly make it. On the other hand, if the ship waits a while, one fit man might make it on his own and send a signal asking my Captain to wait —’
‘Perhaps,’ Kopoulos said. ‘But that man would have to be me, since I alone know the track. And I shall not leave Razakis.’
‘But look —’
‘No, my friend, I am adamant.’ Kopoulos reached out a hand for his sub-machine-gun, which Cameron had laid on the ground beside him. Re-armed and determined, the Greek went on, ‘Out in the open, if your destroyer has gone, there is danger. We know the destroyer will come back tonight. Therefore we must wait for night, and the rest will be good for Razakis.’
Cameron had no option but to agree; and Kopoulos was probably right at that. In the meantime, they were all hungry. Iron rations had been brought from the ship and Razakis and Kopoulos had brought with them an apparently inexhaustible supply of goat’s-milk cheese, which was nourishing enough. They had a makeshift lunch in the trees, and, from a canvas bag belonging to Razakis and dangling from Kopoulos’s shoulder, the Greek brought a bottle of local wine. This he passed around as they munched cheese; it was white and vinegary, with a foul taste, but at least it was liquid. Cameron grew sleepy, but fought the feeling off by getting to his feet and walking about. Kopoulos, seeing the difficulty the Englishman had in keeping his eyelids open, made a suggestion.
‘We shall use the time for sleep,’ he said. ‘We shall take watches. We must be sensible. Tired men become useless. We have a lot of time to spare until dark, my friend.’ He ran his fingers through his beard. ‘I shall take the first watch.’
Cameron was glad enough to sleep. Kopoulos sat with his back against a tree, his mouth full of cheese and the sub-machine-gun laid across his knees. Prudently, he left the rest of the bottle untouched. Wellington and Lawrence also slept; Razakis lay inert with his eyes open and his chest heaving, until at last he closed his eyes and slept like the others. They were all left to sleep on until they woke of their own accord. Cameron was the first to wake. It was still broad daylight; his watch now showed 1535 hours.
‘Your turn, Kopoulos,’ he said.
Kopoulos shook his head. ‘I do not find sleep easily, my friend, and I do not need it as other men need it. I shall remain awake.’
Cameron fancied that the death of Alexia Razakis was the cause of the man’s wakefulness; his conscience wouldn’t give him respite, though his act had been one of sheer mercy. Kopoulos seemed to want to talk, though not of the girl. He began speaking of Greece and of what the Germans had done and were doing there, of the horror of the Nazi advance that had ejected the Allied armies. As he had mentioned before, he had himself been tortured by the Germans; after his escape, his immediate family had suffered, all of them: his wife and two sons had been shot by firing squads, his brother and sister-in-law had died under the brutalities of interrogation, his parents, both of them in their seventies, had been dragged from their beds and beaten to death with rifle-butts. All known communists in Greece were at similar risk. As for Razakis, although he had never been taken by the Germans whilst in Greece, his family had suffered also; he had had four more children, two sons and two daughters beside Alexia, and all had died at Nazi hands.
‘Razakis is a hero,’ Kopoulos said. ‘To go back again to Greece... it is crazy, but heroic.’
‘And you, Kopoulos?’
‘I shall not go back to Greece. I have work to do here, on behalf of Razakis. I shall take his place as the leader of the partisans in Crete.’
‘You’re not coming aboard my ship, then?’
Kopoulos shook his head. ‘I shall see Razakis safely aboard, and then I shall go.’
‘Go where?’
Kopoulos laughed harshly and said, ‘Somewhere, my friend! It is better that no one knows where I go next, for then there can be nothing given away — I do not suggest that you would do so, but if matters should go wrong, as so often they do... then no one knows better than I the methods used by the Nazis to extract information. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I understand, Kopoulos.’ Cameron hesitated. ‘I’ve said this before but I’m saying it again: wouldn’t it be wiser for us both to know what Razakis has to report — in case, as you’ve said, things go wrong and Razakis dies?’
‘No,’ Kopoulos said flatly. ‘I do not care to repeat myself. I have spoken of torture. Each man has his breaking-point. I know mine. I do not know yours.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
Kopoulos said, ‘It is not a question of trust, Englishman!’
‘I think it is. You seem certain of your own breaking-point, and —’
‘I have been tested. I did not talk.’
‘No. And all honour to you. But what makes you think I would?’
Kopoulos laughed and said, ‘Pink-and-white faces, unlined faces... faces without beards... no, they have not the experience of life and death that comes to aid a man when under interrogation. It is hard to explain, but it is something I feel here.’ Kopoulos laid a hairy-backed hand over his heart. ‘By no means do I accuse you of possible cowardice, you must understand that. But the Nazis are animals, and —’
Suddenly, Kopoulos broke off. With an astonishingly swift movement of his arms, he brought up the sub-machine-gun and fired a short burst into the trees to his right. Cameron had seen nothing; but as the echoes of the gunfire died, a man crashed into view, falling with his right shoulder shattered. A German steel helmet rolled from his head as he fell. Kopoulos squirmed his body to lie protectingly in front of Razakis, and swung his gun in an arc, his eyes searching the trees.
9
THERE was a dead silence. Wellington and Lawrence were watchful behind their rifles; Razakis seemed almost to have stopped breathing. Then Kopoulos got up and moved at a crouching run towards the German, who hadn’t moved but was staring back at the party of apparent partisans, wide-eyed and fearful. Cameron got to his feet and joined Kopoulos.
‘See,’ Kopoulos said. ‘As well as the shoulder, he is hit in the leg also. Now we must find out more.’ He bent and took the man by the collar and dragged him unceremoniously towards the group around Razakis. The German whimpered with pain and fear; he was just a youth, Cameron saw, a year or two younger than himself he thought. Kopoulos asked him, roughly, if he spoke English.
‘Ja, ’ the soldier answered. His face was dead white and the lips trembled.
‘Good,’ Kopoulos said. ‘You will now talk. Where have you come from, Nazi?’
‘From Vitsilokoumos.’
‘North of Sphakia... the road from Canea and Suda to Sphakia! Your armies are there, Nazi?’
‘Ja, ja... yes.’ There was no holding back on the young German’s part. ‘We were fighting the Australians, and there were tanks.’ Tears were running down the face now. ‘I... I ran away. I am not a Nazi... and I was frightened.’
‘Not a Nazi, but a coward.’ Kopoulos spat full at the young man; the gob dribbled down the face. ‘I do not like cowards. Now, come, tell me more things. What was happening in your sector, around Vitsilokoumos? Tell me, and do not lie.’
‘The British were coming down the road from Canea. That is all I know.’
Cameron caught Kopoulos’s eye. He said, ‘That must mean the withdrawal f
rom Suda, Kopoulos. It’s begun.’
‘Yes. And the coast near Sphakia will be saturated by the Nazi dive-bombers. It is not good for us — for Razakis.’ Kopoulos turned back to the German. ‘If there is more to tell, tell it. If you do not, I shall shoot your other shoulder, after that your other leg. You will live, Nazi, to die in much pain.’
The agonized voice said hoarsely, ‘There is no more to tell. I swear that. I am — was — just a soldier, a private. I was confused by the noise, by the gunfire, by the screams of men. I knew only that my unit was moving south towards Vitsilokoumos, from Askifou —’
‘And your unit, Nazi?’
‘No. 100 Mountain Regiment, of the 5th Mountain Division under General Ringel.’
‘And you... you were the only one to desert, to run away?’
‘I — I don’t know. I believe so. No one came with me. I am alone. I am at your mercy. I surrender. For me, the war is over, and I am glad. I am not a Nazi, only a private soldier.’ The man was sweating with pain and fear now, and still tearful. Kopoulos walked a little way off, frowning, and beckoned to Cameron.
He said, ‘The Nazi has told what he knows. There is no more to come. If there was, he would tell it. What he has said is useful. Do you know what I think?’
‘Go on, Kopoulos.’
‘I think that what you were saying earlier was perhaps right.’
‘You mean —’
‘I mean this: there are Germans in the vicinity... there is obvious danger, now that the southward thrust of the British has started and has drawn the Nazis with it. Both you and I should know what is in the mind of Razakis. I will have words with Razakis.’
He moved away.
*
It took time; Razakis was obstinacy personified. Kopoulos, however, was persuasive and persistent. Razakis, he said, was sick and might die; his words must not die with him. Razakis answered that he would not die until his mission for Winston Churchill was complete; he would keep going and it was vital that he should reach the Greek mainland as quickly as possible. Kopoulos pointed to the wounded German, telling Razakis that the Nazis were close and were advancing on Sphakia. There would be difficulty in bringing in the destroyer safely, and even after he was aboard, if he got aboard at all, the dive-bombers would give the ship no peace. He might be killed; and before that could happen, he might be taken by the Nazis and that would be the end. The repetition, the persistence, the quiet firmness penetrated at last. Razakis spoke. He had received orders, he said, from Mr Churchill via a high-ranking officer of British Military Intelligence: there had been rumours of recent weeks that all was not well with the German-Russian alliance, that misconceived marriage of opposites that Razakis had never been able to accept in his mind. These rumblings were, of course, known to the Allied governments, and the intelligence services had been probing further, with interesting results: in Greece had been a certain highly-placed German, a close confidant of theFührer himself. This German was understood to be suffering severe disillusionment with the vision-inspired strategy of Adolf Hitler, and his Party loyalties were said to be under strain, largely on account of the very fact that Hitler was bent upon turning against Russia. If Hitler should commit his armies and aircraft to an assault on the huge Russian land mass, then, this VIP believed, Germany would lose the war. The German’s precise whereabouts were not known to the British, but word had been passed to Razakis, then in Greece himself. The partisans’ grapevine went into action and the German had been located. Orders had come for his kidnap so that he could be made to talk about his Führer’s plans in regard to Russia. Razakis had organized the kidnap and brought it off successfully while the British forces were being evacuated from Greece under ferocious German attack following upon the thrust of the Führer’s armies down from the Yugoslav border and the Aliakmon Line.
Willingly enough, the German had talked: Herr Hitler was indeed about to send his armies, his infantry and artillery and armoured columns, and his air power, into Russia. His objective was Moscow itself, and on the way he would devastate the Russian countryside and smash the cities.
Cameron asked, ‘When is this to be?’
Razakis said, ‘On 22 June. The code name is to be Operation Barbarossa. It will open along many hundreds of miles with a massive artillery barrage. Hitler expects to take Brest-Litovsk within two days, and by that time to have totally destroyed the air power of the Soviets.’
‘And Russia... do you mean to say, Razakis, that no rumour of this has reached Moscow and the Kremlin?’ Cameron was incredulous. ‘That you alone —’
‘I do not say that, Englishman. But Comrade Stalin does not, will not, believe that the Nazis are about to turn against him and to abrogate the treaty. Nothing has made him believe, but now he will believe. You understand?’
‘Not quite,’ Cameron answered. ‘Are you saying he’ll believe you, Razakis, when he hasn’t believed anyone so far?’
Razakis said quietly, ‘He will not believe unless I am put back on the mainland of Greece to be joined by the German, who is currently in the hands of my partisans on the island of Kithnos. At the last moment, when I was brought out to Crete, matters went astray. It was not possible then to embark the German from Kithnos, and by the time I knew this I had already left myself, and the boat would not turn back. Now I must go back, and take the German across many frontiers into Russia, to tell his story to Comrade Stalin in person.’ He paused, and stared hard at Cameron. ‘In the meantime your part, if I should die under the German attack here, must be to inform Winston Churchill of what I have found out. It may not be enough... Comrade Stalin may believe it to be a British trick, if Churchill should inform him. It remains vital for me to go back to Greece to collect the German, whose words will convince.’
*
They remained where they were until the sun was well down, then they got on the move again, carrying the wounded German with them while once again Kopoulos took Razakis on his broad back. For some while now they had listened to the sounds of bombing coming up from the south, and Cameron was fearful of what the Wharfedale might be undergoing as she moved back in for the rendezvous. As they came to the high coastal rock and looked down towards the beach, they could see, away to their right, the fires flickering over the port of Sphakia and could hear the explosions as the bombs dropped.
There was no sign of the Wharfedale; the time was a little after 1930 hours — half an hour to go yet. No point in worrying, Cameron told himself, Sawbridge wasn’t likely to come in early; the shorter the period he had to cruise off-shore, the safer. The party remained on the heights, watchful and silent. Cameron thought about Petty Officer Pike and the others back in the rock stronghold. When after an hour or so of the southward march Pike hadn’t shown up, Cameron had not been too worried. There was catching-up to do. But as time had passed and no one had come, the likely facts had had to be faced. There could be no going back to look; Razakis was still his first concern. But Cameron had finally given the word to march on again with a heavy heart. It felt like a desertion. War looked worse than ever.
He stared out to sea, fancying that he saw a ship’s outline now and again, but one that he was unable to hold. As yet there was no moon, no stars; there was some overcast that should be a protection to ships at sea, but it was making vision difficult. Wellington said, ‘Just on 2000 hours, sir. Use the Aldis, sir?’
‘No. There’s time yet. I wasn’t to flash till I’d seen the ship.’
‘Captain’s a punctual officer, sir. Always has been.’
‘I’m not worrying yet, Wellington.’
‘No, sir.’ Wellington fell silent. The German soldier was whimpering again, as he had whimpered and cried out at intervals during the march; the sound, like that made by Razakis’s daughter, rasped at the nerves. Cameron half wished he’d left the man behind. But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do so and never mind the strictures of Kopoulos, who clearly regarded him as soft-headed. Enemy or not, the man would get medical attention as soon a
s they were aboard... but where in hell was the Wharfedale? On the bottom already? What Leading-Seaman Wellington had left unsaid nagged at Cameron as they went on waiting for something to show out at sea: unpunctuality, at any rate in Wellington’s mind, meant that something must have gone wrong. 2015 came and went and still no sign. Cameron risked the Aldis and found it had packed up. At 2035 they heard the dive-bombers scream down, two of them, to send their bombs on to the water just offshore. They were ready for them, lying flat on their stomachs in the crevices of the rock. The din of the twin explosions was tremendous, and there was a good deal of flame. Still no ship visible: what were the Jerries doing, wasting their bomb-loads?
‘Don’t usually drop on sod-all,’ Wellington said. ‘Know something, sir? I reckon the buggers are out for us, and —’ He broke off as more Stukas came in; this time the bombs dropped closer, and shingle and rock fell around. Some of the rock put the German soldier out of his misery. A chunk smashed his head, and the whimpering stopped finally. ‘See what I mean, Mr Cameron?’ Wellington asked.
‘We’ll move back,’ Cameron said. They did so, fast. As they flattened once again, more attacks came. It did look as though they were expected. Cameron didn’t believe that any of Pike’s party would have talked, but as Kopoulos had said earlier, every man had his breaking-point. Assuming they hadn’t talked, the incoming Germans could have put two and two together: Razakis gone, and the British Navy holding the strongpoint. It wouldn’t be too difficult to make an assessment and come up with the right answer. He should have thought of that...
This was the time for decision. Cameron got to his feet. He said, ‘There’s only one thing to do. Sphakia’s in British hands still or they wouldn’t be bombing it. We’ll head in for Sphakia and get ourselves a boat. Then we’ll go to sea and hope to be picked up.’
Kopoulos said, ‘We can make for Greece if we find a boat.’
Dangerous Waters (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller) Page 9