Blood of Honour sjt-3

by James Holland

  Tanner stubbed out his cigarette and, as he did so, noticed the barman glance at the young men near the front of the kafenio, and nod. He thought nothing more of it until the barman arrived with a tray that bore not only their coffees but also three full shot glasses, which he then proceeded to set before them on the table.

  ‘What’s all this?’ said Woody, lifting a glass and examining it closely.

  ‘Raki,’ said the barman. He inclined his head towards the men near the front.

  ‘To our brave British allies,’ said the big man, in heavily accented English. Woody raised his glass and was about to drink when the man added, ‘The British who come over to Greece and then run away again, leaving our Cretan brothers stranded. Where is the Cretan Division now, Englishmen? Either dead or in the hands of Nazis. Your navy didn’t think they were worth rescuing.’

  Tanner stiffened, the muscles in his face taut. Pushing away the raki, he picked up his coffee instead. Sykes knew that look. ‘Leave it, Jack,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s trying to pick a fight. And he’s a big bloke, an’ all.’

  ‘And now you won’t drink,’ continued the man. The other three were chuckling. ‘We offer you raki, the hand of friendship, and you push it away.’

  Woody raised his glass again, then downed the spirit in one gulp. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We’re sorry about the Cretan Division but, you know, we’re only soldiers, not generals or admirals.’ He glanced shiftily at Sykes and Tanner. ‘Come on, drink it, Jack. We don’t want a bloody scene. It’s not worth it.’

  ‘He’s right, Jack,’ said Sykes. ‘Drink it up and let’s just walk out of here.’ He lifted his glass, drank, then grimaced and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  ‘And what about you?’ said the man, nodding towards Tanner. ‘Your friends have shown some manners, but not you, eh?’

  Tanner sipped his coffee, but said nothing.

  ‘Sir,’ hissed Sykes. ‘Please, mate. Just drink it.’

  ‘The mighty British Empire,’ said the man, scratching his cheek, ‘so mighty that her army is always running away. And what are you going to do if the Germans come here, eh? Run away again. We don’t want the horse that always bolts. We want Cretans to fight. Cretans who will stand their ground and fight like men for their country. For their homes.’ He laughed, but without mirth. ‘But, oh, no, we do not have any of our division because they were left to rot on the Albanian Front. Instead we are sent you. Cowards, men who like to run.’

  At this Tanner slammed his fist into the table, pushed back his chair and picked up his shot glass.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Sykes.

  ‘Steady, Jack,’ said Woodman. ‘Come on, leave it.’

  ‘No,’ said Tanner, ‘I’ve had it. I’m not listening to this crap.’

  The Cretans were laughing as Tanner walked over to them. Stopping by the big man, he slammed the glass on the table. ‘You can take your drink,’ he said, ‘and shove it up your arse.’

  There was a sudden silence in the bar. The old men had stopped playing their games; the other three at the table now shot furtive glances at each other, while the smile on the big man’s face vanished.

  ‘Do you think I give a toss about this place?’ snarled Tanner. ‘I’ve lost good men fighting for your country. I’ve lost good men in Norway and Belgium and France and North bloody Africa. Not one of them was a coward, and nor am I, and nor are my friends. Now apologize. I want to hear you take that back.’ He stared at the man, his eyes unblinking.

  ‘I’ll kill you before I say anything of the sort.’ He spoke to the others, turning his back on Tanner as he did so.

  Grabbing his shoulder, Tanner spun him around. ‘Apologize.’

  The man now pushed back his chair and stood up to face him.

  ‘Outside then,’ said Tanner.

  Sykes was beside him now. ‘It’s not worth it. Walk away, sir.’

  Tanner turned on his friend. ‘Walk away? Walk away? Who do you think I am, Stan?’

  ‘Come on, then,’ said the man, clearing another chair out of his way. ‘Outside.’

  Out in the street, Tanner turned to face the Cretan, vaguely conscious of the watching eyes of the old men happy to observe such sport. Where were Sykes and Woodman? he wondered, but dared not take his eye off the Cretan, who was broad-chested, with large hands. Strength, of course, was important, but so too were agility and speed. And the willingness to fight ugly. In a boxing ring there were rules, but he knew there were none now, and although he had no intention of killing this man, he wanted to hurt and humiliate him. Tanner had fought many times, in and out of the ring, but the sport of boxing had taught him a number of useful lessons, not least the need to weigh up an opponent. This Cretan was confident in his ability to take on a man of equal height, and that told Tanner he needed to be cautious until he knew the capabilities of his opponent.

  For a few moments, they circled each other, the Cretan with his arms half raised, Tanner with his loose by his sides, a position he hoped would lure the man into making the first move.

  ‘Come on, Englishman,’ growled the Cretan, goading Tanner towards him with his hands.

  Tanner smiled, then took two quick steps forward and swiftly dipped his left shoulder as though about to punch with his left hand, a dummy move designed to make the Cretan think he was left-handed and to encourage him to strike. The ruse worked as the Cretan swiftly flung out a heavy right punch so fast that even Tanner was surprised. Tanner moved his head but not before receiving a glancing blow across his temple, causing his footwork to falter and tipping him slightly off balance. Even so, the Cretan had over-extended and Tanner was able to drive in a savage right hook – not a knock-out blow, but one hard enough to make the Cretan gasp, and in that split second, Tanner kicked his right foot hard against the man’s knee, making his enemy cry out, then rammed his left boot straight into his crotch. As the Cretan grunted in agony, Tanner pushed back his right fist and, with the base of his hand, thrust a sharp jab into his opponent’s neck. The four moves had taken no more than two seconds, but Tanner knew he’d not yet caused any real damage: the blow to the head had not been hard enough to break any bones, or the one to the knee. Even so, the Cretan now staggered backwards, doubled up.

  Tanner stepped towards him. ‘Now say you’re sorry,’ he said. Then something caught his eye. Looking up, he saw Woodman at the end of the road frantically waving and pointing to his left, down in the direction of the port. Damn him, thought Tanner.

  A sudden stab of pain struck his legs and coursed through his entire body. Staggering, he saw the remains of a chair splintering at his feet, and then the Cretan was lunging at him, his bear-like arms gripping him around the waist and pushing him backwards. Tanner was already off balance, and the man’s weight forced him against a table. Cracking his head first on the wood, then again as he crashed to the ground, he was momentarily dazed and, in that time, the Cretan had clasped his enormous hands around his neck and was squeezing, starving Tanner of air and pressing against his trachea. The man’s nails were clawing into his neck too. The stench of alcohol, stale tobacco and sweat was overwhelming as the Cretan breathed heavily over him, grimacing with rage and effort. Tanner felt suppressed not only by the vice-like grip around his neck, but also by the hot, heavy weight of the man’s body on his. Sweat was running down the Cretan’s face, and a droplet fell into Tanner’s eye, stinging with its saltiness.

  Tanner could feel desperation welling within him, and was vaguely conscious of his legs kicking, as it occurred to him that this wild Cretan might be as good as his word and kill him, after all. With his senses now rapidly fading, he knew he had just moments in which to break free and so, despite the overpowering urge to do otherwise, he allowed his eyes to flicker and his head to loll. As he had hoped, the Cretan’s grip lessened fractionally. In that instant, Tanner brought both his arms inside those of the Cretan and, summoning all his remaining strength, quickly prised them apart. Then he brought his head up with a sudden sharp j
erk, his forehead smashing into the man’s nose. The Cretan yelled with pain and sat up, clutching his hands to his face. Still pinned to the ground, Tanner reached for a chair and swung it into the man’s head, knocking him sideways. He got to his feet, and kicked again, this time into the Cretan’s side, aiming for the kidney, then picked up another chair, ready to smash it down on him.

  A pistol shot rang out, the report jarringly loud in the narrow confines of the street, and Tanner froze, panting, his head clammy with sweat and blood, the chair still in his hand.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted a man. ‘Stop that right now!’

  Tanner staggered backwards, his legs weak, and turned to see a British officer striding towards them, while a column of some forty soldiers waited at the end of the street. Hurrying behind the officer were several of his men, and, behind them, Woodman and Sykes.

  Bloody hell, thought Tanner, dropping the chair and staggering towards a table, his hands groping for support. He hurt like hell – his legs, his head, his neck. Christ, he could barely speak. He tried to clear his throat.

  ‘Get up, the pair of you,’ called the officer, who, Tanner now saw, was a second lieutenant.

  The Cretan roused himself, eyed Tanner with hatred, then suddenly produced a knife with which he made a lunge. Parrying the thrust, Tanner caught the Cretan’s wrist, twisted himself out of the way and rammed his elbow hard into the man’s stomach, then deftly moved clear.

  ‘That’s it!’ said the lieutenant, pointing his Webley at the Cretan. ‘Drop that knife. Now!’

  Breathing heavily, the Cretan glared at the lieutenant, then, rather than dropping it, slowly put his knife away. Tanner saw the barrel of the revolver was shaking in the lieutenant’s hand. ‘You!’ he said, pointing to three of the new arrivals, ‘put these men under arrest.’ Now rifles were being pointed at both of them, bolts already drawn back. There was alarm in the eyes of the lieutenant and, Tanner saw, fear in those of one of the other men, a young lad. New boys, he thought. No sudden movements. Jesus, that was all he needed: to have survived so much only to be shot by one of his own side.

  ‘Really, sir,’ said Woodman, ‘I’m not sure arrest is necessary. These two were just having a little scrap. A question of honour, you see.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ snapped the lieutenant. The Cretan’s friends were now beside him, talking furiously and gesticulating wildly. He was sitting on a chair, wheezing and dabbing the blood on his face.

  ‘Now, who are you?’ he said to the Cretan. ‘What is your name?’

  The man spat and cleared his throat. ‘My name,’ he rasped, ‘is Alopex. I am a kapitan with Antonis Grigorakis. Satanas, you know?’

  The lieutenant eyed him. ‘No, I don’t, and I don’t care whether you’re a kapitan or not. You are under arrest and you will come with us to Battalion Headquarters where I shall strongly recommend you be detained.’

  Alopex glared back. ‘You are making very big mistake. How long have you been on this island? Straight off the boat, eh?’

  The lieutenant looked affronted. ‘That is irrelevant. We can’t have people brawling in the street like that. And, believe me, if you had killed this man it would have been a whole lot worse for you, no matter who you claim to be.’

  ‘And who are you?’ Alopex asked. ‘Just so I know who I am dealing with.’

  Again, the lieutenant seemed taken aback, and for a moment dithered as though undecided about how to reply. ‘I am Lieutenant Liddell,’ he said, ‘of the 2nd Battalion, the King’s Own Yorkshire Rangers.’

  As soon as he said his name, Tanner, who had been recovering his breath quietly beside Sykes and Woodman, felt himself reel. It was as though he had been punched harder than he had by anything Alopex had thrown at him. Liddell – it was not possible. Incredulously, he stared at the lieutenant. How long had it been? Nine years now. Nine long years. Guy Liddell had been, what, twelve back then? Tanner closed his eyes a moment, rubbed his sweaty brow, then looked up at the lieutenant again. And now he did faintly recognize the boy in the man standing before him – those grey eyes, he remembered, because his own were much the same colour; it had been commented upon. The shape of the face too, full and round, as it had been in boyhood. Christ, no, thought Tanner. How could this have happened?

  ‘And you,’ said Lieutenant Liddell, turning to him. Tanner followed his eyes as they noted first the leather wristband with the laurels and crown, which denoted his rank as a warrant officer second class, and then his face. Liddell’s eyes narrowed – was that a flicker of recognition, Tanner wondered – and he said, ‘A senior NCO like you should know better than to get involved in fights with locals. Good God, man, in case you weren’t aware, we might be expected to fight a real enemy any moment.’

  ‘He was sorely provoked, sir,’ said Sykes.

  ‘Be quiet, Sergeant,’ snapped Liddell. Then, turning back to Tanner, he said, ‘Name and unit?’

  ‘CSM Tanner, sir,’ Tanner mumbled. ‘2nd Yorks Rangers.’ There were no regimental shoulder tabs on KD shirts.

  ‘What was that? Yorks Rangers? This is just getting worse for you, Tanner. You’re a disgrace to the regiment.’

  ‘Sir,’ interrupted Sykes again.

  ‘Leave it, Sykes,’ hissed Tanner.

  ‘And you two are also Rangers?’ Liddell asked, looking at Sykes and Woodman.

  ‘Sir,’ said Woodman, then told Liddell their names.

  ‘Good. You can take us to Battalion Headquarters. Take Tanner’s rifle, Sykes, and, Woodman, you search this man, Alopex. Then lead on.’ He pointed to two of the other men. ‘And you two can stay behind the prisoners. March them at gunpoint.’

  ‘We weren’t expecting you for another hour, sir,’ said Woodman. ‘We were in town to meet you off the ship.’

  ‘Perhaps you were simply too busy drinking and brawling to notice the time. We arrived more than half an hour ago.’

  Tanner watched Alopex whispering to his three friends and then they hurried off. He noticed that Liddell had seen this too and was clearly wondering whether he should have detained them as well. It was too late, though, so instead he straightened his cap, put his revolver back in its holster and, waving his arm, indicated to them to get moving.

  ‘This is not over,’ muttered Alopex, as they were frog-marched away from the kafenio. ‘I will still kill you.’

  ‘Put a bloody sock in it,’ Tanner replied. He had other concerns now. Damn it, damn it. Sod it and damn.

  Tanner and Alopex had been put in two makeshift guardrooms in the Jesus Bastion opposite Battalion Headquarters. The rooms were on either side of the tunnel leading into the bastion. Tanner’s cell was dark and dank, the walls thick with cold stone, and only a small slit window providing any light. The ground was nothing more than compacted earth – clearly, these had been designed as store rooms and nothing more – but Tanner was not bothered by any discomfort. The cool air was, if anything, something of a relief. In any case, being in a darkened cell was the least of his concerns.

  Being frog-marched through Heraklion would have been humiliating enough under any circumstances but was particularly so when he knew that a number of the men would soon be joining B Company. As CSM, he was supposed to be one of the figure-heads of the company, a shining example. Now their first impression of him was of seeing him stripped of his weapon and placed under military arrest. Damn it all, he might even find himself court-martialled.

  Sitting on the rough floor, his hands over his knees and smoking a cigarette, he sighed. His head still throbbed, and when he touched it, he could feel the slowly congealing blood of a gash that needed a stitch or two. If and when he did get out, he would have to watch his back now that a Cretan big shot was out for his blood. He knew about the kind of blood feuds these people made. Indians, Arabs, Greeks – they were all the same. If you made a vow, you had to follow it through: it was a question of honour. Tanner understood that – after all, it had been partly as a matter of honour that he had stood up to Alopex himself. The
other reason had been anger. It was anger that had driven him to start firing the pompom a couple of weeks earlier and it was anger that had driven him to fight Alopex. A lot of anger. Too much, he thought.

  And as if that wasn’t bad enough, now Guy Liddell had turned up. He would lay money on Liddell being Sykes’s new platoon commander. Jesus. Of all the people. Why the hell had he been sent here? Why wasn’t he farming still in Alvesdon? What was it with these fellows? Captain Peploe was the same – he could have been doing his bit on his family farm in north Yorkshire, away from all this. They could have avoided the fighting altogether. Tanner pushed back his hair and sighed again.

  There were voices outside – English voices – and then, through the narrow window, he heard the sound of a key being turned and the squeak of hinges. Moments later Alopex was muttering in a low voice.

  ‘You’re a hot-headed old fool, Alopex,’ said a voice. ‘I need you fighting Huns, not our chaps.’

  ‘He insulted me,’ said Alopex. ‘You think I can be humiliated like that in front of my men?’

  ‘All right, all right,’ soothed the English voice. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. There’s something I need you to do …’

  Tanner shook his head and lit yet another cigarette. Sykes had somehow managed to purloin a stash of Player’s Navy Cut from HMS Halberd and they had been smoking them ever since. God only knew how he had managed it; Tanner didn’t like to ask. So Alopex was working for the British, he thought. He smiled ruefully to himself – a man who disliked the British, but hated the Italians and Germans more. He wondered who that English voice had belonged to. Not regular army, that was for sure, but someone who could cut through tape, pull strings. A useful friend. Tanner drew deeply on his cigarette. Bloody hell, he thought, what a mess.