When he woke, opening his eyes slowly to the growing Aegean light, it took a few moments to remember where he was and what had happened.
Pain in his back: he shifted, easing himself over on the caïque’s hard timber, and immediately the young Italian began jabbering at him. He hadn’t got as far as remembering the Italian until he heard that voice start up again. He was up on the cabin roof, grinning like a wolf.
Jack sat up. “Morning, Alphonso.”
Gabble-gabble-gabble … Alphonso—whatever his name was, Alphonso suited him and he didn’t seem to mind being called it—had sprouted more black beard during the dark hours. He’d been on this caïque when Jack had seen it and eventually decided to leave the whaler’s wreckage and swim over to it. He hadn’t realized until he got quite close to it that the caïque was wrecked too; it had been hard to make out what it was, and he’d studied it for a long time before he’d started out, wondering how long the swim would take him and whether after he’d committed himself to the transfer it might start moving away. In fact it had been closer than he’d guessed, and it wasn’t in any condition to move except by drifting. Its hold, occupying about half of its normal below-water bulk, was full of water, the bow actually under water and gunwales awash from right for’ard to about amidships; only the stern part was dry. There was a wheelhouse-cabin, and a lower cabin down a short ladder from it, and also an engine space right aft; these were sound and watertight and were providing the buoyancy for the caïque to remain afloat. The engine was smashed; he’d been down there yesterday before the light went, and it looked as if there’d been some kind of internal explosion.
The Italian had helped him aboard, over the gunwale amidships—which was more or less at water-level—and then up to the stern. Treating him like some long-lost brother, or at least as a welcome guest. He’d given him bread, cheese, and a cup of peculiar-tasting wine. Greek, probably. It had come out of a very large, wicker-covered jug; if it was full there’d be about three gallons in it.
Alphonso was round-faced, soft-looking, not at all badly fed. About twenty or twenty-one, probably. He was beckoning to him now, wanting Jack to join him on the cabin-top. And why not: there’d be more of a view from up there. He stood up, looking round at the sea as the light of a new day grew across it. It was almost fully daylight: roughly as it had been yesterday when the assault on Carnarvon had begun.
He clambered up to join Alphonso, who greeted him with easy friendship. Looking around from this higher viewpoint he could see nothing floating, no boats or Carley floats to interrupt the bright gloss on the sea’s surface. To the south the mountains of Crete were pink-washed in the lifting sun; they seemed closer than they’d been last evening.
Fiona had written, I have been in contact with someone at the Admiralty whom you do not know—incidentally he’s a friend of Jane Derby’s, not mine—and he swears that up to this moment of going to press a certain destroyer and its captain are in perfect nick. (No pun intended.) So what the hell is said person doing ignoring my letters? No answers to the last three, and really it’s a bit damn much, I sit here writing my heart out and not a word from you for week after week. How do you think I was feeling, before Jane went and found this out for me? How do you think I feel NOW, you rotten swine? What is it, some Egyptian belly-dancer? If it is I’ll get myself sent out there somehow and dance on her belly and on her boyfriend’s with my Army boots …
“Clear this away, sir?”
He glanced up at Leading Steward McEvoy, and nodded. “Yes, please.” “This” meant the breakfast things. Outside on the iron deck the hands were being detailed for the forenoon’s work. Last night had been spent in the usual way—oiling, ammunitioning, and storing—and Tuareg with others would be sailing at noon for Plaka Bay.
They’d entered Alexandria yesterday evening at 8 pm. Orion had had only eight tons of fuel and two six-inch shells remaining. Below decks she was a shambles, a butcher’s shop.
He left the table, to get out of the steward’s way. He’d answered Fiona’s letter last night, with a telegram saying, Just received your first letter for a month. Have written innumerable times and will write again now. Love, Nick.
He hadn’t in fact done much letter-writing lately; he’d been waiting to hear from her, and he hadn’t wanted to express anxiety as forthrightly as she’d done now. That angry and possessive note, faintly disguised as humour, brought feelings into the open, where until now neither of them had wanted—or allowed—them to be. In a way, it was rather marvellous.
But he had to write to Sarah too. It was a hellish job to face: not only because of what he had to tell her, but also because there was not the slightest point in even trying to express, to Sarah, his deepest, sincerest feelings. Nothing he could say to her, now or at any other time, could help the situation; it was a fact of life that one had to face, accept … Beside that unpleasant prospect, Fiona’s letter—this flimsy sheet of pale blue paper in his hand—was a life-saver, one item of relief and pleasure to rest the mind on. It was also thrilling, wonderfully promising for the future; if it hadn’t been for the loss of Carnarvon and the odds-on death of Jack Everard, Sarah’s son, he’d have been glowing with it. And it was marvellous …
Wasn’t it?
If there was going to be a future—yes. He had a stronger motive for personal survival now: so yes, it was terrific … But this was hardly a time for counting chickens. In the past fourteen days, the Mediterranean Fleet had been reduced to just one quarter of its operational strength; and there were still thousands of soldiers to be brought out of Crete. You couldn’t last for ever. Any more than a tossed coin would always fall the same way up. There was a certain amount of skill in avoiding bombs, but there was a damn sight more luck in it than skill.
While Force B had been lifting men from Heraklion on Wednesday night, four destroyers had been at Sphakia landing rations for fifteen thousand troops and taking off an advance party of seven hundred and fifty. The Australian destroyer Nizam had been near-missed during the withdrawal. Also on Wednesday Force D—comprising the Australian cruiser Perth, assault ship Glengyle, AA cruisers Coventry and Calcutta, and three destroyers—had sailed from Alex; they’d have been taking a biggish load of troops from Sphakia during this past night, and now, this morning, they’d be fighting their way southwards. Then in about an hour Force C again—Napier, Nizam, Kelvin, and Kandahar—would be sailing; and at noon Tuareg and Afghan with two H-class were to set off for Plaka. With so few ships intact, nobody could expect much let-up; nobody was asking for it, either.
It was a bit much to believe that Fiona, bless her heart, had written three letters that had gone up in smoke. He guessed that in the last few weeks she’d have been waiting to hear from him—just as he’d been waiting to hear from her.
A knock on the cabin door announced PO Whiffen, with the signal log. He announced, tucking his cap under his arm as he came into the cabin, “There’s an ‘immediate’ to us, sir.”
It was the one on top. Their sailing orders were cancelled. Tuareg and the three others who’d been earmarked for the Plaka Bay lift were to remain at immediate notice for sea.
“Ask the first lieutenant to come and see me, would you.”
It would be diplomatic, he knew, for him to go over to the depot ship and call on RA(D), the Rear-Admiral (Destroyers). But in the present state of upheaval RA(D) had been spending a lot of his time at sea commanding cruiser forces, and he wouldn’t be an easy man to find or have much time to spare. Also, Nick’s position was an irregular one, since he was neither commanding a flotilla nor attached to one, and as CO of a private ship he had no natural direct access to the rear-admiral. The division of four ships of which he’d have been senior officer on the cancelled Plaka expedition was only a temporary grouping of bits and pieces: for whatever job replaced the Plaka one they might well be split up again. Another point was that in Woolwich, however helpful RA(D)’s staff might be, he wasn’t likely to get much of a clue as to what was happening: it wa
s from Gabbari, from ABC’s War Room, that the decisions were coming now.
So thank God for Aubrey Wishart and the Old Pals Act.
“Want me, sir?”
“Come in.” Wishart would be just about standing on his ear, at this stage. He’d sent Nick a very hurried, private message last night about Carnarvon, but obviously the staff was being worked 24 hours a day. But then—he was a very old friend … Nick was lighting a cigarette, and he offered Dalgleish one. He’d seen him briefly earlier on, on the quarterdeck at Colours, before he’d come in again for breakfast. He told him, “Our trip’s been cancelled. No midday sailing. But we stay at immediate notice.”
“As Mr Walsh would say, sir,”—Dalgleish expelled a cloud of smoke—“‘Stone the perishin’ crows’ … The evacuation can’t be over yet?”
“Some snag at the place we were going to, I’d guess.” A snag like the Germans getting there first, perhaps. He added, “I’m going over to Gabbari to see if I can find out what’s cooking. I’d like the motorboat alongside in”—he checked the time—“at a quarter past nine …How’s Redmayne getting on?”
“Still hard at it, sir. I don’t know, I’ll—”
“Tell him I want to hear from him before I leave the ship, would you.” Some of the nearer misses had shaken things up in the engine-room, and Redmayne and his staff had been working down there all night.
“Admiral Wishart will join you shortly, sir.”
“Thank you.”
The marine orderly went out and shut the door, leaving Nick in Aubrey Wishart’s office. He’d waited in the lobby, to start with, while Aubrey had been contacted in the War Room.
Lighting a cigarette, he stared down at the now familiar pattern of Chart 2836a—Grecian Archipelago, Southern Sheet—which was spread on a trestle table. Crete—Kaso—Scarpanto: for an age now it seemed one had lived with this picture. Leaving it, he sat down in the visitor’s chair, took Fiona’s letter out of his pocket and re-read it. It was possible, he thought, that she was pulling a fast one: that she hadn’t written at all—for some reason at which it might be unwise to guess—and so he hadn’t either, and now this was her way of breaking the deadlock?
She’d sent him a copy of The Last Tycoon by Scott Fitzgerald, she said. An American edition. He wondered where she might have got it from.
Wishart broke in like a charging elephant.
“Did you get my note, old lad? More sorry than I can say. We’ve had no news about survivors—if that’s what you’ve come about. But a lot of ‘em are sure to be picked up, and we wouldn’t hear, not for a while.”
“No, I realize—”
“It was a pretty dreadful spot you were in. You did the right thing though, Nick.” He flopped into the chair behind the desk, and glanced at his watch. “Anything I can do for you, while you’re here?”
“Yes, please. Tell me why my trip to Plaka’s been put off, and what is lined up for us.”
Wishart’s smile faded. “You’ve bust in here just to ferret that out? Not about Carnarvon?”
“I wouldn’t have expected you to have news of survivors yet. But we’re all getting a bit frayed around the edges, and if we could know how long we’re likely to be here in Alex—”
“Christ Almighty!”
“What?”
“I think you’ve got a bloody nerve, that’s what!”
No smile.
Nick stood up. He said quietly, “I’m sorry. I hadn’t intended—”
“Really, a bloody nerve!”
Wishart was right, of course. He did have a bloody nerve. He nodded. “Yes. Very sorry, Aubrey. I’ll—”
“Look, sit down.” Aggression had faded into sudden weariness. Nick said, “No, you’re perfectly right, I should have thought before I—”
“Sit down, damn it.” Wishart was pointing at the chair. He looked exhausted. “We’re all—frayed round the edges, aren’t we … ? I’ll tell you what’s happening, Nick. Otherwise I suppose I’ll never get to meet that slant-eyed female who’s on display in your cabin … Heard from her yet?” Nick nodded:Wishart smiled. “Told you so …Now, listen. We aren’t sending you to Plaka Bay because it seems the information we had yesterday was all balls and there won’t be any troops there to lift. We’re getting a lot of conflicting reports. For instance NOIC Suda, from his cave at Sphakia, told us there’d be ten thousand men for Force D to embark last night; then the Army said there’d be only two thousand plus stragglers, and no hope of holding out until the night of the 30th—tonight—so last night’s lift would be the final one. Cutting confusion short, Force D is now on its way back here with six thousand soldiers on board, and there’ll be certainly one more lift, possibly two … Perth, incidentally, was near-missed about twenty minutes ago, and she’d had one boiler-room knocked out. We’re risking lives and ships—soldiers’ lives as well as sailors’, once they’re at sea—and the dividend isn’t always clear. You saw what it was like, on your own last trip, and it’s getting worse every hour.”
“Arliss is sailing now for Sphakia?”
“Yes.” Captain Arliss, RAN, was commanding Force C from his destroyer Napier. “And subject to developments it’s likely there’ll be one last, bigger lift tomorrow night. If it’s approved you’ll probably sail at dawn tomorrow with Phoebe—flying Admiral King’s flag—plus Abdiel and a bunch of whatever destroyers are still seaworthy by then. That’s what you’re being held back for now. Satisfied?”
“Grateful for the information. And I do apologize—”
“It’s a damn shame about Plaka. But obviously we can’t send ships out to get bombed when it’s unlikely there are any troops to bring off. And the north coast’s finished now, of course; Kaso’s a closed door.”
“What happens to the Retimo garrison, then?”
“They remain there.” Wishart looked down at his hands. “With orders to capitulate—if we can get an order to them, which so far’s been impossible.”
“The field hospital, and its nurses?”
“There’s nothing we can do, Nick. They shouldn’t have been there in the first place, mind you. When they were pulled out of Greece they were supposed to come back here; some mix-up stuck them in Crete, and by the time we heard of them—well, Retimo was already cut off.”
“So we have to leave—what is it, twenty women—”
“Nearer thirty. Plus the wounded men they’ve been nursing.”
“We leave thirty women in a garrison that’s about to be overrun by Nazi paratroops?”
“Nobody likes it, old lad.” Wishart’s large, tired face was rather like a Saint Bernard’s, nowadays, Nick thought … “ABC is very deeply concerned about it. Apart from one’s personal feelings, I can tell you—in confidence—that it’s being alleged in very high places that we aren’t getting enough Aussies out. This is being hung round ABC’s neck, and obviously he’d give his back teeth to bring out more. Point of fact, there were five Australian infantry battalions in Crete to start with, one has already been lifted from Heraklion and two others are now on their way—or will be—from Sphakia. Leaving two out of five, and they’re shut up in Retimo, or possibly between Retimo and Plaka. The RAF’s sent planes to drop messages at Retimo no less than three times now, and so far as we know not one of the messages has got there. Hence the fact they haven’t pulled out to the south coast as ordered.” He sighed, looked at his watch again. “ABC’s got Prime Ministers and all sorts of people yammering at him. I suppose they have to clear their own yardarms before the Press starts on it and there’s some political storm back home. What’s more, they don’t seem to have heard about the girls yet. And we’re helpless, Nick, we can’t do a bloody thing!”
“No hope of another shot at getting a message in by submarine?”
“Pointless.” The big man got up, lumbered over to the chart, and Nick joined him at it. “However—just to show you we aren’t absolutely stupid here, I’ll tell you, for the record, that I’ve arranged for another boat to be off Retimo tonight. Tamar
isk, from this Alex flotilla. She’s been doing a cloak-and-dagger job up in Vari Bay.” He pointed:Vari Bay was in Greece, about ten miles south of the Piraeus. “Consequently she has commandos with canoes on board, so she could have been used for a Retimo reconnaissance. In fact, we’ve decided against it … She’s had an interesting patrol, though. She sank a steamer and two caïques full of Germans about here—and had a look right inside the harbour at Milos Island, and one or two other places, and found them all empty. They did have MAS-boats at Milos, but obviously they’ve brought them farther south now. And hence the little troop convoy—Huns are bringing ‘em down straight from Greek ports, instead of mustering them at Milos.”
Being an old submariner himself, Aubrey Wishart was proud of his fellow submariners, and inclined to ramble on about their exploits. Nick brought him back to the subject.
“Why would it be pointless?”
“Because it’s too late for any troops there to get across to Plaka Bay—which was the purpose of contacting them. And there’s no question of any more runs through Kaso. There’s simply nothing to be gained.”
“You couldn’t bring the women out by submarine?”
“For Christ’s sake, Nick, talk sense. You know the size of our boats. Thirty women—even if we could get them off from shore? In what—canoes, one at a time? Not to mention the wounded—and they’d as likely as not be unwilling to just walk out on them …”
“Yes. I see …”
Something Wishart had said a minute ago was fermenting in his brain. He was probing, worrying at it: and his nerves jumped suddenly.
“The enemy’s moving reinforcements down by sea from Greece?” “From the Piraeus.” Wishart nodded. “Long haul, but safe for them now.”
“Into Suda, I suppose.”
“They may be using Heraklion as well.”
“But Suda’d be the main base for their destroyers and MAS-boats.” He ran his finger around the crescent-outline of Crete, Scarpanto, Rhodes. “This is their front line now. North of it, up here, anything of ours that moved they could bomb the hell out of. So they’ll forget the backwaters, concentrate on securing Crete.”
Last Lift from Crete: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 2 Page 25