Inside the plane, Oberleutnant Brühle had a brief moment of realization, the controls slipped from his hands and then, as the Junkers hurtled over Halberd, first a fuel tank and then the bomb bay exploded, the aircraft erupting into a mass of tumbling flame that scorched an arced path across the sky before plunging with a hiss of smoke and steam into the sea.
Tanner wiped the blood from his face once more. ‘Got you,’ he said.
*
HMS Halberd had safely docked at Suda just under two hours later, while Havock continued on her way to Alexandria. The remaining Junkers had turned for home after their Staffel Kapitan had been killed, and the ships had not been troubled again. Even so it was ironic that Havock, which had somehow come through the attack entirely unscathed, should be full of troops destined for Egypt, while Halberd, in desperate need of a lengthy stint under repair at Alexandria, should have to go to Crete first. Furthermore, at Suda, her crew learned that they would be taking their cargo of troops on to Heraklion where, it had been decided, the Yorks Rangers would be joining 14th Infantry Brigade in the defence of the port and airfield there.
Twelve sailors and two Rangers had been killed by the bomb on the iron deck. A further fourteen men had been wounded, of whom two were thought unlikely to live. Having safely unloaded their injured, the rest of the Rangers had trooped off, each company marching to an assembly area away from the quayside where they had been fed and given tea, while Halberd’s crew tidied their ship. In the afternoon, Suda was attacked by more bombers. This time, there were a number of anti-aircraft guns to help repel the intruders, both around the harbour and on the long ridge between the bay and the open sea. But although Halberd was not struck this time, a number of half-sunken wrecks in the bay showed that the Luftwaffe had had their fair share of success. As it was, some stores were hit and part of the quay was damaged, and after they had gone, a great column of smoke from the burning warehouse rose slowly into the sky, filling the air with the rich and biting stench of burning rubber.
At dusk, the men were boarded once more to begin the last leg of their journey, a trip of only a few hours. Different members of the crew were manning the guns now, and although there was still a threat from the air, the Rangers had been stood down. Even so, Tanner preferred to be out on deck and, accompanied by Sykes, returned to the stern of the ship, where they perched themselves against the hatch in front of Y Gun.
‘Christ,’ said Tanner, as they eased past a half-submerged wreck. He rubbed his brow; his head ached from the nick he had received earlier. A couple of stitches had closed the wound, but it throbbed. Sykes lit two cigarettes, then passed one to his friend.
He was a small man, with a lean face and carefully combed, brilliantined hair – even after long days of retreat, he had barely ever had a hair out of place. Like Tanner, he was not from Yorkshire, but while the CSM was a Wiltshireman, born and raised on the land, Sykes was from Deptford in London. As outsiders, they had recognized in each other a common bond, and as mutual trust and friendship had developed during more than a year of fighting, both men had come to appreciate that they complemented each other rather well. The time would come one day, inevitably, when they would head their separate ways. After all, the odds were that at some point one or other would be badly wounded or even killed, and if not that then the army’s system of promotion and progression meant they could not remain in the same company for ever. Not that Sykes gave it much thought. He had long ago, even before the war, learned not to think too far ahead: it did not pay to brood. In any case, who knew what was round the corner? There was no point worrying about what might not happen.
For a few minutes he watched the setting sun. Only a slip of burning orange now remained on the horizon. Then he saw it drop below the ridge at the end of the bay, leaving in its wake a sky of pink that rose into a deep and ever darkening blue. He glanced at Tanner, who was still gazing out to sea. His friend was hard to read. He had always thought that Tanner was, like him, a man who took each day as it came. He had never really spoken to him about his past, but he knew that, like him, Tanner had left home in a hurry. Both men were survivors, too – another unspoken bond. Yet his friend was brooding. Ever since they had been sent to Greece, Tanner had been even more taciturn than usual.
It was Tanner’s turn to pull out two cigarettes, silently light them both and pass one to Sykes.
‘Ta,’ said Sykes, holding the cigarette between his finger and thumb. ‘At least the air’s improved,’ he added, breathing in deeply. ‘That burning rubber was giving me a headache.’ Tanner said nothing so Sykes continued, ‘And at least we should have a quieter time of things here. I mean, I can’t really see Jerry having a crack at this place. I’m sure he’ll bomb us all right, but you have to admit, an island like this should be an easy enough place to defend. Mine the harbour entrances, line them and the airfields with a good load of artillery, and get the men dug in – should be able to throw any unwanted visitors back, no problem.’
Tanner turned on him. ‘Haven’t you learned anything this past year? Jesus, Stan, Jerry’s only got to turn up with his Stukas and his Spandaus and we piss off again. What makes you think this place’ll be any different?’
‘It’s an island. And it’s got lots of sodding mountains all over it.’
Tanner was quiet.
‘It’s not like Greece,’ Sykes continued, ‘where they could come down through Yugoslavia. It’s not like France either, or Norway for that matter. Where are they going to get all their ships from to bring their troops? And, anyway, we’ve still got the navy, haven’t we? They’ve got to get past them, and then actually land. And you can’t tell me they can possibly hope to win by dropping parachute troops. They’re sitting ducks when they come down. We’ll slaughter ’em.’
‘Maybe. I’m just sick and bloody tired of always retreating. God knows who’s leading us in this sodding war. Bunch of goojars, the lot of them. Christ, we get here and what do we see? Lots of sunken ships, and then the bloody Luftwaffe come over – again. I’ve seen too many aircraft with black crosses on in this war, and not enough with roundels.’
‘Well, you got rid of one this morning.’
‘One. One sodding Jerry plane.’ He sighed. ‘Where are the bloody RAF? That’s what I want to know. We need planes. It’s crazy, Stan, bloody crazy. Everything’s so damned half-cock all the time.’
Sykes was about to reply but then turned to see Captain Peploe beside them with one of the ship’s sub-lieutenants. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, scrambling to his feet.
Peploe smiled affably. ‘This is Lieutenant Jewett. Lieutenant: CSM Tanner and Sergeant Sykes.’
Tanner and Sykes saluted.
‘At ease, chaps,’ said Peploe, then glanced back at the fading horizon. ‘What a beautiful part of the world this is,’ he said.
‘Bleedin’ lovely, innit?’ said Sykes. ‘It’ll be nice coming out here once the war’s done with.’
‘I agree,’ said Peploe, then patted the sides of his legs. ‘Anyway.’ He paused, looked at Lieutenant Jewett, then back to Tanner. ‘Jack, the captain wants to see you.’
‘Me?’ said Tanner. ‘Why, sir?’
‘Either to tear you off a strip for firing his pompom without the required authority, or to thank you for saving his ship. Hopefully the latter.’
Lieutenant Jewett laughed. ‘This way,’ he said.
Tanner and Peploe followed him, past Y and X Guns, past the pompom gun deck, now fully manned once more, and to the centre part of the ship known as the waist. Up a metal stairway, onto the fo’c’sle, and then up another ladder and onto the bridge, which looked down over the bow and the two forward guns, A and B.
They found the captain outside on the bridge, leaning against the parapet above B Gun on the fo’c’sle, a pair of large binoculars to his eyes. Tanner gazed at the array of voice tubes, high seats, wires and boxes bolted against the iron turret. It was a world with which he was totally unfamiliar. Two other officers were there, also staring throug
h their binoculars. The position commanded a superb view out across the fo’c’sle and bow; it seemed higher up there than it really was, and the ship bigger. Away to their right, the silent mass of Crete lurked, its jagged peaks sharply defined against the fading sky. A chill was just beginning to settle, helped by a light breeze from across the inky Aegean.
‘CSM Tanner, sir,’ said Jewett.
The captain lowered his binoculars and turned to face his visitors. Lieutenant Commander Cross was, Tanner guessed, in his early thirties, his brow already lined, as well it might be. Immaculately dressed, despite the day’s events, he had a thin, intelligent face. Tanner saluted, but Cross waved down such formality, and instead held out his hand.
‘Thank you for coming up here,’ he said, as he gripped Tanner’s. ‘We owe you our thanks. That was a fine bit of shooting.’
‘It was a lucky shot, sir. If anything, it was more down to you. The ship moved at just the right moment.’
Cross smiled. ‘Well, it was a brave thing to do, all the same.’
‘Thank you, sir, but the braver man is the one who has to take what Jerry throws at him and isn’t able to hit back.’
Cross turned to Peploe. ‘Is he always this modest?’
‘It’s a trait we like to encourage in the Rangers.’
Cross chuckled, then pointed to Tanner’s battledress. Next to the Indian General Service ribbon was stitched the blue, white and red of the Military Medal and the red, blue and red of the Distinguished Conduct Medal. ‘I see you’ve been in the thick of it before, CSM.’
‘A little bit, sir.’
‘And been rewarded for your efforts.’
Tanner shrugged. He had always been rather ambivalent about medals. ‘It’s nice to be given them, I suppose,’ he said, ‘but I’m sure you’ll agree, sir, that there are many brave men who are never given a thing, and a fair few who are given gongs they don’t deserve.’
Cross nodded. He wore the ribbon of the DSO himself. ‘True. And medals do mark a man, and that can be a double-edged sword. It gains you the respect of some, but resentment in others. My father, Tanner, won a VC in the last war. He always reckoned it was something of a curse.’ He rubbed his chin, then added, ‘In any case, medals are pointless if you lose.’
‘I couldn’t agree with you more, sir.’
‘And, let’s face it, things are not quite going to plan at the moment, are they?’ He frowned then smiled once more. ‘And what do you think of our ship, Tanner?’
‘She’s a fine one, sir.’
‘Yes, she is, but destroyers were designed to counteract the threat of torpedoes from either torpedo boats or submarines. They were not designed to defeat a heavy attack from the air. We have depth-charges and our own torpedoes, and our guns can make mincemeat of E-boats and U-boats, given half the chance, but against dive-bombers, the 4.7s are too slow. It doesn’t help that they’re centrally fired, either.’
‘I can see that, sir. Can’t you get more pompoms put on?’
‘I wish I could, Tanner. But what we need more than pompoms are aircraft. This war has shown us that a navy cannot operate effectively without strong aerial support. The two need to work in tandem. Unfortunately, these evacuations put a great strain on us. We’ve managed to get most of you chaps off this time, but I hope we won’t be asked to do it again for a while.’
‘You mean an evacuation of Crete, sir?’ said Peploe.
Cross looked out towards the island, now no more than a dark silhouette, only just discernible. ‘Crete or Malta. I’d have thought it would be hard for Jerry attacking an island rather than coming straight down through the mainland, but if Hitler does decide to have a go, you lot need to make sure you hold on to these islands. I’m not saying we can’t get you away again, but it is important to be realistic – to be clear about the situation here. We’ve lost a lot of ships this year and particularly in the last few days. If we lose too many more, the Mediterranean Fleet is going to be good for very little.’
‘And without the fleet,’ said Peploe, ‘Jerry can get his supplies to North Africa without much interference.’
Cross nodded. ‘So you see,’ he said, ‘it’s vital that you don’t lose Crete. Absolutely vital.’
Before Tanner and Peploe had left the bridge, Cross had apologized for speaking so frankly. It had been a long few days, he explained; he and his men were tired, and it was sometimes hard to keep spirits high when their ship had a gaping hole in the deck and too many good men had been killed.
‘Probably best to keep that chat to ourselves, though,’ said Peploe, as they stepped back down onto the fo’c’sle.
‘Of course, sir,’ said Tanner. Yet Cross had been saying nothing that Tanner did not feel himself, and when Peploe told him he was heading down to the wardroom, Tanner decided to step back up to the fo’c’sle, rather than rejoin Sykes and the others from the company.
A sinking feeling had been weighing him down ever since they had heard of the German invasion of Greece through Yugoslavia more than three weeks earlier. It was something he seemed unable to shake off, and it was making him sullen and irritable, affecting his ability to do his job within the company. It was defeat that was causing this black mood. Defeat – it was like a cancer, and Britain seemed unable to stop the rot. He sighed, then lit a cigarette, breathing in deeply the sweet-smelling fumes and watching the smoke swirl away on the light breeze. Well, he had had enough of running away. Here on Crete, he told himself, if the enemy came, he would stand and fight; and if he died in so doing, then at least he would have done so with his honour intact.
3
Monday, 19 May, a little after eleven in the morning. In a leafy side-street a stone’s throw from the imposing Holy Church of St Titus stood one of Heraklion’s many kafenios, a café-bar that in the long summer months spread effortlessly out onto the street, the tables shaded by two evergreen plane trees, one whose branches reached out from the walled garden next door, and a smaller, younger tree growing up from the side of the street. Inside, Aratiko’s was unremarkable: stone-tiled floor, rickety wooden tables and chairs, and a strong smell of cigarette smoke and coffee.
Sitting at tables both outside and in were a number of old and middle-aged men playing backgammon, their moustaches twitching, tanned faces creased with frowns of concentration or sudden laughter. The Luftwaffe might be coming over every day to attack the harbour and airfield, but that did not stop the Cretans going about their daily business – which, in the case of many of the men, meant sitting in a preferred kafenio for much of the day. In any case, they had soon cottoned on that the Luftwaffe could be relied upon. At around nine in the morning, and then again at dusk, thirty bombers, give or take, would fly over, aim for the harbour or airfield to the east of the town, drop their loads and head home again. The Germans were despised for what they were doing but at least they were consistent.
It was Sergeant Stan Sykes who had spotted Aratiko’s the day before, following the Rangers’ move to join the mixed force of Greek regiments and Cretans covering the town. This realignment of 14th Infantry Brigade had been prompted by the arrival of the Leicesters, who had taken up positions to the south-east of the town between the 2/4th Australians, the 2nd King’s Own Yorkshire Rangers and 2nd York and Lancashire Regiment, thus freeing up a battalion to reinforce the town. Since the Leicesters were new to the island, Brigadier Chappel considered it prudent not to place them alongside the Greeks; and because the Rangers had been closest to Heraklion, it was they who had been moved. The men were delighted – after all, a town had plenty more to offer than the countryside where there was little but olive and fruit groves.
‘Here,’ said Sykes, as he, Tanner and Staff Sergeant Woodman turned into the street. ‘I told you it was discreet, didn’t I?’
‘Very good, Stan,’ said Tanner. ‘Now, if we can just find ourselves a little table at the back, it’ll be even better.’
They wove their way past the tables on the street, through the open door and looked around.
The old men glanced up, then returned to their games, but there was another group of men, younger, sitting at a table near the front, who eyed the newcomers suspiciously. Tanner caught the eye of one. Perhaps late twenties, a luxuriant black moustache and a three-day beard, wearing a black waistcoat over a white shirt, loose black linen trousers and knee-length leather boots. His hair was long, swept back off his head loosely. He was a big man, Tanner noted, about his own height. Strong-looking, too.
‘What about that one?’ said Sykes, pointing to a table at the back of the room, close to the bar.
‘Fine,’ said Tanner.
They settled around the table, chairs scraping loudly on the stone floor, took off their helmets and rested their rifles against the wall, then lit cigarettes. The barman looked at them – Yes?
‘I suppose we’d better just have coffee,’ said Sykes.
‘You should, at any rate,’ said Woodman. ‘You’re the one that’s got to impress his new platoon commander.’ More replacements had been due in that morning, including a new subaltern for B Company. It was why Tanner and Sykes had been sent to Battalion Headquarters, newly established in an old Venetian house opposite the Jesus Bastion beside the Kenouria Gate, one of seven arrow-headed forts built along the town walls. When they had reached HQ, however, news had just arrived that the boat from Alexandria would be late. The new time of arrival was estimated to be after midday. Since it was hardly worth heading back to their new positions either side of the Knossos road they had decided to wait in town instead, slowly making their way down to the port via this bar, which Sykes had spotted earlier. But while there was nothing wrong in that, it did not pay to be seen passing the time of day in bars while others were still preparing defences and keeping watch for enemy parachutists.
Blood of Honour Page 3