This same source had also told him the Germans were planning an attack on 17 May. That had then been postponed by three days. Freyberg had woken early that morning and had settled down to breakfast on the veranda with the intention of watching events unfold from his grandstand view. And, by God, that intelligence had been bang on the money! Sure enough, almost dead on 0800 hours, down the Huns had come.
Freyberg dabbed his mouth again with his napkin. Ah, for two or three fighter squadrons, he thought. Three squadrons of Hurricanes or Kittyhawks, all based at Maleme, would have made mincemeat of the German airborne invasion. As it was he could see two Junkers plunging earthwards, long streams of black smoke following after them; one, he could see, was vividly on fire. He stood up and, for a moment, paused to lean on the balustrade. Puffs of smoke dotted the sky; more parachutes; smoke along the coast, and now a whiff of cordite on the air. Away in Prison Valley, he saw billows of silk caught in the olive groves. Guns boomed, machine-guns chattered. Behind him, in front of him, to the side of him, the battle was under way, ill-defined, confusing, messy. He put a small cigar into his mouth, clicked open his American lighter, and inhaled the sweet smoke. It was ever thus, he thought. Still, he felt quietly optimistic that the island would hold. He had some forty-eight thousand troops, which was way more than the Germans could ever drop in their initial assault. His inspections of the defences had also encouraged him greatly – morale was good, the men looked fit, and adequate ammunition had been dumped and stockpiled.
Freyberg glanced at his watch. Time to head down to the quarry. The German plan, he knew, was to attack in the Maleme-Canea sector first, then at Rethymno and Heraklion. And once the airborne invasion had begun, the seaborne assault would follow.
At Eleusis airfield, near Athens on the Greek mainland, it was another scorcher, but apart from a brief moment at first light, when the sky and air had been beautifully clear, the main feature of the day had been the vast amounts of dust that had been whipped up by the endless stream of transport aircraft that had been leaving since around 6 a.m. This had caused delays, slight at first but which had begun rapidly to escalate and had put the day’s operation significantly behind schedule. For those men in the first wave – the battalion of paratroopers from the 3rd Fallschirmjäger Regiment – this had been frustrating enough, but for those in the 1st Regiment scheduled to be part of the second wave, this delay was causing mounting fury. The men had been in a state of fevered expectation as it was, but now the hours were ticking by and still there was no sign of any movement.
At 11 a.m., the 3rd Battalion was stood down again, and this time there was no hour-long delay but the realization that they had absolutely no chance of being airborne before two o’clock that afternoon, some four hours after they had originally been due to set off.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ Major Schulz told his company commanders, from the battalion headquarters tent. ‘It’s the same elsewhere, though. I’ve just spoken to Oberst Bräuer, and the entire regiment has been delayed, so it’s not as though they will be starting without us.’ Around the edge of the tent battalion staff were still manning radios and field telephones, while a clerk tapped away at a typewriter. Only their packs and weapons, neatly stacked beneath the trestle tables, suggested they were, in fact, ready to pack up and go the moment the signal arrived.
‘I’m going to organize some food and drink for the men,’ said Schulz, ‘but in the meantime, go back to your companies and make sure your boys keep themselves busy.’
Oberleutnant Kurt Balthasar wandered back across the dry soil and sparse grass to his 4th Company area, a collection of patrol and bell tents among an aged olive grove. The tents had once been white, but were now a dun colour, thanks to the dust. He’d already been awake for the best part of nine hours, too nervous, too excited to sleep. Just a few snatched moments was all he had managed and then movement outside had woken him – the sound of trucks and buses, ferrying paratroopers to their gliders and transports, shouts of orders, the last-minute work of the mechanics – and from then on he had known he was awake for good. It had been the same last time, before the drop on the Belgian forts a year ago, but at least then they had been first into action. A long night that had been, but not for lack of action: they had loaded up before dawn, and had been dropping from the sky at first light. This time it was different: too much waiting.
And the airfield next to their camp was now maddeningly quiet. Across the sea, the men of the 3rd Regiment would already be fighting, yet here they were kicking their heels. The airfield was only a few hundred yards away and beyond was Athens, now shimmering in the late-morning sun. Balthasar squinted as he looked up into the bright, cloudless sky, then glanced across at the Acropolis, visible through the haze, standing, timeless, on its promontory. To the south lay the sea, where for the past couple of weeks the men had been swimming daily, keeping fit, cool and clean.
He wandered around the tents, stopping first by the men of Leutnant Neumann’s platoon. Some were stretched out in their tents, others outside.
‘Sorry, boys, we’re delayed again,’ he said. ‘Stood down until two.’ Groans of frustration, cards slammed on the table, a kick of the ground. ‘I know, I know,’ said Balthasar. ‘Clean your weapons again, lose some more money on skat, write another letter. I don’t want you sitting on your arses staring into space or at your wrist-watches.’ Mutters of ‘Yes, boss,’ and resigned nods. ‘And Papa Schulz is trying to fix up some lunch so that you can all be sick on each other when we do get in the air.’
He continued his way around, talking to the other two platoons in turn, using the same jokes – which brought a few wry smiles. He knew the men liked him, yet he was careful not to be a friend to any of them. A bit of distance was needed. So, too, was their respect, but he had earned that with a fighting record in France and the Low Countries and, more recently, in Greece that had brought him an Iron Cross first and second class. He also made sure he set high standards. Those who followed his lead found him approachable, ready with a joke, and willing to indulge a few high jinks. Those who did not meet his expectations soon found their lives a misery, and then they either stepped up or were thrown out, or found themselves on a particularly suicidal mission.
His company now was almost at full strength – 154 men rather than the full complement of 170 – and although there were admittedly a few greenhorns, there were enough combat veterans to ensure the new boys toed the line. In any case, from what he’d seen of them so far, the replacements seemed to be shaping up well. Paratroopers were special – elite troops, as he made sure none of his men ever forgot. And elite troops were just that: the best, particularly in this battalion and especially in this company. In a year and a half of war, the Fallschirmjäger had become a force that struck fear into their enemies. This, he told them, was what they had to live up to.
Returning to his tent, he checked his equipment again. Two water bottles rather than one – who knew when they might be able to refill? – canvas gas-mask case stuffed not with a mask but three stick grenades, a gravity knife and a Gebrheller bayonet, two triple-filled MP40 ammunition pouches, a stash of rifle rounds, plus spare socks and as many dressing packs and first-aid items as he could fit into his smock and trousers. In his canvas burlap carry-sack was his parachute, while laid out on his camp bed were his firearms. It was difficult to jump out of a plane with a rifle: it could not be slung across the back because of the parachute pack, or across the front because it would get in the way. Instead, rifles were supposed to be placed in the aluminium canisters that were dropped with them. Over Belgium, though, Balthasar had looped his K.98 over one shoulder and it had not fallen off, and he intended to carry it with him this time, along with his MP40 submachine-gun, and a Sauer semi-automatic pistol. He had suggested the rest of the men do the same. The most dangerous time for the paratrooper was swinging down through the air – when they were sitting ducks – and immediately upon landing when they were scrabbling around trying to shed their parachu
tes and offering clear targets.
On paper, the MP38 and 40 had ranges of some 200 metres, but in reality it was all but useless over more than forty. With its short barrel, it simply did not have the velocity – and Balthasar rarely opened fire with his at more than twenty-five metres. At close range it was a great weapon. At long range, it was a waste of time. On the other hand, he could drop a man at 400 metres with his rifle. When he landed, he wanted his K.98 with him, not in some canister lying tangled up in an out-of-reach cactus plant.
Balthasar sat down and looked at his watch – exactly what he had told his men not to do – then ran his hands through his hair and lit a cigarette. Scheisser, he thought. He considered writing to his sister, then thought better of it. What was the point? He’d barely seen her in years and he couldn’t tell her very much anyway. There was no one else. Both his parents were dead – his father in the last war, his mother nearly ten years ago. Balthasar and his sister had lived with an aunt in Hamburg after that, until Balthasar had decided to leave; he’d never liked her anyway. He’d joined the Merchant Navy, sailing trampers all round the world, saved a bit of money, then tired of the sea.
Back in Germany, the National Socialists had come to power and Balthasar had seen that the new Germany held opportunities for men like him: men who were big and blond and good-looking, with a half-decent brain between their ears. Men who knew something of the world and how it worked. The Nazis didn’t care if you were born in a back-street. If you had talent and could prove yourself, you could make something of your life. So Balthasar had joined the Party, then the SS and then, when Göring announced to the world that Germany had an air force, he had applied to transfer and was accepted.
Excitement had quickly turned to disappointment. Of course he had intended to become a fighter pilot – didn’t everyone? – but instead of pirouetting through the sky in 450-kilometre-per-hour Messerschmitts, he was sidelined into air-sea rescue, flying biplanes with sea floats. He was an officer in the Luftwaffe but clearly his career would go nowhere if he was spending his time picking up people out of the sea. And so he decided to transfer again, applying to join the newly formed Parachute Regiment General Göring. Accepted, he knew immediately that he had chosen wisely. The training was exhilarating and he discovered he was fitter and stronger than most of his fellows. The danger thrilled him, while the knowledge of being part of a newly formed elite gave him a sense of belonging he had never known before. Three years on, he was still with the 1st Fallschirmjäger Regiment, and confident that in the ensuing battle there would be more opportunities to further his career. If we ever get there. He got up and stepped outside his tent. Some coffee, or something to eat. That was what he needed. No – what he really needed was a chance to get stuck into some Tommies.
Two o’clock, 20 May. The 2nd Battalion, the Yorks Rangers, were dug in beyond the town walls. The town had sprawled, however, since the Venetian days and the Rangers had wasted no time in either occupying the buildings that stood crumbling and empty, or billeting themselves among the locals. Most of the battalion’s B Echelon, for example, had made their base among a number of dilapidated houses at the foot of the walls, and in the courtyard within had set up a field kitchen. So far, since landing on Crete, none of the men had gone hungry.
Even so, some three hundred yards further on, Sergeant Stan Sykes was squatting over a small fire under the shelter of a large plane tree by the side of the Knossos road. He was clutching his sword bayonet, from which hung a small Dixie can full of water. Beside him on the ground was a can of evaporated milk, a small packet of tea, a tiny tin of sugar and two white eggs. The battalion were being fed their three square meals a day, but with the lads in their positions and nothing much else going on, Sykes had bartered a couple of eggs from a Cretan girl in return for a piece of chocolate. He’d decided to boil some water, hard-boil the eggs and brew up some tea while he was about it. It was a means of passing the hours, if nothing else.
As the first wisps of steam began rising from the tin, Sykes’s thoughts turned to CSM Tanner. Sykes had found him the previous evening at B Company’s headquarters, a requisitioned house at the edge of town, a hundred yards behind their lines and a stone’s throw from the Knossos road. Sitting beneath a sprawling tamarisk, Tanner had been drinking a brew and sharpening his bayonet. The CSM had looked up as Sykes approached. The blood had been washed from his face, but some livid purple bruises had emerged on his neck.
‘You all right, sir?’ Sykes had asked.
‘Course I’m bloody all right,’ Tanner had snapped, then added, ‘Well, no, actually, I’m not. I’m bloody seething, Stan.’ He had looked around, then said, ‘Come on, let’s get away from here for a minute.’ He had led Sykes through a sparse olive grove between HQ and their forward positions, and up towards a rocky outcrop that overlooked the company’s lines. He had eventually sat down on a stony seat in the rock and Sykes had thought he was about to speak, but the CSM had merely pulled out a packet of cigarettes. For a while they had smoked in silence, the sun setting over the high mountains away to the west, the sky, once so blue, turning a soft purple.
‘Well, what happened, then?’ Sykes had asked.
‘The captain came and got me,’ said Tanner, then told him about Alopex’s release. ‘But it’s your new platoon commander, Stan.’
Ah, thought Sykes. At last. ‘What about him?’
‘I know him – or rather, I should say, I knew him. Back home.’
‘So there’s another Wiltshireman in the battalion.’
Tanner drew on his cigarette, eyed Sykes carefully, scuffed at the ground, looked around him once again and then said, ‘Look, his old man used to employ my dad. As a gamekeeper. But my dad died, and I left home soon after. Joined the army. Mr Liddell’s old man – well, he was a good bloke. A really good man.’ He cleared his throat. ‘What I’m trying to say, Stan, is this: that’s all anyone needs to know. When I left – there was a bit of trouble. But if you hear him saying anything, you’d be doing me a favour if you told me about it – and tried to put a lid on it too.’ He looked at him, his brows pinched.
‘You want me to find out what he knows?’
‘Yes – but whatever he tells you, you keep to yourself, you understand? My past is no one’s business. No one’s.’
‘No, no, of course not,’ said Sykes. ‘Listen, Jack, we’ve all got our secrets. Blimey, I was in all sorts of trouble before I joined up. That was then – this is now. If you don’t want to talk about it—’
‘I don’t. I can’t, Stan.’
‘And that’s fine. Honestly. Say no more.’ He grinned and clapped him on the shoulder, then changed the subject. ‘You know, you definitely had the better of that Cretan geezer. The lads are right behind you.’
‘You’re just trying to make me feel better. I’ve suffered my share of humiliations in my life, but being force-marched at the head of a load of new recruits was more than a man should have to put up with. I fought that bastard to save our pride and ended up getting it bashed. Sticks in the gut, Stan. Really sticks in the gut.’
‘I’m sure, but that was just a new officer trying to prove ’imself and nothing more. But, honestly, Jack, you can hold your head up. More than can be said for me an’ Woody. What a pair of lily-livers we were, eh?’
Tanner had smiled wryly. ‘We should get back.’
Sykes had left Tanner feeling little the wiser. His friend had never really talked about his past – not even his time in the army before the war. An occasional comment here and there, but that had been it. A bit of trouble, he’d said – something he couldn’t talk about. What did that mean? Sykes shook his head.
The water had now begun to boil and, looking up, Sykes saw Lieutenant Liddell approaching.
‘Care for a brew, sir?’ Sykes asked.
Liddell paused, hands behind his back, then said, ‘Yes, why not? Thank you, Sergeant.’ He added, ‘The men all seem to be in order.’
‘Yes, I think so too, sir.’
‘As good as can be expected. We just need Jerry to come, sir. Don’t want too much hangin’ around.’
‘Er, no, I suppose not.’
Sykes passed the lieutenant an enamel mug of sweet tea. ‘There you go, sir.’
Liddell thanked him, took a sip and nearly choked.
‘You all right, sir? I didn’t poison it, did I?’
‘Just a bit more sugar than I’m used to, Sykes.’
‘Oh, I’ll try an’ remember another time, sir.’
‘I’m sure I’ll get used to it.’ Liddell gingerly took another sip. ‘Um, tell me, Sergeant, where are you from? Clearly not Yorkshire.’
‘Deptford, sir. I’m a south Londoner. You’re not from Yorkshire either, though, are you, sir?’
‘No, no, I’m not. I’m from Wiltshire. The same village as CSM, er, Tanner, as it happens.’
‘He told me once that he left there as a boy.’
‘Yes. His father died – I remember there was talk that he’d been shot by some poachers. Or maybe it was an accident. I’m really not sure. I was away at the time – at my prep school.’
‘His father was shot?’
‘Yes, definitely shot, but how or why, I couldn’t say for sure.’ He frowned. ‘There were rumours.’
‘About what, sir? How he died?’
‘Yes. It was sad. His father was a good sort. Then one of the village lads drowned. Two unfortunate deaths just like that. As I say, I was away, but I remember there being rumours – village people are like that. There’s always talk. You know how it is.’ He paused again. ‘He was always rather wild.’
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