Blood of Honour

by James Holland

  A whiff of smoke and cordite on the air. He looked at his watch – 1740 – and was pleased to see his hand was perfectly steady. How many had already been killed he had no idea, but it was time to get the survivors together, if possible establish a radio link to Major Schulz, gather as many supply canisters as possible, and then take the attack to the enemy. He was pleased they were up against Greek troops. They were tough fighters, but the conflict on the mainland had shown how poorly equipped they were. If the battalion could just gather themselves together, he reckoned their superior training and fighting skill would see them through.

  Keeping the rise in the ground on his right, he moved through the vines and almost tripped over a prostrate paratrooper, groaning and clutching his stomach. A dark stain had seeped across the olive green of his step-in smock, while the boy’s face was already waxen and drained of colour. Balthasar bent down over him and carefully moved his hands away. Underneath was a gaping wound so large he could see the soldier’s guts.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ Balthasar told him, pulling his P38 from the black leather holster looped through his belt. The boy would not live; better to end it quickly now. The lad looked at him with wide, frightened eyes.

  ‘Mother,’ he called. ‘Mother.’

  ‘All right, boy,’ said Balthasar, then put the pistol to the side of the boy’s head and fired. The head lolled lifelessly, and Balthasar took the lad’s MP38 and ammunition clips, and hurried on.

  He emerged through the vines and, to his relief, saw a dozen of his men sheltering beneath the terrace of the vineyard on the track below. Among them was Obergefreiter Tellmann, the radio operator, who was squatting beside an already opened canister and pulling out an aluminium case containing the company’s field transceiver.

  ‘Does it still work?’ Balthasar asked, jumping down beside him.

  Tellmann nodded.

  ‘That’s something,’ said Balthasar. ‘Try and get a link to the major right away,’ he demanded. He paused and listened. Planes were still dropping men and guns were pounding, but the small-arms fire was further away now. ‘The rest of you get up off your arses,’ he said, ‘and start looking for canisters and the others. Tell anyone you see to report back here. Go!’

  While Tellmann was trying to make contact, he watched yet more paratroopers floating down from the sky, further towards the coast. More small arms chattered. Then he heard a shout nearby and a burst of machine-pistol fire. A burning Junkers plunged towards the open sea, thick smoke following in its wake. He wandered a short way down the track and spotted a Cretan man on a small cart, furiously urging on his mule. The crazy fool, Balthasar thought. Anyone moving around like that in the middle of a battle was asking for trouble. Unslinging his rifle, he drew it into his shoulder and aimed, then lightly squeezed the trigger. A loud crack, the butt pressed into his shoulder, and the man fell sideways from the cart. As Balthasar had hoped, the mule soon drew to a halt; they now had transport for their supplies. Another of his men emerged into the clearing, wide-eyed and breathless.

  ‘There are enemy just ahead, sir,’ he said. ‘Not Tommies – Greeks.’

  ‘I know. I’ve already met them. They’ve all got to be killed whoever they are,’ Balthasar replied, then said, ‘Go and fetch that mule and cart.’ He turned back to Tellmann, who nodded. I’m getting through.

  Balthasar squatted beside him and impatiently waved at him to pass over the headset and transmitter. Bullets were schiffing through the vines on the small ridge above them.

  ‘Major Schulz,’ he snapped, into the black transmitter.

  Static hissed and crackled in his ear, and then he heard the major’s muffled voice: ‘Get as many men as you can, and RV at Z45D21. Have you got that, Oberleutnant?’

  Balthasar pressed the red button on the transmitter. ‘Yes, Herr Major.’

  ‘Be here by nineteen hundred hours. I think I’ve found a way through. We’ve got to go in tonight. Repeat tonight.’

  ‘Understood.’

  He passed back the headphones, then took out his map. The grid reference pointed to a spot on the main coast road, west of the town. More of his men were now joining him. Two brought another of the canisters, and his second-in-command, Leutnant Eicher, emerged through the vines behind him.

  ‘Eicher, you made it,’ he said.

  ‘Only just. We’ve lost a lot of men.’

  ‘Then let’s not lose any more.’ Another canister had been recovered, which contained two MG34s. That would make life easier. He now had a band of just over twenty men; it was a fraction of his company, but he hoped they would pick up more as they headed towards the road. Calling the men around him, he divided them into two groups. They would move in two staggered lines, one covering the advance of the other in turn, with the machine-gun teams leading each column. Two men were also detailed to take the cart; they were to keep wide on the left flank.

  ‘Does anyone know what lies up ahead?’ he asked. ‘It looked like maize at the mouth of this valley as I was coming down.’

  ‘It is, sir,’ said a man. ‘But it’s much flatter down there.’

  Damn it, thought Balthasar. ‘That can’t be helped. The maize will give us some cover, and so too will the other vegetation. We will move in a wide arc. Understood?’ The men nodded. ‘Right. Let’s get going.’ And then, at that moment, a Junkers, burning fiercely, streamed across the valley from the east, banked, spluttered, then whined in a final dive. The men stopped to watch this spectacle. Moments later, the aircraft landed with a crash of tearing, grinding metal. Then a pause – brief, strange, quiet – swiftly followed by an explosion. Balthasar noticed several of the men flinch, but he was not thinking of the men who might still have been on board: he was smiling to himself. He reckoned the Junkers must have landed not far from the road, and the breeze, albeit slight, was coming from the north. Thick smoke was already billowing up from the wreck – he could see and smell it. And smoke was the perfect cover. A smokescreen, in fact.

  As soon as they had seen the first parachutes dropping, Tanner had suggested to Peploe that he position himself at the top of the rocky outcrop above their forward positions and do some sniping. In his haversack, wrapped in an old soft cotton cloth, was an Aldis scope, one his father had used in the last war, and which Tanner had carried with him ever since he had become a soldier himself. He had had some pads and scope fittings attached to his Lee Enfield rifle. He did not like to advertise the fact, because he had no desire to become a full-time army sniper, but on occasion it had proved a useful tool.

  With Peploe’s consent, Tanner scrambled up onto the outcrop and set himself down, making the most of the rocks to find a position in which he could rest his elbows and get a steady aim. Hitting a moving target was no easy matter, but having grown up learning how to shoot game, and with plenty of subsequent practice and experience in the army, he was a fine shot, with a steady head, the ability to control his breathing and judge distance.

  He could see now that most of the paratroopers were falling either around the airfield or to the south-west and west of the town. Away to his left, the Australians and Black Watch boys were having a field day. The firing was furious – planes were coming down in flames, and it seemed as though the invaders were being decimated before they had even touched the ground. It served them bloody well right: it was about time they got a pasting. To the west, the guns were now pounding the sky. Tanner rated their brigadier: he had noticed that there were many more guns around the town than had been firing during the daily enemy raids. Brigadier Chappel had evidently ordered them to keep their presence hidden. Now, however, they were all opening up and the German transports, flying low at not much more than five hundred feet, were suffering a pummelling. For the first time since he had set foot on Crete, Tanner began to think they might have a decent chance after all. Damn it, they had the chance to kill every single one of them if they held their nerve.

  His scope was zeroed at four hundred yards, and he reckoned the closest to him we
re falling a little further away than that. It wasn’t a problem – it just meant allowing a little for the extra distance. Bringing the rifle to his shoulder, he closed his right eye and peered through the scope with the left, singling out falling paratroopers. They were a curious sight; he’d not seen parachutists falling from the sky before, but the straps seemed to emerge from their backs, so that each man hung there, like a puppy held by the scruff of its neck.

  A plane-load was now dropping just to the south-west so, quickly taking his bead, he aimed a body length below his target, breathed in, held his breath, and fired. The first shot missed – too high? Aiming off a bit more, he picked out a second man and this time saw the body jerk. So, a body and a half was the aim-off length at five hundred yards. The key, he discovered, was to pick an aircraft of falling paratroopers, use the first few to judge the distance, then take aim the moment the ’chute opened.

  In front of him the men were also firing, most wildly. Each time a plane caught fire, a cheer went up. The air was now heavy with smoke, so that he could no longer smell the sweet scent of May flowers and grass; the stench of battle had fallen on Heraklion. As Tanner put another two five-round clips in his magazine, he watched one enemy transport plunging out towards the sea, a body and parachute caught on the tail-plane. Jesus, he thought, poor bastard. More aircraft were dropping men further west, at the foot of the mountains near the coast, while others were landing in the maize fields and groves to the west of the town. They were too far away, so he lowered his rifle and peered through his binoculars.

  He spotted some Cretan men and Greek soldiers scampering between the olives. A German had just landed in the branches and Tanner watched as he desperately tried to free himself. But now three Cretan men were upon him, dragging him out of the branches and beating him to death with their rifles. Another paratrooper, only just free of his ’chute, was attacked by several Greek soldiers charging at him with bayonets. Three men each lunged at him. For a moment the man stood, held up by the steel, then as they withdrew, he slumped to the ground. Vicious fighting, he thought. Everyone’s blood was up. He swept to the south-west, and noted movement below a shallow ridge more than half a mile away. Taking careful aim, he fired and saw a figure duck. A miss, but it might keep their heads down.

  He waited a few more minutes, then looked at his watch. Ten to six. It seemed clear that the two main drop zones were the airfield and west of the town; the ground in front of them to the south was quiet. Leaving his position, he hurried back down the ridge and up to the company’s positions, where he had seen Peploe a few minutes before.

  ‘Good shooting, CSM?’ Peploe enquired, as Tanner reached him.

  ‘Piece of cake, sir,’ Tanner replied. ‘Those poor sods are sitting ducks once you get a bead on them.’

  ‘Rather them than me.’

  ‘Too right, sir.’

  ‘Well, so far so good, wouldn’t you say?’ Peploe peered through his own binoculars.

  ‘Early days yet, sir.’ Tanner looked around him, at the staggered slit trenches, the weapons and ammunition pits, each section carefully positioned for interlocking fire, and making the most of the trees, rocks and vegetation. These were not so much deeply dug as well positioned. It would, he knew, be hard for lightly armed German paratroopers to break through.

  ‘I got a good view from up there,’ he said, jerking a thumb at the outcrop behind them. ‘All the action’s over to the west. Why don’t we send out a fighting patrol?’

  ‘Where?’ asked Peploe.

  ‘I was thinking we could push out to the south-west. See what Jerry’s up to. It seems to me they’re going to be pretty disorganized at the moment. We could take advantage of that.’

  Peploe nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Who will you take?’

  Tanner had already thought of that. ‘Sykes, and McAllister’s section, sir?’

  ‘All right, but take Mr Liddell and his Platoon HQ men as well.’

  Tanner’s face fell. ‘Really, sir? Mr Liddell’s only just arrived.’

  ‘Then it’ll be good experience for him, won’t it? I need you two to work together, Jack. Prove to me that you can.’

  Tanner swallowed. ‘Yes, of course, sir.’

  The patrol was quickly assembled. Having sent runners to the neighbouring Greek regiment on their right and to A Company on their left, Peploe spoke with Liddell and Tanner while the men readied themselves, getting rid of any unnecessary kit. ‘CSM Tanner will lead the patrol,’ Peploe told them, ‘but, Mr Liddell, you are the officer, and are therefore ultimately in charge. But learn from him, Lieutenant. He has a lot of experience at this sort of thing.’

  ‘Anything else, sir?’ Liddell asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Just have a look around.’

  ‘And if we come across any enemy?’

  ‘Engage if appropriate, but don’t get yourself into a compromising situation. You’ll have to use your judgement, Lieutenant.’ His expression relaxed. ‘But you’re in good hands with Tanner and Sykes.’

  Tanner turned towards the men. Some wore jerseys or their battle blouses over their KD shirts, and he realized there was now the first nip of cooler evening air. The sun was lowering; soon it would be behind the great mountain range to the west. Leaning down to his pack, he pulled out his own khaki wool jersey. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Everyone ready?’ He took out his map, showing them where the buildings and wells were that he had marked earlier. ‘Any stragglers are likely to make for these,’ he told them, ‘so we need to be particularly careful there. I spotted Jerries here.’ He pointed first to the map then to the fold in the land to the south-west. ‘That’s where we’ll head – south first, using the olive groves for cover, then we cut across.’ He turned to Liddell. ‘All right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, CSM,’ said Liddell. ‘And we’ll use a formation for open country with the enemy in close contact.’

  Tanner glanced at Sykes – what the hell is that? The sergeant winked. ‘Something like that, sir. I’ll take Chambers, Bonner and Sherston out front, Sykes can scout on the right with Bell, and you, sir, with McAllister, the Bren and the rest of the section, follow fifty yards or so behind.’

  Liddell nodded. ‘Diamond formation?’

  ‘Absolutely, sir.’

  ‘And what if we lose sight of you?’

  ‘Try not to, sir. I said fifty yards, but what I meant was, stay behind at a distance where you can always see me.’ Tanner pulled his rifle from his shoulder, one hand around the barrel, the other on the neck of the stock, his finger and thumb touching the bolt. ‘Let’s go.’

  Tanner led them through the olive groves, jogging so that they covered ground quickly. Two hundred yards or so on, he paused, glanced behind and then across at Sykes, saw everyone was still with him, and pressed on. After another couple of hundred yards, he turned westward until he was approaching the top of a shallow ridge. A grassy track marked the boundary between the olive groves and, beyond the ridge, a north-west-facing vineyard. It was here, just on the lip, that he had seen a paratrooper show his head a quarter of an hour earlier. Glancing back at the others, he raised his arm above his head to halt them, then looked across at Sykes and Bell and urged them on.

  ‘Stay here a moment,’ he told Chambers, Bonner and Sherston, then he too crept towards the brow of the ridge.

  On his belly, Tanner lifted his head, scanned the ground quickly, then rolled over. In front of him there was a vineyard, the vines full of newly bursting fresh leaves. It was not big – perhaps sixty yards across – and another track was followed by more olive groves. To his right, the land rose again, gently, so that the ground before him was enclosed in a shallow hollow. Among the olives, several parachutes fluttered; a limp body hung from the branches, but he could see no enemy troops – not live ones, at any rate. Glancing across at Sykes and Bell, he saw the sergeant signal thumbs-up, then turned back to the others. ‘Hey, Punter,’ he called softly, to Chambers.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

 
‘Signal to the others to come up, will you?’

  ‘Sir,’ Chambers replied.

  Tanner scurried forward through the vines, noticing bootmarks in the dusty soil. He found Sykes and Bell standing over the body of a dead paratrooper.

  ‘Look at this, sir,’ said Bell. ‘Stomach wound, but he’s been shot in the head too.’

  ‘And at close range,’ said Tanner, looking down. ‘Someone put this boy out of his misery.’

  ‘There’s a load of dead Greeks up there,’ said Sykes, waving towards the crest of the ridge. He turned back to the dead paratrooper. ‘Look at those boots, though. I’m tempted to ’alf-inch ’em.’

  ‘Too big for you, Stan,’ grinned Tanner. ‘You need to pick on someone your own size.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Sykes. ‘But I’d rather be on the short side than a big lad like you, sir.’

  ‘Why’s that, Stan?’

  ‘Less of a target.’

  ‘Talking of which,’ said Tanner, ‘let’s push on. Tinker,’ he said to Bell, ‘you go ahead a bit with Punter. See what’s round that bend. There are plenty of tracks here – see if you can follow the Jerries. My guess is they’ve headed north to the west of the town where most of them were dropping.’

  ‘What about me, sir?’ asked Sykes.

  ‘I need to speak to you. Tinker, take Bonner and Sherston with you as well. If it’s clear up ahead, leave two men to keep watch, then come back. All right? Now, iggery, boys.’

  The four men hurried off, and Sykes said, ‘I did speak to him, you know.’

  ‘Tell me in a moment,’ said Tanner, pushing on down through the vines. At the edge of the vineyard they now saw there was a short four-foot terrace alongside the track. Jumping down, they looked around. Back along the track, they could see a figure lying on the ground, ran over and found a dead, grey-haired Cretan lying face down in the grass. There was a neat hole in his back, but rolling him over they saw an exit wound the size of a fist. Thick blood had stained the front of his shirt and waistcoat and the surrounding grass.