Sykes led a section of men across the road, firing as they went, and when Tanner had reached the next junction he was firing too. Bullets ricocheted nearby, and he stepped into the shadows.
‘Who’s this just arrived?’ said a voice Tanner recognized as Pendlebury’s.
‘It’s us, John,’ said Vaughan. ‘We’ve got them running, then?’
‘It would seem so,’ said Pendlebury. ‘One last push is all it needs. Some kind of charge, perhaps.’
Peploe was now beside Tanner. ‘You made it, Jack,’ he said. ‘Much fighting?’
‘A bit, sir. We lost three men – Webster, Jones and Mallerby. And you?’
‘Half a dozen, I’m afraid, and three wounded.’
‘Peploe?’ said Pendlebury. ‘I think we should storm the gate. What d’you say?’
‘All right,’ said Peploe. ‘Straight down this road?’
‘What about one group down the road,’ suggested Tanner, ‘and another on the walls? Can we get up there?’
‘Yes,’ said Pendlebury, ‘just a short distance back the wall’s crumbled so it’s easy enough to climb up. And what about flares? Have you got any more, Tanner?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘As have I,’ said Peploe.
‘Excellent. Captain, why don’t you and some of your men head onto the wall, then? When you’re up there, give us a signal and we’ll make our move.’
Peploe took 1 Platoon. Bullets followed them as they crossed the road, each man flitting briefly through the moonlight, but they all made it and hurried down the road, hugging the wall. The stench of blood and sulphur was still strong where vicious fighting had taken place earlier. Tanner nearly tripped over a corpse, but they found the gap and carefully climbed up onto the battlements and cautiously moved forward until they were level with Pendlebury, his guerrillas and the rest of 2 Platoon on the ground.
Tanner gave a low whistle, then took out his flare pistol and fired a shot into the air. The flare exploded almost directly over the gate. It was the signal the men below needed, and Tanner watched as Pendlebury’s mixed force ran down the street, the captain himself emerging into the moonlight, waving a sword above his head.
‘Is that what I think it is, sir?’ he asked Peploe.
‘His swordstick,’ said Peploe. ‘He says it’s excellent for killing parachutists.’
‘Jesus,’ said Tanner.
It was now their turn to move forward, crouch-running below the level of the battlements. Up ahead, the Canea Gate was bathed in magnesium light. Tanner saw Germans on the walls firing down towards this new attack. Not yet, he told himself, his hands gripping the Schmeisser, not until I’m close enough for this to cause havoc. He stood up now, and ran on, ahead of Peploe and the others. The Germans had still not seen him, and now, at just under thirty yards, he opened fire, two short bursts, and saw men fall away, while others scampered clear of the walls and onto the roof of the great bastion beside the gate.
He did not follow them. Instead, he crouched and fired down on the enemy below. Men screamed and fell, and now Pendlebury’s charge was upon the paratroopers. Tanner saw Pendlebury skewer one German and then others were fighting hand-to-hand with rifles as clubs, bayonets and knives. Peploe sent another flare into the sky and ordered his men on the wall to cease fire. Tanner briefly glimpsed his assailant in the garden, firing into the mass with his pistol, but before he could aim a shot, the German had disappeared under the gate.
Tanner now fired his last flare, out over the gate. Several bullets fizzed by, and one of the men further along the wall cried out and collapsed. Retreating paratroopers had already begun to fall back, away from the town, melting into the shadows, but as the flare burst, it was possible to see some of them hurrying away. Tanner pushed the Schmeisser onto his back, unslung his rifle and fired. He saw one man fall, but even with the flare they were hard to discern among the mass of buildings, trees and vegetation beyond the walls. Fighting could still be heard to the north near the sea, but by the Canea Gate the din of battle soon receded, until there was nothing more than the occasional, desultory crack of a rifle.
9
As the defenders of Heraklion were preparing their final charge on the Canea Gate, eighty-five miles away Major General Freyberg was signalling to General Headquarters, Middle East, in Cairo his assessment of the day’s fighting. The old quarry high on the Akrotiri outcrop had been transformed over the past three weeks into the working headquarters and command post of Creforce. Trestle tables lined the hollow cavern cut into the rock, electric lamps had been rigged up from the rough stone roof, radio sets and telephones had been connected, with a mass of wire running out from the entrance and down the hill. Camouflage nets had been draped over the entrance to mask it from the air. Inside, staff officers tapped at typewriters, while on a map table, progress, as far as it was known, was carefully plotted.
It was ironic that Freyberg was able to send a coded message more than seven hundred miles across the sea to Cairo and yet have very little communication with his forces stretched out on the coastal plain just a few miles in front of him. Freyberg had seen more action than most, and he knew that battles were always messy, chaotic affairs. A lot of smoke, a lot of noise and always conflicting messages. From their vantage point he and his staff had seen plenty of German transport planes plunging into the sea and onto the rocky Cretan ground; they had heard the sounds of fighting all day. Other than that, they had seen very little.
Instead, they had been reliant on deciphering what messages had come through: increasingly jittery ones from Colonel Andrew, commander of the New Zealanders of 22nd Battalion at Maleme, who was clearly out of radio contact with his two companies on the far side of the airfield. Freyberg appreciated that this was always a difficult judgement for a commander. Were one’s men overrun and defeated? Or was it simply that the rather flimsy telephone lines that linked battalion to company had been cut? Freyberg suspected the latter. He knew that Brigadier Hargest had initially promised reinforcements from 23rd Battalion for Colonel Andrew, but that would have meant moving them away from the coastal sector they were defending. Yet Freyberg knew what Hargest and Andrew did not: that the same intelligence that had warned him paratroop drops would be made at around 8 a.m. that morning had also advised that a further ten thousand enemy troops were to be transported to Crete by sea. True, there had been some inconsistencies in the intelligence signals over the past few weeks, but Freyberg had decided to trust the latest. Warnings of a seaborne invasion force had last been passed on exactly a week before, and since subsequent intelligence signals had proved uncannily accurate, Freyberg saw no reason to doubt that the Germans were indeed about to arrive from the sea too.
It was with this in mind that he had urged caution to Hargest. It would be wrong, he felt, to reinforce Maleme when logic suggested that infantry armed with Brens and rifles should never be overrun by Germans armed with little more than sub-machine-guns. Elsewhere, around Galatas and in Prison Valley, it seemed the enemy had taken a drubbing, yet fighting had been heard all day and, as at Maleme, communications between units had been extremely problematic. It didn’t matter how many telephone wires wound their way out of the Creforce quarry – if they were cut somewhere along the line, they were completely useless. Indeed, most information that day had come from runners rather than by phone, messengers arriving at the quarry’s entrance, red-faced, sweat-drenched and exhausted.
As darkness had fallen and the fighting had at last died down, Freyberg hoped his commanders in the field were making the most of the opportunity to repair lines, get runners through to dispersed companies and prepare themselves for robust counter-attacks at first light with the troops they had. Sending massed reinforcements to panicked battalion commanders was not the answer because that would upset his carefully prepared dispositions – dispositions that had been made with the promised subsequent seaborne landings in mind.
That afternoon German operation orders had been discovered on a dead German office
r in Prison Valley and had revealed that objectives for the first day had been all three airfields: Maleme, Heraklion and Rethymno. News from Heraklion and Rethymno had been sketchy to say the least, but the last communications both suggested huge German casualties and gave no sense that the airfields – or harbours for that matter – were in immediate danger.
With a tumbler of Scotch beside him, Freyberg sat at one of the trestle tables, pencil in hand, paper in front of him, ready to draft a signal to GHQ in Cairo. ‘Today has been a hard one,’ he wrote – and indeed it had. He took a mouthful of whisky, the strong aroma masking the dank mustiness of the cavern. ‘We have been hard-pressed,’ he added. ‘So far, I believe, we hold aerodromes at Rethymno, Heraklion and Maleme, and the two harbours.’ He paused, thinking. It was true the enemy had not taken their objectives but he was worrying about what was to come the following day: more airborne troops and ten thousand men by sea. That being so, the situation looked less secure. ‘Margin by which we hold them is a bare one,’ he scribbled, ‘and it would be wrong of me to paint an optimistic picture.’ He paused again, drank another glug of whisky. Was that too pessimistic? No, because he had always made it quite clear he felt the island was inadequately defended, and it was best to prepare his masters for the worst, should it come. However, he could always end on a brighter note. ‘Fighting has been heavy,’ he continued, ‘and we have killed large numbers of Germans. Communications are most difficult.’ He sat back, read it through again, then added one last afterthought: ‘A German operation order with most ambitious objectives, all of which failed, has just been captured.’
He stood up, passed the scrawled note to a clerk, then wandered out through the camouflage netting to the mouth of the quarry. The night was warm, although there was a light breeze. A faint whiff of smoke blended with the ever-present scent of herbs and grass. Under the light of the moon and the stars, the dark outline of the coast could clearly be seen and beyond, away to the south, the imposing mass of the White Mountains. Occasional desultory small-arms fire rang out; a dog barked in the town of Canea below. Freyberg finished his whisky, wondering whether he would be able to stand in the same place at the same time tomorrow night, or whether by then his forces would have been overrun.
Tanner stood on the battlements, looking out over the town. To the south, fighting was still going on but it was lessening now. He felt certain the Germans there would soon fall back once they knew their other thrust had failed. In any case, as he could now see, it looked as though the two platoons from A Company had just arrived – he could see Captain Bull and several others approaching Peploe from the direction of Kalokerinou; for all he knew, those from C and D Companies had already been sent to join the fight by the sea. He wondered what was happening over by the airfield. Turning his head, he listened for any sound of battle, but there was none – the airfield was surely still theirs.
Laughter from below made him look down thirty feet to the open area around the mouth of the Canea Gate. The mood among the town’s defenders there was euphoric. Clear of the shadows, soldiers and Cretan andartes alike were exchanging excited accounts of their part in the action. Tanner knew these feelings. There was relief at still being alive and the strange elation that could happen after a fight. It was the adrenalin that still coursed through the body. Only when that had worn off would the exhaustion set in and even dark thoughts – memories of terror or even of horror: the blood, the broken limbs and smashed faces. One got used to seeing mutilated corpses, men with limbs missing, heads blown off, guts spilling out, and the mind hardened to such things, but thinking about them was never pleasant. There were corpses aplenty down there now, and large patches of blood spreading across the dusty road, clear enough even in the milky moonlight, but no one else seemed to have noticed. He watched one large, silver-haired Cretan kapitan embrace Alopex and then Pendlebury, who laughed, then gesticulated wildly. The man still had his swordstick in his hand and waved it in circles above his head, no doubt reliving the charge he had led earlier.
‘Crazy bugger,’ said Sykes, now standing beside him. ‘Not your normal run-of-the-mill soldier, is he?’
Tanner chuckled. ‘No, but he’s a bloody good leader. He’s got those Cretans where he wants them. Look at ’em. They bloody love him, don’t they?’
‘More than I can say for Mr Liddell. Look at him.’
Liddell was away from the rest of the men, walking aimlessly among the fallen.
‘Poor bastard,’ said Tanner.
‘Why d’you think that?’
‘As you said, Stan, he’s not cut out for this lark, is he? I saw him earlier, before we set off to flush out those Jerries. He was bloody scared stiff. Should have stayed on the farm.’
‘He’d probably be more use there. We still need scoff, and so does everyone back home, but I’m not sure we need his sort trying to tell us what to do.’
‘I just wish to hell they’d never sent him here. Of all sodding people.’ He lit two cigarettes and passed one to Sykes. ‘Anyway, we need to go on a scavenge.’ He stood up. ‘Here, Hep,’ he said, ‘keep an eye on the lads, all right? Make sure they keep a good lookout.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hepworth replied.
‘Good,’ said Tanner. ‘Right, Stan, let’s see what we can find.’
On the top of the wall and above the bastion, the moonlight shone brightly. Now fully accustomed to the light, Tanner found he could see quite well. Certainly, they had no difficulty in picking out the German dead, although he had found only a few spare magazines for his newly acquired sub-machine-gun. He did take a pistol, though. All the paratroopers, he noticed, seemed to carry these side arms, a small, nicely balanced semi-automatic, with an eight-round clip. Tanner much preferred it to the heavy, bulky Enfield revolver he had been issued on becoming a warrant officer. What was more, the Enfield could only be reloaded by placing each bullet into the six chambers, a fiddly task at the best of times, but especially so in the heat of battle when nerves and adrenalin made hands shaky. With the Sauer pistol he’d taken, he discovered he could grip the weapon and press the release button with the same hand. Out it fell, and all he had to do was shove another in place. He decided that so long as he could get his hands on enough ammunition – and the bullets were quite a bit smaller than those for his Enfield – his own revolver would be consigned to the bottom of his pack.
There was much about the German kit that he and Sykes found to admire. The cotton smock looked comfortable and had the kind of large pockets they wished they had more of on their own uniforms. Both men helped themselves to the long canvas gasmask bags they carried. Having ditched the masks, they slung the bags over their shoulders and used them to store as many magazines as they could find. What took their attention more than any other piece of kit, however, were the paratroopers’ boots. Tanner had long wished they might be issued with rubber, rather than studded leather-soled boots. The German boots were not only rubber-soled but side-laced and high enough to reach well over the ankles.
‘These look about right.’ Sykes whipped off one of his own and measured it against those of a paratrooper. ‘Bloody beautiful,’ he added, as he pulled them from the dead man. ‘Will you look at that!’ With the laces undone, the top of the boot opened to reveal not a separate tongue but one large piece of soft leather that folded back on itself once the laces were tied.
‘Very nice, Stan,’ said Tanner. ‘What’s the leather like?’
‘Lovely an’ supple. You’re not going to have problems of stones in your boots with these on. Just need to get you a pair now, sir.’
Tanner walked among the dead and eventually found a man of similar height. Like Sykes, he measured his own boot against that of the dead German and was pleased to see the sizes compared.
He sprang up and down on his new boots, patted some of his new kit, then said, ‘Good work that, Stan. I’ll say one thing for Jerry – he does make bloody good clobber.’
He looked up and saw Captain Peploe approaching them from the bastion
.
‘Well done, you two,’ he said, extending his hand to shake theirs in turn. ‘The Cretans are over the moon, and so are Pendlebury and Vaughan. Hopefully, so too will be Brigade. We lost a few men but not as many as the Germans by the look of things. I see you’ve found yourselves a bit of extra kit.’
‘It’s damn good, their stuff,’ said Tanner.
‘You want to get yourself a pair of these boots, sir,’ said Sykes. ‘You can walk silent in these, I swear it.’
Peploe smiled. ‘A good tip. I will.’
‘So what happens now, sir?’ asked Tanner. ‘Have reinforcements been sent down to the sea?’
‘Yes – A Company is going to stay here with us but the others have been directed there and it seems the Leicesters and Yorks and Lancs have sent a company each.’
‘That’s good, sir. A swift, strong counter-attack is the way to deal with these jokers. I tell you what, sir, today’s given me heart. We can’t possibly lose this island now.’
‘What if there’s a seaborne invasion as well?’
‘With what? I thought Jerry only had U-boats.’
Peploe shrugged. ‘Captured Greek ships?’
‘What? Those wooden fishing-boats? You’re joking, aren’t you, sir? Against the Mediterranean Fleet? Those navy guns might not be much bloody good against Jerry bombers but they’d be perfect against any slow little transports. I know we lost a few ships coming back from Greece, but it wasn’t that many, all things considered. If Jerry’s stupid enough to try it, let him.’
‘You’re probably right, Jack,’ said Peploe. ‘I hadn’t really thought of it like that.’
‘So long as we keep these airfields, those para boys are done for. You can only carry so much into battle when you’re thrown from an aeroplane. I bet they’re already starving hungry.’
‘I ’ope they are,’ said Sykes. ‘Serve ’em bloody right.’
‘So, what now?’ Tanner asked again. ‘We’re to stay here, are we?’
Blood of Honour Page 14