Blood of Honour

by James Holland

  ‘Bravo, Tanner,’ said Pendlebury. ‘Sounds like a good plan to me.’

  ‘And we get to the river by heading south a little way now, keeping the wreck of that Jerry transport between us and the enemy. There’s plenty of vegetation and folds in the ground, so we should be able to stay out of sight.’

  ‘Formation, sir?’ asked Sykes.

  ‘We’ll move in pairs. Two up front, two out to the right, and two to the left, who will keep in visual touch with Captain Pendlebury. The idea is that we avoid opening fire until the captain is well across the river. Sir,’ said Tanner, turning to Pendlebury, ‘you should move in line with us. If we halt, you should too.’

  ‘All right,’ said Pendlebury. ‘But once I get across the river I’m on my own.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Once you’re across we’ll cause our diversion, if need be, and draw attention away from you.’ Tanner glanced at Liddell and realized the lieutenant had nothing more than a pistol. ‘I don’t think you’ll get very far with that, sir, if the shooting does start,’ he said, then unslung his rifle and gave it to him. ‘Here, you’d better take this.’

  Liddell accepted it. ‘And if we run into their pickets?’

  ‘Let’s hope they’re taking a siesta.’

  Tanner wiped his brow. By God, it was hot. He had kept his haversack on his hip along with his bayonet, water bottle, pistol and magazine pouches, and now worried he had kept too much. It creaked as he stood up. The others moved noisily too, rifle straps clicking, army boots loud on the ground. But they needed this clobber – he couldn’t expect men to head out to within spitting distance of the enemy without the means to defend themselves. He looked around. Birds still chirped, a dog barked and somewhere not far away a cock was crowing too. Background noise that would help mask their approach.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’

  They passed the wrecked Junkers and moved around a small craggy outcrop and down into a sloping grove of dense olives. At the bottom there was a grassy track and a field, but immediately in front lay another small rise in the ground that hid their approach. Working around it they reached a vineyard and, crouching among the leaves, were able to move forward with comparative ease so that Tanner began to feel more confident about their chances of reaching the river undetected. The main difficulty was navigating the correct route without raising his head to orient himself, although he could still see the mountains and had already marked a bead along which he hoped he would keep the right course. And he had his compass. The headland overlooking the river had been at about 240 degrees and, pausing now, he took a bearing. The pointers flickered, then settled. Good. Glancing around him, he saw Sykes and Atkins on his right, McAllister and Bell a short way back. Sykes raised his thumb, then wiped the back of his hand theatrically across his forehead. But no sight of Pendlebury. He was too far off, but it was reassuring that at fifty yards he could not be seen – or heard, for that matter. Then he turned to Liddell.

  ‘Come on, keep going,’ whispered the lieutenant, from behind him.

  Another olive grove, and now Tanner saw Pendlebury to his left. The sweet smell of soil and herbs had been replaced by a familiar sickly odour. Tanner paused, sniffing to determine where it was coming from, but it was hard to pinpoint. He moved on cautiously through the long grass, but then a group of crows fluttered noisily in front of him, making him start.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ exclaimed Liddell.

  ‘Ssh!’ Tanner signalled to Sykes and McAllister to halt. Damn. It was precisely what he had hoped to avoid. Any picket would know those birds had been disturbed and very probably by men. Sure enough, a moment later, several shots zipped nearby. Tanner pressed his head into the ground, breathing in the soil, a pleasant relief from the stench of death. Another bullet. How far away? No more than a hundred yards, he reckoned, maybe less. So they were there, all right. Dust had stuck to his face and hands, but he now inched forward again and saw at last the source of the smell. A few yards away lay a dead paratrooper, his chest bright where the crows had been feeding. Tanner saw that his eyes had been plucked clear, his cheeks pecked. He had seen human beings torn and shredded many times before, but his stomach tightened and filled with nauseous bile.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Liddell, behind him, and retched.

  Be quiet, damn you! thought Tanner. ‘Close your eyes and keep moving,’ he whispered.

  It was German voices that alerted him some ten minutes later. Through the grove he could see the river now, away to his left, and the planned crossing point for Pendlebury, but some thirty yards ahead and slightly to their right were what he supposed must be the German pickets. Behind him, he could hear Liddell breathing erratically, and he now cursed Captain Peploe for insisting the lieutenant should come with them.

  Halting the others, he glanced across to Sykes, who pointed up ahead, then held up three fingers. Tanner nodded, then turned to Liddell. ‘Stay here,’ he mouthed, then began inching forward. The land rose gently in front of him, the olives thick, their branches of silvery and dark green leaves almost touching the ground. Carefully, slowly, he moved through the long grass beneath the olives, cringing inwardly each time a part of his webbing or kit made a noise. He could hear their voices clearly, a short way to his right, so he moved forward again.

  ‘Was war das für ein Geräusch?’ he now heard one say. He froze. The man’s tone had been alert, and he had caught ‘was war’ – what was.

  Silence for a few moments, while the men listened. Tanner felt his chest pound and his breathing seemed hopelessly loud and heavy as he lay there. A blade of grass was tickling his nose and he suddenly had an urge to sneeze. Carefully bringing his hand to his face, he pressed a finger hard against his top lip just in time.

  ‘Nichts,’ said another, in a reassuring, more relaxed voice. ‘Ich habe nichts gehört.’

  Tanner breathed out with relief then inched forward again until he had moved beyond and behind the pickets. Creeping to his left, he parted the grass and saw the Germans just ten yards away, their backs to him, lying beneath the olives, looking down the shallow slope. Theirs was a good position, he now saw, for the olives thinned to the side of them and then beyond, stretching back towards the town to the south, the groves were noticeably younger, sparser, and offering a much clearer field of fire. Thank God, thought Tanner. It was only to their right that the endless groves and vines were so much thicker. He had chosen their approach route well.

  Where were the other pickets? The ground rose again slightly to their left – not much, but enough. He guessed they were positioned for interlocking fire, but that did not mean they needed to be in visual contact. Tanner thought for a moment. The men were equipped with rifles. To kill him they would have to swing those round and fire. If he could travel half the distance without them noticing, he reckoned he would have them. They were, he saw, lying together, side by side. As ever, surprise would be everything.

  Slowly, he felt in his pockets for his clasp knife and German knife, desperately trying not to make a noise, then withdrew into the grass and began carefully lifting himself into a crouch. Suddenly he heard a match strike and knew that the moment had come. Leaping forward, he bounded through grass, olive branches snapping back at him as he moved. One of the men started – a grunt of alarm – but they had barely moved by the time Tanner leaped onto their backs, and with one hand plunged his German knife down through the right-hand man’s shoulder into his sub-clavian artery, and flailed wildly with his clasp knife at the left-hand man, who gasped, dropped his rifle and clutched his wounded arm. A split second later, Tanner plunged the German knife again, this time down into the middle man’s shoulder, before making a third plunge into the left-hand man’s heart. Three seconds, three men. All dead.

  But it had not been an entirely silent killing, and he could hear voices now, calling out. ‘Was ist los?’ said someone, Tanner guessed perhaps thirty yards away.

  ‘Nichts,’ he called back. ‘Alles ist gut.’ Then, breathing heavily, he moved ba
ck out of sight, the branches and long grass closing around him.

  A shot rang out, not from the enemy but from one of his own men. ‘Damn it!’ he cursed. In moments, a volley of rifle fire replied, and now there were shouts from beyond, from the direction of the river. More shots, both rifle and sub-machine-gun fire.

  ‘Jesus!’ muttered Tanner, now crouch-running through the olives. Through a gap in the trees he saw the river, then Pendlebury dashing through the water and running into a vineyard beyond. No, no, no!

  ‘Fall back! Fall back!’ he now heard Liddell call out. A new and violent rage overtook Tanner. Bullets were snipping through the olives as he slid down beside the lieutenant.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’ he spat at Liddell.

  ‘We’ve got to fall back,’ stammered Liddell. ‘We can’t hold on here!’

  ‘Don’t fall back!’ Tanner called. ‘Let ’em have it!’

  ‘Fall back!’ Liddell shouted again. ‘That’s an order!’

  More bullets were scything through the branches. Tanner glanced at Liddell. Then, clenching his fist, he drove it into the lieutenant’s temple. Liddell looked at him wide-eyed, then collapsed unconscious on the ground.

  ‘Liddell down!’ called Tanner, and took back his rifle. ‘Is everyone OK? Keep firing! Just keep bloody firing!

  ‘Damn it!’ he cursed again. Then he took out two grenades, pulled the pin on one, hurled it in the direction of the second lot of pickets, and crouch-ran towards the edge of the bend in the river. From the cover of the grove, Bell and McAllister were firing furiously at the men moving forward from the south along the river. Tanner pulled the pin of his other grenade, briefly stood and hurled the bomb across the river. Someone cried out as it exploded, but then Bell said, ‘Look, sir! There’s the captain!’

  Tanner saw him in the same instant. He was running through a vineyard, but paratroopers were moving in from his right, firing their Schmeissers and rifles. They watched him fall, and Tanner brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired. Frantically pulling back the bolt, he fired again, and then again, and again, ten rounds in rapid succession. He saw several men fall while, near him, McAllister and Bell were also firing. As he fumbled in his pack for more clips, he saw Pendlebury get to his feet again, his revolver in his hand. The captain fired, loosing off his entire chamber. Three men fell but as Pendlebury tried to fire, his chamber now empty, a bullet struck him in the chest. He staggered and fell backwards.

  Tanner pressed the catch on his magazine, pulled it out and reloaded with two more clips. Men hurried towards Pendlebury and Tanner fired again. He saw another man fall. The paratroopers around Pendlebury dived to the ground, and Tanner angrily drove his fist into the earth.

  But now Sykes was calling, ‘Atkins is down!’ Enemy fire was coming from the south, towards them.

  ‘How bad?’ Tanner called back.

  ‘He’s dead, sir.’

  ‘Leave him and fall back!’

  He hurried back to Liddell. ‘Bugger it!’ he muttered. For a moment he considered leaving the lieutenant where he was – Christ, he’d be doing everyone a favour – but then he thought of Liddell’s father and the good deed that man had done him. ‘Damn and blast you, Liddell,’ he said, then slapped him hard around the face.

  ‘Sir, sir!’ he hissed. ‘We’ve got to move.’ Bullets continued to ping through the branches around them as the lieutenant stirred.

  ‘What happened?’ mumbled Liddell.

  ‘Sir, get up!’ Tanner hoisted him by the shoulders and slapped him again.

  ‘Argh, my head!’ groaned Liddell.

  ‘Sir, it’ll be more than your head if you don’t get a move on. Now, on your feet!’ A bullet zinged just inches from them, and Tanner felt for his last grenade, pulled the pin, and threw the bomb hard in the direction of the enemy fire. Liddell was now on his feet once more, crouching unsteadily.

  ‘Sir!’ said Tanner. ‘Let’s go!’

  Liddell looked at him with glazed eyes but at last seemed to comprehend, and they hurried through the grove, the lieutenant veering wildly at first but quickly regaining his balance. Bullets continued to fly and Tanner cried out as a searing heat scorched his side. Grimacing with pain, he continued to run, aware that as they fled, they had the folds in the ground, the dense vegetation and their own speed to help them. If they were hit, Tanner convinced himself, it would be a lucky shot on the part of the Germans.

  But, by God, he hurt. His side, his lungs – his mouth was dry as chalk. His heart pounded. Branches had whiplashed his face and arms, and he could feel the salt of his sweat stinging the scratches across his body. A machine-gun now opened up, its rapid fire cutting a swathe behind them. Christ – in moments it would have its range. Up ahead was the wrecked transport, and around it charred, blackened olive trees. Men were moving through the unscathed trees, the branches shaking as another drill of MG fire rang out. Had anyone other than Atkins been hit? Tanner could not tell.

  He caught up with Liddell, grabbed him by the collar and yanked him hard away from the direction of the plane. ‘This way,’ he growled. Another burst of fire, this time to the left. Bullets tore across the corrugated-metal fuselage with a loud clatter. On they ran, moving in a wider arc. Tanner winced again, shoved Liddell forward, then vigorously shook the nearest tree and ran. Another burst of MG fire, bullets tearing into the wood and branches around them, but now they were behind the aircraft. Reaching safety at last, Tanner doubled up, hands on his knees, gasping and grimacing.

  ‘Sir, you’ve been hit,’ said McAllister.

  Tanner looked up, his bloodied face glistening with sweat, and glared at Liddell. ‘Yes, but I’m alive, and Captain Pendlebury is not.’

  Tanner was wrong. Pendlebury was alive. Oberleutnant Balthasar, whose men held the southern part of the ridge to the west of the town, had been incensed that enemy troops had infiltrated so far, but then, when a one-eyed English captain wearing Cretan dress had been brought before him, his mood had changed.

  Balthasar had ordered that the man be taken to a farmhouse at the edge of the maize fields and there had told the elderly owners to give him a bed. He had detailed Gefreiter Reibert, one of only two medics to survive the jump, to treat the wound.

  Half an hour later, Balthasar stood in the doorway of the bedroom watching Reibert tend him. The Englishman’s head lolled and he groaned. Reibert had ripped open his shirt, which lay crumpled by his side. A bullet had gone through his lower left lung and had exited his back. The man was pale, waxen, his brow feverish.

  ‘Well?’ said Balthasar, walking over and standing beside his prisoner. He saw the identity tags around his neck and pulled them off. A number and a name: Pendlebury, J.

  ‘He has lost a lot of blood, Herr Oberleutnant,’ Reibert replied, ‘and I am no surgeon.’

  ‘You’re a medic, though, Reibert. Make sure he lives. Is there anything you need?’

  ‘No – no, I have everything.’ He took out a syringe and a phial of morphine, tapped the end of the needle, then injected the wounded man. Balthasar looked around him. It was a simple, one-storey cottage, whitewashed stone walls, stone floor and rustic furniture.

  ‘Actually, Herr Oberleutnant, perhaps some warm water …’

  Balthasar turned to the Cretan couple, watching anxiously from the kitchen. ‘Neró,’ he demanded. ‘Neró zestó!’

  The old man muttered something to his wife, then put a few more twigs on the fire. As he did so, the woman filled a blackened earthenware pot from a ewer of water and hung it above the fire. Balthasar nodded his thanks. These people. They were peasants, stuck in a different age.

  When the water had warmed, Reibert carried it through, took off the already bloodied bandages, bathed the wound, cleaned it, stitched the bullet hole on both sides, then applied more bandages.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said Reibert, ‘why is it so important to keep this man alive?’

  Balthasar smiled. ‘Becaus
e, Reibert, he was breaking out of Heraklion. We know he’s British – he was muttering in English and, of course, he looks no more Greek than you or I. In any case, I recognize him. He was fighting in Heraklion last night, waving a swordstick, leading a mixed group of Greek, British and Cretan bandits. And, as you can see, he is wearing Cretan costume. Why? Because he was on his way to meet the Cretan bandits in the mountains behind us.’

  ‘Is he an enemy agent, then?’ asked Reibert.

  ‘Of some sort, yes. With lots of important intelligence for us, which he is going to tell us when he is conscious again. When will that be?’

  Reibert shrugged. ‘The morphine will wear off in an hour or so, but he is weak. And it is dependent on him not getting an infection.’

  Balthasar thought a moment. The problem was time. They still had no real idea how many enemy troops were in and around Heraklion, or what supplies they had. Were he the British commander, he would attack that night – but he knew the Tommies tended to be cautious. On the other hand, there had been nothing cautious about this man’s break-out. It suggested there was some urgency, that perhaps they were planning a combined attack that night.

  He needed to confer with Schulz – he had not seen the major since the Englishman’s capture. Perhaps Schulz had news too, from Oberst Bräuer and the men dropped around the airfield. It had been quiet from over there since the morning drop – occasional small-arms fire, but that had been about it. Clearly, there had been neither an attack nor a counter-attack. Balthasar banged a fist against the doorway. They were largely cut off, isolated and almost entirely starved of information. That was why it was so important to get this man to talk.

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