Hargest nodded. ‘Very well, General.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s nearly fifteen hundred hours now. If Vasey’s lot can get here by, say, twenty hundred, then I’d still like to have 20th Battalion or whichever one you can spare, Inglis. But as you say, sir, I’m sure I’m being overly cautious.’
‘Of course you are, James,’ said Puttick. ‘Colonel Andrew panicked a bit last night, that’s all. I don’t entirely blame him – it’s difficult to know what to do for the best when communications are down, but we’re aware of the situation now and you’ve got more than enough troops as it is to deal with it. The general’s right, it’ll be a slaughter. But what we must be careful about is moving the fielder every time the ball goes through the gap. If the Huns try a seaborne invasion or an attempt to break out of Prison Valley, we’re going to need troops here. Balance, James. It’s all about maintaining balance.’
They left soon after, just as the latest enemy air raids were developing. Stukas and Junkers 88s bombed British positions along the coast from Maleme to Suda Bay, the coast disappearing once more amid a haze of smoke and dust. The bombing did not appear to have been particularly accurate, but this time the planes had been accompanied by fighters, Messerschmitt 109s, which strafed positions in the wake of the Junkers. As the dust settled and the smoke began to drift away, the transports appeared, turning and flying parallel to the coast in their already familiar vics of three. From the sand-bagged sangar at the mouth of the quarry, Freyberg, tin hat on his head, peered through powerful binoculars at the spectacle. A large number of parachutes were blossoming directly over Platanias, some six miles away. They were met by furious return fire, cackling like fireworks all along the coast to the rocky outcrop of Akrotiri where Freyberg now stood. He smiled to himself. Of all the people he would least like to meet were he to be descending in a parachute, it was the Maori. Vicious little brutes.
Fierce fighting continued for at least an hour and a half. There seemed to be something going on at Maleme as well, but Freyberg soon found himself gazing out to sea, more than along the coast. The signal had been quite explicit: a seaborne invasion was expected that day, 21 May. Freyberg found himself pacing impatiently: into the quarry, back out to the sangar. Then he left the quarry entirely, and climbed up through the sagebrush over dusty red soil to the rocky ground above. Sweat ran down the sides of his face, but whether it was from the heat or anxiety, he was not entirely sure.
At half past four, unable to sit waiting at Creforce Headquarters any longer, he ordered his car and sped down the hill to Suda Bay to see the naval officer-in-charge, Captain Morse. Half-sunken ships littered the narrow bay, while along the docks, the signs of repeated air attacks were all too apparent. Part of the quayside had completely collapsed, a crane lay on its side, twisted and broken, while a number of buildings were nothing more than piles of jagged rubble. There was an air of menace and desolation about the place.
Morse’s command post was in a building a short way from the harbour’s edge, with a commanding view back down the length of the bay. As his car drew to a halt, Freyberg looked back at the harbour and the men clearing the rubble; it was a big task. Morse seemed slightly surprised when, a minute later, Freyberg was brought into his office – another room of smooth, whitewashed stone, a picture of the King on the wall behind the desk and a shipping chart opposite. An ashtray overflowed with cigarette ends. Morse stubbed out yet another, saluted, then nodded towards the window. ‘I’m afraid we can’t keep up, sir. It doesn’t matter how much we clear away, there’s always more.’
‘What about Suda Island?’ said Freyberg. ‘Have the stores there been cleared out yet?’
‘Yes, sir. We finished yesterday.’
‘Good.’ He stroked his moustache. ‘Look here, Morse,’ he said. ‘About a German seaborne invasion …’
‘As I said to you before, sir, I really don’t think that need be too much of a concern.’
‘Yes, you keep saying that, but we’ve underestimated the Hun before in this war and with dire consequences.’
Morse could not help his sigh of exasperation. He looked tired, his eyes hollow. ‘There are logistical issues here,’ he said. ‘The only way Hitler can get his men across the Aegean is by requisitioning large numbers of caiques. These are the only vessels in the sort of quantities he would need to transport any kind of invasion force.’
‘What about Greek merchant ships and the Italian navy?’
‘Perhaps one or two trampers as well, but nothing that would transport a serious invasion force. As for the Italians, well – the Italian fleet is not in the Aegean. One destroyer is known to be at Piraeus but nothing more.’
‘But from these, Morse, they could assemble an invasion fleet.’
Morse chuckled. ‘Well, yes, I suppose they could, but as I said to you before, the Mediterranean Fleet could deal with anything they put out. As you know, Admiral Cunningham now has four task forces in the Aegean. Believe me, sir, our destroyers would make light work of any German invasion fleet, let alone our cruisers and battleships. Surface vessels are not a problem. It’s attacks from the air that you need to worry about.’
Freyberg left him soon after, still unconvinced by Morse’s reassurances. The intelligence from Cairo had been uncannily accurate so far and now he had it on the same authority that a seaborne invasion would be coming today. The sea was a big place – what if it was not picked up by Cunningham’s forces?
By the time he arrived back at Creforce Headquarters, it was some time after five. Brigadier Stewart, his chief of staff, was there to meet him, concern etched across his face.
‘You’d better come and have a look, General,’ he said, leading him to the observation-post sangar.
Freyberg took the proffered binoculars in silence and trained them out to sea. He could see nothing – just the same deep, empty blue. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at, Keith? Can’t see anything.’
‘No, sir, not out to sea – at Maleme.’
Freyberg peered through the lenses. There was a lot of smoke around Maleme – it looked as though a fuel dump had been hit because at one end a huge column of black smoke rose into the air – but he could now see a German transport coming in to land. Men began leaping out, and then the aircraft moved off again, wobbling as it took to the air and disappearing into the smoke. Moments later, it re-emerged, rising safely out of the fray. Other transports, he could see, had not been so fortunate – one was still burning fiercely; another lay wrecked.
‘We seem to be making mincemeat of this little effort,’ he said, passing the binoculars back to Stewart. ‘I’d have thought that was a gunner’s dream.’
‘But if they keep coming and gain a foothold, General—’
Freyberg raised a hand. ‘Look to the sea, Keith, look to the sea. That’s where we need to worry.’
Once again, the intelligence reports had been right. An invasion fleet was on its way. Decrypts of German radio traffic reported that it was steaming for Crete. To protect this most secret of sources, Admiral Cunningham despatched a lone Maryland reconnaissance plane, which duly found the fleet, as if by accident. By dusk, three of the Mediterranean Fleet’s forces were back in the Aegean, and as darkness fell Force D, of three giant cruisers and four destroyers, all bristling with a combination of heavy guns, pompoms, cannons and torpedoes, was closing in for the kill.
All this immense fire power against one Italian destroyer, two small, rusting steamers and nineteen caiques.
It was around 11.25 p.m. when a runner from Captain Sandford’s signals team arrived at the Creforce quarry with important news. They had been monitoring radio traffic out at sea and had just picked up the news that Force D was about to engage. Freyberg immediately hurried outside, Stewart and other staff officers following, and clambered up to the rocky outcrop above.
Suddenly the horizon was lit by a series of flashes, followed, some moments later, by the dull crump of guns. Relief coursed through the general. More flashes, orange and red, moment
arily lit the sky, then came the steady peal of the guns’ thunder.
‘Ha, ha!’ chuckled Freyberg, jumping from foot to foot. From the signals group regular updates were brought down. An Italian destroyer, the Lupo, was reported sunk, then two steamers. Two caiques had gone down, then five, then ten. Eventually it was reported that eighteen out of nineteen had surrendered or been destroyed. The invasion force was dead in the water.
Freyberg looked up at the stars twinkling down on them and breathed in deeply. A hint of smoke, but mostly he could smell the sage and grass, and the dusty red clay. Gunfire could still be heard out at sea, but the invasion force was no more.
‘It’s over,’ said Brigadier Stewart. ‘Well done, sir. Perhaps we will save Crete after all.’
‘Thank you, Keith,’ said Freyberg. ‘It’s been a great responsibility. A great responsibility.’ He looked at his watch. The counter-attack at Maleme was due to start in half an hour, at around 1 a.m., later than originally planned, but with 20th Battalion, released after the late arrival of the 2/7th Australians. ‘Time for Bedfordshire, I think,’ he said. ‘Can’t do much to help the boys at Maleme by staying up all night.’
Freyberg walked back to his villa, cicadas ringing in his ears, the rough ground crunching underfoot. His worst fears had not come to pass. Damn it, he should have listened to Morse.
The Creforce commander was already fast asleep by the time the counter-attack was due to begin, so he was blissfully unaware that already it had begun to unravel. Delays and more delays as troops struggled through the night meant that it was not until 3.30 a.m. that the Maori and 20th Battalion finally began advancing along the coast towards Maleme, and not until well after dawn that they would be in any position to join the counter-attack on the airfield. And all the time more and more fresh, well-equipped German mountain troops had been landing.
The invasion force at sea might have been defeated, but Freyberg had made a catastrophic miscalculation, for while he slept, Maleme was about to be lost for good.
And, with it, British chances of saving the island.
12
A little after 3 p.m., Thursday, 22 May. Another hot day. Along the walls of Heraklion and out beyond, the men kept guard, watching for any enemy movement, but the heavy, languid atmosphere meant no one was going to fight willingly. In B Company Headquarters, a house opposite the Canea Gate, Captain Peploe and Tanner had made the most of the quiet to catch some much-needed sleep, Peploe on a divan on the third floor, Tanner on an old armchair in Peploe’s office – once the living room, no doubt, of a prosperous family, but which had been transformed since being requisitioned by the Greek Army. All that was left were a couple of rickety tables, wooden chairs, one sideboard and a lone empty bookshelf.
It was cooler in there than out, the thick stone walls an effective barrier against the heat, although shafts of sunlight poured through the open windows. In his half-sleep, Tanner batted away a fly, but it was a persistent creature: every time he was on the verge of dropping off, he felt it crawling over his arm or face. He opened an eye and watched a small lizard scurry up the wall next to him, then rolled down the sleeves of his shirt and took out a handkerchief, which he placed over his face. He closed his eyes once more.
It had been another busy night. Tanner had persuaded Peploe that if there was to be no counter-attack they should at least be sending out fighting patrols at dusk. In any case, they had had two further canisters to retrieve. These they had successfully found and they had proved even more bountiful. One had been filled with a dozen Schmeissers, or MP40s, as they appeared to be called from the stamp at the end of the breech, and plentiful cardboard boxes of ammunition and magazines, while the other contained one 80mm mortar and two dozen boxes of six mortar shells. These had been taken back with glee while Tanner and Peploe had led separate patrols in an effort to pinpoint the German pickets. Having prompted return fire and noted the position of muzzle flashes, they had retreated to the edge of the town and spent the night harassing enemy positions with their newly found mortar.
It had also been encouraging to hear gunfire from further to the west throughout the night. It might not have been the co-ordinated counter-attack Pendlebury had had in mind, but the screams piercing the darkness from the ridge to the west suggested the Cretan guerrillas were causing murderous havoc among the enemy. And at regular intervals, the Rangers had kept firing the mortar, the rather hollow sound of its discharge followed some seconds later by a dull explosion. If they couldn’t attack, then Tanner was determined they should make those paratroopers’ lives as difficult as possible.
The morning hate had arrived shortly after eight o’clock, bombing positions around the airfield, but since then it had been quiet, and became quieter still the further the sun rose in the sky. Tanner shifted in his chair, a stab of pain from his side waking him once more. Bollocks. Somewhere beyond the town, several rifle shots rang out. Sparrows were chirping just outside the window, footsteps on the street below. The enemy were half a mile to the west, and yet among all this mayhem, life continued.
Tanner pulled a Tennis Meister from his top pocket and had just lit it when a runner from Battalion hurried up the stairs and knocked lightly on the open door.
‘Is Captain Peploe around?’ he asked.
‘Not at the moment. Is it important?’ Tanner replied.
‘Lieutenant McDonald, then?’
‘On duty on the walls – or maybe at the town’s edge.’
‘Oh – well, in that case, sir, can you tell them the CO will be here in half an hour?’
Tanner nodded, then settled back in his chair. He wondered what the colonel wanted. Perhaps he had news of a counter-attack after all. He finished his cigarette, put a billycan of water on the Primus in the kitchen below, then went to wake Peploe.
‘Sir,’ said Tanner, tapping on the door. ‘Wakey-wakey.’
Peploe stirred, then stretched.
‘Sorry to wake you, sir,’ said Tanner, ‘but the CO’s coming round shortly.’
Peploe stood up and opened the shutters, squinting as the sunlight poured in. His strawberry-blond mop of hair looked more tousled and unkempt than usual. Peploe might have grown up on a farm, never destined to be a soldier, but he had turned out to be a damn good one in Tanner’s opinion, a man who led by example but who was never too proud to take another’s advice. And he listened. How many officers had he known who shared that trait? Not many. Yet he also admired Peploe for his refusal to be something he was not. Peploe made his decisions on the basis of what he believed the situation demanded and by using common sense; he cared little for decorum or ceremony. Tanner approved of that. Parade-ground etiquette was all very well, but in battle there were other ways of ensuring discipline. Peploe never had any discipline problems because he had the trust and respect of his men.
‘Actually, you did me a favour. I was having a terrible dream. I’d been court-martialled and Mr Liddell was the judge.’ He grinned. ‘Can you imagine?’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘I didn’t tell you, Jack, but he did come to see me yesterday afternoon. He said you knocked him out.’
‘What did you say, sir?’
‘I asked him why. He told me he had been ordering a withdrawal and that you had countermanded that. He had insisted you pull back and then you knocked him out.’
Tanner said nothing.
‘So, anyway, I then asked him who he thought had fired that first shot and, after shifting his feet a moment, he confessed that it had been him. “That’s interesting,” I said, “because Tanner’s already given me a report and didn’t mention that it was you who had fired it.” He was quite surprised to hear that. “So Tanner saved you from any loss of face with me, and now you’ve spoiled it rather,” I said. He went on about how it was an offence to strike an officer, so I told him bluntly that, strictly speaking, it was true, but considering the outcome of the mission, it might be better if he kept quiet and forgot all about it.’
‘It is tr
ue, I’m afraid,’ said Tanner. ‘But I had to shut him up somehow. Short of killing him …’ He let the sentence trail. ‘Look, he was endangering us all, sir. We had to divert attention from Captain Pendlebury to give him any chance of getting through, but we also had to give Jerry some return fire before there was any remote chance of us pulling out safely.’
Peploe shrugged. ‘He wasn’t happy. He wanted to know how he was to get the respect of the men when you and I were always undermining him.’
‘He’s undermining himself,’ muttered Tanner.
‘That’s what I said. But he threatened to take it to Colonel Vigar. I’m just warning you, that’s all. It might be what the CO’s coming to talk to us about.’
But when the colonel arrived soon after, he greeted them affably and happily accepted the tea Tanner offered hm. As Tanner had learned in India, hot char, as they had called it, was as refreshing as cold water when the heat became too much. He had made it the way he had been taught on first arriving in India as a boy soldier: a generous amount of tea leaves, several spoons of sugar and half a can of condensed milk, all poured into the boiling water together and stirred.
‘Good man, Tanner,’ said Colonel Vigar, as Tanner passed him a chipped enamel mug.
‘And have a piece of this, sir,’ added Peploe, passing the colonel a small block wrapped in brown paper.
‘Schokolade, eh?’ said Vigar. ‘Not been pilfering from the enemy, have you?’
Peploe grinned. ‘Tanner here thought of rather a good wheeze, actually, sir. He noticed Jerry was firing green flares at the transports coming over and that canisters were then being dropped. So we did the same yesterday at the edge of town. Worked a treat.’
‘Care for a beadie, sir?’ said Tanner, pulling out his packet of ‘Für Die Wehrmacht’-issue Tennis Meister cigarettes.
Vigar raised an eyebrow and took one. ‘Now you’re just showing off.’
‘We’re less taken with the Knäckebrot, sir,’ said Peploe.
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