‘Did you just get chocolate and cigarettes or anything useful, Peploe?’
‘We mortared them with their mortar most of last night, sir,’ said Peploe, ‘and we’re now the proud owners of one Spandau and twelve more Schmeissers.’
‘What we really need is a flag, though, sir. Or something with which we can make a large swastika on the ground. Perhaps then we can get some more.’
Vigar nodded. ‘Could always use a sheet.’ He chuckled. ‘Good work, you two. I’ll tell the rest of the chaps to give it a go.’ He sat down in the armchair, had a gulp of tea, then said, ‘Anyway, I came over to see how you’re faring and to put you in the picture. Apart from the unfortunate loss of Captain Pendlebury, you seem to be all right, as far as I can see – keeping Jerry on his toes by the sound of it.’
‘We’re fine, sir. But feeling a bit frustrated, if I’m honest,’ said Peploe. ‘We might have got our hands on a few canisters but Jerry’s got most of them. Every day that passes, more men and supplies are flown in. We should be counter-attacking, sir. We’re never going to beat them staying put.’
‘All right, Peploe. I’ve been over to Brigade this morning and talked with the brigadier and the staff there. The brig’s being cautious because his orders were to protect the port and the airfield and he’s determined to do that. His dilemma is that he’s not sure how many paratroopers are out there, and yet our own ammunition is getting low. Furthermore, he’s had only intermittent contact with Creforce.’
‘What’s the news from there, sir?’ asked Tanner.
‘Mixed. The Mediterranean Fleet have seen off a seaborne invasion attempt – apparently only one caique managed to reach the island – but it sounds as though they’ve lost Maleme.’
‘Lost Maleme?’ said Peploe. ‘Then the Germans can fly in whatever they want! That’s a disaster, isn’t it?’
Vigar shrugged. ‘Not if they can get it back again. Rethymno is stable, though.’
Tanner shook his head and walked over to the window.
‘You’re not happy, CSM?’ said Vigar.
‘No, I’m bloody not, sir. We bloody well murdered them the first day. How come they’re still out there? How can we have lost Maleme? I just don’t understand it. Men armed with Brens and rifles can’t possibly be beaten by men with short-range sub-machine-guns. It’s not possible.’
Vigar sighed. ‘I don’t know, Tanner. And if it’s any consolation, I agree with you – we should be taking the attack to the enemy. Anyway, you’re moving from here, back to the south of the town. The brigadier is less worried about the west side now there are signs that the enemy is massing around the airfield. A group that landed further east has moved up and more parachuted into the area yesterday. He thinks the Greeks can handle this side of the town on their own again.’
‘Back to our old positions?’
‘Yes. Tonight at twenty-two hundred hours, if you would. The brig thinks the western lot might move across to join the rest around the airfield. The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders landed in Tymbaki a few days ago and are going to move up from the south to join us, so we’ve got some reinforcements coming too.’ He finished his tea, then pushed himself up out of the armchair. ‘Well, thanks for the refreshments. I’ll see myself out.’
At the door, however, he paused. ‘By the way,’ he said, turning back towards them, ‘your new subaltern, Mr Liddell. What’s your take on him, Peploe?’
Peploe glanced at Tanner, then back at the brigadier. ‘Early days, sir.’
‘Hmm. Came to see me this morning. Gave him pretty short shrift, I’m afraid. It’s your company, John. If you want to give him the chop when this is over, you do that. A chap like that can always be shuffled off to become some staff wallah. I’ll leave that one with you. But, Tanner, I don’t ever want to hear of such a complaint again. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’ Vigar winked, then left them.
Of course they had needed the supplies of ammunition that had been dropped, and the rations too, but Oberleutnant Kurt Balthasar was particularly relieved to have been sent some water-purification tablets. Truly, these were manna from heaven. He was not the only one suffering from diarrhoea – most of the men were. Water was always the most important ingredient of life, but even more so when the men were spending much of the day out under a hot sun sweating so much body fluid. They had had no choice but to drink the river water, but they were paying the price. Now there was not only the stench of decomposing paratroopers.
The men were ordered to dig holes in the ground as much as possible, but since they had not landed with any entrenching tools, this had been difficult: bayonets and knives had been used to loosen the earth, and helmets to scoop away the soil, but these efforts offered only limited sanitation. The crap and decaying flesh attracted the flies as well. Millions of them seemed to have descended on the remnants of the 3rd Battalion. The men were struggling, but every other living thing seemed to be thriving on their discomfort: carrion crows, flies, mosquitoes, ants – even the rock lizards that darted about. Balthasar found himself whisking his hand about his face almost continuously. It did nothing to improve his mood.
Neither did the lack of news. The only radio contact was with Athens, picking up brief snatches of radio traffic here and there. Runners had been sent out at night to try to link up with Oberst Bräuer and the men to the east of the airfield, but they had not been seen since. Most probably they had been intercepted by Cretan bandits. The attacks the previous night had cost the lives of a dozen more men – a comparatively light return, all things considered, but he for one had not slept even a minute and, from the men’s faces, he was not the only one.
The decapitation of the pickets the previous night had unnerved them all, but while his own thirst for revenge had been exacerbated by this monstrous act, the reality of their situation meant that at present there was little opportunity for exacting any retribution. Rather, their position continued to be extremely precarious, as Balthasar was keenly aware. The men were on edge, suffering from various degrees of dysentery, chronically short of sleep, and with insufficient arms to properly defend themselves.
And to make matters worse, the English captain, Pendlebury, was not talking. It was Eicher who had begun questioning him that morning; the Leutnant could speak near fluent English.
Pendlebury was weak but conscious. He knew very little, he told Eicher. He was no soldier; Heraklion had become too oppressive; he had had to get away from the smell, the death. He claimed to have lost his nerve. When Eicher had pointed out that he had tried to cross their lines with an escort of British soldiers, Pendlebury had denied it. Rather, he claimed, he had seen the patrol leaving and had crept out behind them. They had not even known he was there. It was the truth: he was an academic, not a soldier, who had been on the island before the war. His position, he said, was as vice consul – a minor diplomatic post, nothing more. His task had been to ease relations between the Greeks and the British on the island – always uneasy, and especially so since the loss of the Cretan Division on the mainland. He had never had any military training at all in his life – it had probably been obvious enough to them.
Eicher had pointed out that Pendlebury had killed three of their men. Pendlebury apologized. It had been nothing more than self-defence – they had been firing at him. He was surprised to learn that he’d killed anyone – with one eye, it was hard to aim properly. He’d had no real thought of where he might go, but he had supposed into the mountains. That was all. It was the truth.
‘He’s lying,’ Balthasar had told Eicher. ‘I saw him two nights ago in the fighting around the Canea Gate. He was leading their counter-attack. See what he says to that.’
Everyone had been fighting that night, Pendlebury told him. Civilians, Greek soldiers, British. He had joined in because, like the Cretans in the town, he felt compelled to try to force back the invader.
‘He was leading the attack,’ said Balthasar. ‘Using a swordstick.’
No, Pendlebury insisted. He had merely joined in. Perhaps it had looked that way, but it was not the case – he had been just one of many. It was true he had used a swordstick – but that, he hoped, only went to prove how little soldiering he had ever done.
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ said Balthasar. ‘He thinks we were born yesterday. He’s a British agent, and he was trying to get through to the bandits in the mountains.’
Pendlebury denied it, and continued to deny it. Soon after they stopped the questioning: the wounded man was flagging, but so too was Balthasar, gripped with an acute pain in his stomach. ‘Get some rest,’ Balthasar told him. ‘Build up your strength. But you will tell me all you know, Hauptmann Pendlebury.’
Since then, Balthasar had spoken with Major Schulz and Hauptmann von der Schulenberg.
‘Take the note we found,’ suggested von der Schulenberg, as they sat in the shade of a large chestnut behind the house next to the river. Flies darted and buzzed around them, but at least the leaves, dark and fecund, offered some shade from the sun. ‘If he is an agent with the Cretan bandits, he’ll know about that note.’
‘Yes – yes, I will,’ said Balthasar.
‘And what was he doing here before the war? An academic, you say? What kind? An archaeologist?’
‘I’ll interrogate him more fully this afternoon,’ he had told them. ‘Reibert does not think his wound is life-threatening, but the more time he has to rest the better.’ The same applied to himself, as he well knew. He could sense his own strength sapping, and had begun to feel a little light-headed. He had eaten a biscuit, a hard, dry tooth-breaker, but it had hardly made him feel better. When he and Eicher eventually returned to the cottage where Pendlebury was being held, Reibert suggested he take a Pervitin tablet: for all their shortages, they had plenty of those energy pills. It had made a notable difference – within ten minutes, Balthasar felt the fatigue seep away.
And Pendlebury was awake when he and Eicher entered the dark, shuttered room in which he still lay.
‘Tell him, Eicher,’ said Balthasar, ‘that we know he speaks German.’
Pendlebury smiled. ‘Yes, it’s true,’ he said.
A correct guess. A good start. ‘Then why did you not say so this morning?’
‘You never asked.’
‘I am interested to know what you were doing here before the war.’
‘I am an archaeologist. I was curator at Knossos for some years.’
‘For how long?’
‘I took over from Arthur Evans in 1929. We carried out other digs. Many digs.’ He lolled his head. ‘Good days – peaceful days, they were.’
‘Work that took you all over the island.’
‘Oh, yes. It’s a beautiful place.’
‘You must know a great deal about the ancient world,’ said Balthasar.
‘And it was littered with despots just like your Hitler.’
Balthasar ignored the comment. He smoothed his hair, then wiped his brow. ‘And tell me, Hauptmann Pendlebury, I am curious – how much do you learn from your excavations and how much from texts written at the time?’
‘It entirely depends on what one is excavating. What age it is.’
‘But the ancient Greeks wrote books, did they not?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Pendlebury replied. ‘Some of the finest ever produced. Homer, Aeschylus, Herodotus. You should try them. They tell us so much about life, about history. That human nature never really changes.’
Balthasar produced the bloodied note left pinned to his headless men. ‘Perhaps, Herr Pendlebury, you recognize this quote. “Ravening a blood drinker though you may be, yet will I glut your taste for blood.”’ He eyed Pendlebury closely. His eyes were closed again, but his mouth creased into a smile. ‘You recognize it? We’ve been wondering what it means.’
‘Herodotus,’ muttered Pendlebury. ‘The master story-teller. Let me tell you about this. You see, long ago, there was a king – King Cyrus of Persia, the Great One. He was a cruel, ruthless emperor. Half the known world bowed down before him, but then he tried to tame the Massagetae, a wild and independent people, fiercely proud and determined not to become the slaves of Persia, as so many others had. And the unthinkable happened – Cyrus was defeated and killed and his body brought before Tomyris, the queen of the Massagetae. And those were the words she spoke before she cut off his head. She kept it in a wineskin filled with blood. Rather apposite, don’t you think?’
‘And written by you, no doubt?’
‘You will find that there are many men on Crete fully acquainted with the writings of Herodotus. He is as well beloved and read as Shakespeare or Goethe.’
‘You wrote this,’ said Balthasar, renewed anger coursing through him. ‘You are an agent of the British and you were leaving Heraklion to organize the bandits in the mountains.’
‘I understand that you might wish that to be the case, but it is not. I know very little, as I told you.’
‘Perhaps you can tell us about the defences in the town,’ said Eicher.
‘What do you want to know?’ Pendlebury replied. ‘There are large Venetian walls around the town. A fort at the harbour.’
Eicher sighed. ‘Men. What men are in the town?’
‘I couldn’t say for sure. A lot, though. There are a number of Greek and British regiments.’
‘Eicher,’ snapped Balthasar, ‘we know about their forces. If there were as many as Herr Pendlebury says they would have counter-attacked by now.’
‘I told you I know very little. You probably know more than me. My role was more diplomatic than military.’
Balthasar felt his anger rising. This man was making fools of them, treating them like idiots.
‘What about supplies?’ asked Eicher. ‘What reserves are there?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ replied Pendlebury. ‘It’s not something I’ve ever asked about. Everyone seemed to have enough the other night.’ He grimaced, then turned over. ‘I’m very tired. My chest – it’s a strain talking like this.’
‘Maybe we should let him rest some more, Herr Oberleutnant,’ suggested Reibert.
Balthasar slammed his hand against the door. ‘No!’ he shouted, then stood over Pendlebury and pulled him over so that the Englishman cried out in pain. ‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘I know you are an agent and I know you are working with the bandits. Tell me everything.’
‘I have,’ mumbled Pendlebury.
‘This is your last chance. Tell me, or I will have you killed. And after what you and your Cretan comrades did to my men, believe me, it will be a pleasure.’
‘But I’ve told you what I know.’ There was a look of fear in his eyes now.
Balthasar smiled. ‘I don’t think you have. I don’t think you have told us anything.’ He glanced at Eicher. ‘We’re wasting time.’ He suddenly felt light-headed again and, stepping from the room and out into the glaringly bright afternoon sun, shielded his eyes. ‘You,’ he said, to the men standing guard outside, ‘get the prisoner out here.’
John Pendlebury had hoped that he might yet survive. When he had been hit the day before, he had thought he was moments from death, but then he had been taken back and tended, his wound cleaned and dressed. When the questioning began, he knew he could tell them nothing, but although they were not getting the information they wanted from him, a part of him clung to the belief that perhaps he would be saved after all. His andartes might rescue him, or the British overrun the German positions. Maybe the Germans would keep questioning him further.
But the German officer was becoming impatient – and angry. He could see that. Not that he blamed him. It must have been a demoralizing few days for them. The man did not look well either: the sweaty brow, the grimaces of discomfort. It had been the note that had sealed his fate. The German Oberleutnant knew he had written it, no matter how much he might deny it. He cursed himself – he had walked into that trap; vanity had got the better of him.
And now two paratroopers were hoisting him up off t
he bed, the pain shooting through him, like a bolt, so that he could not help but cry out. Roughly, they helped him across the room, into the kitchen and out into the blazing heat. Wearing his cotton trousers, his chest bare except for his bandages, he was taken around the side of the house until they reached a windowless stone wall.
So this is it. Thirty-six years of life, of love, of learning, about to end. He was glad he was on Crete, the place he loved above any other in the world, but he was desperately sad that he could not see or speak to his wife or to his children. Daniel and Jenny – he wouldn’t watch them grow up, flower into adulthood. He had not seen any of them for nearly a year, and although he had missed them, he had been too busy, too preoccupied, to let their absence from his life trouble him unduly. And yet, in his last moments, he yearned for them. A heavy weight consumed him, one he recognized as grief.
‘Your last chance,’ said the German officer. ‘Tell me all you know.’
‘I know nothing,’ mumbled Pendlebury. His mind turned to Vaughan. His friend had been right – it had been a game of sorts. A wonderful, exciting, exhilarating adventure. He’d never felt closer to those kings and warriors who had ruled and fought on this island thousands of years before, and yet like many of them, his end would be as bloody, as brutal. Perhaps it was fitting.
‘Very well,’ said the German. He nodded to the two men.
The cock of their Schmeissers, metal being drawn against a tight spring. Pendlebury felt his body tense: he was shaking, every muscle in his body quivering. Fear? Yes – but more than that, a deep, uncontrollable sadness and loneliness.
A sharp rattle and instantly he felt as though a huge fist had smashed him into the wall behind, and then he was no longer standing, but lying on the ground, the sun high above, the sky a deep eternal blue. There was no pain, just the sensation that he was slipping, falling, the earth closing around him.
As John Pendlebury was breathing his last amid a widening pool of blood and dirt, Major General Freyberg was considering the terrible responsibility of high command. He had the best part of fifty thousand men under him – fifty thousand for whom he was responsible.
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