‘Is Company HQ all right, sir?’ asked Tanner.
‘Yes. A bit of bomb blast, but that’s about it,’ he replied, when he’d recovered. ‘Thankfully there was no glass in the windows.’ He leaned on his knees and cleared his throat. ‘They certainly weren’t going for the harbour that time,’ he said at last. ‘They were going for the whole damn town.’
Tanner offered him his water bottle. ‘I pity the poor bastards in the centre. That was some bombardment.’
Peploe took a long gulp of water, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘This is not good, Jack. Not good at all.’
Captain Alex Vaughan had stayed put in his house when the siren rang out and the first bombs began to fall, but as explosions started crashing around him and buildings crumbled, he hastily closed the window shutters and took to the cellar. He prayed that the stash of armaments was safe. That morning he had paved the way for the arrival of the caique that night. The thought of it all being destroyed was doubly alarming, because of the loss to the guerrillas and because if it exploded it would tear a giant hole in the heart of the old town.
Even from his hideout in the cellar, he had heard the whistle of bombs and felt the ground shudder. Several landed uncomfortably close. He wondered whether the entire building above him might topple. Certainly plenty of dust and debris fell from the cellar’s roof.
But somehow the building survived, and when at last the bombers had left, he tentatively made his way up the stairs into the main part of the house once more. Outside, Heraklion was shrouded by a dense fog of dust and smoke, so thick it was like the worst pea-souper in London. He waited inside, drank some water, then a large brandy, and at last ventured out. Slowly but surely, the dust was dispersing, like a veil being slowly lifted. Vaughan gasped at the level of destruction. Rubble and debris littered almost every street. Although much of the town miraculously still stood, many buildings had been utterly destroyed and now lay crumbled in heaps as much as ten foot high. Many more had been damaged.
Damn, damn, damn. Picking his way through the ruins, he saw a woman lying sprawled in the street, her skin and clothes completely white apart from the pool of blood beneath her. He clambered over an eight-foot-high mound that blocked the road and realized it had been the barber shop where he used to go for a shave and a trim. The alley to the safe house was also partially blocked but, struggling over the loose rubble, he managed to reach the door in the wall. On opening it he saw, to his great relief, that the building above the cellar was still intact. Well, that was something.
But one thing was perfectly obvious: there was absolutely no way they would be able to shift the whole lot that night – not quickly and discreetly.
Alopex would have to wait for his stash of arms.
From the 3rd Battalion command post away to the west of the town, Oberleutnant Balthasar had also watched the bombing of Heraklion. From the first floor of the house, he and Major Schulz peered through his binoculars as the town walls slowly emerged from the haze of dust and smoke.
‘Richthofen’s lot did their job well,’ said Schulz, a wry smile on his face.
‘It’s about time we gave them a show of force,’ said Balthasar, still looking through his binoculars. ‘They’ve not been playing by the rules. They needed a lesson like this.’
He had already been feeling in better spirits before the bombardment, not least because his bout of dysentery seemed to have passed. Earlier that morning he had eaten a tin of meat spread and hard bread, some chocolate and a fruit bar, then washed it down with a mug of hot coffee and a Pervitin tablet. Two hours on, and his stomach was still at peace, no longer stabbing him with pains from bile or nauseous hunger. In fact, he felt fresh and full of energy for the first time in days.
But there was another reason for his improved humour. At just before eight that morning, they had at last made direct radio contact. For days they had heard only occasional snatches of traffic, but now at long last they had spoken directly with Athens. Ironically, there was still no link to Oberst Bräuer, only a few kilometres away, but it seemed Bräuer’s headquarters was also in contact with XI Fliegerkorps HQ in Athens, so finally the separated parties could communicate with each other.
And not only had Athens warned them of General von Richthofen’s plans to pulverize Heraklion, they had also relayed Bräuer’s orders that all troops of the 1st Fallschirmjäger were to join together to the east of the airfield – that meant not only the 3rd Battalion but also those men who had landed the day before to the south of the town. They were to move that night, under the cover of darkness.
The prospect of leaving their river hiding place, with its stench of baking corpses, faeces and sweat, had given all the men a lift. No longer would they be isolated and rudderless. Rather, they would be massed together, no doubt in preparation for an assault on the airfield. The port, Balthasar now realized, was of secondary importance. Once the airfield was captured, troops and supplies could be flown in, rather than haphazardly dropped from the sky. The stranglehold could be tightened until the British had to flee or surrender.
It was true enough that capturing the airfield would be no easy task, but for the first time since their disastrous landing, Balthasar could see a way through. Against all the odds, they might yet win the day. And with victory would come revenge.
Balthasar lowered his binoculars and lit a cigar from his ration pack, the smoke curling around him in a thick sweet cloud that kept the insects and the cloying stench at bay. He thought of all the men he had lost since landing. Too many had been brutally butchered at the hands of the Cretans. Balthasar had seen some terrible things in his life, but deliberately hacking off the head of a man or ripping out his guts was something that belonged to a different, more bestial age. Good God, what kind of people were they? They would have to pay for what they had done. He glanced back at the still-smoking town, imagining the piles of rubble and corpses that now littered the streets.
That’s just the start of it, he promised himself.
Sunday, 25 May, 8 p.m. Another sweltering day was drawing to a close – a day of back-breaking labour as platoons had been detailed in turns to help the Greek garrison and civilians start the massive task of clearing the town. There had been barely a street in the whole of Heraklion to have gone unscathed. All day, the air had been thick with the smell of dust; it rasped the back of the throat, clung to sweat-moistened skin, and the folds of clothes. The amount of stone and debris littering the myriad streets and alleyways was incredible, and with no mechanical machinery and mostly bare hands little had been achieved, despite the best efforts of soldiers and civilians alike. The priority had been to rescue any of the living still trapped.
Tanner had helped pull a middle-aged woman and her teenage daughter from underneath one collapsed house. It had been painstaking work, one block of stone at a time, with the constant fear that any movement might make the situation worse, rather than better, and with the trapped women’s plaintive cries for help ringing in their ears. Eventually, however, they had pulled them clear, their hair, clothes and skin as white as if a sack of flour had been thrown over them. A few cuts and badly bruised, but otherwise, miraculously, they had been in one piece. Others had not been so lucky. Tanner saw one woman clutching her dead child, rocking and wailing with grief. He had wished then that they would be sent back to North Africa, with its wide, open desert – a place where armies could hammer away at each other with civilians well out of harm’s way.
But now, back at B Company’s lines, Tanner had other things on his mind. He had once more put his battle blouse over his shirt as the heat of the day was replaced by cooler night air. From the outcrop he had been watching the ground ahead once more. Still there was no sign of life and no further explosions. The enemy were keeping out of sight and it had begun to bother him that the remaining three booby traps might be left for some locals to discover.
He was about to head to Company HQ to speak with Peploe, when he saw the captain walking towards
him through the olive grove to their forward positions. Tanner clambered down to meet him. ‘Just the man, sir,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes?’ Peploe looked around him. The men had dug a series of small two-and three-man trenches either side of the road and between the olives and other trees. Discarded ammunition boxes, bullet casings and pieces of kit littered the ground. ‘Looks a bit of a mess, doesn’t it?’
‘I shouldn’t worry too much, sir.’
Peploe took off his tin hat and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Maybe not. Anyway, did you want me?’
‘Yes, sir. I’d like to go forward and have a dekko.’
‘It’s certainly been pretty quiet.’
‘Those Jerries aren’t going to sit out there for ever, sir. After the bombardment this morning, something’s got to be brewing.’
Peploe nodded. ‘All right. How many men?’
‘Just Sergeant Sykes, sir. I want to check those booby traps we set.’
Five minutes later, they were on their way, Tanner glad to be doing something more interesting than watching a still landscape or shifting stone. At the goat shed they had moved up to the previous evening, they found the trip wire still in place.
‘We might dismantle that and the other two, Stan,’ Tanner told him, crouching beside the front of the shed.
‘Might?’
‘I want to see what’s up ahead first. You remember that escarpment Alopex mentioned?’
‘That far? Bloody ’ell, Jack, do we have to?’
‘Something’s up, I’m sure of it, and we need to find out what.’ They began taking a wide arc around the old house they had destroyed the previous night – Tanner did not want them to disturb any crows that might be feeding there and give themselves away. As they crouch-walked their way through a vineyard, something made Tanner stop and listen. A chink, a rustle. Something.
He moved on to the edge of the vineyard, which stood on a shallow terrace. Below there was another row of vines and beyond a track. And along the track enemy paratroopers were moving, rifles and packs on their backs, Schmeissers in their hands. Tanner immediately withdrew into the vines.
‘Jerry,’ he whispered to Sykes. ‘Heading along a track about forty yards up ahead.’
‘How many?’
Tanner inched forward again. He counted one section and another. Then there was a gap but he could just see more moving in the same direction a little way to the right.
‘We need to get back and fetch reinforcements,’ he said, hastily pulling himself back into the cover of the vines.
‘Hold on a mo’, Jack,’ said Sykes. He delved first into his pack and pulled out a slab of TNT, then reached into his battle blouse and took out a small, thin metal detonator and a tin of safety fuse. He cut a short length of fuse, fixed it to the detonator, then plunged the latter into the block of TNT. ‘A home-made and very powerful hand grenade.’ He grinned.
Tanner smiled wryly. ‘What the hell? All right. You throw it and I’ll give them a quick spray.’
Sykes took out a box of matches, lit the fuse, then briefly stood up and hurled it in the direction of the men walking along the track. In the dusk he had not been spotted and Tanner briefly saw the startled reactions of the enemy as the missile fell between them, then opened fire with his Schmeisser, emptying an entire magazine and seeing men jerk and fall.
‘Go!’ he hissed at Sykes, and they were running through the vines. Wild shooting followed them, bullets snipping wide through the vines. A moment later the TNT exploded. Tanner was jolted and the ground shook. Men were screaming, bits of stone, earth and debris pattering on the vines behind them. A minute later they had crested the shallow ridge and were now running back towards their lines.
‘Jesus, what was that?’ said Peploe, who was waiting by the forward lines.
‘One of Sergeant Sykes’s speciality hand grenades, sir,’ Tanner breathlessly told him. ‘Those para boys are moving east – my guess is the whole lot of them. Listen, sir.’ They paused a moment. Above the evening sounds of insects, shooting could be heard to the south, occasionally bursts of rapid fire and isolated rifle shots.
‘Nothing from the west, sir. It’s quiet over there.’ He glanced at his watch. It was a little after half past eight and now almost dark. Only a faint glow hung on the horizon beyond the mountains. He adjusted his rifle on his shoulder purposefully, then hurried over to a half-empty ammunition box.
‘You think we should be attacking, Jack?’
‘Don’t you, sir?’ He spoke quickly. ‘If they’re moving east we should be attacking their flank. You know Jerry doesn’t like fighting at night. I’m only guessing, but I reckon they must be trying to concentrate their forces for a move on the airfield. Even if I’m wrong, there are still lots of Jerries out there and we should be laying into them. The colonel needs to get the whole battalion moving.’
Peploe bit at his thumbnail. ‘All right. I’ll run and talk to Old Man Vigar. Keep 4 Platoon here, manning the positions, but get the others ready to move out.’
Peploe returned a quarter of an hour later with the news that Colonel Vigar had authorized ‘patrols in force’ from B and D Companies.
‘He’s issued a start time of twenty-one thirty,’ said Peploe.
‘That’s another twenty-five minutes, sir.’
‘I know. But I think it’s safe for us to get going. I mean, he didn’t say we couldn’t.’ Peploe shrugged. Behind him men from 2 Platoon were already waiting in the olive grove, clearing throats, shuffling feet, adjusting belts and equipment.
‘I agree, sir. We should get on with it.’
‘Right, Jack,’ said Peploe. ‘Call the platoon commanders and sergeants together.’
Five minutes later they were all there, standing in a clearing in the olive grove by the forward positions: Liddell and Sykes from 1 Platoon, Lieutenant Timmins and Sergeant White from 2 Platoon, and Lieutenant Askew and Sergeant Butteridge from 3 Platoon. The moon was waning, but still half full, and with another dazzling sky of bright starlight, Crete was once again bathed in a milky monochrome light in which it was quite possible to distinguish features, landmarks and, in the open at any rate, moving men. To the south, rifle shots and small-arms fire continued to ring out intermittently.
‘You hear that?’ said Peploe. ‘That’s the Cretans doing their bit. With rifles and knives. We’ve got Brens, grenades, some captured Schmeissers. We can wreak havoc on the enemy tonight.’
He handed over to Tanner, who briefed them. They needed to clear the ridge, he told them, then move as quietly as possible further forward. As soon as anything was heard, they would fire flares and open up. ‘Keep pressing forward,’ he told them. ‘Work in your sections around the Bren. Move forward, set up, fire, move forward, set up, fire. They’ll be surprised and probably confused, so when we first let rip, we need to make it count.’ They were to advance in a ‘lazy L’ formation: 1 Platoon would lead, representing the horizontal line of the letter; 2 and 3 Platoons would follow at a right angle, the vertical line, so as not to offer too large a target for the enemy and to protect their flank. The three leading sections would be widely spaced, so that the advance covered about a two-hundred-yard front. ‘It’ll get confusing out there,’ he added. ‘There will be lots of noise, lots of tracer, and your eyes will have to adjust from bright flashes to the night light. It’ll be easy to get lost and disoriented, but white flares will show the forward line. A red flare will be the signal to halt. Tell your men to keep their heads. If they do their job and think calmly everyone will be fine.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Peploe. He looked at his watch. It was now just after nine. ‘We move off at twenty-one ten. And in addition to the red flare, I’ll blow my whistle when it’s time to withdraw. Good luck, everyone.’
While Peploe moved out on the corner of the L between 1 and 2 Platoons, Tanner joined 1 Platoon by the road. They moved quickly up to the ridgeline, then crested it and pressed on, cautiously making their way through the series of vineyards in the di
rection of the track where Tanner and Sykes had been earlier. Suddenly a machine-gun opened up only a short distance ahead and slightly to their right, a gurgle of bullets spitting into the night and tearing through the vines. Some men cried out, and Tanner grabbed a grenade from his pack, pulled the pin and hurled it in the direction of the muzzle flash. At the same time 3 Section’s Bren opened up with a steadier burst of fire.
Speed, Tanner knew, was now of the essence. ‘Move forward!’ he hissed and, pulling out his Very pistol, fired two flares, one after the other, which hissed through the air, crackling and shedding white magnesium light over the track and curving valley in front of them. A number of German paratroopers scurried into the vines and groves beyond, fleeing from the sudden light. All along the company’s line, rifles and Brens now opened fire as muzzle flashes and MG tracer responded. The noise was incredible, earnumbingly shrill and harsh, yet Tanner could still somehow make himself heard.
‘Up and forward!’ he yelled. The Brens stopped, and gasping, panting men were pressing forward through the vines, crouching as bullets scythed around them. Someone cried out on Tanner’s left, but there was no time to stop. Jumping from the terrace, they crossed the track, Tanner stumbling over a fallen German. A pause in the gunfire as both sides seemed to be moving, and then a German Spandau was firing again and the night was torn apart by the din of rifles and machine-guns, spots of muzzle flashes and the cries of men. Beside him the Bren hammered out another burst, and then they were off again, Tanner now conscious that the rear of the Villa Ariadne was to his left.
‘This way!’ he said, and as they reached the edge of the grounds, rifle shots and MG fire opened up from the side of the road. The enemy, Tanner realized, were trying to cross the road here and head towards the higher, more pronounced ridge overlooking Knossos, which the British had christened Apex Hill.
‘Down!’ he cried, as bullets tore towards them. He fired another flare, up over the road and, as it burst, he saw more enemy disappearing towards the ruins of Knossos. Beside him the Bren clattered, but then a number of bullets thumped, Lance Corporal Donnelly cried out and the Bren stopped firing.
Blood of Honour Page 23