Blood of Honour

by James Holland

Only when they were halfway back to Krousonas and well clear of the burning truck did they slacken their pace and begin to relax their guard. As the village came within easy sight, its collection of largely white buildings nestling beneath the mountains, they paused to look back in the direction from which they had come. They could still see a faint wisp of dark smoke.

  ‘I don’t think it’ll take the Germans long to come out and investigate,’ said Vaughan.

  ‘Hopefully they’ll think it really was an accident,’ said Peploe.

  ‘Here, sir,’ said Tanner, passing to Vaughan the notice he had picked up. ‘Looks like they were on a trip to post these up round about.’

  Vaughan took it. ‘The bastards,’ he muttered. ‘There’s going to be a reign of terror. This isn’t a modern war, it’s worse than the Middle Ages.’

  They walked on, following Alopex and his men.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, sir,’ said Tanner, at length. ‘That bloke Mandoukis.’

  ‘What of him?’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  Vaughan sighed. ‘Why do you think Satanas insisted he remain in the monastery? Honestly? I don’t know. He fought bloody well in Heraklion. He has family up here in the mountains, and has known these men all his life.’

  ‘But his wife is being held by the Germans,’ said Peploe, ‘so they could have something on him.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Vaughan. ‘I hope not. But we need to be careful. If we can get his wife out as well, then I’d say we have less reason to worry. If he has betrayed them, though …’ He did not finish the sentence.

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Peploe.

  They returned to the cave, climbing back up through the ravine in the scorching afternoon sun, their backs slick with sweat. Later, at dusk, Satanas arrived with one of his teenage grandsons, a number of armed men and several other new faces, not least Jack Hanford, an agent who had been working with Pendlebury, and another of the kapitans, Manoli Bandouvas. The latter was a large, moustachioed, broad-faced man of perhaps forty, Tanner guessed, booted and armed with no fewer than three bandoliers around his waist.

  The new arrivals had brought with them important news.

  ‘Mandoukis was wrong,’ said Satanas. He sat on a rock before the fire, Bandouvas on one side of him, Alopex on the other. Hanford, Vaughan and Peploe sat opposite. There was, Tanner realized as he stood behind Peploe, a distinct pecking order: Satanas at the top, then Bandouvas and then Alopex. All three men, however, showed obvious regard and respect for Vaughan and Hanford. Behind them all were the andartes and the Rangers, some standing and listening, others sitting around the cave’s edge. Bottles of raki were passed around, while on another fire, meat was cooking. Tanner watched the flickering flames cast shadows and an orange glow across the old man’s face.

  ‘They are not being held in the Sabbionera Bastion,’ he said. ‘They are in the fortress.’

  ‘Damn it!’ said Vaughan.

  Peploe rubbed his chin. ‘That’s not going to be easy.’

  ‘No,’ said Satanas, ‘although if you can get in it should be easy enough to find them. The fortress is not as big as it looks.’

  ‘And we know this for certain?’ said Peploe.

  ‘Yes. They were seen being taken there. A number of witnesses have confirmed this.’

  ‘I suppose it is the obvious place,’ sighed Vaughan. ‘What about the stash?’

  ‘So far, it seems no one has found it.’

  ‘Well, that’s something.’

  ‘And there’s a fair amount of explosives up here already, Alex,’ added Peploe. ‘Sergeant Sykes has enough switches and fuse to wreak considerable havoc.’

  ‘Do we have any idea how many men there are actually in the town?’ asked Tanner.

  Satanas smiled. ‘Not so many. A number have moved to Rethymno, but most are out by the airfield and outside the town walls. There are perhaps a hundred at the Megaron and around the Sabbionera Bastion. There is also an encampment of paratroopers in the valley south of Gazi and at Knossos. There are guards at all the gates and troops wandering freely through the town.’

  ‘What we need is a big diversion,’ said Tanner. ‘Several different explosions going off in different parts of the town. At the bastions, preferably, then none of the townspeople will get hurt.’

  ‘That should be possible,’ said Sykes. ‘We’ve got a whole crate of time pencils back here.’

  ‘So we get into the town, set the explosions, lie low and then, when they start going off, make for the fortress?’ said Peploe.

  ‘In a nutshell, sir, yes,’ said Tanner.

  Vaughan nodded. ‘I can’t think of a better plan.’

  ‘Pendlebury would approve,’ said Hanford. ‘Just the kind of madcap scheme he would have come up with.’ He smiled, then said to Peploe, ‘And assuming you’re successful and make it safely back here, we need to get you and the rest of your men, John, off the island.’

  ‘Yes. Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘I do, as it happens. I don’t know how much Captain Vaughan has told you, but Major Bruce-Mitford and I had been working with Pendlebury for some time over here, and will continue to work here on the island. Bandouvas and I have just come from the Amari Valley where, with Bruce-Mitford, we’ve set up something of a base in a village called Yerakari. Bruce-Mitford’s still there and we’ve been in touch with Cairo.’

  ‘You’ve got a wireless set?’ said Peploe.

  ‘One of the very few the British Army ever had on the island.’ He smiled ruefully.

  ‘It’s one of the disgraces of the war,’ said Vaughan. ‘Why the hell the powers that be didn’t twig this earlier, God only knows.’

  ‘It was the same in France,’ said Peploe. ‘No one had a clue what was going on half the time and all the while it seemed like every other Jerry had a set.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Hanford, ‘fortunately we do have a set and we’re in touch with Cairo. They’re sending a submarine. It’s coming in a week with a Commander Pool on board, a naval man who apparently knows Crete intimately from before the war. He’s suggested Preveli.’

  ‘A good choice,’ said Satanas. ‘It is a monastery on the headland overlooking the sea, but there are paths leading down to the shore. Father Langouvardos will help. I know him and he is not only a very holy man but also a true Cretan patriot.’

  ‘In a week?’ said Peploe. ‘Did they say when exactly?’

  ‘Not yet. Major Bruce-Mitford is going to make contact with Father Langouvardos and then we’ll await confirmation from Cairo. But if we can, we’ll try to get you out on the sub when it comes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Peploe. ‘But, first, some of us have a mission to carry out.’ He looked at the Cretan kapitans opposite him. ‘Tomorrow night, then?’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow,’ said Satanas.

  Tomorrow, thought Tanner. He knew it was a mission fraught with danger, that there was every chance something would go terribly wrong and that they might all get themselves killed. And yet it would give them a chance to fight back, to show those bastards that not all British troops on Crete had been ready to roll over. And he also wanted to get Alexis out of there; he wanted that badly. He was taking it far too personally, he knew, but unless they attempted this mission, his conscience would never rest. Honour demanded it.

  19

  Sunday, 1 June, a little after 6 p.m. Oberleutnant Balthasar walked around the blackened remains of the British truck. The paint had gone entirely, leaving patches of bare steel; so too had the tyres and the timber. Of the driver and his companion two charred corpses could just about be recognized while several bodies were discernible among the ash and debris in the back. On the grass nearby two more badly burned bodies lay where they had died – their blackened forms more obviously once human. Three others had been found the day before among the olives.

  Balthasar had not seen them. Indeed, he had been in Heraklion at the time at a meeting with Major Schulz, and so in his absence Leutnant Eicher had sent M
ittler’s gruppe to investigate as soon as they saw the smoke pitching into the sky. One of the men had claimed he had heard shots, but Mittler had returned convinced that the loss of the men and the truck had been an accident and nothing more. The men had still had their weapons, and although there were signs of trampled grass, he had concluded that had been caused by the truck as it had fallen down the slope. Hitting two trees had caused the petrol to explode, killing most of the men before they’d had a chance to jump clear.

  The three men from the olive groves had been brought back and buried and were already under the ground by the time Balthasar had returned and been given the news. He wished he had had a chance to examine the bodies, but although he had accepted Mittler’s version of events initially, there had been something about it that did not seem quite right to him – something he had not been able to put his finger on until that afternoon. Then it had dawned on him: any Cretan for miles around would have seen the smoke – would have probably heard the crash and any explosion. Surely someone would have come along and picked the men clean of weapons – Balthasar was not so naïve as to believe the burning of Sarhos had brought about the end of all Cretan resistance. No, what was strange was that the three men who had been found had still had their weapons with them.

  Balthasar had mulled this over that afternoon and then had decided to go and look for himself.

  ‘Perhaps the brakes failed,’ said Unteroffizier Mittler, as they had stood on the road where the truck had come off.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Balthasar had replied, his voice terse. And now he was looking over the wreck itself. He peered closely at the bodies on the grass beside the truck. Both men were face down, so he turned the first over. Patches of skin on his chest had been roasted dark, but not black.

  ‘Here,’ said Balthasar. ‘What do you make of that?’

  Mittler looked. ‘The flames have not burned him so badly where he has been lying in the grass.’

  ‘They have hardly burned him at all in places, Mittler. That tells us something, does it not?’ Mittler looked blank. ‘It tells us, Mittler,’ said Balthasar, exasperation creeping into his voice, ‘that there should be bits of uniform still clinging to his front. But there is nothing, is there? No scraps of cotton, no belt buckle. No helmet for that matter. Where is it?’

  ‘You think they have been stripped?’

  ‘Yes, Mittler, that is exactly what I think.’ He now peered into the remains of the truck. ‘Here,’ he said, examining the driver. ‘A belt buckle.’ He then looked into the mess that had once been the back of the Morris. ‘But nothing among this lot. Even if they were wearing their field caps they would have had their helmets with them.’

  ‘They did, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said Mittler. ‘I saw them leave.’

  ‘And yet they are not here any more. Something should have remained of them.’ He whisked away several flies now hovering around. It had been another hot day, and even now, as evening was drawing in, the heat sat heavily in the air. ‘Get a party up here to collect and bury the remains of these men, Mittler. And try to be a bit more observant in future.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberleutnant. But why would the Cretans want our uniforms?’

  ‘If they had taken only boots, Mittler, I would have said it was because they were after decent footwear. But they have taken everything, yet wanted us to believe this was just an accident and nothing more. If you can’t work it out for yourself, then I’m certainly not going to tell you.’

  They headed back, Mittler driving, Balthasar deep in thought. Having reached the camp he ordered Mittler to drive on, to Heraklion and to the Megaron. To his intense frustration, neither Schulz nor Bräuer was there – Schulz was visiting the 1st Battalion at the Jesus Bastion and Bräuer was at the airfield although due back any moment. Balthasar looked at his watch, uncertain whether to head straight to the bastion or to wait for Bräuer. It was now half past seven, the light beginning to fade.

  ‘When exactly are you expecting Oberst Bräuer?’ he asked the clerk in the office adjoining Bräuer’s.

  ‘Half an hour ago, Herr Oberleutnant.’

  Balthasar looked at his watch again, then left and began to pace the corridor on the first floor outside Bräuer’s office. He would stay where he was, praying he was being both overly cautious and that the colonel would return soon.

  It was just after eight when Bräuer appeared, his voice ringing out before Balthasar saw him as he climbed the staircase.

  ‘Oberleutnant Balthasar.’ He smiled. ‘Have you been waiting for me?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberst,’ said Balthasar, saluting.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said Bräuer, leading the way into his office. He paused by his desk to fit a cigarette into his holder then lit it with a gold lighter. ‘How can I help?’

  Balthasar told him about the truck and what he had discovered. ‘The uniforms could have been taken for a number of reasons, but one cannot rule out the possibility that they were intended as a disguise. It seems a coincidence that the day after I capture a leading bandit’s family, a number of my men are killed and stripped not five kilometres away.’

  ‘Yes, I agree with you, Balthasar. Although even after a shave – which, let us face it, most Cretans seem incapable of doing – I think they would still stand out.’

  ‘Yes, but it would be easy for the unsuspecting sentry not to notice any imposters passing at dusk or even at night.’

  Bräuer exhaled a large cloud of smoke. ‘Yes, yes – you’re quite right, Oberleutnant. I still doubt that a handful of Cretans in disguise could cause too much mischief, but the men must be warned. I’ll send out word immediately. Thank you, Balthasar. You were right to tell me.’

  ‘And perhaps, Herr Oberst, if you will forgive me saying so, it might be prudent to put extra guards around the fortress.’

  ‘Yes, Balthasar, I’ll do exactly as you suggest, and without delay.’

  Around a quarter to nine six men walked towards the Kenouria Gate beside the Jesus Bastion, approaching from the east as though they had come from the direction of the airfield. They had not, as it happened. Rather they had woven their way down from the mountains, carefully crossing the road beyond the crest of the low ridge that led from the town towards Knossos, then working their way first through the groves and then the houses and back alleys of the sprawling town beyond the great walls.

  Six of them: Vaughan, with the gull-wing insignia of an Unteroffizier on his left sleeve, Peploe beside him with a single V-shaped chevron. Behind them came Tanner and Sykes, then Chambers and McAllister. They all looked battle-hardened: tanned, faces smeared with sweat and oil; Tanner with his bruising and cut eye. They all had Schmeissers slung from their shoulders, except McAllister, who carried an MG34 across his shoulders, despite its sling. From Tanner’s shoulders hung another strap from which he carried two aluminium ammunition boxes full of MG belts. Peploe, Tanner and Sykes also wore long cloth bandoliers draped around their shoulders, five pouches each side, which they had gleefully discovered were just the right size for a half-pound packet of TNT. German paratroopers, they had found out, did not carry the kind of packs an ordinary infantryman wore as a matter of course. Instead they used the plentiful pockets in their cotton jump smocks. These now bulged with more rounds, stick grenades and explosives. And while Peploe and Vaughan wore Luftwaffe blue wool side caps, the rest had on the distinctive paratrooper helmets, in Tanner’s case low over his eyes.

  ‘Now just act naturally, boys,’ said Vaughan, in a low voice. In the dim dusk light they saw guards moving towards them either side of the gate. Tanner’s heart was thumping heavily. They had managed it this far, but he knew that getting through the town gates was going to be one of the potential stumbling blocks of the entire operation. But then again, when he thought about it, there were many …

  A guard pointing a Schmeisser came towards them and ordered them to halt. Tanner listened as Vaughan said something in German to Peploe, who laughed. It sounded convincing enough to him, but now a lan
ce corporal was ambling over to them, the same single chevron on his sleeve as Peploe wore.

  ‘Seid ihr vom Flugplatz gekommen?’ he asked.

  ‘Ja,’ said Vaughan. Tanner watched him wipe the side of his face.

  ‘Es ist immer noch heiß, nicht wahr?’

  What the hell are they talking about? Tanner wondered. The NCO seemed friendly enough. Thank God for Vaughan.

  ‘Ja, ja. Sind Sie für die Verstärkung der Festung?’

  ‘Ja. Was ist los?’

  The German grinned. ‘Wir suchen einige Kreter als Fallschirmjäger verkleidet. Ihre Soldbuch?’

  Vaughan and Peploe handed over their paybooks, found inside the uniforms of the dead men. The German looked at them briefly with a torch, then said, ‘Gut,’ and waved them on. No other paper required, no careful scan of the face. Tanner felt himself relax. They walked on, the guards talking casually as they passed, and then they were under the gate, the rubber soles of their boots drumming softly on the dirt road as they walked straight on down Evans Street – it had been named after the British archaeologist – as though going towards the port. Only when they were out of sight of the men at the gate did Vaughan lead them off the main road and down a narrow back-street.

  ‘They know something’s up,’ said Peploe, his voice quiet and urgent.

  Vaughan nodded and turned to the others. ‘That guard asked me whether we were reinforcements for the fortress. I said yes and asked him what was going on. Apparently they’re looking out for some Cretans dressed up as paratroopers.’

  ‘Could be worse, sir,’ said Tanner.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of the reinforcement bit,’ said McAllister.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ said Tanner. ‘We’re in, aren’t we?’

  They had agreed they would lay a series of charges at each of the four bastions from the Martinengo Bastion in the south, all along the west side of the walls to the Ayios Andreas Bastion by the sea’s edge, but avoiding the Canea Gate, which, as a major entrance to the town, was likely to be more heavily guarded. First, however, Sykes had to prepare the charges, so Vaughan led them down through a web of narrow streets until they found a small courtyard beside a destroyed house. With Peploe shining his blue-filtered German torch, Sykes got to work, deftly pulling out a time pencil, fixing a small length of instantaneous fuse into the fuse adaptor and then wrapping it around two half-pound blocks of TNT. A cat suddenly mewed above them; none of the men had heard it approach and they flinched.