by John Sadler
Despite these continuing reverses and the collapse of the Allied position, the Cretans attached no blame to the individual soldiers whom they continued to help, despite the inevitability of murderous reprisals. As Sandover and his party were about to take their leave by submarine, one of the local volunteers said this to him: ‘Major, my greatest wish is that you will take a glass of wine in my house the day we are free. That is all I wish to live for.’20
No more eloquent testimony could be desired.
Chapter 9
The Navy Must Carry On – Evacuation 28/31 May
Admiral Cunningham belonged firmly to the Sea Dog tradition of Hawkins and Drake but he also cared passionately for both the men and ships under his command. The devastation which the air-sea encounters had wrought upon his tired fleet affected him deeply:
I shall never forget the sight of those ships coming up harbour, the guns of their fore-turrets awry … and the marks of their ordeal only too plainly visible, [Orion was] a terrible sight and the messdeck a ghastly shambles.1
The choice was a stark one; to send these battered ships out again to attempt to rescue the bulk of the Crete garrison from Sphakia, was fraught with great risk. The fleet simply could not withstand another round with the Luftwaffe. The relatively minor evacuation from Heraklion had already shown, in all too graphic terms, what aerial bombardment could do to crowded vessels; what horrors might then accrue on the larger scale.
For the thousands who would be waiting on the beaches, this could only mean surrender – the loss of the entire garrison. It was a prospect too dreadful to contemplate. From Corunna to Dunkirk the Navy had always achieved the miraculous. It had been done again in Greece and must now be attempted from Crete. It might, as the Admiral observed, take years to construct a battle fleet but 300 years of tradition, once lost, could never be recovered. The operation would proceed.
South from the Askifou Plateau the road now swings around a dizzying round of hairpin bends as it drops nearly 2,500 feet to the narrow coastal plain, the great bulk of the mountains rearing up behind, crowding the ribbon of shore. In May 1941 this road did not exist, it had not been finished, coming to an abrupt halt at the mouth of the Imbros Gorge where it spilled from the rim of the plateau.
The gorge is truly daunting, a narrow, precipitous canyon of broken rock and scrub that opens like an abyss, as dry as sandpaper and hot as a flaming cauldron. It was this descent which now confronted the unbelievably weary survivors, nor was there time to draw halt or seek a respite; the dogs of war were hot on their trail.
During the hours of darkness on the night of 30 May the Germans began to move across the plateau; by dawn they were at the mouth of the gorge. The ‘Saucer’, as Askifou was dubbed, was defended by the two Australian battalions, supported by the final trio of light tanks, all that remained of the injured Roy Farran’s original detachment. The pass itself was held by the 23rd.
Colonel Utz, with the final, clear-cut victory in sight, was not inclined to take undue risks, ‘sweat saves blood’ as, for the Germans, did the Luftwaffe. The demands of Barbarossa had, as noted, denuded the available squadrons so pressure from the air was less overwhelming than before. The Axis troops had pilfered large amounts of discarded Allied tropical kit and had even plundered civilian garments, including ladies’ underwear, to form makeshift headscarves.
True to Ringel’s doctrine Utz opted for outflanking moves, seeking to find a way around the heights at the head of the pass and thus cut off the defenders holding the mouth. One prong of this attack was thwarted by the adverse topography but the second element, guided by a collaborator, succeeded in almost cutting the pass.
Brigadier Inglis immediately replied by sending in Lieutenant Upham’s company from the 20th. A confused fight developed among the wilderness of rock and wild rhododendron, the Germans were checked and driven back with loss – one Kiwi was reputedly dangled by the calves to fire his Bren around a difficult corner.
If the fighting troops were still full of fire, the scene at Sphakia was considerably less edifying. Thousands of exhausted and ragged men, all discipline and cohesion gone, crowded the narrow ribbon of coast, living like vagabonds or wreckers in the many limestone caves that riddled the hillsides. They were without arms or equipment, leadership or control, a rabble of bacaudae or bouche inutiles.2
During the night of 28/29 May the Navy made its first run to the south coast. A trio of destroyers sailed at full throttle to take off 744 men, including many of those wounded. This operation was accomplished without loss. The RAF had pledged a maximum effort to provide adequate cover and, though the friendly planes missed the flotilla and despite the attentions of prowling Ju88s, no casualties were sustained.
Next evening a far larger formation, Force ‘D’, commanded by Rear Admiral King, and comprising cruisers Phoebe and Perth, two anti-aircraft cruisers, Coventry and Calcutta, together with a quartet of destroyers and the landing vessel Glengyle, set sail for Sphakia.
As he was steaming north, the tattered survivors from Heraklion limped into port and Cunningham, having conferred with Wavell, who in turn spoke to Tedder and Blamey to glean the airmen’s view, signalled Whitehall to advise of the continuing losses. He warned of still greater loss should more vessels, particularly the vulnerable Glengyle, be lost.
Should further efforts be limited to destroyers only? In spite of the prevailing climate of despondency Cunningham was prepared to try the last and risk all. The Admiralty attempted a compromise suggesting Glengyle be recalled. By then (the signal was not received till nearly 8.30 p.m.), it was too late, Force D was committed in its entirety. To assist, Cunningham dispatched a further three destroyers.
That night some 6,000 men were taken off, an amazing feat given the host of difficulties – the boats from Glengyle proved their worth as ferries. The Luftwaffe did put in an appearance, Perth suffered a hit to her boiler room but, at least in part, due to the RAF shield, the air attacks proved neither as sustained nor as damaging as before. More and more German planes were being withdrawn from the sector to meet the timetable for Barbarossa and this relentless siphoning of aircraft undoubtedly helped to relieve the pressure.
On the 30th another flotilla, this time made up entirely of destroyers Napier, Nizam, Kelvin and Kandahar steamed out of Alexandria. These ships, under Captain Arliss were less fortunate. Kandahar developed engine trouble and Kelvin was damaged by bombs; both were obliged to return. Nonetheless Arliss proceeded with the two remaining vessels and, using the boats left by Glengyle, lifted a further 1,400 from the beaches; no mean achievement.
Exhausted, filthy and ragged survivors marvelled at the calm, clean efficiency of the Navy who provided food, hot coffee and medical facilities. They had been rescued from a squalid world of defeat and confusion, indiscipline and disorder into what seemed an unreal haven. As Dr Stephanides observed wryly: ‘even the officers’ uniforms were neat.’3
The ships slipped away in the pre dawn but, despite an RAF escort, were pounced on by dive bombers, screaming down out of the morning sun. Napier was hit and for an anxious while lay dead in the water. Kippenberger, who was on board, suddenly felt the thought of safe deliverance might have been premature:
[he] felt a stunning concussion … everything loose in the cabin crashed all ways, and I found myself sitting on the floor in darkness. My first thought was that the cable announcing my safe arrival would not now be sent.4
Despite the fury of the attack and amid the rattle of the Oerlikons, spattering rifles and Brens, the crew managed to get the stricken vessel under way and she staggered safely into port. Kippenberger’s men, spruced up and shaven, disembarked in an orderly manner. Their country had every right to be immensely proud of them.
Another who departed, this time by flying boat that same night, was General Freyberg who left Weston in command of the beaches. This was a very difficult moment for a commander who cared deeply for his men, racked by guilt that elements of the New Zealanders must inevitably be left b
ehind. The fact that he and his staff had knowledge of ULTRA intercepts meant their feelings in the matter were of no account, their capture must be avoided.
Hargest led the remains of the 5 Brigade down the narrow defile from Askifou on the morning of the 30th – the contrast between the fighting troops and the rabble they encountered was startling. All pretence of military bearing and formation had now gone, to the extent the Kiwis had to set up a steel tipped line of pickets to deter the mob from rushing the ships.
Priority was given to the formed infantry though not all would be accommodated – HQ units and officers, the necessary core of any unit, were taken off first then as many NCOs and other ranks as could be accommodated. Such was the press of bouches inutiles that the final rearguard from the 28th stood with their arms, including sub-machine guns, at the ready.
Despite the damage sustained by Arliss’ flotilla, Cunningham once again sent Rear Admiral King with cruisers Phoebe, Abdiel and a brace of escorting destroyers on the morning of the 31st. This last effort netted another 4,000 safely taken off that night. Calcutta, which had been subsequently deployed to provide anti-aircraft cover did not return.
Subsequently, there was some bitterness that all of the senior officers appear to have been got safely off: ‘One of the worst episodes in that affair was the notion that superior officers were specially valuable, that there was an obligation on them to save themselves… .’5
A case in point is the controversy which has arisen over Colonel Laycock. The commandos, who had done an excellent job as part of the rearguard, were the last to descend to the beachhead and Freyberg, prior to his departure, issued orders that they would be the last fighting troops to embark. Although this was confirmed by Weston on the 31st, Laycock then advised these orders had been amended as he still had two full battalions in Egypt, so that he and his HQ, including Waugh, got off.
In a personal memoir Waugh appears to suggest that Laycock had arranged the matter after a private talk with Weston – the General decided that for the commandos to be captured would be a greater loss than the unfortunate Colvin who was elected to stay in his place.
Graham, Layforce’s Brigade Major, was dispatched by his colonel to attend Weston and Colvin in what remained of Creforce HQ. There Graham was ordered to write down the orders for capitulation which detailed the luckless Colvin to proceed at first light and surrender to the first German detachment. Weston, leaving the two junior officers with a spare bottle of gin and a reserve fund of 1,000.000 drachmae, then left his HQ to be taken off by flying boat.
If Graham thought this spelt the end for him he was mistaken, for Laycock and Waugh appeared very soon afterward and gathered all available Layforce personnel for evacuation. Clearly Laycock had no intention of being left behind. Despite the rather dubious provenance of his orders, the prevailing climate of sauve qui peut dictated that all who could escape, did.
A degree of confusion arose over the situation of Young’s detachment strung out in the hills covering the approaches, along with the marines and the 2/7th Australians. In the event, although advised of the possibility of evacuation that night by Waugh’s batman Private Ralph ‘Lofty’ Tanner, Young did not make the beachhead. As Colvin appears to have slipped away with Laycock, Waugh, Graham and the rump of Layforce, the unenviable task of negotiating the final capitulation fell to him.
Though the commandos appeared to have jumped the queue, the 2/7th Australians filed down to the beachhead, a difficult and frustrating journey as they had a long march through the crowded night. Their disappointment can only be imagined when they found themselves stranded and that the last of the ships had departed. They had fought hard and well throughout and, until this bitter moment, had no thoughts of throwing in the towel; indeed they were inclined to seek orders to fire on those who were already laying out white flags.
As he set off on his search for a German to surrender to, leaving his adjutant, Michael Borwick, to break the news to the men6, Young encountered Colonel Walker, commanding the 2/7th and, as he was senior, passed the poisoned chalice to him. Walker walked alone toward the village of Komithades where he offered his surrender to an officer from the 100 Mountain Regiment.7 The Battle for Crete was at last over.
In fact it was not quite over. As a group of Allied soldiers left behind on the beach, believing hostilities now at an end, tried to get a cooking fire going they attracted the attention of an Me109 which, as the Luftwaffe presumably had not yet been informed of the capitulation, opened fire. The strafing killed one man and filled a wounded sergeant with another dozen bullets. German soldiers who tried to attract the plane’s attention were also shot up.
Though most seemed to accept the reality of surrender with resignation, others were traumatised:
The realisation was stupefying, dumbfounding. In all my previous existence and I had then had nearly 35 years of it [never] had I received news that knocked me all of a heap as this had.8
I have never felt so terribly as I did at that moment. In fact, I don’t think that I had ever really felt ill at all till then. Any troubles I had in the past were mere ripples compared with this tidal wave; I was deeply disappointed; I felt frustrated and shamed – above all ashamed.9
Amongst those waiting for captivity two groups in particular had reason to be especially apprehensive – these were the commandos generally and particularly the Spanish Republican element. Hitler tended to favour shooting special forces and so everyone prudently divested themselves of their knuckle duster daggers, ‘fannies’ as they were called. The Spaniards’ medical officer, Captain Cochrane, came up with the inspired notion that the men should pose as volunteers from Gibraltar.
Not all were willing to give up and stories abound of desperate and heroic attempts to find small boats and chance the hazard of the 200 mile journey to North Africa. Such a group discovered one of Glengyle’s boats abandoned near the port, which they pulled under cover.
On the night of 1 June they began their attempt. Hit by German fire and later damaged when it ran ashore, the flimsy craft continued to float, though ten volunteers had to be left behind to improve buoyancy. After the fuel was exhausted they rigged a sail which was soon flapping listlessly in dead calm. Food and water dwindled, but on 8 June they sighted land and they eventually drifted to landfall near Sidi Barrani.
Despite the success of Admiral King’s final effort, Cunningham had decided that this was all that could be done. London continued to press for one last effort but the Admiral was unshakeable:
I was forced to reply that Major General Weston had returned with the report that 5,000 troops remaining in Crete were incapable of further resistance because of strain and lack of food. They had, therefore been instructed to capitulate, and in the circumstances no further ships would be sent.10
This was clearly the correct decision; the Navy had kept its promise.
Chapter 10
Glad to have seen the day – Occupation and Liberation 1941-1945
An island with as long a history of occupation and revolt as Crete was bound to have developed an instinctive belief in merciless treatment for traitors. Collaborators knew they could expect no mercy if caught. One German agent captured by andartes begged to be allowed to commit suicide. They broke his legs with heavy stones some way from the edge of a cliff so he had to crawl the rest of the way to push himself over.1
The Germans anticipated that they could cow the population simply by a ruthless application of brute force and largely indiscriminate violence. They did not begin to understand the character of the people whose island they were presently occupying. The Cretans knew all about occupiers; theirs was a long history of occupation and resistance to the occupier. Every man they shot sparked another vendetta.
Crete was a pyrrhic victory for the Axis, the battle cost them a total of 6,580 dead, missing and wounded; of these 3,352 were dead and a large proportion of the loss was borne by the Fallschirmjäger – as Student later admitted: ‘For me … the Battle of Crete … carries
bitter memories. I miscalculated when I suggested this attack, which resulted in the loss of so many valuable parachutists that it meant the end of the German airborne landing forces which I had created.’2
In this he was correct. Hitler was appalled at the scale of loss and concluded that the day of the paratrooper was over. Student’s dream of vertical envelopment was a further casualty of the fight. The dust had barely settled when all eyes were turned eastwards and to the invasion of Russia. With Barbarossa under way, the eastern Mediterranean and Middle East slipped down the strategic agenda. For the rest of the war the island was a backwater – as a crowning irony it was perhaps beneficial to the Allied cause in that the garrison which, at its height, comprised some 75,000 men, tied down a large number of Axis troops.
No grand strategic design followed from the capture; the idea of moving on to attack Cyprus disappeared in the wake of Barbarossa. The function of the battle in Hitler’s eyes had been, in part, to add to the deception surrounding the overall build-up for the attack on Russia and to provide a secure back door in the Mediterranean. Beyond this the Führer had no interest in further operations.
The idea of deception was played out by Goebbels and even Goering, who informed a conference of his own Luftwaffe commanders in Paris that Merkur had been a full dress rehearsal for a reinvigorated invasion of England. ULTRA, of course, informed the British to the contrary and Bletchley was aware of the reasons for the build up along the Soviet frontier. The Russians, however, proved disinclined to accept the validity of the subsequent warnings.